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summary: You hire a crew to renovate your house and accidentally start bringing them lemonade and food every day. The loud ones tease you, but it’s Daryl who lingers, who talks a little more each time, who looks at you like he’s trying to figure something out. Somewhere between exposed walls and shared silences, you realize you’re not just rebuilding the house.
warnings: some arguing, tension
a/n: this lovely fic was commissioned by @michelleknight ! thank you so much for the support and trusting me with your ideas!
**dividers made by @saradika
The house is too quiet.
Not peaceful quiet. Not cozy quiet.
Just… empty.
The kind of quiet that makes every little sound feel bigger than it should.
The refrigerator hums. The air conditioner clicks on and off. The neighbor’s dog barks somewhere down the street. Each noise echoes like the walls are hollow.
You sit at the kitchen table with your laptop open, one leg tucked under you, still in the oversized sleep shirt you threw on last night. Your coffee has gone cold again. You take a sip anyway and immediately regret it.
Gross.
You make a face and shove the mug away.
Another email pops up.
Another spreadsheet.
Another “just circling back.”
You stare at the screen, blinking, trying to remember what you were even doing five minutes ago.
Working from home sounded nice when you first started.
No commute. Pajamas all day. Your own space. Now it just feels like you never leave. Your world has shrunk down to these same four rooms. Wake up. Walk ten steps to the table. Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. Some days, you realize you haven’t spoken out loud to another human being in twelve hours.
You flex your fingers and keep typing, but your eyes drift — again — to the wall across from you.
The stupid wall.
It separates the kitchen from the living room for no real reason, just cutting the space in half like someone thought, you know what this place needs? Less light.
The paint is that weird beige landlords love. Not warm. Not cool. Just… there.
There’s a scuff near the bottom where you bumped a chair months ago. A tiny crack in the corner. You’ve memorized every flaw because you’ve had nothing else to look at during meetings.
You lean back in your chair and sigh. “I hate this wall,” you mumble to yourself.
Your voice sounds strange out loud, like you don’t use it enough. You swivel slowly and look around. The house isn’t bad.
It’s just… not you.
The cabinets are outdated. The bathroom tile is ugly. The lighting makes everything look slightly gray. Even the furniture feels temporary, like you’re waiting to move instead of settling in.
Like this is a place you’re passing through.
And you’re tired of passing through your own life.
You stand and wander into the living room, stretching your stiff back. The floor’s cold against your feet. The couch cushions dip in the same spot you always sit. There’s a blanket tossed over the arm that you never bother folding.
Your whole life lately feels like that blanket.
Left there. Half-finished.
You run your hand along the wall again. Solid. Heavy. Closing things off. You don’t know why it suddenly makes your chest feel tight. Maybe it’s just cabin fever.
Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve been stuck inside for months.
Or maybe it’s something deeper — like you’ve been waiting for your life to start instead of actually starting it.
Later. Someday. Eventually.
You want something that feels like yours. Maybe you want proof that you’re allowed to change things. Even small things. Even just a stupid wall. Your heart starts beating faster — that nervous excitement you get right before doing something impulsive but necessary.
You walk back to the table, open your laptop, and without giving yourself time to overthink it, type:
local home renovation contractors near me
Your finger hovers over the mouse. You should probably research more. Compare prices. Think it through. Be responsible.
Instead, you click the first decent-looking company.
If you think too long, you’ll talk yourself out of it.
And you’re tired of talking yourself out of things. Outside, the porch step creaks in the wind. The house settles around you, old and quiet and waiting.
“Okay,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. “Let’s change something.”
When the trucks pull up next week morning, the sound startles you enough that you almost spill coffee across your keyboard. You glance at the clock on your laptop. 8:12 a.m.
Right. Thursday.
They had said Thursday.
You stare at the screen for a second, trying to place why your stomach suddenly feels tight, and then it clicks.
The contractors.
They’re actually here.
Another engine rumbles outside, louder this time, heavy tires crunching against the gravel at the edge of the driveway. Doors slam one after another, followed by the low murmur of men’s voices carrying through the air.
Your house, which is usually so quiet you can hear the refrigerator turn on from the other room, suddenly feels small and exposed.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “This is fine.”
You look down at what you’re wearing. An oversized sleep shirt. Old leggings. No bra. Hair barely brushed. Fantastic. You consider hiding. It’s a genuine thought for at least five full seconds. You could pretend you’re not home. Maybe they’d just… go away.
Immediately you feel ridiculous. You hired them.
With a sigh, you stand up and stretch, padding toward the living room window. You don’t mean to peek, but curiosity wins out before pride can stop you. You tilt one of the blinds just enough to see outside.
Two trucks are parked along the curb, one of them hauling a small trailer stacked with equipment. Toolboxes, ladders, wooden boards, coils of wire. The kind of organized chaos that screams construction site.
Three guys climb out.
The first one is tall and broad-shouldered with a shaved head and sunglasses already perched on his face. He’s talking loudly before both feet even hit the ground, gesturing with his hands like he’s halfway through an argument.
The second is shorter and stockier, wearing a backwards baseball cap. He laughs at something the first guy says and shoves him lightly in the shoulder as they head for the back of the truck.
Their voices carry easily, overlapping and energetic, the kind of effortless noise that comes from people used to working together every day.
You didn’t realize how unused you were to hearing that sound until now.
Then the passenger door opens.
The third guy steps out more slowly.
He shuts the door instead of slamming it and adjusts the strap of a worn tool bag over his shoulder. While the other two keep talking, he doesn’t say anything at all. He just moves straight to the truck bed and starts unloading equipment like he’s done this a thousand times.
There’s something different about him.
He grabs the heaviest toolbox first, lifting it without hesitation, muscles in his arms flexing under a faded sleeveless shirt. His movements are efficient and careful, like he doesn’t waste energy on anything unnecessary. No showing off. No jokes. Just work.
His hair falls into his face when he looks down, dark and messy in that way that suggests he trims it himself or doesn’t really bother. A little too long at the ends. A little sun-bleached.
He doesn’t join the argument the other two are having about measurements. He just listens, eyes scanning the house, already assessing things.
For some reason, you can’t stop watching him.
He looks… steady.
You take a second to fix your hair with your fingers and debate changing clothes, but before you can decide, there’s a knock at the door.
Right. No more hiding.
You open it with what you hope is a normal, well-adjusted smile.
“Morning,” the tall guy says cheerfully, already halfway up your walkway. “We’re here about the renovation job.”
“Yes— hi. Good morning. Come in,” you say quickly, stepping aside. “Sorry, it’s a little messy. I wasn’t sure where you’d want to start or— well— yeah. Hi.”
You hear yourself rambling and want to gently launch yourself into the sun.
The guy in the baseball cap grins like he’s used to nervous homeowners. “No worries. We’ve seen worse, trust me.”
They head inside, boots heavy against the floor, and suddenly your house is full of movement and noise. Toolboxes clank. Someone drops something metal with a loud crash and swears under their breath. The space that used to feel too quiet now feels almost too small to hold all the sound.
It’s strange how quickly the energy changes. Like the house woke up.
You’re halfway through explaining which wall is coming down when you realize the quiet one hasn’t said anything yet.
He steps through the doorway last, ducking slightly out of habit even though he doesn’t really need to. Up close, you notice the details you couldn’t see from the window. Faint stubble along his jaw. Tired eyes. Hands rough and scarred like they’ve worked hard for a long time. He glances at you briefly. Just a quick look.
But his eyes are striking — pale, almost gray-blue — sharp and observant, like he notices everything whether he means to or not.
Your brain blanks. You forget what you were saying mid-sentence. He gives you a small nod, polite and reserved.
“Ma’am,” he says quietly.
His voice is low and rough, softer than you expected.
One word.
That’s all.
But it sends a weird, nervous warmth through your chest anyway.
“Hi,” you manage, suddenly very aware of yourself.
He moves past you without another word, already focused on the wall like you’re not even there, like work is the only thing that matters.
Which makes sense.
Totally normal.
By early afternoon, the noise has settled into something almost rhythmic.
At first every bang and scrape had made you flinch, like the house was being attacked, but after a few hours the sounds start to blur together into a steady background hum. The whine of a drill, the hollow knock of wood hitting the floor, the murmur of voices drifting in and out through the open windows. It’s strange how quickly your brain adjusts. The quiet from this morning already feels distant, like it belonged to a different day.
You try to work through it, answering emails and half-listening to a meeting you probably could have skipped, but your attention keeps wandering. Every time someone laughs outside, you catch yourself glancing toward the window without meaning to.
It feels… lively.
You hadn’t realized how much you missed that.
Around one o’clock your stomach growls, loud and insistent. You mute your laptop and head to the kitchen, pulling leftovers out of the fridge. While you’re waiting for the microwave, you find yourself staring through the back door at the three of them moving around the yard.
They’ve been working nonstop since they arrived. Lifting, measuring, hauling boards back and forth like it’s nothing.
The two louder guys are arguing about something again, voices rising and falling in that familiar, friendly way that doesn’t actually mean they’re upset. One of them laughs so hard he has to brace himself against the porch railing.
And then there’s the third one.
He’s a little farther away, near the stack of lumber, carrying twice as much as either of the others without making a show of it. He doesn’t talk unless someone talks to him. Just moves from one task to the next like he’s following a list only he can see.
There’s something steady about the way he works. Careful. Focused. Like he takes the job seriously, even when no one’s watching. You don’t know why that sticks with you.
The microwave beeps and startles you.
You plate your food, then hesitate. They probably haven’t stopped for lunch yet. The thought tugs at you more than it should. It feels wrong to sit inside eating while they’re out there sweating in the sun.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab a few bottles of water from the fridge. Then you open the pantry and add whatever’s easy to carry—granola bars, a couple bags of chips, the blueberry muffins you baked last night when you couldn’t sleep.
You arrange everything on a tray and immediately feel self-conscious.
Is this too much?
Do people even do this anymore?
Maybe they’ll think you’re weird.
You stare at the tray for a second longer than necessary, then sigh at yourself. It’s just food. Worst case, they say no. You slide the back door open and step outside.
The air is warmer than you expect, thick with that dusty, sunbaked smell of wood and concrete. Someone’s radio is playing faintly from one of the trucks. For a second you just stand there, adjusting to the brightness.
The baseball cap guy notices you first. “Oh hey,” he says, straightening up.
“I, um—” You lift the tray slightly like proof of life. “I brought you guys some water and snacks. Figured you might want a break.”
His face lights up immediately. “You’re officially my favorite person today.”
The other one laughs and grabs a bottle without hesitation. “You didn’t have to do that, but we appreciate it.”
“It’s really no trouble,” you say quickly. “I was grabbing some for myself anyway and thought I’d just bring extra. There’s muffins too, but they might be a little dry. I’m still figuring out my oven.”
You don’t know why you add that. No one asked about the muffins. You feel your mouth continuing before your brain catches up. “And there’s chips and stuff if you don’t like sweet things and—”
You stop yourself, heat creeping up your neck.
God. You’re rambling again.
“Sorry,” you say, a little quieter. “I talk a lot.”
They wave you off good-naturedly, already distracted by the food, and for a second you consider retreating back inside before you can embarrass yourself further. But then you realize you haven’t given anything to him.
He’s standing a few feet away, wiping his hands on a rag, watching the others with that same quiet, distant expression. He looks like he might just skip the whole break and go straight back to work.
Without really thinking about it, you walk over and hold out a bottle of water.
“Here,” you say.
He looks at you like you’ve surprised him.
Up close, you notice things you didn’t notice earlier—the faint stubble along his jaw, a thin scar across one knuckle, dust clinging to the fabric of his shirt. He smells faintly like sawdust and clean soap.
For a second he doesn’t move, like he’s debating whether he’s allowed to take it.
Then he accepts the bottle carefully, fingers brushing yours. His hands are rough and warm, calloused in a way that makes your own feel soft by comparison.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he says.
His voice is low and quiet, almost swallowed by the noise around you.
You nod, then immediately start talking again, nerves kicking in. “Yeah, of course. You guys have been working all morning, and it’s getting hot, and I know how easy it is to forget to drink water and then suddenly you feel awful and—”
You hear yourself and wince.
Too much.
Always too much.
You look down at the tray like it personally betrayed you. “Sorry. I kind of… ramble.”
The words slip out before you can stop them. You expect the usual reaction—an awkward smile, someone politely pretending not to notice, maybe a joke. Instead, he just shrugs a little. It’s such a small movement you almost miss it.
“S’alright,” he says simply.
Not dismissive. Not annoyed. Just matter-of-fact. Like it genuinely doesn’t bother him. Like it didn’t even occur to him that it should.
You glance up, surprised.
He’s already twisting the cap off the bottle, taking a long drink, eyes drifting toward the yard again. No impatience. No hurry to get away from you.
If anything, he seems… comfortable.
The next day, you tell yourself you’re not going to do it again.
Yesterday was just a one-time thing. A neighborly gesture. A normal, well-adjusted adult thing to do. You are not going to become the weird girl who keeps feeding the contractors like stray cats.
You repeat this to yourself while making coffee.
You repeat it again while opening the fridge.
And then, somehow, you’re slicing lemons.
It happens absentmindedly at first. One wedge for your water, then another. The knife tapping softly against the cutting board. The citrus smell sharp and bright in the air. By the time you realize what you’re doing, there’s already a small pile of peels curled near the sink and a pitcher half-filled with pale yellow lemonade.
You stare at it like it personally betrayed you.
“This is ridiculous,” you mutter.
But you still add sugar.
Still stir it.
It feels practical, you tell yourself. It’s supposed to be hot again today. It’s just hydration. That’s all. Nothing weird about hydration. The lie would work better if you didn’t also pull out bread.
By noon, you’ve packed a small tray, lemonade, paper cups, a few leftover muffins wrapped in foil, and some sandwiches you threw together too quickly, the edges uneven and messy. It looks homemade in a way you’re not sure is charming or embarrassing.
You hesitate by the door longer this time. Yesterday could pass as spontaneous. Today feels intentional.
Still… you go.
Outside, the air hums with late-summer heat. The sound of the saw kicks up dust that smells dry and woody. The guys are already moving when you step onto the porch, shirts damp with sweat, voices louder than the tools.
You don’t even have to call out this time.
The one with the baseball cap notices you and grins immediately. “Ohhh, it’s our lunch lady!”
Heat rushes straight to your face. “I am not—”
“You brought stuff again, didn’t you?” the other one says, already abandoning whatever he was doing.
“I just— it’s hot,” you say, lifting the tray like evidence. “I made lemonade. Figured you guys might want something cold.”
“Marry me,” he says, taking a cup.
You laugh despite yourself. “Pretty sure this isn’t legally binding.”
The teasing is light, harmless, but it still makes you feel hyper-aware of your hands, your voice, the way you’re standing.
Like you’ve stepped into a spotlight you didn’t mean to.
And then you feel it.
That quiet awareness. The sense of being watched. You glance up without meaning to. He’s across the yard. Just leaning back against the truck, rag tucked into his back pocket, arms crossed loosely over his chest.
Watching.
Not in a creepy way. Not even obvious.
Just… observing.
Like he’s trying to figure you out. The moment your eyes meet, something in your chest tightens. He doesn’t look away immediately. Most people do. That polite, automatic glance elsewhere. He doesn’t. His gaze is steady. Curious. A little guarded. It makes your skin feel warm, like you’ve stepped too close to a fire.
You look down first.
Of course you do.
“Is your other friend not hungry?” you ask the others, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.
They both smirk like you just told them everything.
“Ohhh,” baseball cap says. “You mean Daryl?”
Your stomach flips at hearing his name out loud.
Daryl.
It fits him too well.
By the third day, it stops feeling like a coincidence.
You don’t even pretend anymore.
You wake up already thinking about what you could make.
Not in a big, elaborate way, just small things that feel easy to carry outside. Things that make sense to offer. Things that give you an excuse to step into the yard without looking like you’re hovering by the window like some kind of neighborhood cryptid.
Today it’s iced tea and turkey sandwiches. Nothing fancy. You cut the crusts off without realizing you’re doing it, the way your mom used to when you were little.
You tell yourself it’s just habit.
Not care.
Definitely not care.
The house sounds different now. Open. Hollow in places where walls used to be. Every hammer strike echoes deeper than it should. The air smells faintly like drywall dust and fresh wood, like something halfway between destruction and rebuilding. You’ve started recognizing the rhythm of their work. When they’ll break. When they’ll move outside. When the saw goes quiet.
Without checking the clock, you know it’s about lunchtime. You gather everything onto a tray and head out like it’s routine. Because now it kind of is. The two loud ones greet you like you’re a regular at their favorite diner.
“Look who it is,” the baseball cap guy calls — you learned his name is Abraham, loud and big and impossible to miss. “Our saving grace.”
“You’re gonna make us soft,” the other adds — Glenn, quieter, always smiling like he knows something you don’t. “Next job we’re gonna be mad when nobody brings snacks.”
You roll your eyes. “You guys act like I’m cooking five-course meals. It’s literally sandwiches.”
“Best sandwiches of my life,” he says dramatically, already grabbing one.
They fall into their usual chatter, easy and loud, and you relax into it more than you expect. It’s strange how quickly strangers can start to feel familiar. How the presence of other people makes the house feel less heavy.
You’re pouring iced tea when you notice him missing.
Again.
You glance around casually, or what you hope looks casual, and spot him near the side of the house, crouched by the exposed framing where they knocked out part of the old wall. His toolbox is open beside him, tools spread out with careful precision.
He’s working alone.
Of course he is.
For a second, you debate leaving him be.
He doesn’t always join the others. Sometimes he eats quick and gets back to work like breaks make him restless.
You don’t want to bother him.
You really don’t.
But your feet are already moving.
You tell yourself you’re just offering tea. That’s it. Same as everyone else. It just… happens to be him. He hears you coming before you say anything. Glances up briefly, then back down at whatever he’s tightening. Up close, the house looks different. The bones exposed. Beams, wiring, the skeleton of something that used to feel solid. It should look ugly, but it doesn’t. It looks honest.
“Hey,” you say softly. “I brought tea, if you want some.”
He sits back on his heels, wiping his hands on a rag before taking the cup from you. “Thanks.”
You linger.
You don’t mean to linger.
But you do.
“So… is it bad?” you ask, nodding toward the open wall. “Like, did I accidentally buy a house that’s falling apart?”
There’s the faintest huff of air from him. Not quite a laugh, but close.
“Nah,” he says. “She’s solid.”
She.
The way he says it makes your chest tighten a little.
As if the house is something alive.
“You can tell?” you ask.
He shrugs, looking at the wood instead of you. “Old places got good bones. Jus’ gotta fix what’s rotted.”
You nod like you understand, even though you mostly don’t. “So… I didn’t ruin your life by deciding to knock down walls?”
Another almost-smile. Quick. Gone.
“Seen worse.”
You’re slicing tomatoes for lunch when you hear it: the sharp snap of a board, followed by a curse so sudden it makes your stomach lurch. You freeze, knife hovering above the cutting board.
“Shit!”
Your eyes snap to the window. He’s crouched on the deck, one hand pressed to his palm, the other gripping the edge of a plank. Blood seeps between his fingers.
Your chest tightens. Your hands are suddenly useless. You drop the knife onto the counter and step back, mouth dry, as if speaking aloud will make the moment stop or start it over again.
He’s trying to laugh it off, but the color drains from his face in a way that makes your stomach drop. He’s pale, tense. The board slips from his hand, clattering to the ground. You can hear the sharp jolt of panic in the air around him.
“Daryl!” you call, voice cracking without meaning to. Your feet are moving before your brain catches up, carrying you out the back door. You don’t care about heat, dust, or sawdust sticking to your arms. All you see is him.
He looks up at you, eyes wide, a thin line of blood running down the side of his hand. There’s a small tremor in his fingers as he tries to grip the wood again, and your chest clenches painfully.
“Come on,” you say, breath sharp, voice rising despite yourself. “We need to get inside. Now.”
He hesitates, but the moment his hand shakes again, and a drop of blood falls to the deck with a dull thud, he finally follows. You grab his elbow gently but firmly, guiding him inside. Every step feels like a jolt through your ribs — panic and relief all tangled together.
Inside, the house suddenly feels too small. The familiar walls, once comforting, now seem to close in. You move him to the kitchen table, palms slightly shaking as you reach for a clean towel. He sits slowly, jaw tight, watching you with a mixture of surprise and embarrassment.
“I’m fine,” he says quietly, trying to brush it off.
“No, you’re not,” you reply sharply. Your hands are shaking, fumbling to pull out the first aid kit. You’re suddenly aware of every sound. You feel like you’re losing control, and panic makes your words tumble out of your mouth.
“Okay, okay, we need to get it cleaned first. Isopropyl, gauze… do we have scissors? Where’s the bandage? I think we have bandages in here somewhere—oh God, hold still, hold still.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just lets you fuss. The way he sits there, quiet and still, makes your chest ache. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t make a joke, doesn’t even flinch when you grab his wrist gently to inspect the cut.
You rinse the wound under cold water, wince yourself at the sight of red against pale skin. “Okay, okay, it’s not too deep. Not too deep,” you mutter, more to yourself than him, as if repeating it enough will make it true.
He watches you, silent, expression unreadable. And that makes you talk faster. “We should probably elevate it, right? I think that helps. Does it help? I read about this somewhere. And then keep it clean, obviously, but I don’t want it to clot wrong. Do you need your sleeve rolled up? Sorry, I’ll be gentle. You’re fine. I’m fine. We’re fine. Don’t worry about anything.”
You’re babbling nonstop now, the words tumbling out in a nervous, chaotic rhythm. And slowly, after a few minutes of frantic care, you notice something — he’s smiling. A small, faint smile that makes your chest twist in a way that’s almost painful.
“You talk a lot,” he says softly.
You freeze mid-motion, gauze in your hands, eyes snapping up to meet his.
“I know,” you whisper, cheeks burning. “I… I can’t help it.”
“Don’t,” he says, voice low and rough. “You ain’t annoyin’. It’s nice.”
Your stomach twists at the softness in his tone. “Nice?” you echo, barely above a breath.
“House sounds less empty,” he adds, eyes flicking briefly to the doorway, the table, the scattered papers, before returning to you. “When you talk, it… feels… alive.”
The words land like warm water on frozen skin. You sit back, hands slack in your lap, and feel something shift inside you. The panic that had been knotting your stomach, the sharp ache at seeing him hurt, the jittering of nerves from fear and proximity — it all softens, melts into something quiet and heavy. Safety.
For the first time, you realize you can breathe. Really breathe. That the house — your life, your messy, temporary, waiting world — feels less hollow, just because he’s here and because he let you care.
You meet his eyes, still pale gray-blue and observing, and something unspoken passes between you. You’ve been frantic, babbling, hovering, watching. And he’s letting it be okay. He’s letting you be okay.
Your chest tightens, but in the best possible way. You lean forward slightly, brushing a strand of hair from your face, watching him flex his hand slightly to test the movement. The cut is red but already clotting, the faint line still sharp and alarming, but not as frightening as the first moment.
“I… I didn’t mean to panic,” you murmur, tone softer now. “I just—”
“You don’t have to explain,” he says, cutting you off, still quiet, still steady. “I know you care. That’s enough.”
You swallow hard, and for the first time, you let yourself stop moving. No hands wringing, no restless pacing, no words tumbling out. You just sit there, watching him. Watching the way he tilts his head, testing the cut, letting you fuss. Watching the way the afternoon sunlight pools across the table, across the floor, across him.
It feels intimate in a way you weren’t expecting. Domestic, almost — the kitchen smells of soap and lemons, the faint tang of metal from the blood lingering in the air. Outside, the hum of the world continues, distant, irrelevant. The house feels smaller in its own way, closer somehow. Safe.
You realize, slowly, that the longing you’d been carrying, watching him from inside, imagining touches, imagining small gestures, can rest, just for a moment. That the panic, the intensity, doesn’t have to be constant. You don’t have to say it. You don’t have to act on it yet.
“You’re not mad,” you murmur, almost to yourself.
“Mad?” he repeats, faintly puzzled.
“No. That I…” You trail off, realizing the words don’t matter anymore. That he doesn’t need them to. That safety isn’t spoken, it’s felt.
You can’t stop the small smile from creeping across your face. It’s ridiculous and tender and utterly unguarded. And in that moment, your chest loosens, your throat unclenches, and the quiet, aching longing that had been following you since the first day he arrived… softens into something warm and grounding.
The morning starts with a quiet kind of happiness. You stand at the counter, sipping your coffee, letting the sun spill across the floor. The house feels… good. Lively, almost. The sounds of Daryl and the others outside — hammering, measuring, casual chatter — make it feel inhabited in a way it hasn’t in weeks. You glance through the blinds and catch him adjusting a plank along the side of the house, the sunlight catching on his damp hair, the way his muscles flex and move like they belong to this space.
For a moment, your chest lifts. You almost laugh to yourself. The tray of sandwiches you packed yesterday suddenly feels worth it. You feel light, like maybe being home — truly home — could feel like more than just passing through.
You set the coffee down, leaning on the counter, and watch. He glances up briefly, maybe sensing your eyes. You pretend not to notice, but your chest tightens in that familiar, thrilling way. The air smells faintly of sawdust and warm wood, and it feels like a secret only the two of you share.
And then, almost imperceptibly, a shadow drifts across the edges of your mind.
“You talk too much.”
It’s not a voice from this morning, this week, this house. It’s from a dozen different mornings you can’t forget. The teacher in high school, sighing as your sentences tumbled over themselves. The friend who rolled her eyes, half-laughing, as if your enthusiasm were a flaw. Your own mother’s patient, quiet critique, echoed in the back of your skull. “You always have to fill the space, don’t you?”
You blink. The sunlight feels sharper now, harsher, almost accusing. That soft thrill you had a moment ago — seeing him, watching him — starts twisting in your chest.
Maybe you are too much. Maybe he’s tired of you already. Maybe the lemonade yesterday was fine once, but a habit now, a nuisance. Maybe your words, your presence, your wanting — it’s too loud.
You retreat instinctively, turning back to the kitchen, gripping the edge of the counter as it could anchor you. You try to steady your breathing, but your mind spins: If I go outside, I’ll bother him. If I bring anything again, he’ll think I’m annoying. If I speak, if I do anything… I’ll ruin this.
And in that moment, you realize something: no matter how much you hide, how much you retreat, how much you silence yourself… you are still aching to be seen.
Still yearning.
Still, quietly, desperately, wanting him.
Daryl wipes his hands on the rag again, watching the yard as the sun climbs higher. He had expected her to be there. She’s usually at the back door or leaning over the railing, tray in hand, offering lemonade, water, something to eat. Something homemade. Something that makes the noise and dust of work feel lighter, warmer, human.
But the porch is empty. Just the faint echo of yesterday’s footsteps. The tray of snacks and the little pitcher of pale yellow lemonade are gone. Not replaced. Not waiting for him.
He frowns, almost imperceptibly. The air feels different somehow, quieter, like the house is holding its breath. He glances toward the windows, tilting his head, scanning for movement, for a shadow, for a hint of her presence. Nothing. The curtains are drawn just enough to obscure the kitchen, but not enough to hide the faint shimmer of sunlight across the counter.
His stomach twists in a small, unfamiliar way. He feels it before he can name it—a hollow, stretching ache. It’s absurd, he thinks, a little sharp laugh under his breath: she’s been avoiding me, that’s all. She’s busy. Practical. Responsible. Not hovering.
And yet, the empty porch makes it sting. The absence of the tray makes it sting. The silence where her voice usually fills space makes it sting.
The realization is quiet and sharp: he misses her presence. Not the chatter exactly, he doesn’t always need words, but the sound of her voice, the motion of her hands, the way she moves around the house. It fills the space he doesn’t realize is empty until she isn’t there.
He glances once more toward the windows, a faint, almost imperceptible hope threading through the line of his jaw. The blinds sway slightly in the breeze. The house breathes. And somewhere inside, he knows she’s thinking of him.
Even if she’s staying back.
Even if she’s hiding.
Even if she doesn’t yet realize it, he notices.
And it hurts in a way that makes him want to fix more than hinges, more than steps, more than the physical parts of the house. He wants to fix the quiet between them too, the space that stretches long and hollow across the porch, the yard, the windows, the empty pitcher of lemonade.
But for now, all he can do is notice.
All he can do is hope she’ll come back.
The last day of work arrives with a strange stillness. The house looks different somehow—lighter, open, more alive. Beams are sanded, walls patched, floors polished. Even the air feels changed, carrying the faint scent of wood and paint and the memory of afternoons spent here together.
You walk through each room slowly, fingers brushing the smooth edges of counters, tracing the lines where the wall had been removed, noting the little fixes he made without being asked. The squeaky step no longer wobbles. The hinge swings silently. The faucet no longer drips. Even the light bulbs you’d ignored for months now shine, steady and warm.
Everything feels… finished. Not perfect, but yours. And yet, the perfection is bittersweet.
You’re aware of the day ending. The trucks are packed. The tools stowed. The dust settled. Your routine—the daily rhythm of offering lemonade and sandwiches, watching him work quietly, feeling the soft weight of his attention—has come to an end.
Your chest tightens in a way that makes you take a breath you don’t realize you’re holding. You want to step outside one last time, offer a tray, say something clever or harmless to fill the silence. But even as you hesitate, you know it might be the last quiet moment before the workday ends.
Then there’s a knock at the door. Quick, deliberate.
You freeze, pulse skipping.
Opening it, you find him standing there. Tool belt still slung low around his hips, arms crossed loosely over his chest, shoulders squared, but his eyes… they’re not like they usually are. Something softer, heavier, searching. Almost… vulnerable.
“I… did somethin’ wrong?” he asks, quiet, measured, as if testing the air.
You blink, heart hammering. You hadn’t expected words. You hadn’t expected clarity.
Before you can stop yourself, the words tumble out, uneven, messy, but true: “I like you. And… and I got scared.”
He blinks, just a faint twitch of a brow. Doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t turn away. Just stands there, quiet, listening.
Your chest tightens further. You want to explain. To apologize. To qualify. But the words dry up. Your usual chatter has vanished, leaving only the bare truth, unpolished, exposed.
He lets a moment pass. No teasing. No sighing. No small talk. Just him, steady, present. Then, softly, almost lost in the hum of the empty house:
“Don’t hide from me.”
The weight of the words lands in your chest like a steady hand holding yours. Not demanding. Not judgmental. Just… heavy with meaning.
You swallow, blinking rapidly. “I… I didn’t want to—”
“You ain’t annoyin’,” he interrupts, voice low, gravelly, careful. “I like hearin’ you.”
Something in your chest loosens, a little. Relief, tinged with embarrassment, tinged with longing. You realize you’d been bracing yourself for rejection, for a quiet withdrawal, for him to step back and leave the space you’ve claimed in his quiet. But he hasn’t. Not once.
You laugh softly, almost disbelieving. “I… I wasn’t sure if—if you… if it was too much.”
“Feels quiet without you.”
“You like me talkin’?” you mimic him softly, teasing.
He glances at you, a faint smirk touching the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he says, low, deliberate. “Don’t stop.”
The air between you thickens, charged and trembling. Daryl doesn’t take a step back. He doesn’t even blink. He just tilts his head slightly, watching you. You swear the room has shrunk, that the walls, the floor, the half-finished renovations has disappeared, leaving just the two of you suspended in a quiet bubble.
He moves closer, slow, careful. His eyes never leave yours, pale gray-blue and steady. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t say much, just enough that every word carries weight.
You feel your shoulders loosen slightly, the tension you’ve carried tightening and twisting in your chest. And in that moment, everything feels fragile, like a string stretched too tight—ready to snap, but safe in his hands.
You take a small step toward him. One. Then another. Until the space between you is measured in inches, heartbeats, and the faint smell of sawdust clinging to his shirt. You can feel it now—the warmth radiating off him, solid and steady.
He leans in first, forehead brushing yours, a gentle, deliberate touch that sends your chest fluttering. It’s soft, grounding. He pauses, lets you register it, lets the quiet stretch for a heartbeat too long before anything else happens.
You close your eyes. You're the first one to lean in. Just a little. Your lips meet his, slow and soft, nothing flashy, nothing urgent. Just a tentative brush at first, testing the waters, tasting the warmth, the steady presence that has drawn you in since day one.
He shifts slightly, careful, guiding you without force. His hands rise to your waist, grounding you, letting you feel that he’s here, real, steady. You rest your hands lightly against his chest, fingertips brushing over the fabric of his shirt, feeling him through it.
The kiss deepens ever so slightly, still slow, still careful, as if the world itself is holding its breath for you. Every nerve in your body seems alive, heightened, the quiet around you growing heavier, fuller, as though the house itself is aware of the small explosion inside your chest.
You pull back just enough to rest your forehead against his again, heart thumping. He doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head toward yours, letting the silence speak.
“You’re… really here,” you murmur, voice soft, almost trembling.
He hums quietly, low and steady, and presses his forehead a little closer. “Yeah. Been here all along.”
You let out a shaky laugh, small and unsteady, because it feels like everything you’ve wanted, everything you’ve feared, is balanced right here in this slow, steady moment. He leans in once more, lips brushing yours again—soft, insistent just enough to let you know he’s not going anywhere.
When you finally pull back, foreheads still touching, you catch him smiling faintly. Not a big smile. Not flashy. Just a little tilt of his lips that makes your chest swell, that makes the quiet between you feel like it’s been waiting for this exact moment all along.
“Feels… right,” he says, low, almost shy.
And you can’t stop the soft smile spreading across your face. You shake your head, breath catching. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Feels right.”
He rests his forehead against yours again, longer this time, hands still at your waist, grounding you. The quiet stretches, but it isn’t heavy or uncomfortable anymore. It’s full. Warm. Safe.
And somewhere deep inside, you realize: this, this slow, steady, gentle touch, this shared warmth, is exactly what you’ve been waiting for all along.
MINORS do NOT interact.
Warning(s): DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. self-deprecating thoughts, reader is very unhinged, SUICIDAL THOUGHTS, SELF-HARM, bad coping mechanism, MENTAL HEALTH PROBLEMS, mental breakdown, ANGST, SMUT, loss of virginity, injuries, mentions of blood, alcohol consumption, situationship, jealousy, stalking, attempted baby trapping, MANIPULATION, OBSESSION, really bad daddy issues, unprotected sex, reader is a love and touch-starved naive virgin, reader is very unhinged, ghost is a bit of an asshole, use of (Y/N), CHILD-NEGLECT, family issues, mother-daughter issues, heavily inspired by the "Black Swan" (2010), BIASED OMNISCIENT NARRATOR, things about ballet that are (probably) inaccurate, hints of past physical abuse (not from Simon), attempts of physical abuse (also not from Simon), SUICIDE ATTEMPT, title inspired by A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini.
For each chapter of the work that I will post, I will not add any warnings except trigger warnings. So if you are not old enough, THIS IS A FINAL WARNING NOT TO CONTINUE READING MY STORIES.
“No more tears f’me, ye ‘ear?” He meets your eyes before lowering it to the tantalizing view of your glistening body, causing another twitch of his impatient cock. “I ain’t worth it.”
The tip of his cock brushes against your folds when he thrusts his hips once more. A small mewl escapes your moist lips, vertebrae drawn like a curve of a bow as his length slowly enters your hole.
“No—no, don’t say that. You’re—mmh!” You stumble over your words, voice shaking both from emotion and physical overwhelm. “You’re always worth it, Simon.”
Sweet thing, unaware of the effect her puffy eyes and tear-stained cheek have on a man as corrupt as him. Struggling to find words while he fills her up, trying to convince him that he's worth something.
"A man's heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing," as your mother once said. And yet, you, a soulless ballerina, happen to cross paths with a mysterious man under the rainy sky of London. A meeting that binds you to a self-destructive dance in the hope that he loves you as much as you love him.
However, Simon Riley is still Simon Riley; and his rotten heart left no room for someone like you.
Warnings : insecurities & body image issues, chubby & curvy!reader, mentions of stretch marks, body worship, praise kink, marking, very mild breast & nipple play, implied cunnilingus, reader is AFAB and uses she/her pronouns!
Genre : smut n loooots of comfort☹️🫶🏽
Word count : 1.4K words
Additional notes : This was a paid commission I made of a lovely OC with Sylus, and this version is just the slightly more non-specific version I took permission from my commissioner to post, so that all fem!readers can see what my commissions are like! If you’re interested let me know💗
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“Another event, another dress with your name on it, sweetie.” Sylus’ grin as he walked into their bedroom would’ve almost been infectious, had her mood been entirely different than it currently was. Right now, though? His words seemed to have cast a curse onto her.
She had to fight against her growing irritation. It’s not his fault, he didn’t do anything to deserve it—unlike the majority of the times he’d earned her ire. This time, the dismayed feeling in her chest at the sight of the exquisite dress draped onto the back of the dresser’s chair was entirely because of her own racing thoughts.
“Skipping out tonight,” she simply mumbled under her breath, collapsing onto the bed with weary bones and an exhausted expression like she’d run a hundred miles. And she really had, just inside her head.
Sylus—ever perceptive Sylus—frowned at that, taking a seat at the edge of the bed beside her. “Tired?” Concern filled his eyes, and it only grew worse as she seemed to curl in on herself and burrow deeper into the mattress. “I could cancel.”
With a sigh, she shook her head “You’re Onychinus’ leader. You have to be there. My moods shouldn’t dictate whether or not you go.”
“You have the privilege of commanding me to do whatever you want. I say you abuse that right.” It was clear from his teasing tone that he was trying to get a lighthearted reaction from her, and upon receiving none, his voice turned softer. “Seriously, what’s wrong, darling?”
Her grip tightened on the bedsheet, blinking back the tears as she trained her gaze on her fingers. “I just… don’t want to wear that dress.”
Sylus was silent for a few moments, before he nodded. “Okay. Is it not to your liking?”
“Not really.” With a shuddering breath, she sniffled a little, trying to calm herself down as Sylus’ hand gently stroked her calves in a soothing motion. There was no point in getting so worked up after all, it’s always been the same. “Those types of dresses always show my stretch marks. They’re… kind of short. And tight. And weird-looking on me.”
Screw not getting worked up; her tears were dripping down her face at this point, her vision blurry and her heart heavy with each word that spilled forth. “It feels like every single one of these outfits makes my thighs look big, and my body’s not made for wearing them. It’s just… wrong, like I’m unworthy,” she choked on the last word in despair.
She could hear Sylus sighing, a twinge of sadness she’d never heard before lacing his words. “You couldn’t be more wrong.” Firm in tone, yet not unkind, her boyfriend leaned in and rubbed her forearms gently, making sure to meet her watery eyes as he did. “These dresses only show just how breathtaking you are, and how you belong by my side.” A crooked grin made its way on his face. “If anything, it feels like I have to earn my place next to you.”
“No! You—”
“See how absurd it sounds?” His deep voice was soft as he gently nudged her on her back, climbing in on top of her as his fingers delicately brushed back her hair. “I can never get enough of you. Of every inch of you. I almost refuse to believe you.” His gaze grew impossibly softer, voice even quieter, and his hand even gentler as it traced down her ear, rhythmically stroking at her neck. “But I know that really is what you’ve driven yourself to believe. And I can’t blame you for that.”
Wiping at her own cheeks, she tried her best to make herself feel less sorry. “It’s no one’s fault but mine. It’s not like anyone else has been telling these things to me.” What on earth was she doing, crying to him over dresses? Or her appearance at some stupid events? Or was it simply her body? She didn’t know at this point. All she knew was that she wanted to stop feeling so distraught over something so…
Before she could continue that train of thought, Sylus had silenced her rushing brain with a slow, open-mouthed kiss and a steady grip on her waist. Even now, he was ever the tease, nipping at her lower lip and huffing out a fond laugh as he heard her breath hitch, before pulling back. In half-defeat, he said, “Maybe I’m the one to blame for neglecting to remind you of what I think of you.”
He peppered kisses down her jaw and to her neck, his teeth grazing and sucking at the warm skin there. With a hiss, her hand reached out to pull him closer by the back of his head, and all he could breathe out against her was a stilted, “How often I think of you.” Practiced hands almost blindly pulled down the strap of her silk slip for more access, as he left his bold marks across her neck. His hair tickled her, but she reveled in the feeling even more as he traced a path down the top of her breasts.
They were heaving with the effort of having to pretend she wasn’t falling apart at the seams with his mere touch, and he let out a half-groan as his hand reached out to cup one, while he sucked more hickeys onto the flushed skin of the other. It was too much, but somehow not enough to ease the growing ache between her legs. “Sy,” she whispered, a plea in his name, quickly turning into a whimper of pleasure as his tongue boldly flicked at her nipple through the silk. “Don’t be cruel.”
“Mm. I could never. My pretty girl likes it when I indulge her, I know,” he muttered, ruby eyes flicking up to meet hers and pinning her down with just a gaze as he kneaded at her soft breasts through the thin fabric, his touch burning through her like wildfire. “Tell me where you want me. What you want me to do, to show you how I could never stop wanting you and your body.”
Swallowing thickly, her fingers dug into his silvery hair, like it was second nature, guiding him where she needed him the most. “Want your lips on me, please,” she whispered, as if it were explanation enough for the sudden dizzying heat of the room, and her eyes swimming with unwrought desire. “Tell me you want me like this. I… I need it. Need you.”
The chuckle that spilled from Sylus’ lips was lovesick, and then his large palms pushed her smooth slip up to her waist and expertly tugged down the ruined lacy underwear. “As if I could stop wanting someone so divine.” He sweetly kissed her navel, then completely diverted from his path for a second to squeeze at her thighs, hooking them up on his broad shoulders.
Even between her legs, he looked invincible—more so when he maintained their intense, passion-riddled eye contact as he suckled at the skin of her inner thighs. “So sweet, so perfect right in front of me,” he sighed, almost in just as much pleasure as she was while he brushed his thumb back and forth near the apex of her thighs, mapping out every stretch mark under his adoring touch, and giving her hips a firm squeeze as his hands wandered everywhere they could reach.
Her head was filled with cotton, all her senses consumed by him and all he was. “I can spell out just what you want me to say with my tongue instead.” The very prospect of it sent even more molten heat pooling to her core. Sylus’ tongue would be her undoing. She knew it, her body knew it, and his grin that turned wicked meant that he could see perfectly well just how dripping wet the idea made her.
That smirk was almost predatory; like she was his prey, all prepped and prettily pinned for him. It shouldn’t have aroused her so badly, knowing that he’d torture her with sheer blinding pleasure and a sinful tongue, and yet she could feel herself clench around nothing. He was her undoing, and always would be, especially when his voice was such a low purr. “And you can ride my face until you can translate every filthy word. What do you say, sweetie?”
genre: smut, jakcson era, mutual pining, strangers to lovers, minors dni
word count: 15k
summary: joel saves you and brings you to jackson, after healing you become the local librarian of the community.
warnings: some angst with happy ending, mutual pining, female masturbation, slow burn, reader's name is Ash + bisexual, oral (both receiving), heavy petting, piv, dirty talk, soft dom!joel, submissive!reader, reader enjoys bands and books, blood mention, canon typical violence, some spoilers for part 2 (for ellie)
a/n: this was commissioned by @ashleyfilm 💜 thank you so much for being patient with me and supporting me!
The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden hue over the rugged terrain of Wyoming. Joel rode slowly, his horse's hooves crunching softly on the gravel path. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and earth, a refreshing change from the stale, musty confines of Jackson’s walls. Tall trees bordered the path, their leaves rustling gently in the mild breeze, creating a soothing symphony that mingled with the distant calls of birds. The sky stretched wide above, a brilliant canvas of blues and pinks, with streaks of orange signaling the approach of dusk.
In the distance, the snow-capped peaks of the mountains loomed majestically, their silent, steadfast presence a reminder of nature's unyielding power. The grass swayed gently in the wind, patches of wildflowers adding bursts of color to the verdant landscape. Joel could hear the faint trickle of a stream nearby, its clear waters winding through the forest, a lifeline in this vast, untamed wilderness. The tranquility of the scene was deceptive, masking the dangers that lurked just beyond the tree line.
Joel’s eyes scanned the surroundings with practiced precision, taking in every detail. The gnarled bark of ancient trees, the glint of sunlight on the surface of the stream, the fleeting shadows cast by birds overhead – everything was noted, cataloged, filed away in his mind. The world outside Jackson was a place of both breathtaking beauty and constant peril, and Joel knew better than to let his guard down. Still, in moments like this, it was hard not to appreciate the raw, untouched splendor of the land around him.
Joel dismounted from his horse, the reins held loosely in his hand as he walked the rest of the way on foot. He preferred the quiet that walking afforded, the ability to move silently through the underbrush, alert to every rustle and crack in the woods around him. The air was filled with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the fading light painted long shadows across the forest floor.
As he moved deeper into the trees, a noise caught his attention – the low murmur of voices, urgent and panicked. Joel’s instincts kicked in, and he crouched low, moving stealthily toward the source of the commotion. Each step was measured, his boots barely making a sound on the soft ground. The voices grew louder, more distinct, and he could make out the gruff tones of men in distress.
Joel reached the edge of a small clearing and paused, hidden behind a thick oak tree. He peered around the trunk, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene before him. Three men stood in a loose circle, their backs to him, all focused on something on the ground. Their postures were tense, movements agitated. Joel’s gaze shifted, and he saw what held their attention – a woman, unconscious and sprawled in the grass, her dark hair matted with blood.
Nearby, the bodies of two raiders lay crumpled, their lifeless forms testament to a recent struggle. Blood stained the ground around them, dark and viscous. The men standing over her seemed distraught, their faces pale and drawn. One of them knelt beside her, checking for a pulse, while the others scanned the perimeter, their eyes darting nervously.
Joel crept closer, using the trees and underbrush for cover. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a reminder of the danger that could erupt at any moment. He could hear the men speaking now, their words sharp and anxious.
"Fucking bitch went feral," one of them hissed, his voice trembling.
"Yeah, these types are the worst," the man kneeling beside the girl replied. "They’ll do anything to survive, even when they’re outnumbered."
"Well, it’ll be easier to make use of her now," another said, his voice filled with anger and fear. "But look at them. She took them out, or at least put up one hell of a fight."
Joel's eyes lingered on the unconscious woman. She was small, curvy even in her battered state, and dressed in dark clothing. Despite the blood and grime, there was a fierceness about her that spoke of resilience and strength. He felt a pang of something – concern, perhaps, or admiration for her courage. But then he noticed something else: one of the men standing over her had drawn a knife.
"Let’s not take a chance and kill her now," the man with the knife said, his voice hard. "Then we can make use of her."
Joel’s jaw tightened. He knew these types – survivors who looked out for themselves first, willing to abandon those in need if it meant their own safety. Normally, he might have looked the other way, rationalizing it as the harsh reality of their world. But something about the girl struck a chord deep within him, a fierce need to protect her that he couldn’t explain.
Without another thought, Joel acted. He slipped his revolver from its holster, the weight familiar and comforting in his hand. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out from his hiding place, weapon raised. "Put the knife down," he commanded, his voice cold and authoritative.
The men spun around, eyes wide with shock and fear. The one with the knife hesitated, then lunged at Joel. In a swift, practiced motion, Joel fired, the shot echoing through the trees. The man fell, clutching his chest, his knife clattering to the ground.
The other two men reacted, one drawing a gun while the other tried to grab the girl. Joel moved quickly, taking aim and firing again. The second man dropped, blood blooming on his shirt. The last man, realizing the fight was lost, turned and fled into the woods.
Joel lowered his gun, breathing heavily, and approached the girl. She was still unconscious, her pulse weak and erratic. He felt that strange pull again, a fierce need to protect her. He quickly checked her for any serious injuries, then lifted her gently in his arms.
He carried her back to his horse, securing her in front of him. With a final glance at the clearing, he urged his horse forward, heading back towards Jackson. The girl’s head lolled against his chest, and he could feel the faint rise and fall of her breath. He didn’t know who she was or what had happened to her, but he was determined to get her to safety. As the forest closed in around them, Joel’s thoughts were a swirl of concern, determination, and a growing sense of responsibility for the woman in his arms.
Joel rode through the thickening twilight, the girl's limp body held securely in his arms. The rhythmic motion of the horse and the steady beat of her faint pulse against his chest did little to calm his racing thoughts. He found himself plagued by a storm of emotions he couldn’t quite name. Usually, the sight of another person in peril would elicit a practiced detachment, a necessary survival mechanism in this brutal world. But this time, something was different.
As they neared Jackson, Joel’s mind kept returning to the clearing – the dead raiders, the unconscious girl, the inexplicable urge to save her. He shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts, but they clung to him, persistent and unyielding. His grip on the reins tightened as he urged his horse faster, the town’s gates coming into view, the welcoming lights a stark contrast to the darkness encroaching on the forest.
The gates creaked open as he approached, familiar faces of the night guards registering surprise at the sight of Joel carrying an injured woman. He gave them a brief nod, too focused on his task to engage in any explanations. He directed his horse towards the infirmary, the only place in Jackson equipped to handle such emergencies.
"Doc! Get the doc!" he shouted as he dismounted, carefully cradling the girl in his arms. A flurry of movement followed as people rushed to help. The infirmary door swung open, and Joel stepped inside, the warm, sterile smell a sharp contrast to the cold, earthy scent of the woods.
"Over here!" Dr. Allen called, clearing a space on one of the cots. Joel laid the girl down gently, stepping back as the medical team sprang into action. His hands, now free, trembled slightly. He clenched them into fists, trying to steady himself.
Dr. Allen, a middle-aged woman with keen eyes and a calm demeanor, began her examination immediately. She worked with swift precision, checking the girl’s vitals, assessing her injuries. Joel watched from a distance, every muscle in his body taut with worry.
"She’s stable, but barely," Dr. Allen said, glancing up at Joel. "What happened out there?"
Joel exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Found her out near the old logging road. Raiders got to her, but she fought back. Took down a couple of them before I got there."
Dr. Allen nodded, focusing back on her patient. "She’s got a strong will to survive. That’s good. She’s going to need it."
Joel hovered near the doorway, his eyes never leaving the girl. He felt an intense, inexplicable need to ensure she was safe, to see her through this. The room buzzed with activity as the medical team cleaned her wounds, administered fluids, and worked to stabilize her condition. Joel’s worry gnawed at him, an unfamiliar sensation that left him feeling exposed and raw.
Hours seemed to feel like days as he waited, the minutes ticking by with agonizing slowness. Tommy appeared at some point, a concerned look on his face as he approached Joel.
"Hey," Tommy said softly, placing a hand on Joel’s shoulder. "You okay?"
Joel nodded stiffly. "Yeah, just… worried about her."
Tommy glanced at the girl, then back at Joel. "You don’t even know her."
"I know," Joel replied, his voice low. "But I couldn’t just leave her there."
Tommy gave him a knowing look, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You did the right thing. She’s in good hands now."
The night wore on, the medical team’s efforts began to show results. The girl’s breathing steadied, her pulse grew stronger. Dr. Allen finally stepped back, wiping her brow.
"She’s going to make it," she announced, and the tension in the room visibly lessened. Joel let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, relief washing over him.
"Thank you," he said, his voice thick with emotion.
Dr. Allen nodded. "She’ll need rest and care, but she’s a fighter. She’ll pull through."
Joel settled into a chair by her bedside, watching over her as she slept. The worry that had plagued him since he found her eased slightly, replaced by a determined resolve. He didn’t understand why he felt such a connection to this stranger, but he knew one thing for certain: he would be there for her, whatever it took.
As dawn broke over Jackson, casting a soft glow through the infirmary windows, Joel remained by her side, haunted by thoughts he couldn’t quite comprehend but resolute in his newfound purpose.
He remained by her side, his eyes heavy with exhaustion but unwilling to leave her alone. The infirmary had quieted down, the initial rush of activity giving way to a more subdued atmosphere.
When the first light of dawn seeped through the windows, casting long shadows across the room, Joel's thoughts drifted to the moments before he found her. He replayed the scene over and over in his mind: the woman lying unconscious, the dead raiders around her, the way she had fought so fiercely to survive. There was something about her, a strength and determination that resonated with him deeply.
Tommy returned, bringing a steaming cup of coffee. He handed it to Joel, who accepted it gratefully. "How's she doing?" Tommy asked, his voice hushed.
"Better," Joel replied, his eyes never leaving the girl. "Dr. Allen said she’s going to make it, but she needs rest."
Tommy nodded, pulling up a chair next to Joel. "You should get some rest too, brother. You’ve been up all night."
Joel shook his head. "I’ll rest when I know she’s out of the woods. Until then, I’m staying right here."
Tommy sighed but didn’t argue. He knew better than to try and change Joel’s mind once it was made up. Instead, he settled into his chair, offering silent support. The two brothers sat in companionable silence, the weight of the night’s events hanging heavily between them.
A while later, the infirmary door opened again, and Maria walked in, her face a mix of concern and curiosity. "Heard you had quite the night," she said, her gaze shifting from Joel to the woman on the bed.
"Yeah," Joel replied, taking a sip of his coffee. "Found her just in time. She’s a fighter, though."
Maria smiled softly and approached the bedside, looking at the unconscious girl. "Seems like she’ll fit right in around here. We could use more fighters."
Joel nodded, a sense of agreement settling over him. He didn’t know what lay ahead for her, but he was certain she had a place in Jackson. Maria turned to Joel, her eyes searching his face.
"You’ve been here all night?" she asked gently.
"Yeah," Joel admitted, his voice low. "Couldn’t leave her alone."
Maria exchanged a glance with Tommy, a silent understanding passing between them. "You’ve done enough for now, Joel. Let us take over for a bit. You need some rest."
Joel hesitated, his eyes lingering. "I can’t. Not yet."
Maria sighed, but there was no frustration in her expression, only compassion. "Alright, but at least sit down. We’ll stay with you."
Joel nodded and He settled back into his chair, his eyes never straying far from her face. Tommy and Maria took seats nearby, their presence a comforting reminder that he wasn’t alone in this.
At one point, Maria leaned over to Tommy and whispered, "I’ve never seen Joel this concerned about a stranger before."
Tommy nodded, his eyes on Joel. "Yeah, it’s unusual. But I think she means something to him, even if he doesn’t fully realize it yet."
Maria glanced at the girl, then back at Joel. "Maybe she’s what he needs. Someone to remind him that there’s still good worth fighting for."
Tommy squeezed Maria’s hand, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe. Let’s just hope she pulls through."
As evening approached, she began to stir, her eyelids fluttering as she fought to wake up. Joel leaned forward, his heart pounding in his chest.
Slowly, her eyes opened, dark and filled with confusion. She blinked several times, trying to focus on her surroundings. When her gaze finally landed on Joel, there was a flicker of recognition, followed by a mix of relief and apprehension.
"Hey there," Joel said softly, his voice gentle. "You’re safe now. You’re in Jackson."
She tried to speak, but her voice came out as a hoarse whisper. "Who…?"
"My name’s Joel," he replied. "I found you out there. Brought you back here to get some help. You’re going to be okay."
She nodded weakly, her eyes drifting shut again. She was still exhausted, her body demanding more rest. Joel felt a sense of relief wash over him. She was awake, and she knew she was safe.
Tommy and Maria watched the exchange with quiet interest, noting the tenderness in Joel’s voice and the protective way he watched over the girl.
"Looks like she’s in good hands," Maria said softly, her eyes meeting Joel’s. "You did good, Joel."
Joel nodded, his expression resolute. "Just want to make sure she’s okay."
As night fell, Joel remained, his thoughts a swirl of concern, determination, and a growing sense of responsibility for the woman in his care. Tommy and Maria eventually left, their reassurances lingering in the air.
Joel knew that whatever the future held, he was committed to seeing this through. He didn’t fully understand the connection he felt to this stranger, but he knew one thing for certain: he would protect her, no matter what.
***
You drifted in and out of consciousness, your mind a haze of pain and confusion. Each time you woke, the world around you shifted in and out of focus, as if you were seeing it through frosted glass. Your body ached with a deep, relentless throb that seemed to come from every part of you.
Voices echoed around you, muffled and distant, as though they were coming from underwater. You could barely make out the words, but you remembered men shouting, the sharp crack of gunfire, and the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground. The memories came in fragments, each one more disjointed than the last.
Amidst the chaos, there was a moment of clarity, a fleeting glimpse of a man with a hard, weathered face, his eyes filled with a mix of determination and something else—concern, maybe? His face blurred as your vision faded, and you slipped back into the darkness.
The next time you woke, it was to a different sensation. You were being carried, held tightly against a warm chest. The rhythmic motion of walking jostled you gently, and you could hear the steady beat of a heart beneath your ear. The scent of sweat, leather, and something comforting enveloped you, grounding you in the moment.
You tried to open your eyes, to see who was carrying you, but your eyelids felt like they were made of lead. All you could do was rest your head against the warmth, feeling a strange sense of safety despite the pain that racked your body.
The world shifted again, and you found yourself lying on something soft—a bed, maybe? There were more voices now, urgent but less panicked than before. Hands touched you, checking your injuries, and you flinched at the pain. You heard someone speaking close by, their voice low and soothing, but the words were lost to you.
***
You slipped in and out of consciousness, each time catching fleeting glimpses of your surroundings. The room was dimly lit, shadows dancing on the walls. Sometimes, you saw the man from before, sitting close by, his eyes never leaving you. Other times, you saw different faces—concerned, caring, but always strangers.
Pain flared up again, pulling you under, and you felt yourself drifting away once more. The last thing you remembered before the darkness claimed you was the feeling of a rough hand gently brushing your hair back, the touch surprisingly tender.
***
As the days passed, those glimpses began to clear. The man was always there, watching over you, his presence a constant in your fractured reality. You didn’t know who he was, but in your moments of lucidity, you felt a strange connection to him, as if he were a lifeline pulling you back from the brink.
Eventually, the pain started to recede, replaced by a heavy exhaustion that clung to your bones. You were still weak, but the moments of consciousness grew longer, and the world around you began to make more sense. You could hear conversations now, snippets of words that pieced together a picture of where you were and what had happened.
"... found her just in time," someone said.
"She’s a fighter," another voice replied, filled with a warmth that made your chest tighten.
You opened your eyes fully for the first time in what felt like an eternity, and the man’s face came into focus. He was sitting beside your bed, his expression a mixture of relief and weariness.
"Hey there," he said softly, his voice gentle. "You’re safe now. You’re in Jackson."
You tried to speak, but your voice came out as a hoarse whisper. "Who...?"
"My name’s Joel," he replied. "I found you out there. Brought you back here to get some help. You’re gonna be okay."
You nodded weakly, your eyes drifting shut again. You were still exhausted, your body demanding more rest. But for the first time since the attack, you felt a flicker of hope. You were safe, and someone was looking out for you.
And as you slipped back into sleep, you held onto that thought, letting it anchor you against the darkness.
***
The faces of Tommy, Maria, and Ellie became familiar presences around you. Each time you woke, they were there, offering quiet reassurances and gentle smiles that helped ease the lingering fear in your chest. They treated you with a kindness that felt foreign yet comforting, their presence a stark contrast to the violence and chaos you vaguely remembered.
Tommy, with his calm demeanor and steady voice, sat by your bedside, occasionally sharing stories about life in Jackson and cracking jokes that brought fleeting smiles to your lips. Maria, whose warmth and strength seemed to radiate from her, checked on you with a motherly concern, ensuring you had everything you needed. And Ellie, vibrant and spirited, chattered away about books, movies, and the world beyond Jackson, her enthusiasm infectious.
Their support made you feel less like an outsider and more like a welcomed part of their community. They didn’t pry into your past or demand answers to questions you weren’t ready to answer. Instead, they simply offered their friendship and a sense of belonging that you hadn’t realized you were searching for.
One afternoon, as you were well enough to sit up in bed, Joel walked in carrying a stack of books he found in the makeshift library of Jackson. He placed the books on the bedside table and offered you a small, reassuring smile.
"Thought you might like these," he said, his voice gentle yet tinged with a hint of concern. "Heard you were into movies and books."
You nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Joel. It means a lot."
He nodded in return, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. "Just wanted to make sure you were comfortable while you were healin’."
You appreciated his care, sensing there was more behind his actions than mere kindness. But before you could dwell on it further, Joel began to explain what happened, piecing together the fragments of your memory with the events he witnessed.
"You were out there, near the outskirts," Joel began, his voice steady. "A group of raiders attacked you. They... they were about to... but I showed up just in time."
You swallowed hard, the pieces starting to fit together in your mind. The shouts, the gunfire, the overwhelming sense of fear—all of it began to make sense now, though the details were still murky.
"You saved my life," you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper. The weight of his actions settled heavily on your shoulders, mixing gratitude with a profound sense of vulnerability.
Joel shook his head, a hint of discomfort crossing his features. "Just did what anyone would have done."
But you knew better. Not everyone would have risked their own safety to intervene, especially in a world where survival often meant turning a blind eye. Joel chose differently, and his decision brought you here, to safety and healing.
As Joel stood there, his presence a reassuring anchor in the storm of your thoughts, you felt a surge of gratitude and something else—a growing connection that went beyond words. It was as if fate had brought you together, intertwining your lives in ways neither of you fully understood.
***
Slowly regaining strength each day, Joel’s visits became a steady rhythm in your recovery. It started with small gestures—him checking in on you, bringing fresh bandages or a cup of tea. But it was the mornings that stood out the most.
Every morning without fail, Joel arrived with a small bouquet of wildflowers he had gathered from the outskirts of Jackson. He placed them in a makeshift vase by the window, the delicate blooms adding a splash of color to the sterile hospital room. The gesture was simple yet meaningful, a reminder of life and beauty amidst the harshness of your world.
You watched him silently as he arranged the flowers with care, his hands gentle yet purposeful. There was a quiet intensity about him in those moments, a vulnerability he rarely showed to others. And as he turned to you with a soft smile, you felt a flutter of something deeper than gratitude—an unspoken connection that grew stronger with each passing day.
You began to talk more during his visits, sharing stories and snippets of your pasts. Joel spoke sparingly about Sarah, his daughter, and the pain of losing her. You listened attentively, offering words of comfort when the memories threatened to overwhelm him. In turn, you shared glimpses of your own life before the outbreak—memories of family, friends, and a world that now seemed like a distant dream.
Your conversations flowed easily, punctuated by moments of shared laughter and quiet understanding. There was a comfort in Joel’s presence, a familiarity that eased the ache of loneliness you had carried for so long. And in those stolen moments between nurse visits and medical checks, you began to see Joel not just as a protector, but as someone who had quietly slipped into the spaces of your heart.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and cast a golden glow across the room, Joel lingered by your bedside longer than usual. The air between you seemed charged with unspoken words, a tension that crackled beneath the surface.
"You know," Joel began, his voice low and rough with emotion, "I’ve never been one for… for flowers."
You looked up at him, meeting his gaze with a gentle smile. "I’ve noticed," you replied softly, your heart beating a little faster in your chest.
"Guess I’m makin’ an exception for you."
The admission hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning. You reached out tentatively, placing your hand over his where it rested on the edge of the bed. His fingers curled around yours, warm and solid, sending a jolt of electricity through you.
"I’m glad you did," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.
Joel’s expression softened, his thumb brushing gently over the back of your hand. "Me too."
In that moment, the distance between you dissolved, replaced by an undeniable pull that drew you closer together. It was as if you had been circling each other, hesitating on the edge of something profound. And now, with your hands intertwined and your hearts laid bare, there was no turning back.
***
One evening, as you sat together in the fading light, Joel’s hand found yours once more. His touch was electric, sending a shiver down your spine. You turned to him, your heart pounding in your chest, and found him already looking at you with an intensity that stole your breath away.
"Joel," you whispered, the word a prayer on your lips.
He didn’t speak, but his eyes held yours captive, searching for any hesitation or doubt. And when he leaned in, closing the distance between you, you thought the world would finally fall away, leaving only the warmth of his lips.
But what you expected never happened. Instead, he stilled, his eyes dropping to your lips and then back to meet your eyes over and over. He pulled away, swallowed thickly, and got up from his seat. He left without saying another word.
But, through it all, Joel continued to bring you flowers every morning—a silent reminder of the love and hope that had blossomed between you amidst the ruins of your world.
***
Several months passed in Jackson, and with each day of recovery, you found yourself drawn more deeply into the rhythm of life within the fortified walls. The once unfamiliar faces of Tommy, Maria, Ellie, and Joel became your steadfast companions, their presence weaving a tapestry of belonging that you hadn't felt since before the outbreak.
As you regained your strength, you sought out ways to contribute to the community that had welcomed you with open arms. It was during one of Joel's visits that he suggested you spend time at the local library, knowing your love for books and movies from your earlier conversations. The idea resonated deeply with you, igniting a spark of excitement and purpose.
The library itself was a refuge—a haven of knowledge and imagination nestled within the sturdy walls of Jackson. Its shelves were lined with dusty books of every genre imaginable, their spines worn and weathered from years of use. The air was infused with the comforting scent of paper and ink, a familiar aroma that brought back memories of lazy afternoons spent lost in fictional worlds.
Occasionally, patrons would wander in, seeking recommendations or browsing the latest arrivals. You greeted them warmly, offering assistance with finding books or answering questions about library programs. Some were regular visitors, their faces becoming familiar over time, while others were newcomers, drawn in by the promise of a quiet corner and a good book.
During breaks, you would steal moments for yourself—a cup of tea, a brief pause to admire the view from the library windows. The town of Jackson spread out before you, a patchwork of rooftops and winding streets, framed by the majestic peaks of the surrounding mountains.
Joel's visits were a highlight of your day, his footsteps echoing softly on the library floor as he approached. Sometimes, he would linger near the front desk, watching you with a quiet intensity that sent a flutter of warmth through you. Other times, he would join you in the stacks, his presence a steady comfort as you exchanged snippets of conversation between the rows of books.
As you meticulously arranged a display of newly arrived mystery novels near the entrance of the library, the familiar sound of footsteps approached from behind you. You turned to see Joel entering with Ellie at his side, their presence instantly brightening the quiet atmosphere of the library.
"Hey," Joel greeted with a warm smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made your heart skip a beat. "How's the day treatin’ you?"
You returned his smile, feeling a rush of warmth at his presence. "It's going well. Just getting things in order here."
Ellie darted off towards the fiction section, her eyes scanning the shelves with eager anticipation. "I'm looking for that new sci-fi book Tommy mentioned," she called back over her shoulder, her voice echoing softly through the library.
Joel chuckled fondly, his gaze lingering on Ellie for a moment before returning to you. "She's been itchin’ to read that one for weeks now."
"She's got great taste."
Joel moved closer, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. "You know, Ellie's been talking about you," he admitted, his voice low and intimate. "Says you've been a lifesaver with those book recommendations."
"Well, I'm glad I could help."
"You do more than just help, you know."
Before you could say anything his gaze, usually steady and composed, softened as he noticed the small cut on your wrist. Without a word, he gently took your hand in his, his touch warm and reassuring against your skin.
You held your breath, feeling a rush of warmth spread through you at his proximity. His fingers traced the delicate line of the cut, his touch gentle yet firm as he inspected it. "What happened?" he asked quietly, concern etched in the lines of his face.
You swallowed, trying to steady your voice. "I... I got a splinter earlier," you managed to explain, your words coming out in a breathless rush. "It's nothing, really. I took it out, but..."
Ignoring you, he continued to examine your palm, his brow furrowed in concentration. His thumb brushed lightly over the area where you had removed the splinter, and then he paused, his expression changing subtly.
"There's still a small piece in there."
"I thought I got it all out," you admitted, a hint of frustration coloring your tone.
Joel met your eyes, his gaze steady and reassuring. "It happens," he murmured, his focus shifting back to your hand. "Let me take care of it."
With practiced ease, Joel reached into his pocket and withdrew a small pair of tweezers. He positioned himself beside you, his touch careful and precise as he gently extracted the remaining splinter from your palm. You held your breath, watching as Joel worked with steady hands and unwavering focus. The sensation was more comforting than painful.
"There," Joel said softly, finally withdrawing the tweezers and inspecting his handiwork. "All done."
You exhaled a sigh of relief, "Thank you," you murmured.
Joel nodded, his gaze lingering on yours for a moment longer than necessary. "Anytime," he replied quietly, his voice rough with unspoken emotions.
Then, without a word, he leaned in and pressed his warm lips against the throbbing patch of skin. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart beating a mile per minute. It didn’t last. It felt like a drizzle of rain, leaving your skin as soon as it touched it. He let go of your hand and took a quick step back, he looked remorseful like he regretted his action almost immediately.
His look made you feel guilty. Your heart aching even though you knew you’d done nothing wrong.
***
In the weeks and months that followed, you and Joel found yourselves drawn closer together, your bond deepening with each shared moment and whispered conversation. The library remained a sanctuary where your friendship blossomed amidst the pages of beloved stories and the quiet hum of everyday life in Jackson.
With Joel heading out on patrol, the library felt unusually quiet that day. Ellie had arrived earlier, her energy and curiosity filling the space as she browsed through the shelves with a voracious appetite for new stories.
You greeted her with a warm smile as she approached the front desk, her arms already filled with a diverse stack of books ranging from graphic novels to classic literature.
"Hey, Ellie," you greeted cheerfully, taking note of her eclectic choices. "Finding everything okay?"
"Definitely! You've got so many cool books here," she exclaimed, carefully setting down her stack on the counter. "Mind if I borrow these?"
"Of course not," you replied with a chuckle, scanning the books one by one and checking them out for her. "I'm glad you're enjoying the selection. Anything specific you're in the mood for?"
As Ellie launched into animated descriptions of her favorite genres and characters, you found yourself drawn into her infectious enthusiasm. You bonded over shared interests—sci-fi novels that explored distant galaxies, fantasy epics filled with magic and adventure, and even a few graphic novels that blurred the lines between reality and imagination.
In between discussions about your favorite books, Ellie shared stories of her experiences growing up in the post-outbreak world. You reciprocated by opening up about your own journey—memories of a life before the outbreak, your love for books and movies, and the challenges of finding a new sense of normalcy in Jackson.
The hours slipped by unnoticed as you lost yourselves in conversation and exploration, your laughter echoing through the library aisles. It was easy to forget the outside world for a while, immersed in the camaraderie and shared passion for storytelling that bound you together.
As the afternoon sun began to cast long shadows through the library windows, Ellie glanced at the clock with a playful grin. "I should probably head back before Joel starts worrying," she teased, gathering up her books and preparing to leave.
You nodded in understanding, grateful for the unexpected bond that had formed between you in Joel's absence. "Thanks for keeping me company, Ellie," you said sincerely, touched by her presence and the genuine connection you had forged.
Ellie flashed you a bright smile, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Anytime, Ash," she replied, using Joel's nickname for you with a knowing glint in her eye. "You're pretty cool, you know?"
Before you could respond, she was already halfway out the door, her laughter trailing behind her. You watched her go with a fond smile, feeling a warmth in your heart that lingered long after she had gone.
In that quiet moment, surrounded by the comforting embrace of books and stories, you reflected on the unexpected friendships that had blossomed in the wake of devastation. Joel's departure had brought you and Ellie closer together, reminding you once again of the resilience and strength that could be found in the bonds you forged and the stories you shared.
***
You lay on your bed, the soft sheets cradling your body as you closed your eyes. Your mind wandered to him, your crush, Joel. The mere thought of his name sent a shiver down your spine and a warm sensation between your legs.
You couldn't help but imagine his hands on you, his gentle touch igniting a fire within you. You pictured him hovering over you, his lips inches away from yours, his breath hot against your skin. Your fingers instinctively began to trail down your body, following the curves and dips, imagining it was his hands exploring every inch of you.
The thought of his strong, calloused hands caressing your skin made you shiver. You remembered the way his eyes lit up when he smiled, the depth in them that always seemed to draw you in. You could almost feel the weight of his gaze, intense and burning, as he looked at you with a desire that mirrored your own.
As your hand found its way between your thighs, you could almost feel his touch. Your body responded eagerly, your hips arching off the bed. You let out a soft gasp, imagining it was Joel's name tumbling from your lips. The fantasy deepened, and you could see his face more clearly now, his features etched in your mind with perfect clarity.
Your mind played out various scenarios, each one more intense and intimate than the last. You imagined him leaning in to kiss you, his lips soft and insistent against yours. The kiss deepened, his tongue exploring your mouth with a slow, tantalizing rhythm that left you breathless. His hands were everywhere, tracing patterns on your skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.
You pictured his lips on your neck, his soft whispers in your ear, his strong arms holding you close. His voice was low and husky, filled with a need that matched your own. He told you how much he wanted you, how he couldn't stop thinking about you, and every word sent a jolt of pleasure through your body.
The pleasure built and built, and you could feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge. You imagined him whispering your name, his breath hot against your ear, his hands guiding you, teasing you, bringing you to the brink of ecstasy.
As you reached your peak, you allowed yourself to fully indulge in the fantasy of Joel. Every touch, every kiss, every whisper, it was all in your head but it felt so real. You could almost hear his voice, feel the warmth of his body against yours, the weight of him pressing down on you, grounding you in the moment.
The waves of pleasure crashed over you, and you cried out, your body trembling with the force of your release. For a few blissful moments, everything else faded away, and it was just you and Joel, lost in the throes of passion.
And as you came down from the high, you couldn’t help but wish that it was more than just a fantasy. That one day, Joel would make all your desires and daydreams a reality. You imagined the two of you together, sharing moments of intimacy and connection, building a relationship that went beyond your wildest dreams.
But for now, you settled for this moment of sensual bliss, enjoying every second of it. You lay there, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure, your mind filled with thoughts of Joel. You let yourself linger in the fantasy a little longer, savoring the feeling of being close to him, even if it was just in your imagination. And as you drifted off to sleep, you carried the hope that one day, your fantasies would become a reality.
Feeling sticky and aching, you slowly peeled yourself off the bed and headed for a quick shower. The cool water cascaded over your skin, washing away the remnants of your fantasy and providing a refreshing contrast to the heat that had consumed you moments ago. As the water soothed your body, your mind remained restless, thoughts of Joel still swirling in your head.
You felt a bittersweet twinge in your chest as you thought about him. The warmth and intensity of your fantasies clashed with the cold reality that nothing would ever happen between you and Joel. Despite how often he was around, how his presence always seemed to light up the room, he never took that next step. He never crossed the line from friendship into something more.
You replayed your interactions with him, searching for signs, any indication that he might feel the same way. There were moments that made your heart flutter—a lingering glance, a touch that felt too intimate to be merely friendly, words that seemed to carry a hidden meaning. But just as quickly, doubts crept in, and you reminded yourself that it was probably just your wishful thinking, seeing what you wanted to see.
The ache in your heart deepened as you accepted this reality. You knew that despite your longing, Joel remained just out of reach, a constant presence in your life but never quite yours. The shower water mingled with your tears as you silently mourned the unfulfilled dreams and desires that seemed destined to remain in your imagination.
As you stepped out of the shower, you wrapped yourself in a towel, feeling the softness against your skin. You took a deep breath, trying to shake off the melancholy that had settled over you. You reminded yourself that life went on, and you couldn’t stay lost in your fantasies forever.
Instead of getting dressed, you find yourself drawn back to your bed. The sheets were cool now, a stark contrast to the heat of your earlier thoughts. You climbed back in, pulling the covers around you, seeking comfort in their familiar embrace.
Your mind drifted back to Joel, to his warm brown eyes that always seemed to hold a thousand unspoken words. You pictured his smile, the way it lit up his entire face, and the sound of his laugh, so genuine and infectious. You couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to have him here with you, to feel his arms around you, to share these quiet moments together.
You lay there, your heart heavy with longing, and allowed yourself to imagine just a little longer. Even though you knew it was just a fantasy, it brought a small measure of comfort. His presence in your thoughts was a bittersweet solace, a reminder of what you yearned for but also what you could not have.
Eventually, your eyes grew heavy, and you let the thoughts of Joel lull you into a dream-filled sleep. You knew that reality awaited you when you woke, but for now, you let yourself drift, holding onto the image of his warm brown eyes and the hope that one day, you would find the love you deserved.
***
Joel sat on his horse, patrolling the outskirts of Jackson with a heavy heart. The familiar landscape, with its rugged terrain and dense forests, usually offered a sense of solace and routine. Today, however, his thoughts were far from the patrol at hand. They kept drifting back to the library, to the warmth of her smile and the depth of her eyes.
He'd felt an inexplicable pull towards her since the moment he found her. Her tenacity and spirit had captivated him. She fought like hell to survive, just like he had so many times before. It was more than just attraction—it was a connection he didn't fully understand and certainly didn't know how to handle.
"Get your head in the game, Joel," he muttered to himself, trying to shake off the distraction. But the more he tried to focus on the patrol, the more his mind wandered back to her. He remembered how her breath had caught when he held her hand to inspect her cut. There was something about her that drew him in, despite every instinct telling him to keep his distance.
Back in Jackson, she was sucesfully becoming a part of the community. Tommy and Maria had taken to her quickly. Tommy often spoke highly of her, appreciating her wit and the way she didn't suffer fools. Maria admired her resilience and found in her a kindred spirit. Ellie was perhaps the closest to her, their shared love for books and movies creating a bond that seemed to grow stronger by the day.
Joel watched from the sidelines, a mix of pride and something else he couldn't quite name filling his chest. Seeing her interact with Tommy and Maria, laughing at Ellie's jokes, and bringing a new light to the community was both heartwarming and painful. He wanted to be closer to her, to let down his guard and allow himself to feel. But the fear of loss, the weight of his past, kept him from stepping into the light she offered.
One evening, Joel found himself standing outside the library, watching through the window as she and Ellie animatedly discussed a book. Her laughter rang out, clear and joyous, and it struck him deeply. He turned away, the internal struggle gnawing at him. He wanted to protect her, to be there for her, but he didn't think he deserved that kind of happiness.
Every interaction was charged with a mix of emotions—hope, fear, desire, and self-doubt. When he brought her fresh flowers each morning, her eyes would light up with a gratitude that made his heartache. Yet, he always found an excuse to leave quickly, afraid that lingering too long would reveal too much.
They found themselves alone in the library more often than not. She would be shelving books, and he would walk in, their eyes meeting across the room. Words felt inadequate, and yet the silence between them spoke volumes. She began to notice his frequent visits, the way he seemed to hover just on the edge of their interactions, always present but never fully engaging.
One afternoon, Joel found her struggling with a particularly heavy stack of books. Without thinking, he moved to help, their hands brushing as they both reached for the top book. The contact sent a jolt through him, and he saw the same spark in her eyes. She bit her lip, a small, nervous habit he'd come to recognize, and his resolve wavered.
"You don't have to do this alone," he said softly, his voice rough with emotion. She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face for answers he wasn't ready to give.
"Neither do you," she replied, her voice equally soft but filled with a strength that shook him.
They stood there, the library fading into the background as the weight of their unspoken words hung between them. Joel's heart pounded in his chest, the magnetic pull towards her stronger than ever. He wanted to reach out, to close the distance and let her in, but the fear of losing her, of not being enough, held him back.
Finally, he stepped away, the moment broken by his retreat. She watched him go, a mix of sadness and understanding in her eyes. Joel walked out of the library, the internal battle raging on. He didn't know how long he could keep this up, but for now, he would protect her the only way he knew how—by keeping his distance, even if it tore him apart inside.
***
The library was your sanctuary, a place where you could lose yourself in the comforting embrace of books and the soothing rhythm of routine. You were deep in thought, rearranging a shelf of classic novels when you heard the door creak open. Turning, you saw Ellie standing there, her usual bright energy replaced by a troubled expression.
"Hey, Ellie," you greeted her warmly, trying to read her mood. "What's up?"
Ellie hesitated at the entrance, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. She looked around the empty library as if making sure you were alone. "Hey, Ash," she said softly, her voice lacking its usual spark. "Can we talk?"
"Of course," you replied, setting the book you were holding aside and walking over to her. "What's on your mind?"
Ellie bit her lip, her eyes downcast. "It's... kind of personal," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
You nodded, your heart going out to her. "Let's sit down," you suggested, guiding her to a cozy corner of the library where a couple of armchairs were nestled by a large window. The late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the room, creating a safe, intimate space for your conversation.
You settled into the chairs, and you waited patiently, giving Ellie the time she needed to gather her thoughts. She looked at her hands, her fingers nervously tracing patterns on the armrest.
"I've been feeling really confused lately," Ellie began. "There's this girl... Dina. She's amazing. Funny, smart, and just... so cool. I think I have a crush on her."
"Dina sounds wonderful," you said encouragingly. "It's okay to have feelings for someone."
Ellie looked up at you, her eyes filled with uncertainty. "But... it's more than that. I think... I know I'm not into guys. I like girls. And it scares me. I don't know how people will react, especially Joel."
Her vulnerability tugged at your heartstrings. You reached out and placed a reassuring hand on hers. "Ellie, thank you for sharing this with me," you said softly. "It's a big step, and I want you to know that it's perfectly okay to feel the way you do."
Ellie swallowed hard, her eyes searching yours for any hint of judgment. "You really think so?" she asked, her voice fragile.
"I know so," you replied firmly. "And you're not alone in this. I'm bisexual."
Ellie's eyes widened in surprise. "Really?"
You nodded, offering her a comforting smile. "Yes. I've been where you are, feeling scared and unsure. But the important thing to remember is that your feelings are valid. Who you love doesn't define your worth; it's just a part of who you are."
Ellie took a deep breath, her eyes fixed on the floor as if the words she was about to say were too heavy to lift. "I'm really scared to tell Joel," she confessed, her voice trembling. "What if he doesn't accept me? What if he thinks less of me?"
You leaned forward, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "Ellie, I know Joel can be a bit... gruff and guarded, but he cares about you more than anything. You mean the world to him. He's been through a lot, and he's seen more than most. If there's one thing I know about Joel, it's that he values the people he loves for who they are."
Ellie's eyes flicked up to meet yours, a glimmer of hope in their depths. "You really think so?"
"I know so," you said with conviction. "I've seen the way he looks at you, the way he worries about you. He might have his rough edges, but his heart is in the right place. And if you need someone to be there with you when you tell him, I'll be right by your side."
Ellie bit her lip, her expression softening as she considered your words. "It's just... he's been like a father to me. I don't want to disappoint him."
"You won't," you assured her. "Joel loves you unconditionally. He might be surprised at first, but that won't change how much he cares about you. He'll want you to be happy, and being true to yourself is a big part of that."
Ellie nodded slowly, the fear in her eyes giving way to a cautious optimism. "I hope you're right. I just don't want to lose him."
"You won't lose him," you repeated gently. "Joel's been through too much to let something like this come between you. He'll need time to process, but he'll come around. And remember, you have a whole community here who supports you, including me."
"Thanks, Ash. It means a lot to hear that."
"Anytime, Ellie," you said, giving her a reassuring smile. "You're not alone in this. We'll face it together."
Ellie took a deep breath, nodding as if steeling herself for the conversation ahead. "Okay. I'll tell him. But... can you really be there with me when I do?"
"Of course," you replied without hesitation. "I'll be right there with you, every step of the way."
You sat in silence for a few moments, the weight of the conversation settling between you. The sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over the library. It felt like a moment of quiet reflection, a brief respite before the next step in Ellie's journey.
Finally, Ellie broke the silence, her voice stronger and more determined. "I've got to tell Dina too. I think she might feel the same way, but I've been too scared to say anything."
You smiled, proud of her courage. "That's a good idea. Being honest with her will help you both figure out where you stand."
Ellie nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Yeah, I think so too. Thanks, Ash. For everything."
"You're welcome," you said warmly. "Remember, I'm always here if you need to talk or just need a friend."
Ellie stood up, her shoulders a little straighter than before. "I'll see you later, Ash. And... thanks again."
As she walked out of the library, you watched her go with a sense of pride and hope. Ellie was on the brink of a significant moment in her life, and you were honored to be a part of it. The bond you had forged in that quiet corner of the library was a testament to the power of empathy, understanding, and unconditional support.
And as you returned to your work, you felt a renewed sense of purpose. Helping Ellie find her way was just the beginning. In a world filled with uncertainty and hardship, moments like these remind you of the strength and resilience that lay within each of us. You were not alone, and together, you could face whatever challenges came your way.
***
You were on patrol, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows through the dense forest as you walked. The air was crisp, the smell of pine and earth strong around you. Normally, you would have found the setting peaceful, but today there was an uncomfortable silence hanging between Joel and you. No matter how hard you tried to make conversation, he remained stoically quiet, his eyes scanning the surroundings with a focused intensity.
"So, Joel," you started for what felt like the tenth time, trying to break through the barrier of silence. "How's Ellie doing with all those books she borrowed? She mentioned she really liked the one about the ancient Greek heroes."
Joel grunted in response, his gaze never leaving the path ahead. "She liked it," he said shortly.
You bit your lip, feeling the awkwardness grow. It wasn't like Joel to be this distant, especially after everything you had been through. You wondered if something had happened, if he was angry or upset with you. You tried again, your voice a bit more tentative this time. "I hope she's doing okay. She's really taken a liking to the library."
"She's fine," Joel replied, his tone clipped.
A heavy silence fell over you once more. You could hear the crunch of leaves beneath your boots, the distant chirping of birds, and the occasional rustle of a small animal scurrying through the underbrush. It was a stark contrast to the usual camaraderie you shared, and it was unsettling.
Finally, you couldn't take it anymore. You stopped walking, forcing Joel to stop as well. "Joel, what's going on?" you asked, your voice firmer than you felt. "You've been quiet all day, and it's making me feel like I did something wrong."
Joel turned to look at you, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he said nothing, just stared at you with those intense, deep-set eyes. Then he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture of frustration. "It's not you," he finally said, his voice softer. "It's me. I've got a lot on my mind."
"Do you want to talk about it?" you asked, taking a step closer to him.
He shook his head, his gaze dropping to the ground. "It's complicated," he muttered. "I just... I don't want to mess things up."
You frowned, not understanding. "Mess what up? Joel, you've been a good friend to me. If there's something bothering you, you can tell me. Maybe I can help."
He looked up at you then, his eyes filled with turmoil that took your breath away. "That's just it," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "I don't know how to handle what I'm feelin’. I've been trying to keep my distance because I don't want to hurt you. But seein’ you, bein’ near you... it's drivin’ me crazy."
Your heart pounded in your chest as his words sank in. "Joel," you whispered, taking another step closer until you were almost touching. "You don't have to protect me from yourself. Whatever it is, we can face it together."
He shook his head again, more forcefully this time. "You don't understand, Ash. I've done things, terrible things. I don't deserve... this. You. I don't deserve you."
You reached out, placing a hand on his arm. "Joel, we all have our pasts. We all have things we're not proud of. But that doesn't mean we don't deserve happiness, or love. You've been there for me when I needed it most. Let me be there for you."
He looked down at your hand, then back up at you, his eyes filled with a mix of pain and longing. "I want to believe that," he said quietly. "I really do."
"Then believe it," you urged, your voice soft but insistent. "We can take it one step at a time. You don't have to face everything alone."
For a long moment, Joel didn't move. Then, slowly, he reached up and covered your hand with his, his grip strong and reassuring. You stood there, the forest around you silent and still, a world away from the chaos and danger that usually surrounded you. At that moment, it was just the two of you, facing your fears and uncertainties together. He didn’t say a word, then, slowly, he let you go and pressed forward.
The atmosphere between Joel and you remained tense as you continued your patrol. The silence was thick, each step through the forest feeling heavier than the last. Your thoughts were a whirlwind, circling around the complexities of your unspoken emotions. You couldn't help but imagine how it would feel to be embraced by him, to feel his strong arms around you, offering comfort and security.
You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t see the tree root protruding from the ground. Your foot caught on it, and before you knew it, you were falling. You landed hard, a sharp pain shooting through your arm as you scraped it against a jagged rock.
"Damn it," you muttered, wincing as you cradled your arm. Blood seeped from a cut just below your elbow, the wound stinging in the cool air.
Joel was at your side in an instant, his expression shifting from distant to concerned. "You alright?" he asked, his voice gruff but laced with worry.
"I'm fine," you snapped, though your voice was tight with pain. "Just a cut."
Joel ignored your words, gently taking your arm to inspect the wound. His touch was surprisingly tender, and despite the pain, you felt a shiver run down your spine. His brow furrowed as he examined the cut, his fingers carefully avoiding the worst of it.
"We need to clean this up," he said, his voice authoritative. "You got any water left?"
"Don't," you interrupted, pulling your arm away from him and trying to push him back. "Why do you even care? You've been distant all day."
Joel looked taken aback, his hand frozen in mid-air. "I'm just tryin’ to help."
"Yeah, well, it’s a little too late for that," you muttered, your back against a tree as you tried to compose yourself. The pain in your arm was nothing compared to the frustration bubbling inside you.
Joel knelt in front of you, his brows tightly drawn together. "I know I’ve been an ass but. . .”
You looked away, trying to ignore the sting of tears in your eyes. "Whatever. Just go away, Joel. It hurts more when you show softness only to take it away."
For a moment, he didn't move, his gaze searching your face for something. Then, with a sigh, he sat back on his heels, clearly conflicted.
Joel’s hand shot out and caught your wrist as you tried to push him away again. His grip was like iron, firm yet not painful. You struggled against him, frustration mounting, but he didn’t let go. His eyes bored into yours.
"Joel, let go," you demanded, your voice shaky.
He didn't budge, his grip unwavering. "Not until you listen," he said, his tone firm.
You tried to pull away, but it was futile. "Listen to what? More silence?"
His eyes flashed with something you couldn't quite decipher. "Listen to this," he said quietly before leaning in.
You barely had time to register his words before his lips were on yours. The kiss was unexpected, a collision of emotions that took your breath away. You stiffened, caught off guard, but Joel’s hand moved to the back of your neck, holding you gently but securely as his fingers worked the muscles.
For a moment, you were frozen, your mind reeling from the sudden intimacy. Then, slowly, you began to respond, your resistance melting away. The kiss deepened, a raw and desperate exchange of everything you had been holding back. Your free hand found its way to his shoulder, gripping tightly as if anchoring yourself in the storm of emotions.
When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing hard. Joel’s forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed as he whispered, "I'm sorry. I didn’t know how else to show you how much you mean to me."
You swallowed, your heart pounding. "Joel, you can’t just... kiss me to make everything better," you said, though your voice lacked conviction.
"I know," he replied softly, his grip on your wrist loosening but not releasing you entirely. "But I had to do somethin’. I can’t keep pushin’ you away. Not when I feel this way."
"Then stop pushing me away," you whispered, your voice trembling. "We can figure this out together."
Joel nodded, his thumb gently brushing over your wrist. "Together," he agreed, his voice resolute.
Joel's touch shifted from your wrist to the cut on your arm, his movements careful and precise. His fingers traced the edges of the wound, assessing the damage with a quiet intensity that belied his usual stoicism. You watched him closely, feeling the warmth of his hands against your skin, a stark contrast to the coolness of the forest around you.
Using the water from your bottle, Joel cleaned the cut gently, his touch light yet firm. The sting of the water made you flinch, but he continued his ministrations without hesitation. His focus was solely on you, his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked to ensure the wound was thoroughly cleansed.
Once satisfied that the wound was clean, Joel reached into his pack and retrieved a small first aid kit. With practiced movements, he carefully applied antiseptic ointment to the cut, his touch gentle despite the efficiency of his actions. You winced again at the sting of the ointment, but Joel's reassuring presence kept you grounded.
Next, he unfolded a sterile bandage from the kit and began to wrap it around your arm, securing it in place with medical tape. His hands moved with a steady rhythm, his focus unwavering as he ensured the bandage was snug but not constricting. Each touch sent a wave of comfort through you, a silent reassurance that he was there, taking care of you.
As he finished securing the bandage, Joel looked up at you, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of relief and concern. "There," he said softly. "That should do for now."
"Thank you, Joel," you murmured.
He gave a slight nod in acknowledgment, his gaze lingering on yours for a moment longer before he slowly withdrew, giving you space.
You sat there for a while longer, the forest around you settling into an evening hush. As you made your way back from your patrol, the tension that had gripped both of you seemed to ease with every step. The forest was bathed in the warm hues of the setting sun, casting long shadows on the familiar path to Jackson. Joel walked beside you, his presence a silent comfort.
You stole glances at him from the corner of your eye, unsure of what to say after everything. His hand, rough and calloused from years of survival, brushed against yours as you walked, a fleeting touch that sent a shiver down your spine. To your surprise, Joel’s fingers interlaced with yours, his grip firm yet gentle, as if afraid you might slip away.
Finally reaching the outskirts of Jackson, you hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. Joel slowed his pace slightly, as if sensing your uncertainty. As you approached your house, you turned to him, your heart pounding in your chest.
"Joel," you began, your voice barely above a whisper, "would you like to come in?"
His gaze met yours, searching for something in the depths of your eyes. After a moment's hesitation, he nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I'd like that."
You led him inside, the familiar warmth of home enveloping both of you as you stepped through the door. Joel followed you into the living room, his presence filling the space.
As you settled on the couch, Joel’s hand found yours once more, his touch grounding and reassuring. The weight of everything you had shared that day hung in the air, a fragile bridge between friendship and something more. His thumb brushed against the bandage, the wound still stinging underneath. He leaned closer, lips brushing your temple, you leaned in and as you did, you slowly turned your face, meeting his lips with your own.
He tasted sweet like a gentle summer breeze, that subtle wind that feels like a caress from the sun. You were bolder than him, parting your lips with a greed you thought you didn’t have anymore. He parted his lips with a groan, the deep sound made you tremble. Suddenly you were on top of him, your legs parted over his lap as you placed soft, rushed kisses all across his face. You felt him smile and it made your lips curl up, your heart skipping a beat.
His hips jerked up as he parted away, his breath warm when he spoke, “Your arm, darlin’. . .”
You felt yourself leaning in, wanting more—needing more. Joel’s lips softly brushed against yours, causing electricity to surge through your body. His hand trails up your arm, gently caressing the bandage where he had tended to your wound earlier.
"My arm feels...better now," you managed to say, trying to keep your voice steady as Joel’s hand lingers on your skin.
He leans in closer, his lips now only a fraction of an inch away from yours. "Good," he muttered, his voice low and husky. "I'm glad."
Slowly, almost hesitantly, your lips brushed against his. The sensation was electric, igniting a fire within you. You felt the warmth of Joel’s breath against your face as he deepened the kiss, his hand now cupping your cheek tenderly.
Lost in the moment, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. It felt like time had stopped and you never wanted this moment to end. As your lips parted, your foreheads rested against each other, both of you breathing heavily.
"I've wanted to do that for a long time," Joel said.
"Me too," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.
Joel leaned in for another kiss, but this time it was slow. His tongue explored your mouth, tasting you, moaning whenever you tease him with a flick of your own.
You felt a rush of excitement as Joel’s hands explored your body, his touch igniting a burning desire within you. You let out a small gasp as he removed your shirt, revealing your now bare chest.
Joel’s eyes roamed over your body, his gaze dark as the bark of the oldest tree in Jackson.
His lips trailed down your neck, sending shivers down your spine. You ran your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer to you.
“Impatient one, aren’t you?” he rasped. “Gonna have to teach you some patience while we’re at it.”
Without breaking the kiss, Joel’s hands moved to your bra, unclasping it with practiced ease. You felt a rush of excitement and nervousness as he removed it, leaving your chest exposed to him.
He pulls away slightly, now gazing at you in awe. "God, you're beautiful,"
His lips moved down to your breasts, his touch gentle and tender. You gasp as he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, his other hand cupping your other breast. He twisted one nipple while pampering the other with his tongue, a soft whimper escaped your throat. You eagerly grind your hips down, feeling the hard outline of his cock. Sweat beaded at the curve of your spine, your body was blissfully being burned from the inside out.
You buried your hand in Joel’s hair, the sensations he’s causing you almost overwhelming. As he continued to kiss and caress you, your body responded eagerly, your arousal building with each passing moment.
You moaned softly as Joel moved his hands lower, his fingers expertly teasing and exploring your most sensitive parts. You couldn’t believe how good he made you feel.
“You like that huh?” he muttered. “Can’t wait for me to devour that sweet pussy of yours?”
You feel yourself getting lost in the moment, forgetting about everything else except for the two of you.
“Yes,” you breathed, your chest caving in on itself. “Please, Joel, you have no idea how long I’ve been thinking about this.”
“And how long would that be, sweetheart?”
“A damned long time,” you smiled. “Way too long.”
You grabbed Joel’s hand and promptly stood up, leading him to the bedroom. You felt his hand grip yours tighter, letting you know that he was just as eager as you are.
When you entered the room, you turned to face Joel, your eyes locking with his. Without a word, you slowly started to undress him, your hands running over his defined chest and down his softened torso.
Once he’s completely naked, you step back and admire his body, feeling a surge of want course through you.
“You brought me here just to ogle me?” he grinned. “That’s not very polite you know.”
You took a step closer, your hand resting on his chest as you pressed against him, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. Your lips met in a passionate kiss, your bodies pressing closer together in unison. You felt the length of his cock, your hand wrapping around it without second thought. His chest rattled with a groan, cock twitching in your palm. You slowly brought him to the bed, allowing yourself to fall, you pulled him down with you.
You felt his lips trailing down your neck, his tongue leaving a trail of wetness as he moved lower. Your breathing became heavier, your anticipation building with every passing second.
Joel’s mouth found its way to your most sensitive area, his tongue expertly teasing and flicking against your clit. You let out a gasp, your hands gripping the sheets as waves of pleasure coursed through you.
“Mine,” he groaned, pressing his mouth harder against you. “This pussy is all mine, say it or I’ll stop.”
“Yours,” you replied almost immediately. “Every inch of me is yours, I belong to you, every bit of me.”
He hummed his approval as he sucked your clit between his lips, teeth gently nibbling the sensitive flesh. Your upper body jolted, hands finding the back of his head.
But you’re not content with just lying back and enjoying his touch. You wanted to reciprocate the pleasure, to make him feel just as good as he’s making you feel.
You pushed Joel onto his back and straddled him, your hands roaming over his chest as you kissed him. Your hips grind against his, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through you.
With an innate sense of what he likes, you took him in your hand, stroking him slowly but firmly. You felt him grow harder as precome slid down his throbbing cock, you moved lower, taking him into your mouth.
You used your tongue and lips to pleasure him, feeling him writhe beneath you. You couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. He tasted bittersweet, cock pulsing against your tongue. Your cunt throbbed as you took him deeper down your throat, he groaned, hips thrusting forward. When you choked, he pulled you off and touched the corner of your lips with the pad of his thumb.
“Later,” he muttered, his eyes dropped down to witness your pouty lips, only to smile when he met your gaze again. “Don’t worry, we’ll have plenty of time to use that smart mouth.”
With that he flipped you over onto your back, his eyes full of need as he positioned himself between your legs. You spread them eagerly, welcoming him into you.
With one swift movement, he slipped inside of you, both of you letting out a moan. He started to move, his hips thrusting against yours in a rhythm that became more and more intense. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer to you as your bodies moved together in perfect harmony. You felt yourself getting lost, your mind consumed by the pleasure each thrust brings.
Joel’s hands gripped your hips tightly, forcing your hips against him, you feel slick dripping down and staining the sheets. Your entire body writhed against him, your eyes rolling all the way to the back of your skull as his cock stretched you over and over again.
With one final push, you both reached your climax, your bodies trembling as waves of pleasure washed over you. You collapsed onto the bed, gasping and panting as you tried to catch your breath.
As you laid there, wrapped in each other’s arms, you couldn’t help but feel grateful for this moment. You’ve never felt so connected to someone before, and you know that you want to experience this feeling again and again with Joel by your side.
***
The next morning, sunlight filtered through the window, casting a gentle warmth across the room where you and Joel lay nestled close together. The quiet morning wrapped around both of you like a comforting blanket. As you stirred awake, you felt Joel's arm around you, his presence steady and reassuring.
"Mornin’," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep but filled with tenderness.
You shifted slightly, turning to face him with a soft smile. "Morning," you replied softly, feeling a rush of warmth at the closeness between you.
Joel brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle. "How's your arm feelin’?" he asked, his concern evident.
"It's better," you assured him, leaning into his touch. "Thank you for taking care of me yesterday."
His gaze softened, a flicker of something deeper in his eyes. "Always," he said quietly, his hand resting against yours.
You and Joel lingered in the soft embrace of the morning light, your whispered conversation carrying a weight of unspoken understanding. As you shared your thoughts, a mutual agreement emerged between you—a decision to keep your burgeoning relationship private, shielded from the complexities that often accompanied deeper connections in your fragile world.
"I think it's best if we keep this between us," Joel murmured, his voice low and earnest. "We've both been through enough already."
You nodded. "Yeah, it's just... I don't want anything to jeopardize what we have," you admitted quietly, your fingers tracing patterns on the blanket draped over you both.
Joel's gaze softened, his hand finding yours and intertwining your fingers. "Neither do I," he confessed, his voice tinged with vulnerability. "But being with you... it feels right."
A swell of warmth filled your chest at his words, a silent reassurance that echoed your own sentiments. Despite the uncertainties that lay ahead, you couldn't deny the growing connection between you, a bond forged through shared experiences and unspoken emotions.
You lingered a while longer in the quiet sanctuary of the morning, each moment steeped in the gentle intimacy of newfound understanding. As the world outside stirred with its own rhythms, you and Joel found solace in the simple promise of each other's company, silently vowing to protect what you had found amidst the uncertainties of your lives.
In that fleeting moment of shared vulnerability, you knew that your decision to keep your relationship a secret was not just a shield against potential complications—it was a testament to the fragile hope that had bloomed between you, a hope that dared to whisper of a future where you could navigate the challenges together, one quiet morning at a time.
***
“On your knees, sweetheart. Now.”
Head completely empty, you did as you were told. The small shed at Tommy and Maria’s place was secluded enough for no one to see either of you. The leaves of a nearby tree blocked the window, the gentle scrapes making you feel safe.
It had been a month since you and Joel started your relationship together. He was a tentative man, both in public and behind closed doors. He would remember what you told him and bring you small gifts from whenever he went on patrol. It warmed your heart and for the first time, you genuinely felt happy.
You leaned into his touch, his palm cupping the side of your cheek. Smiling, you unzipped his pants and took him into your palm. He was hard already, eager to feel the warmth of your tongue on the sensitive skin. You gave the tip a soft kiss, smiling wider as he shuddered. His hand slid to the back of your head. He thrust forward, the length of his cock sliding against your lips. You parted them, tongue flat against the underside of his cock, you took him deep down your throat.
“Fuck, just like that,” he groaned, head thrown back. “Show me how much you want me, darlin’.” You looked up and blinked rapidly. “I bet you're soaked right now. . . With all those people outside havin’ fun, aren’t you ashamed?”
Your stomach bottomed out, excitement growing in your gut. You attempted to make a sound that would convey disagreement, but he only smiled, pushing himself further down.
“Take it,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Take all of it.”
Your eyes widened as he began to fuck your throat with earnest, precome coating your tongue. He was impatient, which was something he rarely was. Maybe it was because of the barbecue outside, or the fact that this was his baby brother’s shed—Whatever it was, you enjoyed it.
You could barely breathe, saliva and spit dripping down the corners of your outstretched mouth. His balls laid heavy against your chin, smacking you every time he snapped his hips forward. Your eyes rolled, tears pricking the sides. You thought you heard him shushing you, a soothing sound, at least, that’s why you assumed he was shushing you. To soothe you. You had missed the fact that your moans had grown obscenely loud despite his cock sliding between your lips—
“Hey Joel, you guys good in—” Both of you stilled at the sound, the creak of the door, the familiar soft voice. Your cunt clenched, slick dripping between your thighs. You so badly wanted to touch yourself, to soothe the pain, but that seemed like an impossible thing to do.
Joel cleared his throat, adam’s apple bobbing as he slowly pulled out his cock. It glistened with spit and precome, the sight of it making you whimper. Your head felt like it was floating, that none of this was really and all you could focus on was the throbbing between your legs.
He prevented you from looking back towards Tommy. He held his hand firm on your neck, massaging it to keep you calm.
“We’ll be out in a second,” he said, voice strained. “Sorry.”
The younger Miller said nothing else, you only realized it was the two of you again when you heard the door closing. Joel let out a deep breath, “So much for keepin’ it a secret,” he muttered. “I won’t be hearin’ the end of it.”
“Sorry,” you said, looking up, eyes teary. “I. . . I didn’t realize I was being so loud.”
He promptly knelt down, holding your face between rough hands, he kissed your forehead and smiled. “Nothin’ to apologize for. I’m the one who got us into this mess, you don’t need to worry about nothin’. It ain’t the first time he caught me indecent. Now, let’s get you home.”
“Okay,” you muttered, heart feeling light and head still feeling dizzy. “Let’s go home.”
***
Joel sat in the dimly lit kitchen of Tommy’s and Maria’s home. The evening shadows danced across the walls, painting the room with muted hues of twilight.Tommy had walked in on them—caught them in a moment of vulnerability and intimacy.
Tommy's initial shock had given way to a steady calm as he sat across from Joel at the small wooden table, the lines of his face etched with doubt. Joel’s hands were clasped tightly in his lap, knuckles white with the strain. He stared at the worn surface of the table, struggling to find the right words.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Joel finally said, his voice rough with emotion. “It just... things got complicated. I know how it looks, Tommy. I know I’ve got no business...”
Tommy held up a hand, cutting him off. His gaze was steady, full of an unspoken empathy. “Joel, I’m not here to judge you,” he said firmly. “You’re my brother. And whatever’s going on between you and Ash, I support it. I’ve seen how she makes you feel. Hell, I’ve seen how you look at her. I want you to be happy.”
Joel’s eyes lifted to meet Tommy’s, a mixture of surprise and relief flickering across his features. “I know I don’t deserve her,” he said quietly, his voice cracking slightly. “I’ve done a lot of bad things, Tommy. I’m not the man I used to be. I don’t know why she’d want anything to do with me.”
Tommy shook his head, his expression one of deep, abiding concern. “Look, Joel, none of us are perfect. We all have our demons. But that doesn’t mean we don’t deserve a little happiness now and then. Ash’s been through her share of shit too. She’s not here because she thinks you’re some perfect hero. She’s here because she sees somethin’ in you that maybe you don’t see yourself.”
Joel’s gaze dropped again, the weight of Tommy’s words sinking in. “I just don’t want to mess it up,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m afraid that something’s gonna come along and ruin it.”
Tommy leaned forward, his voice low but firm. “You’re not alone in this, Joel. None of us are. You’ve got to trust that maybe you’re worthy of something good. Maybe you’re worthy of her. And if you’re worried about messin’ things up, then do somethin’ about it. Fight for it. But don’t keep it a secret from everyone who cares about you. It’s not a burden to bear alone.”
Joel nodded, the knot of tension in his chest loosening just a bit. “Thanks, Tommy. I appreciate it. I just... I needed to hear that.”
Tommy clapped Joel on the shoulder, a gesture of solidarity and support. “Anytime. Just remember, if you need anything, if you need to talk, I’m here. For both of you.”
***
In the weeks following the decision to make your relationship with Joel public, you found yourselves navigating a new reality in Jackson. The once familiar streets now felt charged with curiosity and speculation. You walked through the bustling market and communal areas of the town, your hands entwined, openly displaying your affection for each other.
The reactions from the community were varied. Some greeted your union with open arms, offering congratulations and warm smiles. Others were more reserved, their curiosity evident in their glances and whispered conversations. You and Joel faced these moments with a combination of resilience and humor. Your quick wit was particularly effective at easing the discomfort of those around you.
One sunny afternoon, while you were browsing through the market stalls, an elderly woman approached you both with a skeptical look. She raised an eyebrow, peering at you from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. “So, you two are an item now?” she asked, her tone a mix of curiosity and caution.
You turned to face her, a playful smile spreading across your face. “Yep, that’s right. Joel here is my favorite person to argue with,” you said, giving Joel a mischievous look.
Joel smirked, adding, “And she’s the one who keeps me grounded. Can’t have one without the other.”
The woman’s stern expression softened into a smile. “Well, that’s a refreshing way to look at things. Congratulations then,” She patted Joel on the shoulder and ambled away, leaving behind a sense of acceptance.
As your relationship grew, so did the depth of your connection. You and Joel became more attuned to each other’s needs and emotions. Your bond was tested and strengthened through shared experiences and mutual support. Each day brought new challenges, but facing them together made your partnership even more resilient.
One particularly trying day, after a demanding patrol that left Joel physically and emotionally drained, he returned home to find you waiting for him. The sight of you, with a warm meal and an understanding smile, was a balm to his weary spirit.
As you sat down to eat, Joel hesitated before speaking, his voice barely above a whisper. “Today was rough, Ash. I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”
Your eyes softened with concern. You reached across the table, your hand covering his. “You’re stronger than you think, Joel. We all have days that test us, but you’re not alone in this. I’m here with you, every step of the way.”
Joel met your gaze, the exhaustion in his eyes slowly giving way to a glimmer of relief. “I don’t know how I’d manage without you,” he admitted, his voice thick with emotion.
You squeezed his hand, your expression resolute. “You don’t have to manage alone. We’ve got each other. That’s what matters.”
Your relationship was not all about serious moments; it was also filled with lightheartedness and affection. Your playful banter and shared humor brought a sense of normalcy and joy into your lives.
One morning, as you prepared breakfast together, the kitchen was filled with the usual clatter of pots and pans. You were juggling two eggs and a fresh stick of butter when, in a moment of clumsiness, you dropped the eggs across the floor. Joel, standing nearby, couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Well, looks like we’re having eggs for breakfast and a side of floor clean-up,” Joel said, his voice dripping with mock seriousness.
You rolled your eyes, picking up the scattered pieces with a smirk. “I’m just adding a bit of excitement to our otherwise boring mornings. Keeps things interesting, don’t you think?”
Joel leaned against the counter, shaking his head with an amused grin. “You and your ideas of excitement. I guess I should be grateful for the change.”
Later, as the day drew to a close and the sun dipped below the horizon, you and Joel found yourselves on the porch, enjoying the tranquility of the evening. You sat close together, the warmth of your bodies and the fading light creating a cozy atmosphere.
Joel wrapped an arm around you, pulling you gently against him. “You know,” he said quietly, “for all the chaos and challenges, I wouldn’t trade these moments with you for anythin’.”
You rested your head on his shoulder, your voice was soft and content. “Me neither. We’ve built something really special here. It’s worth fighting for, no matter what comes our way.”
As you sat together in the fading light, your bond felt stronger than ever. The shared laughter, mutual support, and tender moments of connection were the foundation of your relationship. In the midst of a world fraught with uncertainty, you and Joel had found a precious refuge in each other, a testament to the enduring power of love, humor, and unwavering support.
3258 words, 18091 characters.
A commission for @stoicbutthighfive
―
''Eurydice, dying now a second time, uttered no complaint against her husband. What was there to complain of, but that she had been loved?''
Ovid, Metamorphoses.
―
Barnes’ father was a drinkin’ man.
Hell, Barnes’ grandpappy was a drinkin’ man too.
If his great-grandpappy was fathered by anyone time remembered at all, that sonofabich doubtlessly kept the bottle as company as well.
Probably drank raw Strychnine and snake venom, that one.
He figured, everyone ‘round these parts, in these remote, isolated places tucked away behind woods and mountains, places bypassed by the main circuit of highways, where no paved roads went, where train tracks were no longer set in an orderly, maintained fashion, risking the being stolen by shit-for-brains smuggling iron pipes and where stop signs ceased to be, where the nearest goddamned Piggly-Wiggly was sixty miles away and where electrical poles halted their long stateside march was a drinkin’ person. Ain’ no other type of stimulation to be had, unless one excluded the shit hopheads cooked up in the deep hills and snorted up their nostrils. Women drank. The men drank. When he was barely a few crates tall, he even knew children who drank, their evening soup often infused with a pinch of gin for flavour, supposedly to make them go to sleep easier and cause no mischief to their already exhausted nan barely up on her feet by the late hours tending to several offspring, grand-offspring and a handful of tired, grouchy menfolk back from logging or the mines. He knew you knew too. That you never begrudged. His habits bein' what they were. You never sought to change him. He supposed you were wise like that. A tiger cannot erase its stripes. You could only love him as he is, you once said, for as long as love stretches, like a hefty spoonful of butter on a piece of bread.
So, he returns from his shift and the ritualized agreement between you and him is often center stage. His steaming hot supper freshly awaits on the set wooden table --- meat he hunted, some vegetables from the garden you kept, homemade bread; a small shot glass of whiskey on the side poured by your hand.
And another for you.
You weren't a drinker. You'd crinkle your nose and squeeze your eyes shut when faced with a gulp of anything necessarily harder than a commonplace 30ml. shot --- typa' shit folks up in these mountains casually down by dozens to cure toothaches with. But you promised without anyone asking you to, every now and again, if he drank, you'd do it too. If he inebriates himself under the table, you'd go right down there too. First, he threw away all his bottles in anger. Told you you were a fool. Smashed them up right against the outer shed wall. Was willing to haul them all into the woods in a wheelbarrow and bury them into a ditch like they did during Prohibition. Poured straight whiskey into a nearby creek until it turned copper colored. Rust in the water. Shit got him unsettled. Were you deliberately tryin' to agitate him, was the question? Some sort of reverse psychology bullshit like shrinks do in them military hospitals where they evaluate if you're fit for service? Was that it? The thought of you hurtin' yourself. Your pretty pink insides mangled by the venom of moonshine continuously washin' you clean like pure bleach 'till you can barely hold down a lunch without regurtating it back up along with chunks of damaged liver lining. Did your ass even know what bein' a drinkin' man was like? You itched to be where he was? Out of what? Love? He meticulously eyes the glass you left for him along with a matching glass for you as you settled down a basket of pure white bread laid out on equally pure white napkins, the contrast stark compared to his soot stained hands as he takes a chunk and rips off the outer crust, chewing it, admitting even to himself, that it was out of cold, bubbling rage that he was masciating with as much distinction as he was and so he'd keep his jaw occupied lest it mumbles obscenities while you poured the warm stew with a polished ladle into the deep plates, your hand instinctively reaching, seemingly in the direction of the whiskey cup; a mistake in direction on his part, his temper simmering to a boiling point beneath the surface of some great, big plateau of ice that shifted like a tectonic plate every now and again, being hard to lodge back into place once it was nudged and moved from its usual resting place. You were merely adjusting the plastic covering beneath all the pots and trays, straightening it out.
Too late, though, the words are already out of his mouth before he can stuff them back in there.
-"You ain' drinkin' that shiet at the table."-
He grumbles as he announces his opinion on the matter, breaking the silence, soundin' like his old man layin' down the law even to his own ears as his stare flickers, if only briefly, to the wooden cabinet where a decanter, now half emptied, stood on a shelf of dusty, chipped China that was saved for special occasions that never arrived; a trinket his momma brought into the house as a dowry back in the day. You halt, clearly surprised at his miscalculation --- he dared even say, a little amused on his behalf. Like you were about to say 'For an avid drinker, you're sure as heck pondering other people drinking and whether they should be doing it or not a whole lot.'
And here you was, merely fixing the faded gingham patterned tablecloth.
Polymer.
Easier to immediately wipe off after he returns from the mine to dine freshly having descended with a layer of dirt on his person and places his elbows on the damned thing.
-"I'm not?"-
You tilt your head where you stood, a little endeared, it seemed.
-"And why?"-
You inquire, this time around, your hand truly reaching for the offending slop drink, slowly, almost challengingly, like you were meanin' to play the thinning strings of nerves for a tune. Robert stares at your fingers like they're spider legs crawling off of a leaf in the jungle and unto a greenhorn private's neck. He halfway expects a bloodcurdling scream upon the contact to break through somewhere in the great ether. Sumn' ought to have brewed you a cold sweet tea and send you out to sit on the porch as punishment.
-"Good for digestion. Keeps a person sharp. Relaxes them when it has to. Just a bit of fun, regardless of what city slickers and puffed up doctors say."-
You continue, the small shot glass now raised, its ember coloring deepend by the reflected light of the nearby corner lamp hitting the translucent vessel --- the way you utter the term 'city slickers' an intentional playful jab, quipping at how folks further down these hills referred to anyone who wanted to leave them bereft of their liquor. Robert leans back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. Sure. Look at you. Tryna be funny, playin' a man with a short fuse, thinkin' you won't get righteously burned. Well, it wasn't funny. But why? Why wasn't it funny? Why wasn't it funny when it was you? He feels a bit like a kicked hunting hound, bein' told his favourite chewin' bone is about to be submerged in liquid shit instead of bein' given to him. -"Plus, everyone does it."- You remark,additionally, clearly teasing him with barely concealed sarcasm and he catches himself hankerin' to be awfully sentimental when he nearly bursts forth with a line like 'You ain' everyone.' Instead, he composes himself and crosses his arms charred black across the stained work suit with rolled up sleeves he still had on him from the shift. Twelve hours down there every day would cause a latter day saint aint to reach for a booze, but then again, it didn't bother him none. Fact was, he found the insular, strangulating darkness a familiar sight; not quite so different from a foxhole or a Gook's tunnel. Not why he drank. More of a habit, in a sense. Sumn' you learn. Like duck huntin' or skinning a deer. You weren't taught like he was on the other hand and he wasn't 'bout to let you teach yourself and your grown ass age.
-"Well, you ain' doin' it."-
Awful paternal of him even as he drawls, fixin' you a glare, hopin' you'll crumble under it and set the drink down. He'll be damned if he doesn't wash your mouth with soap over the sink and make you puke it back up.
He didn't want the crap inside of you.
Ruinin' you.
He pushes the thought somewhere deep down, where not even he could find it.
-"But, you do it."-
You retort, not unkindly; more like a statement of the obvious. Eyup. He did do it. Didn't mean you were goin' to. Did you have a Vietnam to drown? Did you spend twelve hours in a mine shaft below ground? Did your pappy drink this stuff 'stead of water? What reason had you to go 'round gettin' plastered, you damned woman? The conclusion comes unbidden into Robert Barnes' mind:
You.
You was the reason, he thinks about himself. You big, scarred lumberin' piece of shit.
She's offerin' to turn drunkard so you wouldn't be lonesome in your condition and so your ass would see how it feels when sumn' you'se soft on goes destroyin' themselves.
He stands up from his chair, looming over the set table for two, feelin' sumn' fierce set into the tightening of his teeth; some unseen determination. The mangled side of his face flaring up in pain whenever he was this riled up. You give pause, for once, looking at him with, dared he say, a little bit of trepidation? The small liquor glass slightly shaking within your fragile grip, the whiskey inside of it visibly trembling. What'd you expect? Shackin' down with a boozer? He reaches for the glass and wrings it from your grasp, spilling a little on the table. You struggle, if only feebly, before he downs the liquor in one fell swoop, never taking his eyes off of you.
-"Bob! No!"-
You whimper, hand instinctively reaching forward, your leaning thighs pushing against the edge of the table and causing the set plates to clink against the cutlery, but by the time you have his wrists from across the set supper left out to steam and cool, he's already had his shot. You seemed crestfallen. You should've felt lucky he didn't crush the glass in his bare hands. -"Don't."- You whisper, pleadingly, your fingers tightening around his arms, the soot that stained them marking your own skin, leaving you with greasy dark spots. See? You were only gon' dirty your own purdy self. From the inside out. He'd rather put a bullet in you and then himself if that meant perservin' you clean. Healthy. Good. Hell. He'd rather grab you by the elbow and haul you off of this mountain himself, on foot. Leave you at the nearest motel down in the valley and ensure you never climb up here again to play nursemaid and well-being councilor to some deformed lump of shit. His eyes fix you down like a pair of nails and he gulps, swallowing the alcohol, hoping you see and make note of it, making sure there was no way to avoid how much he meant it. You weren't going to drink just because he was. No. His face was jet black with soot, after all; was nowhere for you to be lookin' but his eyes even as your own welled up with the tension of suppressed tears. What he was itchin' to say now he'd say only once. -"You hankerin' to walk down to path to hell with my ass!?"- He takes hold of your forearm, giving it a squeeze of warning, the liquor he drank heating his insides and his intent. When you don't answer, he lets out a sound of warning, shaking you a bit so you'd come to your senses. -"Mhmm!?"- The hum emanating from the back of his throat filled with shit from those subterranean holes is demanding, tense, coarse and coaxing a shine of sadness out of those doe eyes. You sniffle, witholding a sob as he reprimands you, lashes fluttering wildly. One drained glass of whiskey on the table is set back down with a decisive thud and another quite entirely forgotten. The whole house seems to echo from the sound in his ears, infinitely louder than it actually was. He sees your body visibly jolting in anxiety.
Beaut, you were here cryin' over nothin'.
Over a scarred soldier workin' the mines and having took to drinkin' as a chronic time killin' habit ever since before The 'Nam.
Could've gone 'n done better for yourself.
-"There ain' no comin' back from where I walk, so don't you try and be smart and follow me, girl."-
He seethes at that point, figurin' sumn here had to drop the sugary sweet talk and introduce a clarifying whiff of reality.
He didn't even figure he'd come back alive from the war and he felt like one of those gangrenous limbs stuck unto a pile of other gangrenous limbs to create a full fucked up human man or one of those circus freaks they haul in every spring to entertain folks visiting Tent Revivals in between sermons and preachin', but now that he was here by some chance, like those cripples who keep dragging themselves around after being shot in the spleen, surviving by some freak, accidental miracle, he imagined that alcohol will do the work Vietnam couldn't and your ass had to be prepared for that. And then you say it. Something stupid.
-"I'll always follow you."-
You manage, maintaining his gaze, a tear now sliding down your cheek.
Wrong; you ought to have been sayin', motherfucker, you're a drunk dog and I'm leavin' you.
-"The way I know you'd follow me too."-
You add instead with a strange, final solemnity and that point he lets go of you and pushes the chair to the side with a huff, letting it scrape along the wooden floorboards, nearly tumbling over as he sauntered away from the neglected supper, running an exasperated soot covered hand through the vestiges of his grimy headscarf tied at the nape of his neck, yanking it off in agitation to scratch at his own hair and scalp, caked in greasiness and the salt of sweat, throwing the piece of fabric on a nearby chair where the laundry usually stood, either to be cleaned or folded. You didn't know what you were sayin' and you sure as heck didn't know what you were askin'. You read that in one of those fancy books you kept on the shelf he made you, all this crap about never givin' up on sumn'. That Greek stuff. Stories. He forgot the name. Sumn' or other about a woman dyin' and some poor motherfucker goin' to hell to retrieve her from the Devil, except it seemed this time 'round you were the one takin' the active role and tryin' to retrieve him from the bottom of the bottle. Down South, that was called bein' plain ol' delusional. The Devil always wins. Didn't you know that? Maybe some places in the world He didn't win, but out in the hill country, he sure did. And you lived out here, with him, not in some flower garden in some booklet or other, where happy endings were simply a given people were expected that they were owed by default of simply inhabiting some nice place endowed with all the amenities his home didn't have. This wasn't Memphis and it sure wasn't Atlanta out in Georgia. Folks out here drank and when they drank they drank themselves to an early death. His pa' wasn't even forty when he died. His grandpa was thirty eight. Wouldn't surprise him none if his great grand-pappy came out of the womb already partially inebriated 'cos his momma soothed her maternal pains with with sweet cherry liquor while her belly was up to her teeth, bringing forth a babe with a chip on his shoulder and angry at the whole wide world before he could even waddle or walk properly. They fought in every war he could name and they consumed every sort of bullshit known to mankind and that was the type of family tree you climped up on, intendin' to make a home within its crooked branches, misguided, lost lil' sparrow that you were. A nightingale singin' a purdy twilight song, far too sweet and fragile for the world you choose to inhabit. A nest here would be a bitter thing.
He'd leave you a widow if he continued following in those legacies, the notion hits him and it makes him want to curse, so he does.
Nearly spits too, right on the carpet.
-"Shiet."-
Robert paces around the room with heavy, loud footsteps, feeling not unlike something wild that was caged, murmuring to himself with a grunt of abject displeasure, halting only when you walk around the table with the remaining whiskey glass none of you drank yet, the sense of urgency and desperation coloring your every gesture and expression. You hold it up for emphasis; he looks at the pisswater like it was something that could taint the very pads of your fingers. Instinct wanted to have it slapped out of your hand there and then and promptly step on it too with the flat heel of his dry mud caked boots until the crushes the remnants into shimmering, powdery dust. Plain scare you out of your intent, if anything. If nothing else helped. If I stumble, don't your ass dare to turn 'round to check on me. Keep walkin'.
He might've browsed through your books.
Might've caught on to a thing or two.
Then again, he could've understood such notions even without readin'.
-"If I was drowning myself in this, I know you'd do something about it. I know that because I know you."-
You explain, the sincerity and earnestness in your tone catching him unawares, causing him to still completely, the way he had the habit when catching the sound of something coming from deep inside the wilderness --- small game or a the snapping of a twig --- his state of alertness complete. Oh, he'd do something about it alright, if you were here getting intoxicated every day. He reaches out with black hands, wiping the remnants of moisture still clinging to your cheek with deliberate slowness, leaving a pitch finger stain behind along with the caress, oh so similar to warpaint, holding the side of your face for a moment, ponderin' how you'd need a wash after this conversation, to rinse yourself clean of him. I love you to bits, he yearns to say. I love you like a snake loves its clutch.
-"I'd burn down the motherfucking distillery they brewed that bullshit in."-
He admits bluntly --- not so different you and I, darlin', walking into the abyss for the other, he thinks to himself then, the golden, untouched whiskey between you two consumed by none of you.
Characters: Dr. Ratio (HSR) x Male!Reader
Warnings: Yandere, Sexual Content (Non-Con/Dub-Con, Rimming, Anal, Hand job), Domination, Obsessiveness, Insults, Long Post
Words: 6684
"I told you to be punctual."
Sighing inwardly, you put on an apologetic smile as you hurried into the exhibition space housing all the statues the museum had collected over the years. The hefty footsteps of the moving sculpture and the squeaky ones from your shoes were the only sounds echoing through the halls this late, and you scurried over to the bench closest to Ratio before letting the pile of books fall down on top of it, relieved once the weight was gone.
"I know and I was, but it's getting harder to fool that old guard that I am really so forgetful I need to be let in every night after closing."
"Excuses."
Dr. Veritas Ratio made no secret of his approach, not wasting any time before snatching the first book of the arm-full you brought and flipping it open. Better than anyone, he knew how precious time was when he had to return to being a silent and still piece of art again, the moment the museum opened its doors to the public. You could have been mad about his constant chiding, but in a strange way, you've gotten used to it, pitying him too much to do the self-respecting thing and leave him to fend for himself.
Because it was partly your fault, he was in such a bad position in the first place.
His statue had been your big find. Your breakthrough. The thing that paid all your bills now. When you found him in that abandoned crypt, left alone and ready to be discovered after being buried there, you thought he was exactly what he looked like: A statue. A very beautiful statue, but a piece of art regardless. Never in a million years would you have thought that the statue you brought to your home museum, working on it for multiple nights to clean and restore it, would at some point come to life, step off its pedestal, and demand unrestricted access to books on all kinds of medical conditions, spirituality, and biology to find out how he had been turned to stone… hundreds of years ago.
"Thirsty?" you asked, twisting the cap off your water bottle before holding it towards him. Ratio turned his head, scowling down at you with his picture-perfect features, and you lowered your hand, taking a quick sip of your drink before hiding it behind the bench, reminding yourself that your kindness wasn't appreciated. In the beginning, you still told yourself he was just under a lot of pressure and the stress of solving his predicament, but in time, you came to realize it was just his personality. The man was so focused on himself that he hardly tried to understand others—well, you since you were the only one interacting with him.
It was a conclusion you both reached. If it came out he was an immortal man, petrified by something or someone (Veritas swore he couldn't recall his last moments being flesh and blood), people would probably go nuts over the discovery. Not only would it raise questions about his rights and how to treat him, but he'd be the center of a freak show that he loathed even thinking about. Besides, maybe whatever made him this way would come to retaliate now that he had surfaced again, so he swore you to secrecy, and you, who put him into this museum in the first place, agreed. There were times you wished someone could assist the two of you in finding "the cure", but you respected Dr. Ratio's wishes not to involve more people than necessary.
For someone grimacing just because you offered him water, he was unusually convinced you two were enough to figure out all the mysteries around him.
Giving yourself a quick encouragement, you grabbed the second book from the pile, taking a seat before starting to browse. You two had gone through most of the common books found in the nearby library already, so you had begun scouting for more literature of interest around the bookshops and online. Still, neither of you were any closer to curing Veritas from his condition, and although he spent years able to ponder about it, the impatience was palpable as his heavy body walked up and down the exhibition.
You didn't mind his pacing, the even rhythm of his steps even a bit relaxing as you read through yet another biology book, trying to find hints of petrification between descriptions of mushrooms, but it also made you worry. Even though he was stoic and self-centered on his better days, Ratio usually liked to talk about his findings, even when he wasn't solving his own mystery. He called himself a scholar before, so the new and groundbreaking knowledge of the last century really captured his attention like nothing else. He'd sit by your side, the coldness of his skin slowly warming as your knees touched, Ratio not even flinching when he felt your breath on his cheeks from how close he was leaning towards you to show you the paragraph in the book he was reading. It made you feel like you two were more than just caught in this weird situation. Like you were actually becoming friends. But as of late, he turned back to being colder and distant.
He didn't want to admit it, but he was getting desperate.
You couldn't blame him, really. The way he described the misery of being encased in stone made your heart ache for him, even if Ratio wasn't the easiest to get along with. "It's like time stands still, nothing moves forward, and yet, you are entirely and completely aware it does—just not with you," he once said. It wasn't painful to have his body turned rigid and heavy, but the feeling of constant cold and lifeless organs moving within made him feel like something was constantly wrong. As if he was in a state of mind and body he couldn't escape from but wanted nothing more.
Considering this, centuries of being buried in the darkness must have felt like hell. And if that wasn't enough, you were the first face he saw in a long time, and he couldn't be sure if you were there to harm him. Instead, he was shipped off, and no one anticipated a living person as he was stuffed in a box and brought to an unfamiliar place at an unfamiliar time. The thought alone made your anxiety spike, and Ratio did it all without moving an inch and giving away what he was.
So, of course, the prospect of solving his condition would leave him restless and eager to find out about it, even if it made you a little sad. You quite enjoyed the talks you two had, night after night, at the museum. The few but precious laughs you shared and what little similarities you had. You wished there had been more time to learn firsthand what it was like centuries ago and, in return, teach him about modern technology and how to browse the internet to satisfy all of Veritas's curiosities. Who knew, you two might have actually become real friends? His criticism could be harsh, but he was just as interested in going back and forth with ideas and finding solutions to even the most challenging questions as you were. If not friends, you two would have made great work partners.
Your eyes tore away from the page to look at him across the room, standing still like the statue he was, in a thoughtful position. Although it was bad to objectify him, he was beautiful, his skin glistening in the moonlight, almost like marble, cold and mysterious as it stretched over fine details like the lines of his muscles and his firm expression. A sight to behold, even though his chest didn't lift like a real person's, and he could stand completely frozen in one position for hours if he wanted. It was somewhere between uncanny valley and marvelous.
Catching yourself staring at him for far too long, you shook your head, finally realizing that he seemed way too interested in the same page of the book he was holding. Knowing him just a little by now, you were well aware that the Dr. Veritas Ratio would not ponder just a single page in a book if it wasn't of any interest. Curiosity got the better of you, and you set your own book aside, standing up to walk over to Ratio and look over the edge of his book, standing on your tiptoes to see the contents.
Unexpectedly, Ratio jerked away, his whole body moving like a pillar being rocked by an earthquake, and yet, you jumped, too, expecting some kind of danger. Looking around, the exhibition was still the same, quiet place. Still, when you turned back to Veritas, his eyes were wide open, staring at you as if he had just caught you committing murder or something just as atrocious.
"Are you alright? I just wanted to check if you found something."
"I'm quite fine!" Ratio replied, emphasizing his words a little too much to sound believable. Narrowing your eyes, you took another step forward, and he let the book snap close loudly before clearing his throat. "It's fine. Just an interesting segment."
"Really?" you followed up, your eyes landing on the title of the book. "Ancient Spells and Curses," you read it out loud, raising an eyebrow and looking up at him. Ratio refused to look at you, his chin raised high like a prideful peacock. "Did you find a cure?"
"What? In this? Don't be ridiculous."
While he was speaking, you reached out towards the book, using his moment of vehement denial to snatch it from his grasp. If there was one positive for you about his petrification, he couldn't react or act as quickly as your soft, blood and skin body could, and you were almost across the room already as he put his feet into motion. With a grin on your face, you couldn't wait to see what the doctor had been looking at so intently, be it a cure or just another interest of his, and you skimmed through the book, looking for keywords that would reveal the pages he had read.
Naturally, when you saw the word "stone", you paused, flipping back two pages to find the following:
Cure against Petrification
The turned individual can resolve the misery of being petrified by being with their one true love. A body resting warm against their skin of stone, mouth soft to free their hardened lips, sounds loud to rush the still blood in their veins, and accepting the person no longer living as such—a human. Then, the spell may be lifted, and the body can return to flesh and bone.
Occasionally, the petrified will need multiple encounters with their one true love to sift out any remains of the spell.
You weren't sure if you should be laughing or rejoicing as you read the words. They sounded as fake and corny as only spiritualism could, and yet, it was the first thing you two ever found that would resolve the problem you were facing. Turning around, you stared at the hulking figure marching over to you with a sense of dread on his face, Ratio's expression turning from irritated to skeptical to surprised at seeing your wide grin and excitement.
But then you felt your own mood shift as you suddenly realized why he stared at the solution for so long. If there was anyone that loved Veritas or he loved them, they were long gone, centuries-long. Now that you two had found them, there wasn't anyone who could fulfill the requirements. It was heartbreaking to realize that the only thing that helped could never be tried and tested. Even if you two went public with Ratio's condition, there was no guarantee he'd find the one. His one and only love. And if you two didn't, then…
"I'm sure we can find something else," you mumbled, closing the book slowly. "I mean, this probably won't work anyway, right? It's just humbug."
You felt awful discouraging him after finally finding a solution, but you also didn't want him to feel your own disappointment. The nights spent with him had also taken their toll on you and your life. You didn't want Ratio to think you were going to drop him and leave him to deal with his predicament just because you were slowly giving up hope. He couldn't need that in his situation. He needed you by his side, helping and supporting him, even if Ratio made it hard to get along. With his personality, finding another pushover to rope into his plans would probably be even harder. Besides, he was your responsibility now.
"It'll be impossible to get anyone else here and we can't really drag someone into this either, right?"
You did your best to make it sound like you were joking to cheer Ratio up, turning towards him and shrugging your shoulders dramatically. It was your best try to cover up this awkwardness surrounding you two after finding the spell removal, especially considering that Veritas would not try to keep you both focused on the mission, so it was up to you to stay positive.
"Where would we even find anyone else?" you laughed as if it was the funniest idea you had in a long time when your body suddenly fell forward, the book being ripped from your hand while you face-planted directly into a stone-hard chest.
"Why would we need anyone else?"
The question sounded too certain for it to be a joke, yet you chuckled awkwardly, pushing your hands into his chest to create some distance again. Surely, he must be jesting, however weirdly phrased it was. So when you looked up, meeting his gaze head-on, his eyes clear and unwavering, with determination shining in them that made them look like jewels pushed into a bust, you gulped, wondering what else he could have meant.
"Exactly…?" you agreed hesitantly, wondering if you had upset him. It was frustrating how hard he was to read, but you couldn't dwell on it. You yelped when he suddenly took a step towards you, your bodies colliding further into each other as you stumbled backward. But one of his defined arms caught you before you could topple over. Step by step, Ratio led you back, and you looked left and right at a way out.
"Exactly," he repeated your words, his voice suddenly low, rumbling like a purr in his chest. It was a reminder that he was still human and could make your head flush with heat, goosebumps rising up your arms. He sounded almost sultry, but you would never admit that. Ratio wasn't the type to make your heart jump, he was barely even a friend!
"I'm glad you understand. Now, I don't need to explain myself."
Your hands pushing against his chest were snatched from their place on top of his pecs. You let out an involuntary gasp as he raised them so high over your head that you had to raise your heels off the ground to avoid the sting in your muscles. "Wait, what? What do you mean?! I don't understand it at all! What's gotten into you suddenly?!"
Ratio clicked his tongue, clearly annoyed that he would have to explain himself after all. You looked up at him in confusion until your back hit the wall, and your body was sandwiched between two unmoving objects, your arms pinned above you. "Let's not waste time talking, when we could be conducting our research in the meantime already."
"Research? What are we–"
Ratio pinched your chin between his fingers, his stiff lips falling to yours with the full force of determination. The rock bounced against your soft flesh, and yet, you couldn't taste any stone at all, not even as his tongue pushed inside your mouth. It was a strange, hardened, foreign object that slipped against yours, brushing the tips together and coating it in your spit. Yet, the longer the kiss lasted, the warmer it grew, its flexibility returning as it explored more of your mouth than anyone had ever done before.
By the time he finally released you from the kiss, Ratio was dipping his softened lips lower, down your jawline, and hovering above your throat, your pulse hitting them over and over. His tongue lapped at you, tasting your nervously shivering skin all the way down to your collarbones.
"W-What are you doing?!" you asked, flabbergasted and incredulous. Your relationship was undoubtedly special, but that didn't permit him to attack you suddenly! "That's not–Ah!”
Without warning, Ratio dug his teeth into the flesh between your shoulder and your neck, not enough to hurt, but enough to cause your muscles to jerk, your hips jumping forward and against him. You two had never been so close, never felt as much from each other as you did at that moment, and you felt all the blood leave your body as you met something prodding from his hips, brushing against your own crotch in an unmistakable feeling.
He had an erection.
Veritas let out something akin to a moan, but he caught himself and quickly cleared his throat, finally stopping the assault on your tender shoulder. "I had my doubts," he admitted, drawing away from you to look you in the eyes. His gaze was calculated and focused. It was the same with which he chided you for not understanding, minus the sneer usually plastered on his face. A face still stuck in a spell but with lips that had regained color after just a few seconds of being entangled with yours.
"But it seems to work, let's continue testing."
Pushing his leg forward, you hissed sharply as he ground it against your crotch, parting your legs and sitting you down on his thigh, the tips of your feet struggling to reach the ground. "I-Impossible!" you panted, trying hard not to moan as Ratio lifted his thigh even higher, gravity pulling your weight down like you were sitting on a wooden horse. "We're not… we're not like that! It said you need your one true love, and we've been tolerating and working together at best all this time! No way you like me like that!!"
Ratio didn't humor you with an answer, merely leaning forward, more of his cold rubbing against the warmth seeping through your clothes. He was all hard muscles and breathtaking pressure as he pinned you between himself and the wall. A slight shudder went through his body as his cock perked up from beneath the sculptured waistcloth around his waist, brushing up against your thigh. His one free hand slipped along your arm to relieve his other hand from pinning duty. Instead, both of them crept across your palms until he could slip his fingers between yours. But when Ratio interlaced his fingers with yours, you were surprised to find them already fleshy and warm, and you glanced up to watch the stone subside, turning his skin back into flesh.
"Your stupidity knows no bounds, but luckily, I am here to teach you," he mumbled, face back against your throat as Ratio let out a long sigh. "I waited so long for this. To feel that warmth, taste your skin. I'd done it at some point anyway, but if it returns my humanity, I won't waste time waiting for you to understand my desire."
Finally, Ratio rose to face you again, a slight flush in his expression, his cheeks not yet rosy. "I've never met someone even close to understanding me—until you pulled me out of that crypt. Yet, you think my feelings for you are so abysmal? If I'd care, it would hurt hearing you say that."
"S-Sorry," you whispered, his face so close that every sound louder than your breathing felt as if you were attacking him. Why were you apologizing? His brilliant eyes had their shimmer returned, the amber showing your reflection in them, making you shine in the golden light. You appeared even warmer than you felt with his cold body pressed against you, but it highlighted every one of your features, the beautiful glow of your tanned skin, the puzzled yet adorable look on your face, and the way your body contorted in front of Veritas in an almost sexy way, making you wonder if this was how Ratio saw you, too.
But just as quickly, the illusion shattered as you came back down to earth with Ratio pressing his leg even higher, grinding you against it. He was beautiful, apparently interested in you, and frankly, a catch if he didn't open his mouth, but that didn't mean you wanted him that way. He was reaching for straws with his research into the occult, and you had been an enabler and pushover so far, but not to this degree! You had to do something, or it wouldn't end how you thought it was right!
"Wait!" you cried out, but you were immediately shut up by Ratio's lips. This time, the kiss was passionate, yet soft, lips engulfing yours as he robbed the breath right out of your lungs, breathing it in as if he had drowned and was desperate for air. You slammed your torso forward, grinding your cock over his defined muscles on his thigh, but it only pushed more air out of your body as you were met with the same cold stone that used to cover Ratio whole.
When he finally released you, you were too busy gasping for air to continue your reasoning, and then suddenly, your soles hit the ground again as you were twisted around, your hot cheeks meeting the cold wall with a small thud. Your arms were released, immediately slacking to the side, and you listened to the sliding sound of fabric as Ratio pulled down your pants before you could react.
Gasping, you pushed yourself away from the wall, trying to cover your ass and crotch as Ratio dropped down behind you. He was down on one knee, and still had his head way above your waist, making you wonder just how good his genetics had been for this kind of growth in his century. But that wasn't the point at that moment!
"Stop it, Doctor! We're not that close, we can't just have sex! In the museum nonetheless!"
"Disagree. You and I are both men of science. If not us, who else can prove this method works? Look."
Parting his lips, his tongue dipped out, the pink flesh twisting and moving in perfectly human motions, no amount of stone left in it. You watched it, entranced by its flexibility, when Ratio suddenly parted your buttcheeks and lowered his head while keeping eye contact with you.
"Besides, I still seem to have failed in conveying my desire for you. I shall rectify it now."
You felt the slippery, wet drag of his tongue on your ass before you could attempt to move away. With a shudder and a jerk from your cock, your bud accepted the prodding muscle, allowing it to stimulate and pleasure you. With a face burning with embarrassment and arousal, you looked down to see your twitching cock bopping up and down as Ratio was undeterred, rimming you with more awkwardness than expected, yet his determination prevailed.
Half stone, half flesh hand reached between your legs, a palm dragging over your balls before his fingers split and reached around your cock, moving slowly back and forth. It was a harsh feeling, followed by softness, constantly interchanging, and your precum soon wet the palm stroking you, making it even stranger. That didn't stop you from gasping as Ratio's tongue finally breached the rim of your hole, caving out the entrance until it could fit inside. You let out an involuntary moan as you felt it wiggle inside of you, making space for itself and what was yet to come, while Veritas's hand moved faster, the back and forth soon falling into a rhythm with his tongue, making it very hard to think clearly as your legs began to shudder from the pleasure.
But just as you were edging closer to your orgasm, suddenly, his tongue slipped out, dragging over your bud one more time before his face retreated from your ass, and Ratio's hand came to a standstill. Your heart was beating so fast, it was tricky holding back and not fucking your cock into his palm for the sweet, sweet release. You bit your lips in an effort to keep them close and not reveal a pitiful mewl or moan.
You felt Ratio shift behind you, effortlessly standing up again, your cock still in his hand as he slowly tugged you forward with it, your hips shamelessly following where his hand went. Soon, your chest was pressed against the wall again, your body hot even when his stone hips molded against your ass cheeks. You felt the outline of his cock rub between your flesh, realizing it was far too big to take inside despite Ratio's preparation.
Looking back over your shoulder, you gave him a pleading look. "W-We can still stop this," you begged, but his grip on your cock only grew more rigid in return.
"We've come so far, and you just want to stop? I thought I taught you better than this."
Drawing his hips back, Ratio positioned the tip of his cock in front of your ass, releasing your dick so he could grip your hips instead. You mewled, trying to move forward and away, but his hold was firm, keeping you in place. Ratio's hands were big enough to part your ass cheeks for easy access whilst settled on your hips, and you watched in horror and awe as he was able to produce enough spit in his mouth to drip on his cock for lubrication. The fabric around his hips had magically moved aside to bare his still gray cock, but it was as lively as a real one, the tip glistening as the spit ran off and down the shaft.
"We've come too far to stop now."
And with that, his hips jerked forward, tip pressing inside you forcefully. You cried out in surprise and the first hints of pain as your bud parted to accommodate the cock prying it open. Another jerk, and this time, you felt him enter you for a few inches, the cold burning against your abused hole and being wet from your juices. "Shh," Ratio muttered, leaning over you and pressing you further against the wall. You hadn't even noticed the whines that had escaped you, too focused on the feeling of his cock forcing his way inside you.
"I know you can take me. Just relax."
One hand released your hips, his cock lodged between your cheeks now, stuck to your entrance, and Veritas reached around to the front, massaging his palm over your previously abandoned cock again. Slow, deliberate movements that made your hips move in sync with him while he pressed up from behind, your body both fleeing and welcoming him outside of your control. You took a sharp breath in…
And Ratio pushed it out of your lungs at the exact moment, snapping his hips forward and lodging his length completely inside.
You didn't know what hurt more, your body or the violating feeling you couldn't shake. Ratio could speak about research and desires as much as he wanted, but all this time, it hadn't felt real until you felt your insides clench around his cock, the cold sensation the only thing that didn't make you scream from pain—yet. Your own dick twitched in his hold, spewing ropes of cum over his fingers and onto the wall, and you barely noticed them, lost in a pitiful orgasm that made your muscles tighten and your legs shudder, your body unable to move even an inch.
But you didn't need to.
Slipping his feet beneath your soles, Ratio made up for the height difference by letting you stand on top of his toes, even though your heels still didn't manage to come down. It was all so he could keep you in place as he slowly dragged his cock out and plunged it right back in as if to preserve the space he had created. Your body tingled as he stroked your dick half-heartedly, resting his forehead against your shoulder before letting out a deeply held breath. He slowly, painfully retracted his body, dragging his cock out of you up to the tip before ramming his hips upwards and all the way back into you. And from then on, nothing was holding him back.
In a mix of screams, gasps, and moans, you two felt the desire burn through his stoney body, his cock pulsating inside you as it changed back with every plow Ratio conducted. Mercilessly, he forced your ass to take all of his length over and over while gripping your cock in his palm, fucking your hips into his grip. You could barely find any hold, falling and rising at the same time as gravity played the third wheel in the debauchery, and the once silent museum was filled with your sounds—both the pained and the aroused.
You couldn't be sure if he was still aware of the scientific research he claimed this was or if Ratio had been taken over by desire and pleasure, much like you. He didn't speak, only grunting his emotions into your ear. But with his free arm, he kept you tightly secured, wrapping it around your body while sandwiching you between the wall and him, never letting you fall or even escape as he fucked you senseless. The foreign object moving in and out of your ass pressed up against the wall, too, as it bulged your stomach to accommodate its size, your skin scrapping the cement and leaving it bruised, but it didn't seem to deter Veritas.
Soon enough, you both were gasping, breathless messes, feeling blazingly hot against each other. It was nothing compared to the cold firmness of his cursed body from before. All that was left was soft, fleshy, and comfortingly warm, his touches unrestricted, his cock wet and moving sloppily as Ratio was nearing his orgasm as well. And yours? You had spilled your jizz twice more while he had yet to finish once, sullying the wall with the pitiful painting of your violation.
"That's it," Ratio breathed into your ear. "We did it! We did–"
Interrupted by his own breathless groan, you felt his cum spill inside you, swapping around like molten lava, hot and sticky, a testament to his transformation. You cried out as he filled you up with years of restraint, almost feeling as if he was shooting another load right after the first one. You, too, let out one last pitiful, watery string of cum; his hand, now completely human and sticky, was dripping with your seed as if it was lotion for his newly acquired skin.
Your breath was ragged as you forced some focus on your hands, pressing them to the wall as your body shivered and moved. Ratio was still pumping you full of cum, but even he seemed to grow tired, staggering on his spot. And the mean, mean gravity did what it did best: pull you down the second Ratio took just one step back.
His cock slid out of your buttered hole, releasing all the cum to seep and bubble out of you as you sank to the ground. You didn't even register the pain of your knees hitting the floor as your mind focused solely on the feeling of cum spewing from your abused ass. But reality hit you hard as you leaned your face against the wall, only to be met by your own sticky semen now drawing ropes between you and the cement.
"Amazing," you heard the doctor mutter behind you, and although your ass and hips felt like they were mangled, you twisted around to look over your shoulder at him. Before you stood a man with the same statuesque looks as the statue you had spent so many nights sitting over books with. Yet, you couldn't see him with the same eyes again. At best, he was mad, completely out of his mind. And at worst, you had truly never registered what kind of monster he was all along, although the signs were clear and right in front of you.
Neither perception looked as good as he did now.
With hair as blue as the night sky through the ceiling window above you, eyes that of liquid gold, and the build of an Adonis, Dr. Veritas Ratio was still a breathtaking sight. And you hated how it made your body flush with arousal when his gaze lowered back to you, gracing you with that unreadable, haughty expression on his face you knew too well, his cock still standing majestically, even after fucking you. To think you wanted to be friends with someone who had no regard for your feelings and rights if it proved useful to him. There would be no such thing now. You two would never be able to recover and form a relationship after what he did to you.
Absentmindedly, you watched as Ratio picked up the book that had caused all of this. At some point, he had discarded it to force himself on you, but he seemed to immediately find the page again, reading it over when something else caught his attention. A short, unamused laugh echoed through the room, and he lifted one hand, twisting and turning it in front of his face. Squinting your eyes to see better through your teary vision, you could see the rigidness taking hold of his fingertips, stone spreading like ice crystals over his skin. His lips parted as if to comment on the circumstance, but he quickly closed them again, knowing it made no difference whether he spoke about it or not. It was happening again, and he could only watch. You saw his euphoria disappear into the depth of disappointment. However, you couldn't feel bad for him this time like before.
Ratio's expression turned stern, his thoughts unmistakingly twisting around what went wrong and how to fix it. His gaze fell back to the page, then to his hand, the book, and finally, to you. Tapping his petrified pointer finger onto the paper, he took a deep breath before reading aloud, "Occasionally, the petrified will need multiple encounters with their one true love to sift out any remains of the spell, it says. Let us do it again to be sure."
Do… it? Again? Did he mean sex? Forcing himself on you as if you were nothing more than a means to an end? Perhaps you were—at least to Ratio. It had never been about camaraderie or pursuing the same goals, but now you had to suffer for his selfishness. Were you nothing more than an accepted sacrifice to solve his problem?
Your thoughts were interrupted by a tender kiss, much different than the ones before. His lips were almost playful as they coaxed you to return the affection that you refused to do. "Tell me what's bothering you," he mumbled against your lips. "I can see your brows crinkling from all the thinking when, really, you should only look at me."
His words only made you more upset, as if to say you weren't smart enough to think. Your contribution was no longer appreciated unless it was your body he needed to reverse the spell. You should have said something, making him understand how awful he was. But your anger settled above everything; your need to be validated after being used and abused greater than anything.
"I brought you here. You should be thankful I took you out of that crypt and helped you come this far. How dare you think you can treat me like this."
Ratio grew silent as he listened to your words, his eyes falling down to your lips ever so often before returning your angry gaze with one of belittling mockery. "I must admit, you're cute when you're angry. Is this what you are thinking? That I am using you, ready to discard you once I'm done? You are wrong, which isn't new, but you should know I am not planning on letting you go, especially not now."
Pushing your legs apart, Veritas positioned himself between them, his hands falling to your body, roaming until you attempted to stop them with your own. However, he merely interlaced your fingers again. This time, they had already returned to their stone-cold version. Yet, he forced them to comply, however uncomfortable it must have been. Back in this compromising position, you had no choice but to let him pin your hands to the ground, hovering above you with eyes so brilliant, they were beginning to fill you with dread.
They showed yourself in them, vulnerable and resigned, knowing you couldn't fight him. That despite what he was doing, you couldn't just leave him and this place behind. That his discovery would always come to haunt you, one way or another. But far behind that reflection of yourself lay something much more sinister. It hadn't been there when he was still petrified from hair to toe, but you saw it now. Ambition and desire, feelings that only you could awake in him after all this time and in this new day and age.
"You could have left so many nights ago, but we both know you need me," he whispered, lowering his face again and bumping his forehead to you. "All these times I gave you a chance to never return, but you did. Perhaps, I know why. I am your magnum opus—and you are mine. I will make sure those idiots mocking your finds and achievements witness the greatness of the one and only person I desire to be with. Once I have my body back, you'll bask in the glory of excellence with me by your side. Together we will be unstoppable, darling."
His hand slipped off yours, and you remained still as you let his words repeat in your mind, like a proposal of sorts. But when his touch found its way to your ass, you jolted awake, trying to scurry away as he probed at your violated bud with his cold, stiff fingers.
"But first, you need to do this for me. For us. A small price to pay for recognition, don't you think?"
Panic set in, tears shooting into your eyes as you shook your head vehemently. You wanted to say something, but the sounds coming from your hoarse throat didn't form words.
"Don't pretend to be shy now," Ratio scolded you gently, and for the first time since meeting him, you saw a genuine smile play on his lips. Lips that parted to lick his fingers as he raised them before they twisted into a wolfish grin. "We still have a lot to study and find out. What's your favorite position? What makes you cum the fastest? Things like that. And we need to be thorough."
He looked almost boyish as his smile softened again, eyes scanning your body with a never-before-seen interest before he found your gaze with his. You flinched as you felt his wet fingers back at your entrance, and you couldn't help but struggle, mewling and trying to get away from what seemed inevitable. Ratio shook his head and sighed. "Still resisting? Thankfully, we have all night to answer the questions."
Ratio looked up. Gone was all the softness, only ambition and lust remaining in its stead. Desire that needed to be quelled and strive that demanded absolut dedication from him. And then there were you, caught in the bullseye, the only thing he was focusing on at this and surely many other moments.
"I am sure you'll be a valuable asset to my research. Now relax, darling."
