I added Avery like 20 minutes ago bro đđđđ none of my other ships I added got romantic this fast
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⣠Chile in a Photography âŁ
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Monterey Bay Aquarium
cherry valley forever
Not today Justin
Sweet Seals For You, Always

#extradirty

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One Nice Bug Per Day
Claire Keane


if i look back, i am lost
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Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
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I added Avery like 20 minutes ago bro đđđđ none of my other ships I added got romantic this fast
Update đđđđ„ł

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
I added Avery like 20 minutes ago bro đđđđ none of my other ships I added got romantic this fast
Mononoke Lore Crash Course - So There Are 64 Medicine Sellers Running Around
A short summary of Mononoke lore. Originally posted this on Twitter, basically the same but I added some stuff after rereading the bagua wikipedia page
Sources:
- On multiple medicine sellers and their swords
- On the Shuuga realm and Shingi
- On the exorcism swords and the organizational structure of Juuyoku
My wide collection of Kagurabachi text post memes i made in the last 12 hours to prevent myself from having a mental breakdown

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Baby, Come Back to Me
a03 | masterlist
blurb - Separated by miles, years, and the undead, you and your husband have been ghosts in each otherâs lives for two decades. The thought of Joel being alive hurt just as much as thinking he was dead. But when a stand-off forces you face-to-face with a familiar manâolder, harder, and still devastatingly himâall the pain resurfaces.
warnings - nsfw, mdni 18+, attempted murder, violence, yearning, loss of a child, parent!Reader, grief, fear of intimacy, slight suicidal wishes, female masturbation, mutual masturbation, 69, cuddle fucking, creampie (don't try this at home), emotional sex, scent kink???
author's note: I did listen to "Back to Me" by the Marias the entire time I wrote this...
One shot requested by: anyomous
wc: 18.3 k
Mwah!
âJoelâŠâ
Mwah!
You giggled this time, voice caught somewhere between exasperation and a smile. âJoel.â
Mwah! Mwah!
âOh my God! Youâre gonna ruin my hair!â
He didnât stop. He kissed you once moreâloudly, obnoxiouslyâright on the top of your head, arms wrapped around you so tight you could barely reach for your keys.
âYou ainât leavinâ yet,â he said against your hair.
You tried to twist out of his hold, but he just shifted with you, his body like a weighted blanket. âJoelââ
âMy birthday is tonight,â he murmured, cheek pressed to the side of your head. âKeyword: Tonight.â
âYouâre not six.â
âDonât need to be,â he muttered, âTo wanna spend it with my wife.â
Somewhere down the hall, Sarahâs laughter drifted from her room, soft and muffled. You exhaled, melting into his chest despite yourself. He smelled like sawdust and soap, and you hated how safe it made you feel, because you did need to go.
âJoel,â you whispered again, gentler this time. âItâs an ER shift. You know I canât justââ
âI know, I know.â
He finally leaned back enough to look at you. His face was that ache that always peeked out when you had to leave for your night shifts.
âI packed you dinner,â he said finally, nodding toward the counter.
Your gaze followed. A brown paper bag sat neatly by your keys, the folded top pressed flat with ridiculous precision. You could see his handwriting scrawled across it: Eat every bite.
You looked back at him, and his expression was stubbornly casual, like you hadnât watched him make sure your thermos didnât leak and your sandwich didnât get squished while you changed into your scrubs.
âYou didnât have toââ
âYeah, I did,â he cut in, quiet but sure. âYou forget to eat when it gets busy.â
âI do not forget.â
âMm,â he said, unconvinced. âThatâs why last week you came home and inhaled pizza like you ainât seen food in a week.â
You shoved at his chest, and he caught your wrist with a smirk, pressing one more kiss to your knuckles.
And thatâs when the sound of socked feet sliding down the hallway interrupted you.
âEw,â Sarah groaned, appearing in the doorway, half-eaten apple in hand. âNot this again.â
Joel didnât even look her way. âWhatâs this âgain?â
âYou being a total sap,â she said, hopping up on one of the stools. âSheâs just going to work.â
Joelâs head turned slowly to his kid. âYou donât get it.â
âOh, I get it. Youâre dramatic.â
You covered your mouth to hide a smile, pretending to check your bag again.
Joel lifted a brow at her. âYou done?â
âNot even close,â she said sweetly. âStop hogging her.â
He glanced back to you, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. âWhyâd wanna talk to her so bad, huh?â
âMaybe I wanna talk to someone other than you for the next twelve hours.â
Joel let out a low noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and grabbed his mug. âUh-huh. Iâll remember that next time you need a ride to the mall.â
You and Sarah watched him disappear around the corner. There was a beat of silence, and then the sound of him shutting the bedroom door echoed faintly.
âDid it get fixed?â
Her grin was instant, mischievous, like sheâd been waiting for that cue all night.
âYou bet it did.â
She glanced over her shoulder once more, then ducked into her backpack and pulled out a small box. When she cracked it open, the soft ticking filled the quiet kitchen.
Joelâs watch. Working.
You hadnât seen it tick sinceâwell, since ever. Not once in all the years youâd known him. She smiled so wide it almost broke your heart. âHe deserves it,â she said softly.
You wrapped your arms around her before she could hide her blush. âYou did good, baby.â
Her hair smelled faintly of coconut shampoo and laundry detergent. You pressed a kiss into her curls, and she squeezed you tight.
âWhen Iâm back in the morning,â you murmured against her hair, âYour dad gets me, then itâs all you and me, okay?â
She pulled back, grinning. âDeal. I need a dress. Homecomings, like, next week and everyone already has theirs.â
You smoothed her hair from her face. âThen weâll find you the perfect one. Promise.â
Her eyes sparkled. âItâs gonna be the best.â
You smiled, meaning it. âIt will.â
For a moment, it was just the two of you, the low hum of the fridge filling the silence, the clock ticking in time with the watch.
Then you glanced upâand froze.
âShoot,â you muttered. âIâm late.â
You moved fastâbadge, phone, keysâbut she was still standing there, smiling at you.
âI love you, Sarah!â you called as you backed toward the door.
âLove you too!â
The night air was cooler than you expected, the kind of fall chill that hinted at rain but hadnât quite decided to commit. The street was quiet, just the whisper of trees and the hum of a streetlight flickering at the corner.
The porch light cast a pale gold over the hood of your car, and you were halfway to opening the door when you heard it.
âHey!â
You turned.
Joel was coming down the porch steps, hair mussed.
âWhatâ?â
Before you could finish, he reached you. His hands found your face, warm and calloused, and his mouth was on yours before another word could form.
Steady. Familiar.
You smiled against his lips, your fingers curling in his shirt. âHappy birthday,â you murmured.
His eyes softened, lines crinkling at the corners. âThank you, baby.â
He kissed you againâslower this timeâand then rested his forehead against yours.
âYou sure you canât call in sick?â he whispered, the corner of his mouth twitching.
âYâknow I canât.â
âDoesnât hurt to try.â
For a few seconds, neither of you moved. You brushed your thumb along Joelâs jaw, tracing the familiar edge of stubble.
âTomorrow morning,â you promised quietly. âIâm all yours.â
He nodded once, like he was filing it away. âAll mine,â he repeated, voice low, half-rasp, half-prayer.
You stepped back, his hand still holding yours until the distance forced it to fall away.
âGo on,â he said, smiling now. ââFore I think of another excuse to keep you.â
You opened the car door, sliding in. The engine coughed to life, headlights washing the driveway in white.
Joel leaned down to your window as it rolled open, bracing one hand on the roof. âText me when you get there.â
âI always do.â
âYeah,â he said softly. âStill.â
You looked up at him for a momentâjust a man standing under the porch light, watching the woman he loves drive away to work.
Then you smiled one last time, lifted your fingers in a small wave, and pulled out of the driveway.
The taillights disappeared down the street.
And behind you, Joel stood there for a long while, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes on the road that led toward the hospital, until the light finally went out.
That was the last quiet night.
ââă»ââ
The gas station sits at the edge of the highway like a fossilâhalf-buried in snowdrift, windows caked in frost, the faded sign creaking against the wind.
You pull your scarf higher over your nose and push through the door. The bell above it gives a tired little jingle, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the emptiness inside.
The place smells of dust and fuel. Rows of cracked candy wrappers and long-dead flies line the counter. A can of peaches sits upright on a shelf like itâs been waiting for you all these years.
You pause, listening. Wind sighs through a shattered window. Nothing else.
Good.
Your boots crunch on the tile as you move down the aisle. You check under the counterâsome old batteries, half a lighter, a few shotgun shells. You pocket the shells, roll the lighter between your fingers, flick it. Spark. No flame. You toss it back.
You find the storage room behind a warped door, push it open with your shoulder. The metal hinges wail.
Inside: shelves toppled over, a spill of canned goods frozen to the concrete. A single cot in the cornerâtorn, mold creeping up the side. But itâs shelter.
You run a hand through your hair, exhale through your scarf.
You start sorting through the wreckage. Your bag was already heavy, but thereâs always room for something that might keep you alive another week. A can of beans, a box of ammo if youâre lucky, maybe even a flask with something that burns on the way down.
Outside, the wind changes pitchâsharper now, colder. Snow was coming quick.
You glance through the window. Clouds roll over the mountains, dark and low, swallowing the last streaks of light.
Wyoming. Youâd always wanted to see it. The peaks in the distance look soft under the gray sky, like something out of a dream you half-remember. You lean against the window frame, watch the world blur behind the snow.
The beans taste like dust. You chew anyway, slow and mechanical. You swallow, stare at the dented can in your hand, and wonderânot for the first timeâwhy food never tastes like anything anymore.
The silence stretches long and thin.
Outside, the wind howls low through the busted doorframe, slipping under your coat. The stormâs closer. You pull your scarf tighter and sit cross-legged on the moldy cot.
The flickering fluorescent light above you buzzes. Once. Twice. Then dies completely. You sit in the dark for a long moment.
You fish out a flashlight from your pack and click it on. The beam slices through the dark in a narrow cone. Dust motes float like ghosts.
You set the can aside, grab your knife, and start sharpening it against a stone. The rhythmic scrape fills the space. Shk. Shk. Shk.
You stop only when you catch your reflection in the blade. Eyes sunken. Hair streaked with gray. Skin roughened by twenty-four winters too many.
You huff a breath through your nose, letting the knife fall beside you and lean your head back against the wall.
For a momentâjust a flickerâyou see it again.
The hospital. The gurneys. The screaming.
You still smelled antiseptic and blood, heard the alarms, and felt the heat of panic flooding every hallway.
Your hands had been shaking so badly back then that you couldnât even hold the scalpel right. And when they shoved the rifle at youâyouâd dropped it. You remember that clearly. Youâd dropped it, and the nurse beside you had died two minutes later.
You open your eyes fast, drag in air until your ribs ache. You stare at your hands. Calloused. Scarred.
The storm outside is getting heavier now, snow slamming against the roof in thick, rhythmic waves.
You sit for a while, just breathing.
Then you reach pass your collar. Metal is cold against your fingers, smooth from years of handling. You pull out the necklaceâits chain tangled from travel, the ring catching faint light from the window.
Your wedding ring.
It still fits around your finger, though you havenât worn it in years. The gold has dulled, edges rough from weather and time. You turn it between your fingers, feeling the tiny engraving on the insideâJ.M. The letters are faint now, nearly worn away.
Since rings were a ripping hazard through gloves, you always ended up leaving your ring in Joelâs hands. Meaning you left it when you escaped.
Years later, you went for it. Maybe to see if someone took it, or if it was possible that time had stopped in that house, just waiting for you to come home.
Half the roof gone, windows shattered. Youâd stepped over the debris, heart thudding in your chest, and found the ring sitting in your dresser. Dust-coated. Waiting.
The rest of the house had been silent, save for the groan of wood and wind slipping through the cracks. Thereâd been blood by the entrywayâdark, old. But no bodies. The truck was gone.
That had meant something. Youâd clung to that, smiling through the tears back then.
âThey made it out,â youâd whispered into your old bedroom. âHe got her out. He always does.â
Now, years later, you still hold the ring like itâs proof that somewhere, somehow, theyâre still alive.
That Sarahâs grownâthirty-eight now, if youâve done the math rightâmaybe with her fatherâs strength, that same stubborn tilt of her chin.
You smile, just a little. And for that small, fragile moment between exhaustion and faith, you let yourself believe it.
That if you keep walking, keep breathing, fate might finally let your paths cross again.
The wind howls against the window. And thenâa noise. Not the wind. Not the shifting of snow. You freeze.
Itâs faint, beneath the storm. A crunch of a can, the muted thud of boots.
You snap out of it fast, tucking your necklace back underneath your layers, and you grab your rifle. You move silently, muscle memory taking over. The scarf wanted up, covering your mouth. You sling the rifle over your shoulder, knife in your other hand.
Another sound. Closer this time.
You forced your breathing to be small. Listened. The sound is humanânot the ragged rasp of infected but even, purposeful steps. You creep to the door, ease it open a crack. Cold air hits you.
You donât take chances. You move through the gas station like a ghost.
Shelves cast long black teeth. You navigate by sound: the snap of a plastic wrapper, a muted clink of metal. You pass an aisle and thereâunder a hanging sign that reads âSNACKSâ in flaking red paintâis a person.
Sheâs young-ish, brown hair dusted with snow. Pale. Focused on canned goods. You watch her for a beat, then youâre beside her; blade at her throat, gloved hand clamping her jaw before she can scream air into the room.
âDonât make noise,â you whisper, teeth pressed to the syllables. Cold breath fogs between you.
She makes a soundâa sharp intakeâbut you clamp harder until itâs a single pulse under your fingers. Her green eyes are wide and furious.
You press the tip of the knife, close enough the metal kisses her skin. She doesnât flinch. âWho are you with?â
Her eyes flick left, then right, then back up to your face. She groans something obscene. You tilt your head.
âNod if youâre alone.â
Slow, stiff nod. Her gaze keeps sliding. You donât believe her.
âWalk.â
She huffs and starts shuffling. You edge behind her, blade at the hollow of her throat in case she bolts.
Outside, horses stand tethered to a dented pickup. Two adult-size steeds, their breaths steaming into the night. Packs sewn onto their flanks look newâcanvas stitched and mended, not the scavenged mess you usually see.
âCommunity,â you mutter.
The girl mumbles behind your gloveâgarbled words, half-swallowed by the wool. You pause, glancing down at her. Her eyes flicker with something sharper than fear. You canât tell if itâs anger or a plan.
You loosen your hand just enough for her to speak. âYouâre making a mistake,â she says, voice low, shaky but not scared. Not really. Thereâs defiance there. âYou donât wanna do this.â
âThat right?â
âYeah,â she breathes, chin tilting toward the dark. âBecauseââ
She stops. Eyes dart past you. Just a flicker. Barely a second. But itâs enough. Your instincts snap tight.
You spin, knife still at her throat, snow exploding under your boots. The world narrows to metal and breath and the small, frantic drum in your ribs. A man stands a few yards off. Broad shoulders, an old bandana pulled up over his mouth, thick winter jacket bulking up his frame more that it is; only his eyes are free.
Theyâre cold. Wild. Protective.
Heâs holding a blade too. The wind howls between you.
âIâll slit her throat before you take a step.â you snarl.
He doesnât blink.
You circle, keeping the girl as a shield. He mirrors you both of you counting the breaths, looking for the twitch that means fight. Wind keens between the pillars, the horses stamp and throw up more steam.
âBack off, I swear Iâllââ
âIâll kill you âfore you can.â he interrupts, stepping closer. Thereâs a cadence to the sentence that slips under your skin, some pattern you know but canât name. Texan accent. Worn by the years, but Texas nonetheless.
Your hands tighten around the girl. Then she jerksâtwists. You shove her back against your chest and press the knife harder; she hisses.
âStop movinâ, Ellie!â The man yells.
âGoddammit!â
She spits, and the world completely invertsâjust by one word in her next sentence detonating in your chest.
âKill her already, Joel!â
Joel.
The name stops you cold.
Joel.
It hits like a gunshot under your ribs. Your grip faltersâbarely, but enough.
Joel.
â...What did you just say?â you whisper.
The girl feels it, the hesitation. She wrenches free. In the same motion, she grabs your scarf and yanks it down. Cold air hits your face.
Thenâpain. A hot, sharp slide near your ribs. You stumble back with a strangled noise, clutching your side.
For a second, you donât feel it. Not really. Your bodyâs in survival mode, your mind already screaming move, move, move.
Two against one. Youâve been in worse. Youâve survived worse. But stillâyour pulse hammers so loud it drowns out the rest of the world.
The wind whooshes past your ear. White noise. You can barely hear anything else.
Except the softest call youâve heard in years. Your name. Spoken like a memory dragged out of the grave.
You havenât heard it in years. Youâd forgotten the shape of it, the way it used to sound. Youâd forgotten what it felt like to belong to it.
You look up.
The manâs eyes are on youâwide, unsteady. His chest rises and falls like heâs staring at a ghost. His knife is forgotten, dropped to the snow. You stumble back a step, confused, dizzy. He mirrors it, stepping forward, matching your retreat. One for one.
âStay back,â you rasp, though your voice cracks halfway through.
He doesnât. The girl says his name again, a sharp exhale of confusion. âJoel! What are youâ?â
No.
No, no, no.
The world tilts. The light from the moon flickers across his face, and in that fractured second, you know. He rips the bandana from his faceâ
Itâs him. Your life. Your love. Your other half. Your soul. Your husband.
Your Joel Miller.
Lines carved deep into his face, gray hair decorated his beautiful brown. His face is more wrinkled than before, his body more wider. But those eyesâsame as the day you lost saw him.
Your breath catches in your throat. âJoelâŠâ
The word breaks, splintering halfway out. It sounds nothing like how you used to say it. He takes another step. His voice shakes.
âDarlinâ...â
You want to run. To reach for him. To scream in fear. To laugh. You canât do any of it. You just stand there, the world narrowing until itâs just the two of you and the ghost of everything you lost.
Your knees go weak. You can feel pain nowâthe slow, spreading warmth of something sticky seeping through your coat. You press your hand harder to your side, but it doesnât stop the tremor.
Joel takes another step.
âDonâtâŠâ you manage, breathless. âDonâtâcome any closer.â
You stumble back again, your boots slipping in the snow. The light-headedness hits harder now. The sky spins. You reach out, steadying yourself against the cold metal of the building behind you.
The girlâs hand tightens around her knife. Her voice is shaking now, too. âWhat are you waiting for?! SheâsâŠsheâsâwhy are you hesitatingââ
You sway, vision blurring. Ellie takes another step, as if sheâs going to finish the job for Joel, and thatâs when you see itâthe blade in her hand. Red. Glinting as it drips. Your blood.
âChristâŠâ you whisper.
You can barely keep your eyes open now. The snow feels softer under your boots than it should. You blink, slow and heavy, your breath coming out in short, white bursts.
Then, you fall.
Joel moves fast. A shadow through the storm. The next thing you feel is his arms wrapping around you, pulling you in. The warmth of him hits like a blow, his chest against yours, his breath shaking against your temple.
You forgot this.
The sound of him breathing, the rough rasp in his throat. The weight of his hand and how they shake when they press against your side, trying to stop the bleeding. His voice breaks through the wind, hoarse, terrifiedâwords you canât quite catch, just the vibration of them.
Your fingers find his coat, clutching it. It feels real. Too real. You lift your headâbarelyâand see his face. That face.
The man from your dreams, the one you used to stare at when you couldnât sleep. The one you buried with your past. The one you thought youâd never touch again.
You try to speak, but it comes out as a shiver.
He presses his hand harder, cursing under his breath. His mouth opens over and over, forming words but you canât really hear him. The wind eats at his words. You can only see his eyes frantic.
You forgot how soft his eyes could be when he was afraid. Your vision blurs around the edges. His face flickers in and out, the snow dimming into a wash of gray and white.
He yells something over his shoulderâmaybe to the girl, maybe to no one. You canât tell. The worldâs shrinking too fast.
Thenâhis voice, raw, breaking:
âNot âgain. Not âgain.â
You blink slowly, trying to focus on his mouth, the way his voice trembles like heâs said this before.
Again?
The thought cuts through the haze for a second. Did he mean you? Did he dream of you, too? See your face in strangers? Hear your voice in the dark like you did his?
The thought makes you smile. You look up at himâjust once moreâand the sight fills you whole.
Then the light fades. You go limp in his arms.
He calls your name again, but you donât hear it. The world folds inwardâblack and quiet.
ââă»ââ
The church wasnât much.
A narrow, sunlit room with peeling paint and crooked pews. The air smelled faintly of wood polish. There was no musicâjust the soft hum of cicadas outside and the creak of the floorboards under your heels.
It was perfect.
Your mother sat front row, tissues clutched in both hands, whispering something to your father that made him chuckle under his breath. Tommy was beside them, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, trying and failing to keep a squirming little girl in her seat.
âCâmon now, darlinâ,â he muttered as Sarah kicked her legs and reached toward the front of the hall. âYour daddyâs a little busy right now, alright? Youâll see him in a minute.â
Sarah let out a squeal that echoed through the church, a bright little sound that made Joelâs shoulders stiffen and then sag.
You laughed under your breath, watching him. His hands were clasped nervously in front of him, the tie around his neck slightly crooked. His hair was damp from sweat, combed back but already falling out of place. There was a flush high on his cheeks.
âI swear I listened when you told me to feed her. She jusâââ He sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching. âShe donât like sittinâ still. Guess thatâs my fault.â
âShe just wants her daddy,â you said softly.
Joelâs eyes flicked to you, warm and nervous all at once. âWell, canât say I blame her for that.â
âYou always this confident at the altar?â
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. âConfidence or stupidityâhard to tell.â
There was a pause. Sarah let out another squeal and Tommy groaned, muttering something about âshouldâve brought snacks.â Joel grinned, shaking his head, then looked back at you with that same teasing glint.
âStill time to back out, yâknow,â he said. âAinât too late to change your mind.â
You gasped, hand flying to your chest. âExcuse me?â
âI meanânot like that, darlinâ. Jusâ... yâknow Iâm not exactly prime real estate.â
âJoel MillerâŠâ you said, voice full of mock outrage.
âWhat?â he said, laughing now. âIâm jusâ beinâ honest!â
You took a step closer, your dress brushing the floor. The minister cleared his throat softly, but neither of you looked away. You reached up, caught his tie in your hand, and tugged him just enough that his eyes widened a little.
âNever,â you whispered.
He blinked, his breath catching. And then you kissed him.
The world went still for a moment. It was just the two of youâyour hand fisted in his tie, his palm finding your waist, the rough scrape of his stubble brushing your cheek. He kissed you back, slow at first, then deeper when you smiled against his mouth.
Behind you, your mother and dad sniffled audibly. Tommy muttered something, but there was laughter in his voice.
When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.
And when Joel finally whispered, âFor as long as I got breathâŠâ, you knewâthis was how it was always meant to be.
ââă»ââ
You wake to the sound of wind and the slow, steady rhythm of breathing that isnât your own.
Your lashes flutter open. Wooden beams. No patched roof. The air smells faintly of pine and smoke, warm from⊠a heater? For a moment, you think youâre dreaming. Then a deep ache blooms along your side.
You jolt uprightâtoo fast. The pain punches through you. A strangled noise escapes your throat as you clutch your ribs. Bandages. Tight, clean, freshly changed.
Thatâs when you hear it again.
You whip your head toward the soundâinstinct first, reason laterâand shove back against the headboard, teeth bared, ready to fight through the pain if you have to.
âHeyâhey, easy, easy.â
That voice.
Joelâs sitting in the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, that same rugged face youâve seen a hundred times in dreams, weathered now by years and loss. The gray in his beard catches the light. His flannelâs frayed at the cuffs. Sleep wears on his face. He mustâve just woken up.
Itâs all impossible. It has to be.
âJoel?â
His mouth parts just slightly, like heâs afraid to breathe wrong. âYeah, darlinâ. Itâs me.â
You shake your head, trying to make sense of it, but the world feels warped. His eyes are the sameâwarm brown, flecked with goldâand that hurts worse than anything else. Because they look real.
For a long, unbearable moment, neither of you move. The room hums around youâwind through the cracked window, the faint thud of boots outsideâbut all you can hear is your heartbeat and the sound of Joelâs shaky breath.
You shift again, the pain in your side flaring white-hot. A groan slips out before you can stop it. Joelâs expression crumples.
âStop movinâ,â he mutters, half rising, hands twitching uselessly like he wants to reach for you but doesnât dare. âYouâll rip the stitches.â
You swing your legs over the bed, ignoring the protest in your ribs. He flinches like it physically hurts him to see you do it. He stands with you, crossing around the bed to get in front of you.
His jaw works, like heâs trying to find something to say.
But all that comes out is your name.
It roots you to the floor.
You blink hard, throat burning, and when you look up again, his eyes are wet. He tries to blink it away, to look like the same man who used to fix things, who used to steady you.
He says it again. Softer this time.
Your breath stumbles. Thereâs a tremor in his hand when he finally reaches out.
When his fingers brush your cheek, you flinchâ from a strange mix of fear and disbelief. His handâs rough, warm. He drags his thumb slow across your skin, tracing your jaw, your cheekbone, your nose.
Like a blind man who had just earned his sight back.
For a second, thereâs nothing but the sound of both of you breathingâfast, uneven, disbelieving.
And thenâ
You take a step back. Another. Another.
Distance.
You hit the metal tray behind you, the clatter piercing through the air, and Joelâs brow furrows. âItâs alright,â he says, voice low, coaxing, like youâre some frightened animal.
You shake your head, breath catching. âNoâno, itâs not.â
âDarlinâ, itâs meââ
âDonât.â The word rips out of you, sharp and trembling. âDonât call me that.â
His mouth parts, but nothing comes out. His hand drops uselessly to his side.
You canât breathe. The air feels too thick, the walls too close. Your body wonât stay stillâyour fingers twitch, your shoulders jerk. You can hear your pulse in your ears.
He was here. You wanted this. You wished for it, but now that it was here⊠it was all too much, him standing here, alive.
âI knew you died,â you whisper, voice cracking. âI knew and I still believedâ"
âI didnât,â he interrupts, desperate. âI didnât die, darlinâ. Iââ
âStop!â You press your hands to your temples, nails digging in. âStop calling me that!â
âYouâre shakinâ. Lemme meââ
âNo!â You stumble back, hand slamming into the cabinet. âYou canâtânoâyou canât justââ
Your chest caves. Breath stutters. You canât fill your lungs, canât find air. The room tilts, the fluorescent light overhead flickering like a heartbeat gone wrong.
Heâs reaching again, trying to catch your shoulders, but the touch only makes it worse. You jerk away, a strangled sound tearing out of you.
And thenâ
Bang.
The door slams open.
âJoel!â Tommyâs voice, rougher now, deeper, but still that same drawl that once filled your old house with laughter.
You stare at him. Heâs got a mustache now. Older, broader. Wrinkles that line the corners of his eyes.
You make a small, broken sound in your throat. Itâs too muchâthe sound of his voice, the sight of Joel, your world cracking open and mending together all at once.
Tommyâs eyes soften when he sees you, but his tone is firm. âStep outside, brother.â
âHell no,â Joel snaps, stepping in front of you. âMy wifeâs panickinâ, Tommyââ
You twitch at that wordâwifeâand your breath catches, shuddering.
Tommy lifts a hand. âOut. Now.â
âTommyââ
âJoel.â His tone hardens. âGet out.â
The two stare each other down, that familiar stubborn silence passing between them. Joelâs chest heaves. His jaw flexes.
Then his eyes flick to you. Just once. And that lookâraw, guttedâundoes something in your chest. He goes. But not without a fight in his stance, not without looking like every step toward the door costs him blood.
Tommy stays behind long enough to look at you. His smileâs thin, a shade of what it used to be. âWhy donât you sit down, huh? Mariaâs cominâ over real soon. Sheâll take care of you.â
You donât even nod, just stare like those abandoned mannequins in the windows of clothing stores. He hesitates, looks like he wants to say something else, but doesnât.
Then he leaves. The door shuts behind them with a soft click.
You stand there for a long time, trembling, until the sound of your breathing evens out. The air still smells like alcohol and metal. You press your back to the wall, sliding down until youâre sitting on the cold wooden floorboards.
You donât cry. You just listen.
Through the crack of the door, their voices filter inâmuted, low, but heated.
âYouâre overwhelminâ her, Joel. Canât you see that?â
Joelâs voice, rough and unsteady, comes right after. âShe knows me, Tommy. Sheâshe looked at me. You saw it too. She knows me.â
âYeah,â Tommy says, dry. âDonât mean she can handle you right now.â
âI ainât some stranger, dammit! Iâm her husband. Thatâs my wife. You understand? My wife. I thought she was gone. I thoughtââ
âYou thought a lotta things, but that donât change whatâs in front of you. I get it.â
A pause. You imagine Joelâs faceâthe way he presses his lips together when heâs holding back something too big to say.
Then his voice again, lower. âYou didnât see her eyes, Tommy. I did. She remembered me. She didnât forget.â
âThatâs not how it works.â
âShe belongs with me. She should live with meâget used to things âgain, get used to me.â
âThe hell she should,â Tommy snaps. âThatâs the worst idea Iâve heard come outta your mouth, and thatâs sayinâ somethinâ.â
âWhy? Why the hell not? Yâthink I can jusââwhatâleave her sittinâ in some damn corner, pretendinâ like she didnât spend almost half her life with me?â
Tommy doesnât answer right away. The silence stretches, filled with the sound of boots shifting on wood, wind against the windows.
When he does speak, his voice is steady. ââCause sheâs scared of you, Joel.â
The words land heavy. You can feel the air change on the other side of the door.
âShe flinched when you touched her.â
Joel says nothing.
âShe damn near stopped breathinâ when you got closer,â Tommy goes on, quieter now. âAnd not âcause she donât care. Itâs âcause sheâs been out there, alone. Yâknow what that does to a person.â
Joel finally mutters something, too low to catch.
Tommy sighs. âYâthink she had folks lookinâ after her all this time? Hell, for all we know, sheâs been walkinâ âlone for years. One, two, five, tenâChrist, maybe since the whole damn thing started.â
A pause. Then Tommy again, voice soft but heavy.
âShe ainât the same person you lost. And neither are you.â
The words twist deep, where you donât want them to reach.
Eventually, you hear the floor creak againâTommyâs boots moving away, Joelâs slower behind him. The sound fades down the hallway, swallowed by the hum of your own thoughts.
You tilt your head back against the wall and stare at the ceiling light until your eyes blur.
Heâs alive.
Heâs here.
And you donât know whether to thank God or curse Him.
ââă»ââ
To say youâre skittish is an understatement.
Tommy and Mariaâs house feels too clean. Too normal. Every soundâevery creak, every low murmur from the kitchenâputs your nerves on edge. You keep expecting someone to barge in and tell you to pack your things, that you donât belong here.
The curtains remain half-shut, and you sleep on top of the blanket instead of under it, because the bed is too soft. The first night, you woke up gasping, the fabric bunched around your throat, the scent of cleanliness sharp enough to make your eyes sting.
Now you avoid it altogether. You sit on the edge, knees drawn up, staring at the wooden nightstand. You run your fingers over the lamp switch. The clock. The drawer handle.
Twenty years ago, these things were nothing. Background. White noise. Now they feel like relics from a life that belonged to someone else.
Beds. Nightstands. Floors that donât creak from rot.
Hot water. Toothpaste. A door that locks from the inside.
You leave the room only the bathroom, since they bring you your food. Once, Maria knocked to tell you that there had been snow on the Christmas tree they just set up, and it was gorgeous with the lights, and you almost said yes to following her out there.
Almost.
But the second your hand touched the doorknob, something inside you froze. You mumbled an apology and stayed put.
They never complained. Not once.
Mariaâshe tries. She smiles at you when she offers you fresh bread, tea, small comforts. She has that kind of strength like sheâs seen her share of ruin and decided not to let it show. You can see why Tommy married her.
He checks your wound every couple of days, his hands steady, his voice low. âHealinâ good,â he says. âMariaâs been keepinâ the bandages clean. Youâre lucky sheâs the one runninâ the place.â
You nod. You never know what to say back.
He talks a lot, though. Tries to fill the silence with something easy. âJacksonâs different,â he tells you. âWe got systems. Rules that keep folks fed, safe. We all pitch in.â
You hum under your breath, skeptical. âSounds like a QZ,â you croak out before you can stop yourself.
Tommy chuckles, but his eyes narrow just slightly, like he knows what you mean. âAinât no QZ. No FEDRA. No soldiers. Nobody hoardinâ food. We look out for each other here.â
You study him a long time, trying to decide if you believe it. He must see the hesitation in your face, because he adds, quietly,
âI wouldnât have stayed if it wasnât what I said.â
He means it. You can tell.
Days pass. A week and a half. You fall into a rhythm, if you can call it that. You wake up, sit on the edge of the bed, watch the light crawl across the floorboards. You listen to the faint laughter that sometimes drifts from the street outside. You eat when someone leaves a plate at your door. You wait until night to move around.
Then one morning, Maria breaks it by knocking softly.
Youâre sitting on the bed, fingers picking at the loose threads of the sheets, half-lost in thought.
When she opens the door, her face is lit by that calm, unshakable smile. âGot someone who wants to see you,â she says.
Your stomach tightens. Your hands flex, unflex. âWho?â
Her smile widens, but her eyes study you carefully, gauging every twitch of your face. âA visitor.â
You nod, pushing yourself up. The floor feels uneven under your bare feet. Your heart thuds in your throat. âAlright.â
She waits in the doorway until you follow her. The house smells faintly of coffee and wood polish. You pass the family photos hanging on the wallâTommy with Maria, and beside them, a small boy with his fatherâs grin. You pause for half a second, staring.
A son. You hadnât known.
Your pulse stutters.
Mariaâs voice pulls you back. âYou doinâ okay?â
âYeah,â you lie.
Every step down the hallway feels heavier than the last. The closer you get to the living room, the louder your thoughts get. What if itâs Joel? What if he came here, decided heâd had enough of waiting? You can almost hear his voice alreadyâlow, stubborn, that Texas gravel tone saying your name.
No. You canât do that. Not yet.
Maria stops at the doorway, her hand on the frame. She glances back at you, softens her voice. âDonât worry. Sheâs kind. Sometimes.â
She.
The breath you were holding spills out, shaky and uneven.
Then you see her.
Sitting on the couch, her elbows on her knees, head down, fiddling with something in her handsâa knife, no, a pocket tool. Her hairâs brown and tamed now, no longer wild from the wind. The anger that once burned in those green eyes is gone.
It takes you a second to place her. That girl from the gas station.
Mariaâs voice is light. âEllie. I brought her.â
Right. Ellie.
She looks up then, blinking at you, and for a moment you both just stare.
Her mouth opens first. âUh⊠hey.â
You nod once, your throat too tight for words.
She clears her throat, awkwardly rubbing her palms on her jeans. âYou, uh⊠you probably donât remember me. I mean, I guess you might. Back at the station, you were kindaâŠâ She makes a vague gesture with her hands, grimacing. âYâknow. Your knife to my throat, my knife in your side, whole thing.â
âI remember.â
âOh.â She blinks too, like she wasnât expecting that. âCool.â
Maria hides a smile, stepping back toward the kitchen. âIâll let yâall talk.â
You and Ellie both look after her as she leaves, then at each other again.
The silence is prickly. Ellie shifts in her seat, taps her knee a few times, then blows out a slow breath. âI wanna⊠apologize.â
She says that last word like itâs a grater dragged across her throat.
You raise an eyebrow.
âForâuhâstickinâ you like a pig.â
Your frown comes without effort. âYou stabbed me.â
âYeah. Guess thatâs another word for it. My bad.â
You just stare at her.
She scratches at her eyebrow, mutters, âYou were sneakinâ around, and I was freaking the hell out, and I justâlook, I didnât know who you were, okay?â
Thereâs a beat of silence. Then, maybe because her discomfort is so naked, maybe because sheâs just a kid trying too hard to sound grown, you huff out something that almost sounds like a laugh.
âIâll live,â you say quietly.
She sighs, quick and relieved. âYeah, looks like it.â
Ellie seems to notice the change in your posture, how you loosen slightly, and leans back a little, studying you in that curious, unfiltered way teenagers do.
âSo,â she says, drawing out the word. âYou were⊠married to Joel?â
You stiffen. That one hits bone.
âOkay, too soon.â
You shake your head. âNo, itâsââ You pause, gathering your voice back into something flat, neutral. âYes. We were married.â
âWow.â She whistles softly. âI mean, huh. You and Joel. Thatâsââ She stops, shakes her head, smirking. âNever mind.â
âWhat?â
âNothinâ. Just. Hard to imagine him married. He kinda strikes me as the lone-wolf-and-whiskey type, yâknow?â
âHe wasnât always.â
âYeah?â
âHe liked to dance.â
That makes her laughâloud, surprised. âBullshit.â
âHe did. Badly.â
She snorts. âOkay, now I gotta see that someday.â
You donât answer. You just look down at your hands, tracing the small scar near your knuckle. A moment passes. Then she shifts again, like sheâs working up the nerve to keep going.
âSo⊠you guys got, uhâŠâ She squints. âWhatâs the wordâdivorced? Before the outbreak? You said âwere marriedâ.â
The question hits you like cold water.
âNo,â you say softly. âNo, we didnât.â
âOh.â She looks at you for a second too long, then nods slowly. âJust been a long time, huh?â
You exhale through your nose. âYeah. Long time.â
Ellie is easy in a way youâve forgotten how to be. She swears under her breath, uses her hands when she talks, doesnât know how to sit still. She reminds you of⊠you, before the world before it burned down.
You find yourself leaning forward, asking her small things. How long sheâs been with Joel. Where she came from. Whether she likes Jackson.
She answers, haltingly at first, then quicker, sharper. You learn sheâs got a sense of humor that you enjoy. You understand it.
And thenâ
Ellie hesitates. Her gaze flicks toward the window, then back to you. âYou⊠you mustâve known Sarah, then.â
The name slices through you like wire.
Sarah.
You blink, too slow, too hard.
âSarah,â you echo, the syllables thick on your tongue. âOf course I do.â You canât stop the small laugh that breaks out of youâshaky, a little too high. âGod, how did I not ask? I didnât evenâsheâs grown now, right? Almost forty. Jesus. Does sheâdoes she still paint? Or play soccer? She always had that little pink ball sheâd kick around the kitchenâdrove Joel crazy, used to leave scuff marks all over the floorââ
You stop. Because Ellie isnât smiling.
Sheâs staring at you.
And her whole face has gone still.
âOh.â
Just that.
And you know.
Instantly.
Your mouth opens, but no words come. The world seems to narrow, sound folding in on itself. You canât feel your hands. You canât feel anything.
âNo,â you whisper, but itâs barely a sound. âNo. Not Sarah.â
Ellie doesnât move. Doesnât breathe. Just watches you, stricken.
You shake your head, your body already rejecting it, like maybe if you move fast enough, you can outpace the truth. âNo, sheâsheâs just a kid. She isâsheââ
You donât finish. The words choke, collapse.
Something inside you caves in slow motion. The air leaves the room, the floor vanishes. You sink to your knees before you even realize youâve moved.
You see Sarahâs hair, the way it stuck to her forehead when she ran. Her laugh. The way she used to look at Joel. The way she looked at you. The smell of pancakes on Sunday mornings. Her tiny hand tugging at yours when she wanted to show you something sheâd drawn.
Gone. Forever fourteen.
Gone twenty years ago, while you were out there convincing yourself it wasnât true.
You cover your mouth with both hands. The sound that breaks out of you isnât humanâitâs raw, keening, dragged from the deepest part of you that never healed.
Ellieâs eyes are wide. She moves before she thinks, kneeling beside you, uncertain, awkward. âHey, hey, Iâmâshit, Iâm sorry, I didnâtââ
You stumble backward, your legs barely obeying you. The room is too bright, too close. Ellieâs voice is muffled, like itâs coming from underwater. You donât even hear what sheâs saying anymore. You can only hear Sarah. Sarah laughing. Sarah crying. Sarahâs voice calling for you in the dark.
Your throat closes. You canât breathe. You canât see.
âSheâs gone,â you whisper to no one. âSheâs gone. Sarahâs gone.â
Maria appears in front of you, gentle hands hovering but not touching. âHeyâhey, slow down. Itâs okay. Youâre safe, you hear me?â
You shake your head. âNo. No, Iâsheââ You choke, your chest collapsing under invisible weight. âSheâs just a kid. Sheâshe calls meâshe calls me mamaââ
Mariaâs eyes soften, and thatâs worse. You canât bear it. Her pity feels like fire.
You hear Tommyâs boots pounding against the floor, his voice low but urgent. âWhat happened?â
Ellieâs voice, trembling. âIâI told her about Sarah.â
Maria glances over her shoulder, and Tommy growls. âChrist almighty.â He doesnât look at you for longâmaybe he canât.
You hear Tommy leave with a string of curses, his boots thumping until he disappeared into the snow.
You press your palms over your face, rocking slightly. The room feels like itâs tilting. Every breath comes in sharp bursts, tearing your lungs.
âSheâs gone,â you whisper, voice trembling. âSheâs gone, and I didnâtââ
Your breath shudders out of you, and you clutch at the wall like it might hold you up.
Maria glances toward Ellie, and something passes silently between themâunderstanding, guilt, something like fear. Tommy curses quietly under his breath. âIâll get him,â he says, and heâs gone before Maria can stop him.
Your voice breaks. You press your hands over your face, curling inward. âI wasnât there,â you whisper. âI wasnât there.â
Mariaâs hand hovers near your shoulder, then pulls back. She looks helpless.
A soundâheavy boots, the door opening. You donât have to look up. You know that sound. You could find it in a storm.
Joelâs frozen in the doorway, chest heaving. His eyes land on you. You see the recognition hit him like a hammer.
âDarlinâ,â he breathes, his voice hoarse, wrecked.
You shake your head, stepping back.
He doesnât listen. He never did. In three long strides heâs kneeling in front of you, hands hovering before settling on your shoulders. His touch is rough, too warm.
âDonâtâdonât touch meââ You push at him weakly. âSheâs gone, Joel. Sheâs gone.â
He pulls you into his chest anyway, his arms tight around you as you struggle. âI know,â he says, his voice low, shaking. âI know, baby, I know.â
You pound your fists against him, but the strengthâs gone from your body. âYou donâtââ
âI do,â he cuts in, desperate. âI do.â
You stop fighting. His arms hold steady, the kind of hold that used to calm you down. You can feel the tremor in his hands, the way he keeps his face buried in your hair.
âSheâs gone,â you whisper, smaller now. âOur girl. Sheââ
He doesnât let you finish. He shifts, lifting you the best he can, one arm under your knees, the other at your back. You cling to his shirt on instinct, your body shaking as he carries you down the hallway. You can barely see through the blur of tears.
Joel shoulders the door to your room open and nudges it shut behind him with his boot.
He sets you down gently on the bed, but you push yourself away the moment your feet touch the floor. You back up, hands shaking, your breath sharp and uneven. âDonâtâdonât do that,â you rasp.
He goes quiet. The silence stretches. You can hear the whoosh of snow starting against the window.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low. âYou wanna know what happened?â
You donât answer, but he tells you anyway.
He talks like a man digging up a grave. His words come in fragmentsâhim and Sarah on the couch, the sirens, the Alders, Tommyâs truck, the soldiers, the gun. His voice falters only once, when he says her name.
â\We were tryinâ to get out. Got stopped by a soldier. They told himâtold him to take us down. I was holdinâ her when he fired.â He swallows hard, eyes shining wet. âShe was scared. Cryinâ. I told her I had her. That I wasnât gonna let go.â
You stare at him, unmoving. Every breath feels like swallowing glass. âYou held her,â you say, the words barely forming. âYouââ
âI didnât know what else to do,â he murmurs. âI couldnât stop it. Couldnâtââ His voice breaks, and he turns his head, like looking at you hurts.
You sit on the edge of the bed, shaking. The words echo in your skull, each one heavier than the last. The room feels too small, the air too thick.
You look at him. His hands hang useless at his sides, his face drawn, hollow. You think of all the years he carried that weight alone. How you carried your own.
You reach out.
He hesitates, then closes the distance, kneeling in front of you again. You rest your head against his chest, the fabric of his shirt damp from your tears. His arms come around you, slow and sure.
You cry until you canât anymoreâquietly, your hands fisted in his shirt. He doesnât tell you to stop. He doesnât move to fix it.
Now itâs just the two of you again. Broken. Breathing. Holding on because thereâs nothing else left to do.
ââă» âŁă»ââ
Joel didnât give Tommy a choice to get you to move in with him.
He showed up the next day, the expression on his face enough to silence any argument before it began. Tommy stood there on the porch trying to say something that wouldnât get his head bitten off. But when he looked at youâeyes blank, body barely holding itself uprightâhe just sighed, nodded once, and stepped aside.
The guest bedroom smelled faintly of cedar and dust, and cleaner than it shouldâve beenâlike heâd gone through it himself and made it ready before he even brought you here. You didnât thank him. You just sat down on the bed and stared at the wall until it blurred.
The first night, you cried so hard you made yourself sick. Joel stayed outside the door the whole time, boots heavy on the wood floor. He didnât come in.
By the third night, heâd moved a chair into your room and sat there while you sleptâif you could call it that.
Every memory twisted just enough to hurt. Youâd wake up gasping, and Joel would already be there, and sometimes just murmur, âYouâre alright,â though neither of you believed it.
By the end of the first week, heâd stopped pretending to sleep in his own bed. He just curled up at the foot of yours with a blanket and pillow, a quiet shadow. When you woke up sobbing, he was there. When you refused to eat, he was there, pressing a spoon into your mouth, his jaw tight with that quiet patience that looked more like punishment than care.
Never turned away when you cried from shame. Wiped your face clean. Tucked you in. Never said a word about it.
Tonight is like every one of those nights.
It starts before the sun sets. The light through the blinds looks too much like the color of fire, like the burning hospital, and something in your chest just snaps. You curl into yourself, hands gripping the blanket, and Joelâs there in a second, just coming off his patrol.
âHey,â he says softly, like you might shatter if he breathes too hard. âHey, now. Look at me.â
You donât. You canât. Youâre somewhere else entirely.
He sits on the edge of the bed, careful, slow. âYouâre safe,â he tries again. âYouâre right here, darlinâ.â
That wordâit tears something open in you. You turn your face into the pillow and sob so violently your ribs ache. Joel just sits there. Then he moves closer, kneeling beside the bed, his hands braced on the mattress.
âItâs okay,â he whispers.
But it isnât. It isnât okay.
Your voice comes out hoarse, like you havenât spoken in years. âShe was scared.â
Joel freezes.
âShe wasâshe was scared, and I wasnât there.â
He swallows hard, the sound loud in the quiet room.
âI just know it.â
His jaw flexes, and his breath stutters. For a moment, he looks like heâs going to argueâbut then he just lets out a sound thatâs almost a laugh, only itâs broken right down the middle.
Joel drags both hands down his face, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes until his knuckles go white. âI was supposed to protect her,â he chokes out. âThat was my job. My one Goddamn job, and I failed.â
Your breath catches. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his arm.
He doesnât flinch away.
âShe wasâshe was so little,â you whisper.
He nods, eyes closed. His chest rises and falls too fast. âShe was,â he breathes.
Neither of you speak for a while. You can hear the crickets outside. The faint, uneven hitch of his breathing.
When you finally speak, itâs a wish you didnât plan to say.
âI wish Ellieâs knife killed me.â
Joelâs head snaps up.
âWhat?â
You meet his eyesâreally meet them this time, even through the blur of tears. âThat knife,â you say, voice breaking. âWhen she stabbed meâI didnât think it then. But nowâŠâ Your throat locks. âIt shouldâve killed me. I canât⊠canât live in a world that took Sarah.â
He stares at you like you just reached into his chest and pulled out something heâd buried. His eyes glisten. His mouth opens, then closes again.
âDonât say that,â he rasps.
âJoelââ
âDonât,â he snaps, sharper now, voice cracking under the weight. âDonât you ever say that. You hear me?â
You flinch. His hand shoots out before he can stop himself, gripping your wrist.
âI canât lose you too,â he says, barely more than a whisper. âI canâtâI ainât strong ânough for that.â
âYou already lost me.â
âNo. No, youâre still here. Youâre breathinâ. Youâre here.â
Something inside you caves in. You donât know which one of you moves first, but suddenly heâs holding you, arms around you tight enough to hurt, his face pressed to your shoulder. His whole body trembles.
You cling back. For the first time since you moved in, you hold him just as tightly.
He leans in until your foreheads touch again, his thumb brushing over the tear tracks on your cheek. Thereâs no logic in the way he looks at youâjust devastation and recognition, like youâre both staring into the same pit and realizing youâve been standing beside each other the whole time.
He stays that way until the trembling stops, until your breathing evens out, until the room softens around the edges. Then, quietly, he moves to the foot of the bed, to settle in like always.
But this time, when you reach out, your fingers find his sleeve.
He looks up, startled at first, like heâs not sure he felt what he did. Your hand stays there, curled into the fabric, your knuckles white.
âDonât,â you whisper.
He blinks. âDonât what?â
âDonât go.â
The words come out small, almost childlike, and you hate how fragile they soundâbut theyâre true. Every piece of you feels hollow when heâs not near.
Joelâs throat works. He studies you like heâs trying to find the right answer in your face. âYou sure?â he murmurs.
You nod, but itâs shaky. He still doesnât move.
âI mean it,â he says again, voice rough. âYouâdonât gotta say things you donâtââ
âI said donât go.â
Thatâs all it takes. The bed dips when he sits beside you. You move without thinkingâyour hand on his shirt, then his chest, then his arm, like youâre checking to make sure heâs real.
He doesnât stop you. You pull him closer.
He hesitates, every muscle in him tight, like heâs fighting instinct. His hand hovers in the air for a moment before it lands gently at your waist.
You tug him down until heâs lying beside you.
You can hear his heartbeat, feel the heat of him under your fingers. The two of you are stiff at firstâtwo unfamiliar bodies trying to remember something that used to be second nature.
You donât know what youâre doing. Neither does he.
He exhales against your temple, like heâs afraid the air itself might hurt you. You breathe him in, and it feels like something old and safe and terrifying all at once.
His hand finds yours under the blanket. His thumb moves, back and forth, the smallest stroke. You donât realize youâre crying once more until he brushes one away with his knuckle.
He whispers something you canât quite catch. Maybe itâs your name. Maybe itâs hers. You donât ask. You just trace the rough line of his throat, the scars on his hand, the dip of his collarbone. He does the same, learning you by touchâyour shoulder, your hair, the hollow at the base of your throat.
Itâs clumsy, reverent, too gentle for how much it hurts.
You both crack thereâslow, like spreading a fracture through glass. Thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw, his nose skimming your cheek, your jaw. He tucks you in against his chest. You listen to his heart until it steadies.
And this new ritual continues.
Time folds in on itselfâweeks slide past like snowmelt, impossible to hold. You stop counting by days or calendars; you measure life instead by the smallest things.
The sound of boots at the door. The shape of his hand around a hammer, around a map, around the edge of your world.
By late November, youâve grown familiar to the smell of coffee, sharp and earthy. He always makes two cups, one waiting for you by the sink. You donât always drink it. Some days you only stand there, palms around the mug, letting the heat soak into your fingers until it cools.
He pretends not to watch. Sits at the table with a stack of repair notes or a half-folded map, eyes flicking up just long enough to catch you breathing. Sometimes you think heâs waiting to see if youâll join him. You rarely do.
Instead, you spend time washing dishes. Folding blankets. You cook, sometimesâonly simple things. Never what Sarah loved. Not the pancakes sheâd drown in syrup, not the chicken stew sheâd claim was âbetter than school lunch.â You canât.
The world outside turns whiter, the light shorter each day. Ellie drifts in and out of the house, mostly keeping to the garage. You learn sheâs been staying there. She has her own rhythmâfriends, her girlfriend. Itâs soft, watching her have something sweet.
Some days, Joel tries to coax you outside. Mentions the farmersâ meetings, the community dinners, the patrol schedules. You always shake your head.
âMaybe next week,â you say
He nods like he already knew. But he keeps asking.
And he keeps bringing things home. A pressed flower. A basket of foods you loved. A novel he found in the old library, the corners worn soft. He never makes a show of it. Just leaves them on the counter.
Sometimes you thank him.
Sometimes you just stare at the gift, fingertips brushing its edge, shock and disbelief running through your system.
Then one morning, the sky pale with early snowlight, you wake up to the house quiet. You move through the rooms on autopilotâbare feet against cold floors, the air sharp in your lungs.
Youâre about to shower, something youâve started looking forward to. You love the feeling of water washing away the ache, if only for a little while.
But when you open the drawer for clothesânothing. Every shirt, every pair of jeans youâve gathered from Maria and Tommy over the past few weeks is gone, tangled in the bottom of the basket. Unwashed.
You curse softly under your breath.
Passing through the kitchen, you spot a folded note on the counter. Joelâs handwritingâblocky, uneven.
Went to help at the barn.
Didnât get to the laundry yet. My bad.
You can borrow whatever of mine you need.
âJ.M.
You stare at it for a long time, thumb brushing over the edge of the paper. The thought of him doing your laundry hits you sideways. You can picture it too easily: at the sink, sleeves rolled up, that furrow between his brows.
Your face warms. You forgot heâs been the one washing your clothes. Your shirts. Your jacket. Your jeans.
Your bras.
Your panties.
God, you were married to the man for almost 15 years, yet now you were getting bashful and flushed over the fact that he was touching your underwear. You cursed your mind.
The note ends with a postscript, scribbled small:
Stay warm. Water heaterâs touchy againâlet it run first.
You let out a quiet, reluctant smile.
You take a shower. The water sputters and steams, hot enough to sting. You stand under it longer than you should, until the mirror fogs and your skin glows.
When you step out, the air bites against your damp hair. You wrap yourself in a towel and pad barefoot to his bedroom. The floorboards creak like they recognize you. The dresser drawers are stiff; they donât like being opened. You rummage through the top one, the smell hitting you before your fingers even find itâcedar and faint tobacco.
Soft flannel. His.
You pause, thumb running over the collar, the worn edges. You havenât worn Joelâs clothes in yearsâa whole lifetime has happened since. But the muscle memory is still there; you remember exactly how the fabric has been mended to shape.
You hesitate anyway.
âJesus,â you whisper to no one. âYouâre ridiculous.â
You slip it on.
The sleeves hang long, brushing your wrists, the fabric rough. It still smells like him, even washed. You close your eyes and breathe, until it almost hurts.
And suddenly youâre back there. In that other life.
The early mornings. The arguments about stupid shit. The way heâd leave his boots by the door and say, âIâll get âem later,â and youâd roll your eyes and pick them up yourself. The nights when heâd come home late, exhausted and half-awake, and still manage to find you in the dark.
You donât mean to move, but you doâbackward, step by step, until your knees hit the edge of the bed. His bed. You fall onto it, the mattress giving beneath you. You press your face deeper into his pillow, chasing that comfort.
âGoddamn you,â you whisper into the cotton.
But what you mean is thank you.
Itâs like being wrapped in him. And God, youâre terrified of what it means. Not of himânever of himâbut of this. Of the way he lingers in everything.
He lingered on everything. Your soul, your life, your heart. Your body on those cold winter nights, him between your in a way only a lover knows how. Your body as you pinched and stroked you to ecstasy like it was his sole purpose.
Your breath hitches, and your fingers twitch against the fabric. You shouldnât. You wonât. Youâre stronger than thisâor so you tell yourself. But your resolve frays like threadbare cloth.
Your hand moves before you can stop it, tentative at first, grazing the hem of his flannel. A shiver runs through you, sharp and electric.
No, you think, biting your lip hard enough to sting. Donât do this.
But his voice echoes in your mind, soft and teasing, unraveling you.
Câmon, darlinâ. Let go for me.
Youâre lost in him, in this need whispered against your skin.
Your hand drifts lower, fingertips grazing the skin just above your knee. The touch is feather-light, testing.
You part your thighs, with cool air kissing your slick heat; youâre already drenched. Whenâs the last time you let yourself feel this? Years, maybe. Survival doesnât leave room for want.
You slide through your folds, parting them, circling the swollen ache that built so quickly, just off his smell.
Please, Joel. Touch me. Iâve been so cold.
One finger slips inside, then another. The stretch is perfect, but not enough. You curl them, searching, and when you find that spot, your breath stumbles out in a broken moan.
You take me so good, baby. Always have.
You nod against the fabric, and then hastily pull the buttons undone down to your navel, and you push one side aside with trembling fingers.
Your breast spills freeâflushed, nipple peaked tight. You cup it, thumb flicking with your nail once, twice, then pinching hard enough to make your breath hitch. The sting shoots straight to your cunt. You roll the nipple between finger and thumb, tugging until your back lifts off the mattress.
You move your head to the side, the collar in front of your nose, and you stay inhaling him while you fuck yourself on your fingers, deep, steady strokes that match the pulse in your ears.
The rhythm turns frantic. Wet sounds fill the small space, obscene and perfect. You add a third finger; the burn is exquisite. You imagine his weight pinning you down, hips snapping, voice rough in your ear.
You want me to come in the pussy I put a ring on?
You come with a muffled cry, body shuddering. Your walls clamp down, thighs trembling. Pleasure crashes in sharp, endless waves, your fingers still buried deep, slick coating your hand and the inside of your thighs.
The world narrows to the pulse of your heartbeat, the ragged rhythm of your gasps. Slowly, the waves ebb, leaving you trembling in their wake. Your hand falls away, slick and heavy, resting against your exposed breast. You donât move to cover yourself.
The room is quiet again, save for the soft creak of the bedframe beneath your weight and the faint chirping of morning birds.
Your chest heaves, each breath a struggle. Staring at the ceiling, your eyes tracing the cracks as your mind catches up to your body. The pleasure lingers, but itâs drowned by the slow creep of something else.
Guilt, maybe.
You close your eyes, willing the thought away, but it lingers like the scent on the pillow, like your next thought:
You might be falling in love with your husband again.
ââă» âŁă»ââ
He was early.
You spotted him through the restaurant window, standing under the awning with one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other rubbing along his jaw. He looked⊠nervous. The sight did something funny to your stomach, seeing this broad, quiet man fidgeting like a teenager on prom night.
When he caught sight of you walking toward him, he straightened so fast it almost made you laugh. His hand dropped from his face, and a faint, almost shy smile tugged at his mouth.
âHey,â he said, voice low and rough, that easy southern drawl curling around the word. âYou lookâuh. Nice.â
You smiled. âYou too.â
He was wearing his usualâplaid shirt, denim jacket, jeansâbut somehow it worked differently tonight. Maybe it was the effort. The way his hair was combed down, neat but still a little messy near the edges, or the fact that his boots looked like heâd actually wiped them off before coming.
The hostess seated you near the window. The two of you sat across from each other, menus up like shields, both pretending to read while you waited for the other to speak first.
âSo,â Joel started after a few moments, clearing his throat. âUhââ
You looked up. âUh?â
âI should probably jusââjusâ say this upfront.â
You set your menu down, a small smile forming. âOkay.â
He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping against the table once before curling into a fist. âI got a kid,â he blurted. âHer nameâs Sarah. Sheâs one. Almost two.â
He paused, eyes flicking between you and the salt shaker.
âSheâs⊠well, sheâs my whole damn world. I jusâ donât wanna waste anyoneâs time pretendinâ otherwise.â
He said it like he was bracing for a hit. His shoulders were stiff, jaw tight. You could tell it wasnât something he said oftenâprobably something he practiced in his head on the way here.
âYou love her.â
He let out a breath, softer than a sigh. âYeah. Moreân I thought I could love anythinâ, to be honest. Itâs jusâ been me and her sinceâwell, since birth.â His lips twitched, almost a smile. âSo thatâs kinda my life. I work, I come home, I make sure she eats somethinâ other than pancakes, and I pass out by nine. Not real excitinâ.â
You grinned. âYou sound like a good dad.â
That stopped him. He blinked, mouth opening like he didnât quite know what to do with the words. âYou ainâtâuhâyouâre not scared off?â
âBy a good dad?â you teased. âNo. I think thatâs actually kind of attractive.â
His ears went a little pink. He looked down, rubbed the back of his neck. âWell,â he murmured. âThatâs a first.â
After that, the tension broke.
You asked him about his workâhow long heâd been building housesâand his face lit up when he talked about it. He told you about learning carpentry, working with his brother Tommy. You told him about your job, about the people you worked with, the work politics heâd probably hate.
And then somehow the conversation drifted back to Sarah.
âSheâs wild,â Joel said, shaking his head with a fond smile. âGot more attitude than I do. Last week she told Tommy he was âtoo oldâ to play hide and seek.â
You laughed, and he grinned wider, encouraged.
âSheâs obsessed with dinosaurs right now. Keeps askinâ me if thereâs any still walkinâ âround Texas. I told her, no, but she says maybe thereâs one hidinâ in the Hill Country.â
âShe sounds smart.â
âToo damn smart, sometimes.â He took a sip of water, then added in a quieter voice, âHer mamaâwell. She ainât âround. So Iâm jusâ tryinâ to figure it out best I can.â
You didnât press. You just nodded, the silence that followed soft.
Between courses, you caught him watching you once or twiceâquick, flickering glances that he pretended didnât happen when you met his eyes. He asked if your food was good, made a few jokes about the size of the portions, grumbled when the waiter brought him a fancy small plate that âwouldnât fill a bird.â
It was nice. Simple.
By the time the check came, you felt lighter. The awkwardness from the start had melted into something easy, something warm. You tried to grab for your wallet, but Joel was faster, already sliding his card onto the tray.
âJoelââ
âNope.â
âCâmon, at least let meââ
âDarlinâ, donât even try.â
You stared at him, fighting a smile. âDarlinâ?â
He froze, caught off guard by his own mouth. âOh. Uhâslipped out. Sorry.â
You laughed. âDonât be.â
He looked down at his plate, hiding a grin.
When you stepped outside, the night was cool and damp. Streetlights hummed overhead, and the air smelled like rain waiting to happen. Joel walked beside you, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, close enough that your sleeve brushed his once or twice.
At your front door, he stopped.
âWell,â he said, clearing his throat. âI had a lotta fun tonight. Really did.â
âMe too.â
He shifted, eyes darting between you and the porch light. âIf you wanna⊠maybeâI donât knowâkeep goinâ. Not tonight, I meanâwell, maybe tonight, but not like thatâjusâ⊠I mean, if you wanna see me âgain.â
You tried, you really did, but the laugh bubbled out anyway again. He went red to the ears.
âSorry,â you said between breaths. âYouâre justââ
âTerrible at this?â
âAdorable,â you corrected.
âAinât heard that one âfore.â
You stepped closer, your voice quieter. âThen I guess you were overdue.â
And before he could come up with another flustered thing to say, you leaned up and kissed him.
It was gentle, brief, testing. His breath hitched, the soft scratch of his stubble grazing your chin. But then he kissed you back, slow and certain.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling without meaning to.
âYou wanna come inside?â you asked, barely above a whisper.
He hesitated, mouth curving into something between a grin and a question. âSarahâs with Tommy.â
You blinked, and shook your head at your mind. âRight. So you should probablyââ
âIâll jusâ pay him more,â he said quickly, like it was the easiest decision in the world.
That made you laugh. âYou sure?â
He looked at you, really looked at you, eyes soft and steady. âYeah. Iâm sure.â
You stepped back, opened the door. He followed you in.
The click of the lock behind you sounded louder than it should have. The rain started to fall outside, soft against the windows.
And that, was the start of it all.
ââă» âŁă»ââ
Lights wind around the lampposts, glowing gold through the frost, and you swear the whole town smells faintly of cinnamon and pine.
The crowds gathered around the treeâfamilies, couples, kids running around with half-eaten cookies and sticky fingers. The fire pit crackles, throwing warmth into the cold night. You stand beside Tommy, watching Maria up on the platform giving a short speech about community, about making it through another winter together.
Tommyâs got Benji in his arms. The kidâs nodding off, head tucked under his chin, thumb hanging loose from his mouth. His curls are sticking up in every direction.
You lean a little closer, smile softly. âHeâs about two minutes from a faceplant.â
Tommy grins, voice low so he doesnât wake the boy. âYeah, heâs a fighter though. Ainât givinâ in easy.â
Benji stirs, blinking up at you with heavy-lidded eyes. You offer your arms without thinking. âWant me to take him?â
Tommy looks between you and the sleepy kid, then chuckles. âHey, bud, wanna go over to Aunt, huh?â
Aunt. Youâre not even sure he realizes he said it until your throat tightens. You just nod, arms open, and Benji reaches for you without hesitation.
Heâs warm and smells like sugar. His little hand curls into your jacket as his head droops against your shoulder. You sway a little, rocking him out of habit you thought youâd forgotten.
Tommy watches, something soft flickering in his expression. âYou always were good with kids,â he says.
You smile, brushing a curl from Benjiâs forehead. âGuess itâs like riding a bike.â
âYeah,â Tommy murmurs. âOne hell of a bike.â
You donât respond. Your eyes trace the curve of Benjiâs lashes, the faint freckles under his eyes. Heâs got that same Miller lookâthose brown eyes, that furrow even when heâs half-asleep. Youâve seen it in Tommy. In Joel. In Sarah.
Your chest tightens. You look away before Tommy can see the wet shine starting in your eyes.
Mariaâs speech winds down, her voice softening into a smile. The crowd claps. Maria steps off the platform, her eyes finding Tommy and Benji immediately.
âThereâs my boys,â she says, coming over.
She holds her arms out for Benji. He mumbles something sleepy, reaching one hand back toward you before his head falls against Mariaâs shoulder.
âOut cold,â she whispers, smiling.
You nod, hands feeling strangely empty once heâs gone.
The music starts againâa few people strumming guitars, someone singing off-key but earnest. Around you, people start exchanging small, wrapped gifts. Youâd almost forgotten you brought yours.
âHey,â you murmur, reaching into your coat pocket and pulling out the little parcel. âThis is for Benji.â
Tommy takes it, grinning as he peels back the paper. Inside is a tiny carved horse, the wood polished smooth, the details carefulâeach line of the mane precise. You spent weeks finding it, trading with an older man in the workshop whoâd carved it by hand.
âLook at this,â Tommy says, awe threading through his voice. âYou serious? You got this for him?â
You shrug, a little bashful. âHeâs obsessed with the ones you keep in the barn. Figured he needed one he can keep in his pocket.â
Maria smiles, kissing her sonâs temple. âHeâs gonna love it.â
You hand her two more small bundlesâone for each of them. A new leather glove set for Tommy, stitched tight and warm. A scarf for Maria, deep green, softer as anything youâve felt in years.
Tommy whistles low. âYou didnât have toââ
âI wanted to.â
They glance at each other. That wordless kind of look. Then Maria reaches behind her coat and pulls out a square, neatly wrapped in cloth.
âThis oneâs from us.â
âYou didnâtââ
âJusâ open it,â he says, voice low.
The paper rustles softly. You fold it back, careful with the corners. Then your breath catches.
Itâs a photo.
A real, glossy photo in a simple wooden frame. The edges yellowed with age but the image clear.
You and Joelâboth asleep, tangled up on a sunlit porch. His arm draped across your waist. Your head resting against his chest. Sarahâs in the background, hands on her hips, grinning at the camera like sheâs in on a secret. And in the far corner, barely visible in the reflection, a familiar shadowâTommy, holding the camera.
Your throat closes.
You trace the edge of the frame with your thumb. âTommy⊠howââ
âAfter the outbreak,â he says quietly, staring into the fire instead of at you. âFirst couple years. Went back to Austin. Most of it was gone, but the photo box was still there. Been keepinâ it safe.â
You donât realize youâre crying until the tears blur the image in your hands. You blink fast, but it doesnât stop the ache building in your chest.
âI thought they were all gone,â you whisper.
Tommy shrugs, smiling a little.
You step forward and hug him. Tight. Your arms around his shoulders, the photo pressed between you so you donât drop it. He hesitates, then holds you back just as firmly.
Maria watches with a soft smile, Benji sleeping peacefully against her.
You pull back eventually, eyes red, voice rough. âThank you,â you murmur.
Tommyâs face is all soft lines. âGo eat. You look like youâll fall into the fire otherwise.â He grins and gestures toward the Tipsy Bison like heâs offering you heaven on a platter.
It smells like cinnamon and cheap liquor and something toasted that turns your stomach into guilty wanting. You thread through people, keeping the picture safe against your ribs. The crowd moves slow; laughter spills from somewhere, and someone is playing the guitar off-key and everyone loves it anyway.
A man steps in front of youâtoo close, his breath warm with old-cologne regret. Heâs around your age, maybe a decade younger if you squint, wearing a patched jacket and confidence like itâs a badge.
âYou lookinâ lonely,â he says, grin crooked. âMind if Iââ
âIâm not,â you say. Your smile is small and final. You tuck the word away and step to the side to keep the crowd moving. You make it to the bar, and order your drink. It comes quickly.
He doesnât take the hint, following you. âCome on, lighten up. Iâve got a bottle with your name on it.â
âNot interested,â you say, firmer. The drink in your hand clinks. You can feel the edges of the photo under your palm like a talisman.
He laughs like youâre the joke. âSomeoneâs touchy. You look like you could use a good time.â
âOr maybe you could use a lesson,â you say. âEither way, back off.â
People nearby glance. A woman in a knitted hat gives you a sympathetic look; a boy laughs and points. The manâs jaw tightens. He takes a step closer until his fingers brush your arm.
âDonât,â you say. Loud enough now. Heads turn.
He bends, leans in. âI saidââ
You lift the cup and pour. The liquor arcs, wet and immediate, over his face. His hair plastered flat, his mouth opens in surprise, then anger.
âJesusââ he spits, hand flying to his face. His laugh is gone. He wipes at his eyes, fury hot and immediate.
âDonât touch me,â you snap. âDonât touch any woman who doesnât want it. Fuck off asshole.â
He glares at you, anger thick enough to taste.
The he moves.
Your body reacts before your brain: the shove, the pressure of a palm against his chest to put distance between you and the hand that hovered too long. Something clamps down on your neckâhardâand cold fingers braided through your hair. Pain flares hot along your scalp as he pulls. Instinct roars, everything narrowing to the shape of the manâs face.
You twist, ready to break his nose, but you doesnât get the chance.
A blur of motionâthen the manâs body jerks sideways. He hits the ground hard, air leaving him in a grunt.
You stumble away from the sudden relief of pressure on your head. You cradle it, and look over your shoulder with harsh breaths.
Joelâs there.
Not the quiet Joel. Not the âcoffee in the morningâ Joel. Not the Joel who sleeps in your bed, holding you tight. This is something else. A version of him pulled straight out of the man you met at the gas stationâferal and unfiltered. His chest heaves once before he moves again, towering over the man.
âGet your fuckinâ hands off my wife!â
The words tear out of him, raw, louder than the music, louder than the people shouting. And then heâs on him.
Fists. Over and over. Flesh hitting flesh, the sound thick and wet. Someone screams his name.
Joel doesnât hear. Heâs somewhere else: lost to the sound of his own heartbeat, to the cruelty of a world that took too much from him and dared to reach for you.
âJoel!â you shout, pushing through the people trying to pull him off. âJoel, stop!â
He doesnât.
You grab his shoulder, hard, nails digging into the fabric of his jacket.
That gets him. His fist hangs midair, knuckles split, breath ragged. He turns. His eyesâtheyâre wild. Like he doesnât even recognize where he is.
Then he sees you.
The rage drains fast, leaving him pale. His hands fall. He looks down at the man beneath him, half-conscious, face bleeding into the floor. The silence that follows is brutal. Everyoneâs staring. No one moves.
Joelâs chest rises and falls, too fast. Then he stands, his handsâbloodied and shakingâon your face.
âHey. Hey, look at me. You okay?â His voice cracks halfway through, the old, broken edge of it cutting through everything else. His thumbs brush your cheeks, leaving streaks of red. âHe hurt you? Tell me if he did.â
You shake your head, swallowing hard. Youâre fine. You were fine. You always were.
He growls something at your lack of words, looking around the crowd before tucking you against his side and his hand steady at your back. You can hear the crowd murmuring, whispers darting like fish through water.
Exiting the Tipsy Bison, you spot Tommyâs face through the hazeâbrows drawn, mouth tight. Mariaâs beside him, arms crossed, listening to someone whisper in her ear. Her expression doesnât change.
You hold your photo tighter. You stare straight ahead, past the people, past the lights.
The fear comes slow.
Maybe Joel did love you once. Maybe he still did. But you canât stop thinking about what love costs now. What it demands.
He doesnât speak until youâre well past the town square, the noise fading behind you. The snow crunches under your boots, slow and steady, the kind of silence that feels heavier than shouting.
Then you pull away.
âStop,â you say.
He does, immediately. Turns to you in the middle of the empty street, breath clouding in the cold. Snow gathers in his beard, catches on his lashes. He looks older like thisâsofter really, though the blood on his hands hasnât dried yet.
âIâm sorry,â he says quietly. âIf I scared you. I didnât mean to. Iâmâso sorry, darlinâ.â
You shake your head, words shaking with your breath. âNo. Itâs not that. I justââ You press a hand to your chest. âI canât do this anymore.â
His brow furrows. âCanât do what?â
âThis,â you say. You motion between you, your voice thin. âYou. Me. The way youâlook at me like Iâm stillâŠâ You stop, shaking your head. âLike weâre still the same people.â
He steps closer, hand half-raised, hesitant. âWhat are you talkinâ about?â
âYou scare me, Joel.â
The words hang there, suspended. You can see the way they hit him, like a punch he doesnât block.
He blinks. âWhat?â
âYou scare me,â you repeat, quieter now. âNot because of what you did. But because you think you owe it to me. Like Iâm still yours.â
âYou are mine.â
You close your eyes. The snowâs starting to fall harder, catching on your lashes. âThatâs exactly what I mean.â
He shakes his head, steps forward again, pleading. âI didnât mean to lose control. I jusââhe touched you, and I saw red. I couldnâtâhell, I ainât proud of it, but Iâd do it âgain if it meantââ
âJoel.â You interrupt, firm. âJust stop.â
He freezes mid-sentence, mouth still open like the air left him.
You take a step back. Then another. âYou keep saying youâre sorry, but youâre not. Youâre still justifying it. You think itâs love, but itâs not. Itâs fear. Itâs control. You think if you hold on tight enough, you wonât lose me again.â
His chest rises and falls, ragged. âYou donât understandââ
âYou were my husband,â you say, your voice shaking now. âYou were the best thing I had. And then the world ended, and I lost you. I learned to live without you. To fight. To protect myself. And nowânow youâre back, and I donât know how to breathe with you around, yet at the same time I canât. You smother me, Joel.â
âI ainât tryinâ to smother you, Iâm tryinâ to keep you alive.â
âI donât need you to keep me alive,â you fire back. âI already did that for twenty years without you.â
He takes a step closer, voice breaking. âI donât know how to not care âbout you. You understand? I donât know how to turn that off. Iâve already lost everythinâ once, I canâtââ
âBut you arenât my husband anymore.â
He stops cold.
The snow falls thicker now, lazy flakes settling in his hair, catching in his lashes. His breath comes out uneven, fogging the air between you. He looks at you like heâs trying to recognize a face in a dreamâone that keeps slipping away every time he blinks.
âNo.â
âJoelââ
âNo.â He shakes his head hard, eyes wide, something wild behind them. âDonât say that. Donâtâdonât do that to me.â
You step forward, voice soft. âJoel, listen to meââ
âYou donât get to just say that like itâs some Goddamn fact. Like it ainâtââ He cuts himself off, running a hand down his face, the motion trembling. âYâthink I can jusâ stop beinâ your husband âcause the world went to shit?â
You feel your throat close. âThatâs not what Iââ
ââCause I never stopped.â His voice cracks, raw and broken. âNot for one second. Every day, Iââ He presses a fist against his chest, like heâs trying to hold something in. âI woke up, and I thought of you. I went to sleep thinkinâ of you. When I sawâwhen I saw EllieâI thought, âyouâd like her,â because I stillâstill thought about what youâd like.â
âJoelâŠâ
Heâs breathing hard now, his voice shaking. âYâthink I donât know what I am? What Iâve done? Yâthink I donât hate myself every time I look in the mirror? But I neverââ He stops. His jaw clenches, and then, in a shaky motion, he reaches for the zipper of his coat.
âDonâtâstopââ
But heâs already pulling it open, shoving the heavy fabric aside. His fingers dig under his flannel, and when something comes out, something holding on a thin chain.
The moonlight catches it. A dull glint of gold. A wedding band, pressed against his chest like a second heartbeat.
You go still.
Your throat burns, but no sound comes out.
âI didnât wear it for twenty-somethinâ years, carried it âround in my pocket,â he says hoarsely. His eyes glisten, fixed on yours. âCouldnât. Didnât feel right. But when I found you âgain, when Iâwhen I saw youââ His hand trembles as he grips the ring. âI started wearinâ it âgain.â
You stare at him, lips parting, chest heaving with too many emotions at once.
âI thought of you every day,â he says, voice rough as gravel. âBeat myself bloody over losinâ you and Sarah. Over not savinâ you. And now you stand here and tell me I ainât your husband.â His voice cracks. âHow the hell am I supposed to live with that?â
You want to speak. You want to tell him that this isnât fair. But when you open your mouth, nothing comes out.
Because your hands are already moving.
You reach up, fingers shaking, fumbling at your collar. The chain catches against your skin as you pull it free, and the air leaves your lungs when you pull our your own glint of gold.
Joelâs breath stutters. He takes a half step forward, like heâs afraid itâll disappear if he gets too close. His lips part, trembling.
âYou⊠you didnât have it, when you left. How did youââ
âI couldnât let it go.â
He makes a soundâhalf sob, half gaspâand suddenly heâs moving.
The distance between you collapses in a heartbeat. His arms are around you before you can breathe, before you can think, and then youâre both crashing together like youâve been pulled by the same gravity. His mouth finds yours, desperate, broken, and you respond just as fiercely, clinging to him like heâs the only thing holding you upright.
The picture slips from your hand, falling face-down into the snow. You donât even notice.
You taste saltâtears, his or yours, you canât tell. His hands are in your hair, on your back, clutching, trembling. Yours are pressed to his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat under your palms, the metal of the ring chain warm against your fingers.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling in the freezing air.
âPlease,â he mutters against your lips, his voice trembling like the rest of him. âDonâtâdonât go.â
âNo,â you whisper back, voice rough, almost lost in the wind. âIâm not going anywhere.â
He chokes again, pulling the picture from the snow with shaking hands. His eyes go wide and hollow for a second, taking in what it is, before the sound escapes himâlow, guttural, broken.
âCâmon,â he says hoarsely, tugging you toward him. âLetâs go⊠home.â
âOkay.â
He pulls you in close again as he guides you down the snow-lined street toward home. Rancher Street comes into view, quiet and empty, the glow of porch lights soft against the dark.
Inside, the house smells faintly of woodsmoke and something sweet. You see light spilling from the garage; Ellieâs there.
Joel sets the picture frame down gently on the entry table, reverent almost, before his attention snaps back to you. He steps forward, pressing you harshly against him again. A kiss, long and desperate, his hands clutching at your arms, your shoulders, like heâs relearning your weight against his.
You reach to his side, and he lets out a sharp wince against your lips. He curses softly, half-grunt, half-groan. âJoelââ you start, moving to check, but he shakes his head.
âDonât care. Keep goinâ,â he insists.
He leans in again, brushing against your lips, but you step back, firm. âNo. Joel, câmon. Sit.â
He huffs, muttering, but follows your gesture, settling onto the couch where you point. You rush to the kitchen, retrieving the small medical kit you know is there. When you return, heâs already watching you, breathing a little faster, eyes shadowed with something between exhaustion and longing.
âTake it off,â you instruct softly.
He frowns but complies without argument, peeling off the heavy winter coat, then the flannel, then the shirt beneath. Now bare to the waist, heâs different. The chest beneath your hands is broad, scarred, marked by years you donât need to ask about. Hair dusts his shoulders and chest. His wedding band glints at the center, catching the firelight.
Your fingers move to the red mark forming along his ribs. You hiss softly, careful, cleaning and pressing gently. He leans into you, eyes closed, letting the quiet comfort of your care anchor him.
âYou need to be careful. You arenât young anymore, canât heal at the same rate. We can only hope that it just stays a bruise and not something really bad.â
He doesnât answer with words, just tilts his head, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. Then, without thinking, his hand brushes a strand of hair back from your face.
You feel it deep in your chest. The brush of his fingers lingers longer than necessary, a gentle weight that makes your pulse catch.
You can tell heâs unsure what to say, and for once, itâs the same for you. Just the storm, the couch, the soft clink of mugs.
Joelâs thumb traces along your jaw, quiet, careful. Heâs watching you, and it makes your chest ache.
âI canât believe youâre really here,â you finally whisper, voice soft, almost swallowed by the roar of the snow.
You shift closer, letting your forehead rest against his. Thereâs something in the way he exhales, a tension youâve both been holding for months, released in the brush of skin to skin.
Thereâs a beat of silence, and then another. Neither of you moves. The room shrinks until itâs just you, him, and the heat simmering between your bodies.
You finally tilt your head up, catching his eyes.
Both of you know what the other wants. Words arenât needed in a relationship like yours and Joelâs.
âI⊠are you sure?â you still check. âIt might be too much. And your side might beââ
âDarlinâ.â
âYes?â
He leans up to press a quick kiss to your temple. âStop talkinâ.â
You smile just a fraction. He drags you down to be on the couch with him. Then, slower than you expect compared to before, he lowers his head, lips brushing yoursâsoft, tentative.
Your body responds instantly. Your hands roam from his back to your chest. He moans softly, lips parting, teeth grazing, tongues brushing, and you taste him like youâd dreamed of for countless nights.
Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he responds in kind, his grip firm on your waist, his body pressing into yours.
The kiss turns into a tug-of-war, pull and counter-pull, lips and hands claiming, taking, giving in equal measure.
In the midst of it, you find yourself on his lap, heart pounding. Itâs been years since youâve experienced anything like this, and your body recalls only fragments.
Your cheeks flush, and you give him a shy, light peck on the lips.
Joel pauses briefly, pulling back just enough to study your face with concern and intensity. âHey⊠are you âkay?â he asks, his voice low and gentle.
âIâm fine,â you reply, slightly breathless, hands resting on his shoulders. âItâs just⊠been a while.â
His lips curve into a small, crooked smile. âYouâre ainât alone in that.â
Relief washes over you, comforting you like a warm blanket.
Joelâs hands steady your hips, guiding you as you press against him. Your hips move together, a desperate rhythm. The couch creaks faintly beneath you, but neither of you notices.
Your hands slide up to his neck, fingers threading into the hair at his nape, and he lets out a low, shuddering breath. His eyes darken, watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.
âGoddamn,â he breathes, almost to himself, his voice rough with awe. âLook at you.â
You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, but thereâs no room for embarrassment. The rhythm slows, and he leans back and before you can process it, heâs easing you off his lap, guiding you to lie back.
He kneels between your legs, his movements unhurried. His fingers find the hem of your jacket and shirt, and he pauses, looking to you for permission. You nod, and he peels the fabric away, exposing your skin to the cool air. His hands move to your jeans next, unbuttoning them. You lift your hips, helping him slide them off, leaving you in just your panties and bra.
Joel sits back on his heels, his eyes raking over you. He huffs out a breath, a low sound thatâs half awe, half restraint. His fingers trace a slow path over the fabric covering your slit, and you both shiver at the contact.
âFuck,â he murmurs, almost to himself. âOne thing I forgot was how pretty you looked in these. How fuckinâ⊠soft.â
You whimper, the sound escaping before you can stop it. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and his expression shifts to something almost pleading.
âTouch yourself. Wanna see.â
You hesitate for a moment, but his gaze is patient, urging you on without pressure. Slowly, you slide your fingers down, pulling your panties to the side. You touch yourself, tentative at first, moving through slick, then with more confidence as you feel his eyes on you.
Joel groans, a deep, guttural sound. His hand moves to the front of his jeans, unzipping them but not pulling them down, just enough to let his bulge sit heavy in his boxers. You swallow hard, your eyes flicking to the outline of him, your fingers faltering.
âKeep goinâ,â he murmurs, his voice strained. âNeed somethinâ pretty to watch. My cock⊠it donât work the same no more, but youââ He breaks off, his hand palming himself through the fabric. âYouâre doinâ so good.â
His words sink into you, warm and safe, fueling the fire. You circle quicker, your fingers finding a rhythm, and Joelâs breath grows uneven.
He shifts, pulling his boxers down just enough to free himself, his soft cock in his hand as he begins to stroke slowly. The sight makes your breath hitch, and you reach behind to unclasp your bra, letting it fall away. Your skin prickles under his gaze, and a flicker of insecurity creeps in.
âIâm⊠sorry,â you mumble, eyes dropping. âMy bodyâs not what it used to be.â
Joelâs hand stills, and a low growl rumbles from his chest. âGet that the fuck outta your head,â he says, his voice sharp but not unkind. âI ainât a catch, darlinâ no more. Look at meâgray hairs, creaky knees. But you? Youâre still everythinâ.â
You moan softly, emboldened, and slip a finger through your folds, the stretch drawing a shudder through your body. His gaze darkens, his strokes growing firmer as his cock hardens, springing up against his soft belly.
Without warning, Joel leans forward, his hands finding your waist. âCâmere,â he says, and before you can protest, heâs standing and pulling you up with him, and promptly bent down to put you over his shoulder with a grunt.
You gasp, your center of gravity thrown off.
âJoel, donât show off!â you say, swatting at his back.
He chuckles low, and gives your ass a smack as he climbs the stairs. âDonât matter if Iâm sixty or thirty-six, darlinâ. Iâm makinâ sure you donât lift a damn finger.â
The world tilts back to normal as he sets you down on his bed with a huff. He steps back, eyes raking over you, then lies back on the bed, his hand brushing his lips as he looks over at you.
âSit,â he says, his voice low and commanding.
Your cheeks flush, and you hesitate, glancing down at yourself. âIâm⊠Iâm too heavy,â you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.
ââGain with this? Sit, darlinâ. I ainât askinâ.â His hand reaches for yours, and the certainty in his voice pulls you past your hesitation.
You slip your soaked panties off and move to hover over his face, your thighs framing his head, your own gaze drawn to his hardened cock, now fully erect and resting against his stomach. Joelâs hands grip your hips, and with a low growl, he pulls you down, his tongue finding you with familiar skill that makes you gasp.
The heat of his mouth, the way he works you, makes you wetter than you thought possible.
Your eyes drift to his cock, and you lean forward, your breath catching as you take in the sight of him. Tentatively, you reach out, your fingers brushing against the ridges, and Joel groans against you, âKeep touchinâ me.â he mumbles into you, his voice muffled.
You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, matching the rhythm of his tongue. âYouâre so good,â you whisper, barely aware of the words spilling out. âJoel, Iââ
His hands guide your hips, urging you to move faster, and you comply, grinding harder against his mouth as your hand works him in tandem. Suddenly, a thought crosses your mind, and before you can shy away, you lean forward further, taking him into your mouth, and Joelâs hips buck slightly, a choked groan escaping him.
You hum around him, the vibration drawing another groan from deep in his chest. Pre cum fills your mouth, and you kitten lick at the tip. You can feel Joelâs thighs tense around your head, his groans against your pussy groaning.
The rhythm between you grows frantic, you sucking deep with hollow cheeks, his tongue entering and exiting.
âJoelââ you gasp, pulling back just enough to speak. âIâm closeâoh fuckâshit, shit, shit!â
He doesnât respond with words, but his tongue moves with renewed purpose, pushing you closer to the edge. The tension in your core snaps, and you come undone, a wave of pleasure crashing through you as you cry out, your body trembling against his mouth.
You ride it out, hips moving instinctively, chasing every last pulse of sensation until your breath steadies and you slump forward.
Joelâs hands are gentle now, easing you off him as he shifts beneath you. Before you can catch your breath, he flips you onto your side with a swift, the sudden change making your head spin. You laugh, breathless and a little indignant.
âJoel, you gotta stop manhandling me like that.
He chuckles, his eyes glinting with mischief, his cock pressed flush against your ass. âWhat, you donât like it?â he teases, leaning over shoulder, his hand braced on your side. âThought youâd be used to me by now.â
For a moment, neither of you speaks. Joelâs gaze locks on yours, and he moves closer, notching himself against your sopping core. This feels differentâdifferent to all the touching and kissing and sweet gestures. Like the years apart have carved out a space that only this moment can fill. .
You turn your head, looking over your shoulder, and the sight of himâhis weathered face, the gray in his stubble, the liver spots on his face, the unguarded emotion in his eyesâhits you like nothing before. Tears prick at your eyes, unbidden, and your voice trembles as you speak.
âIâve missed you.â
He groans like you stabbed him.
â...I love you.â
He lets out a sound thatâs half pleasure, half pain, and pushes into you slowly, filling you with a tenderness. âI love you too,â he says, his voice rough with emotion, cracking slightly on the words. âAlways have. Always fuckinâ will.â
Your lips meet over your shoulder, the kiss sloppy and desperate, but neither of you cares. Itâs love, pouring into every messy press of lips, every shared breath.
His hands find yours, fingers lacing together, grounding you as he moves, slow and deep, each thrust a reclamation of what youâve both lost.
His forehead rests against your shoulder, and you feel the tremor in his grip. âMissed you so damn much,â he murmurs, like a secret meant just for you. âThought Iâd never get this âgain.â
âMe too,â you whisper, your voice thick with tears. âI didnât think⊠I didnât know if weâd everââ
âDonât think all that,â he cuts in softly, his lips brushing your shoulder. âWeâre here now. Thatâs what matters.â
You nod, and let the moment carry you. His movements grow steadier, more purposeful, and you match him, like when things were simpler, when it was just you and him against the world.
His hand slides up your side, resting over your heart, and you feel its frantic beat under his palm, mirroring his own. Eventually, his hand holds your ring, holding so tight your worried it might snap off, but all you can focus on is the pleasure and the cold sting of his own ring against your back.
You feel the tension coiling in your core, and Joelâs movements falter slightly, his own release building. âYour closeâŠâ he simply notes, his lips brushing your ear.
âYesâŠâ you breathe, your voice trembling. âYou?â
âFuck, yeah,â he mutters, a faint chuckle in his voice, but itâs laced with something else. âTogether, alright? Stay with me.â
His hand moves to your cheek, turning your face so he can look at you, and the vulnerability in his eyes undoes you. You move together, faster now, chasing the edge together.
You cry out, your body trembling as the pleasure overtakes you, and Joel groans, deep and guttural, his grip tightening as he spills into you, his forehead pressed to your shoulder. His cum fills you warm and sticky.
Your bodies shudder together. Youâre both gasping, clinging to each other, the intensity leaving you both raw and exposed.
For a moment, neither of you speaks, staying tangled together, his arms wrapped around you, your fingers still laced with his. The silence is comforting, a space where words arenât needed.
Joel shifts slightly, his breath still uneven, and reaches for his handkerchief on the nightstand. âCâmere,â he murmurs, his voice soft but steady. He gently wipes the sweat from your skin, his hands careful and deliberate. You lean into his touch, your body relaxing under his care.
âYou okay?â he asks, his eyes searching yours, concern etched into the lines of his face.
âMore than okay,â you whisper. âYou?â
âIâm good.â His thumb lingers on your cheek, and for a moment, the world feels soft, safe, just the two of you.
His eyes search yours, and then, something sparks behind them.
He sits up with a sudden burst of energy, slipping out of you gently. âSit with me.â He gestures to the edge of the bed, his voice gentle but insistent. Your dazed, but you still follow him, pulling the covers with you. You wrap yourself and Joel underneath the sheet, pressed flush against each other.
No words are traded, no noise, nothing but feelings.
Joelâs hand moves to the chain around his neck. He tugs it, snapping it free. He holds your gaze, then reaches for your neck. You swallow hard, your heart pounding, but you nod, giving him permission. He tugs, and the chain breaks with a quiet snap, falling away.
He unspools the rings from their respective chains, tossing the broken metal over his shoulder without a second glance. He stares at them, his eyes glistening, and you feel your own throat tighten.
âWhat are you doing.â
He doesnât respond.
âAre you going to make me guess?â
Mwah!
âJoelâŠâ
Mwah!
You giggled this time, voice caught somewhere between exasperation and a smile. âJoel.â
Mwah! Mwah!
âOh my God! Youâre gonna ruin my hair!â
He didnât stop. He kissed you once moreâloudly, obnoxiouslyâright on the top of your head, arms wrapped around you so tight you could barely fight him off.
âJoel, what are you doing with our rings?â
He looks down at them, tracing the gold edge.
Then he began to speak, low and raw.
âI loved you âfore everythinâ, yâknow?â
âI know baby.â
âI loved you in every sunrise I saw without you, every quiet night I spent thinkinâ of you. I loved you through fear, through anger, through losinâ myself trying to find you âgain. And I⊠I still love you. Always have, always will.â
Tears spring to your eyes, and you hide your face against his shoulder.
âI never stopped,â you whisper. âNot once.â
âI know darlinâ.â
His hand lifts yours, and together you trade ringsâhis for yours, yours for hisâas a silent acknowledgment of every scar, every loss, every year separated.
âI vow,â he continues, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it, âTo keep findinâ you. To stand with you through the shit, through hell. Ainât ever let you feel alone, not âgain. You are my heart, my home, my life.
He swallowed.
âMy wife.â
You reach for his hands, steadying them in yours. âAnd I vow⊠I vow to love you. To stay by you side, never let something come in between us again. I will walk with you, always.â
You smiled wider than you have in years.
âMy husband.â
The rings slip onto fingers that know each other so intimately.
You pull each other close, pressing foreheads together. And then, finally, lips meetâslow, then urgent, sure. A kiss that stitches together all the lost time.
And you knewâthis was how it was always meant to be.
Ah yes, tragic lovers. My favorite hehe
Tag list (just for this fic):
@spookychaossuit, @joeldjarin
Ë.âđđ / / all work and designs are owned and copyrighted by @followyourfleart (©2023-2026). all rights reserved.
why are writers afraid of making reader a mature adult?? no i do not wanna see aizawa or nanami with a girl fresh out of highschoolđ«© age gap hater until i die i don't care
Me tired of looking for a fanfic about my fav old man that isn't smut, BIG age-gap, daddy kink:
(I just want a fanfic full of fluff, romantic, and where the reader is the same age as him)

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"AITA FOR BEING TOO MUCH IN BED?"â VARKA â
#tags-and-cw â NSFW! AFAB!READER DRABBLE. . . intimatacy rules, small banter, he's insatiable, you're both in your late 30's to early 40's, erectile overfunction (he has it BAD), he has body hair 'cause duhhh, established relationship (u guys are married here), i love casual intimacy, this is just sweet vanilla sex (dont expect anything kinky).
another late night where your beloved came home late. stacks upon stacks of paperwork had kept him long past sunset again, and by the time he finally stumbled into your arms he was little more than a walking corpse.
you would often find him passed out on the couch the next morning â an empty mug of beer still loosely clutched in his hand, snoring loud enough it could replace your alarm.
after a hearty meal heâd always claim he was only going to take a short nap.
twenty minutes, heâd say.
those twenty minutes inevitably turned into eight hours.
the next morning heâd whine about it, voice rough with sleep, insisting he had an awful night because your warmth wasnât beside him.
(as if he hadnât been drooling all over the damn couch.)
âinsufferable,â youâd mutter, an exasperated scowl on your face.
varka would only laugh at that â loud, bright, utterly unashamed, 'cause of course he is, he's varka for archons' sake.
âbut still yours, no?â
which was, (un)fortunately, true.
even if he gave you migraines on the daily. even if he was utterly unbearable sometimes.
varka was yours, as much as you're his.
decades of marriage had taught you many things about the man you loved. some grand, some small, some hidden in the quiet habits he didnât even realize he had.
but you'd see them all, no mattter how miniscule they may seem.
you knew the way exhaustion settled into his shoulders after long days, knew the look of him when he walked through the door.
dim ocean blues, a crooked, tired smile, muscles aching beneath his coat.
these days he would simply press a quick kiss to your forehead before disappearing into the bathroom to wash the grime off his skin then spare a few minutes for mantaining his swords, talking about the day with you as he wipes and polishes them to perfection.
and inevitably, after a meal, he'd end up passing out just about anywhere but your shared bed.
you knew your husband very well.
which is why the moment he steps through the door tonight, you kmow something is different.
his eyes meet yours.
and the fire burning in them â sharp, bright, dangerously familiar â sends a shiver down your spine.
âiâm home,â varka whispers, boots heavy against the wooden floorboards as he crosses the room.
tonight he isnât wearing his usual coat, nor the small pieces of armor that usually cling to him like a second skin. theyâre nowhere to be seen. instead, heâs dressed only in a black shirt â the top buttons carelessly left undone.
half of his chest is exposed through the open buttons â scarred skin, a faint trail of blonde hair, and the familiar wolf-tooth necklace swaying faintly with each step he takes.
yet somehow, tonight, everything about him feels. . . different.
"sorry if i've kept you waiting," he places a light peck on the side of your lips, eyes gazing straight at you as he does.
predatory.
that was the gaze of someone who wanted to devour something â or in this case, someone.
warm, large palms rest just above the side of your hips, and you can feel the way he presses slightly, inching your body closer to his.
"no 'welcome home, honey' for me?" a deep chuckle spilled from him, soft with fondness, "finally got tired of your husband, hm?"
his eyes gleam with a certain hunger, tracing over the shape of your lips to the half-exposed cleavage of your dress.
varka does not lighten his grip, eventually pushing you further and further until your back hits the wall. leaning over until he's got you trapped between his frame and the wood now, faces mere inches apart.
you could hear the sound of his heartbeat, loud yet steady.
gulping the sudden nervousness, you were about to welcome him home as you usually did.
before you could speak, he captures you in a deep kiss, discarding whatever restraint he has. varka places a hand behind your head, softly caressing, before forcing your face closer into his waiting mouth.
he can barely keep it together, chest heaving with every rhythmic dance of his lips on yours.
"welcomeâmmphâ" kiss. "ahhn, home. . ." kiss.
you whine at his desperation, "varkaâ"
he groans into your mouth at the mere mention of his name, lips turning even more desperate. the sound rattles your bones, making you squirm against him.
and with how large the knight is, you're practically engulfed in his arms, body pressing onto the flimsy fabric of your dress until you eventually mold into one, until you eventualy feel it â
your face goes red immediately, and you hopelessly try to hold onto his biceps as he grinds the very obvious bulge against you.
you can hear every wet smack of his lips on yours, the lecherous sound bouncing off the sides of your throat into your ear. he's practically devouring you by this point, panting into the wet cavern of your mouth.
thereâs a hunger in the way he looks at you, not for anything fleeting, but for the entirety of you â your voice, your laughter, the way you carry yourself
he needs you so bad that it's breaking him apart.
a small yelp escapes you when varka suddenly lifts you into his arms.
the motion pulls your lips from his, the kiss breaking too soon. he doesnât go far, though â only tilts his head forward until his forehead rests against yours, breath warm against your skin.
your hands fumble to rest at his shoulders, steadying yourself in his arms.
"yeah, much better," he laughs, bright as ever, "my back was killin' me, leaned over too much."
varka's moved the both of you to the living room now, hs probably knocked into a few things on the way but the two of you are much too distracted to care.
"it's not my fault you're built like a hilichurl tower." you quip, looking to the sides so you can avoid his peering eyes.
he flashes you a fond, crooked grin, resting his face on your chest. "hilichurl tower? surely, there are better structures to describe someone like me."
"like what, grandmaster?"
"a guizhong ballista?"
". . . i have no idea what that is."
varka lingers dangerously near your throat, warm breath brushing your skin.
"hah, don't worry, loveâ you'll find out soon."
you're sitting on his lap now, directly over the twitching bulge of his cock. your thighs flinch at every shift of his hips, feeling it brush over your warmth.
he's nipping at your exposed neck, leaving faint marks that you'll scold him for in the morning. though, varka could care less about the scolding he'll get when he has you exactly how he wants you:
flushed, trembling, and soaking wet.
the strap of your dress starts to fall off your shoulder, revealing the rest of your cleavage for him to stare at. he's mesmerized at how beautiful you look, finding it hard to believe he has you all for himself.
"have i ever told you how beautiful you are?" he rasps, unzipping your dress from behind. maybe it's because of the way he's speaking to you in that tone, looking at you with that gaze, but you suddenly feel like putty in his hands.
"many times, i believe you say it everyday."
he chuckles, "really?" pulling the dress down further until it's bunched at your hips. "s'pose i can't really help it when you make me hard every damn time i walk into this house."
you feel him lick and suck bruises into your skin, each mark blooming red and pink across the canvas of your flesh â a vivid display of his relentless desire for you.
"aren't you embarrassed being this shameless at your big age?"
even well past thirty, thereâs still that same restless hunger in the way he looks at you, the same eagerness in the way his hands find yours. time may have carved new lines into his face and scattered scars across his body, but it has never managed to dull the way he wants you.
varka makes a show of caressing your thighs, pushing your skirt along with it, "shameless? i'm just being honest, don't you like an honest man?"
he sneaks a glimpse at the cotton underwear hidden beneath, swallowing the urge to push them aside and take you already.
"maybe if this honest man stopped seducing me everytime he came home, i'll like him better." you huff, carding your fingers through his disheveled hair.
he looks back up at you.
"oh?" varka smiles toothily, amusement rolling off him in waves, "so the lady screamin' for more last night was just a figment of my imagination then? the very same lady who rode me so well sheâ"
memories of last night started flowing into your head, causing you to fluster.
your hands immediately fly to his mouth, shutting him up for good, "okay! i get it, that's enough!"
you hear his muffled laughter through the gaps of your palms, his eyes crinkling with shameless amusement.
meanwhile youâre left flushed and needy beneath him.
itâs terribly unfair.
for all the years youâve had this man wrapped around your finger, not once have you felt undesired.
if anything, there were moments you felt too desired.
his appetite for you was relentless â rivaled only by his well-known love for alcohol.
passion has never dimmed in your marriage,. you were in an eternal state of the so-called 'honeymoon phase' where the two of you fucked like rabbits and slobbered over each other anytime you can.
that never changed, even as varka traded the reckless, stubborn youth he once was for the measured, commanding man worthy of the grandmasterâs position.
you actually found it quite funny that the young boy who used to cause a ruckus everyday for valentine would mellow down into this boisterous but dependable leader.
he's changed so much over the years, turning into the pillar of strength in mondstadt â a legend among men.
and even so, he still acted the same with you, as if he was that same bumbling fool who professed his love to anyone who would listen.
varka might have changed â in ways that might seem inconsequential to anyone else â but deep down, he was still the same man you married all those years ago.
even down to that insatiable hunger he always carried for you.
your husband has you laid out on the sofa, legs wrapped around his waist â though they never quite meet around him, his broad frame simply too large, pressing you close in all the ways youâve grown to know and crave.
"is it too much, hun?" varka asks, combing a hand through his hair to keep it away from his eyes, all so he could stare at the way your face scrunched up for him, kiss-swollen lips trembling from the stretch.
"need me to slow down a li'l?"
you vigorously shake your head, clutching at the large palm softly caressing your cheek, "no, no, keep going, pleaseâ"
varka laughs at your desperate cries, pushing a bit further into your warmth. it's always been necessary to prep you for hours before you could take him without much pain, and varka doesn't mind the extra work â he quite enjoys it actually.
but you don't have that patience, too needy and wanting to feel him inside you as soon as possible. he finds it very cute by the way, seeing you beg for it always gets blood rushing to his nether regions in no time.
"taking me so well," he whispers, kissing your forehead, "just a bit more, mhm? be a good girl f'me."
you whimper, eyes rolling to the back of your head as he starts to slowly thrust back and forth, and it immediately makes you even wetter, soaking him in your juices.
varka lets out a lengthy groan, throwing his head back when he feels you clench around him.
âfuck,â his brows pull together, beads of sweat trailing down the hairs of his chest. ârelax a bit. . . gonna break me at this rate.â
varka chuckles lowly, an obscene grin curling across his lips.
"s-sorry. . . " you say, clinging to his arms like it's the only thing anchoring you to reality.
his wolf-tooth pendant sway with every delicious roll of his hips, nailing you to the cushion, the metal glinting under the dim-lighting of your home.
your eyes linger on the many scars along his chest and arms, each one waz a testament to the battles heâs survived â a symbol of courage, of years spent facing danger without hesitation for the sake of his lobed ones.
and yet itâs the very same body he uses to carry you to bed, careful hands far gentler than anyone could imagine.
the same arms that once raised a blade now wrap around you with an ease that feels almost tender, as if the weight of war and bloodshed melts away the moment youâre in them.
it always amazes you â how a man built for battle can hold you like something precious.
varka's lips found its way to the dip of your neck, licking anywhere he could while his hips gain a steady rhythm for the both of you.
and soon enough, you start to see blurry white stars along the edges of your vision.
decades may have passed between the two of you, yet varkaâs desire has never learned how to calm itself. age has softened many things in life, but not this â not the way his hands still find you with the same urgency, thee same hunger as it did all those years ago.
time may wear down mountains, but it has never managed to wear down the fire he carries for you.
"still, ah, with me?" varka asks, face still buried in the crook of your neck. his voice a soft and warm thing, contrasting the way his hips viciously slam against your soaking heat.
you could barely even garble an answer, moaning and whimpering his name at every hard thrust.
varka gently pushes your knees toward your chest, holding you close as he leans over you, his presence overwhelming in the small space between you.
you could feel every vein and throb of his thick cock, the way he stretches you out sooo good that it leaves you limbless.
he's got an arm under both of knees, locking them together, and pushing them to the side of his waist.
"take a deep breath for me," varka warns you, chuckling at the way your pussy seems to respond instead, pulsing around him with need.
he fucks you roughly, frantically pushing in and pulling out. bright red marks start to form on your ass, his pelvis repeatedly hitting against it.
every loud slap of skin makes you go dizzy, mind turning into mush as you let yourself get lost into the throes of pleasure.
your neighbors could probably hear you by now, moaning so loud that the sound bounces off the walls. varka could care less, more than happy to let you disturb the ones nextdoors â what are they gonna do? complain to the knights of favonius?
plus, hearing you sing his name like this, talking about how good everything feels and how he's 'too big' just pushes him off the edge.
he leans over to lick your lips, fingers brushing onto the side of your face.
"too much, hngh. . . "
varka laughs quietly against your ear, the sound deep and gravelly, âoh, but you love it rough. donât you, pretty?â
your nearly roll to the back of your head, a line of drool slipping past your parted lips, "yes, i do! love it s'muchâ"
"really?" varka teases, voice low with desire. he wipes the drool with his thumb before bringing it back to your lips, "tell me how good it is then, c'mon, cry for me."
cry for me.
this is the only time varka would let tears run down your face willingly. he loves seeing how good he makes you feel, especially through the soft cries of his name.
"i love you! i love you!" you wail, feeling him speed up, the sounds of skin against skin getting louder. "ah! varkaâ"
heâs practically buzzing with adoration, every muscle taut and alive with each âi love youâ that slips from your lips. even now, his heart leaps every time you praise him â a feeling that has never waned, no matter how many years have passed.
he bites his lip, letting his hips do the talking.
the sofa shakes with every brutal thrust, wood creaking under his weĂŹght and strength.
he laughs, a low rumbling thing that makes your cunt throb, "fucking gorgeous, could never get tired of this pussyâhah, shit."
"could never, ever, get tired of you."
a mixture of sweat, drool, and cum is splattered across his meaty thighs and sticking to the trail of hair along his navel.
varka loves it when you make a mess â whether itâs around the house or on his cock. to him, it simply means his wife feels comfortable enough to let herself go around him.
and he loves it the most when you arch so beautifully in his arms, cunt clamping hard on him as you cum â you could call it an addiction with the way he groans at the way your eyes cross, whimpering his name.
"i love you too," varka whispers into your ear, leaving small butterfly kisses along the shell of it, "gonnaâughâcum." he stutters, a low exhale leaving his lips.
your nails scratch down along his shoulders, leaving bright red marks but the pain doesn't register for him, too busy chasing his release.
not that something as small as a scratch could ever faze him.
his eyes never leave yours, following every tremble, every small gasp, as if he could memorize you whole. varkaâs expression stays gentle, even as his hands leave indents on your skin â a silent tether, a promise youâre not going anywhere.
even through overestimated tears, you manage to see the silhouette of his face, desperate in a way he shouldn't be. after all, he had you nearly everyday, so why is it that he always fucks you as if it's your last?
varka presses down on you â hard. putting most of his weight onto you while you keen, cumming for a second time.
his hips goes completely still, filling you to the brim with all of his length.
all while he crashes his lips into yours â hungry, desperate, and all consuming, moaning into the kiss while your tears fall from overwhelming pleasure.
"sorry, honey. . . i don't think i'll be able to hold back tonight."
"ugh, maybe i should just go ahead and get married too. . . " one of the junior knight sighs dreamily, looking at the grandmaster's bright grin as he steps into the favonius headquarters.
his partner looks at him with a confused expression, "hah? what brought this on?"
the junior knight, palez, points over to varka, "the grandmaster gets to come home to a sweet, loving wife and a warm meal. . . that's why he's always smiley like that, look at how much he's glowing!"
"are you mentally ill?"
a suave voice cuts in, "oh dear, gossiping about the grandmaster's love life in such an open space, getting a little too chummy are we?"
kaeya and rosaria look at the two knights, and an air of chill sweeps through making them shiver. when put together, these two are no joke (outside of a tavern).
"s-sorry! captain kaeya, sister rosaria! it won't happen again." the two frantically salute, palms already getting sweaty.
kaeya laughs lightly, saluting half-heartedly as he walks away. rosaria follows right behind, her expression as icy as ever.
step.
step.
step.
". . . ."
"you think she's alright?" kaeya whispers, cringing at the thought of you being bedridden again.
rosaria can only scoff, massaging her temples as if talking about it was already giving her a migraine, "likely not. she hasn't gone to good hunter all morning which means she's. . ."
"especially since he's looking so refreshed then she's probably. . . " kaeya trails off, silently praying for your recovery.
speak of the devil.
kaeya straightens up, smiling like normal. rosaria rolls her eyes, wincing at the loud voice.
"oh, heyâ it's you two! thank barbatos! mind doin' me a small favor?" varka greets them with an enthusiastic wave, a bright, boyish grin on his face.
and he shall appear.
"jean's gonna tie me to the desk at this rate," varka grumbles, "so i was hoping you two could drop this off for meâ"
he shoves them something warm wrapped in cloth, rosaria takes it and perks up at the familiar smell of food â it's your favorite dish from good hunter.
kaeya shares a look with her, looking back up at varka with a sly grin, "of course, leave it to us."
.
.
.
it's just another day at mondstadt.
oddly enough, you woke up that morning with your stomach feeling warmer than usual.
it's probably nothing.
#it's-your-captain-ari-speaking â i was listening to sade while scrolling on twitter dot come when i suddenly came across such a golden tweet that inspired me to immediately open my tumblr drafts to goonwrite.
I KNOWW ITS ASS...im sorry i just wrote this in between other longfics.....just...take rhis for now...ill edit it when i have time
btw just a funny thing i added but he laughs/chuckles a lot in this fic, this is bcs i went through his voicelines and istg â this guy always has to let out a "AHAHAHAHAHA!" or "hahahaha. . . " or even a small "heh." like omg shuuut up....he just be hootin' and hollerin' all over mondstadt bro đđ he is soo happy to be alive.
i asked the gc for a title, and 8 out of 11 people voted for "AITA for fucking my wife too often??" while the rest either voted/recommended "a case of erectile overfunction" or "HOPPIN' DIH DIH DIH" which cracks me up a bit.
anyways brought to you by this #truthnuke of a tweet lol:
#DILF!VARKA-FOR-THE-WIN.
I guess i will let out my frustations on here, everyday feels more hopeless than the last, why should I even bother to do anything if it feels like nothing is going to matter, with how things are going who knows if the planet will even be liveable. Why should I bother with the exam tomorrow if after going to a super fucking expensive university far away from home, it wont even be gauranteed that I can do something in the future. Water is depleting because people wont stop using ai, i guess in other countries some people are kind of aware about the cons of ai, but in my country it feels like everyone just keeps glazing ai, using it to ask what the fuck degradation is to chest on the fucking geography exam. So many wars and people just support it for what, because they have a different religion. Religion is the boon of humanity, it was supposed to give people hope during trying times but what the hell, lets kill people with opposing religions from all sides. I fucking hate religion.
I was so fucking dumb to think, to grow up and be excited to finally start living how I want, now I just want all this to end.
acts of love, starring: VARKA â being the wife of mondstadt's famed grandmaster is akin to taking care of a big and clingy dog! but you won't trade it for the world. SFW!
varka adores you. he loves loudly, selflessly.
everyone he's ever met, even from all the way to nod-krai and inazuma, know about you. varka is an irritating chatterbox when it comes his wife, to the point it's become a defining trait for him. whenever he gets a chance, he makes sure to sneak in an anecdote about you. . .even if it doesn't have any connection to the current discussion.
the people of mondstadt are endeared by it. always amused by the ruckus he makes when his beloved is involved, and the way he fights for your name during those "who's the most beautiful in mondstadt?" debates in taverns? it's hilarious.
varka took those questions so seriously, got soo heated, that everyone had to add a specific rule: 'with the exception of the grandmaster's wife, of course'.
after that, he wasn't too interested in those drunken debates anymore, laughing in earnest when asked â who is the most beautiful in mondstadt? sometimes he says rosaria just to tease her when she's around, other times, he says barbatos for the heck of it.
"fools, all of you!" varka slams his pint of dandelion wine down the table, brows furrowed in irritation, "my wife is the sweetest and most beautiful lady there is! how blind can you be to suggest anyone else?" his voice booms all throughout the tavern, making people turn their heads.
"u-uh but grandmaster, let's be realistic here, youâ"
the poor guy is now being glared at by the grandmaster of mondstadt, a living legend, a knight recognized by the great wolf boreas and the anemo archon â a smitten, wife-loving, hunk of a man who's willing to forgo all dignity in order to defend his wife's honor.
varka clicks his tongue, and it quickly shuts the soldier up, knowing who he's against but it's too late to stop when varka suddenly speaks up again:
"realistic, you say? you sayin' my wife ain't gorgeous, that it?"
older, veteran soldiers are now looking at the new recruit with pity in their eyes. they've known their grandmaster for years, have fought alongside him, and are even willing to lay their lives for him, so if they know one thing about varka, it's that you never speak negatively about his wife. don't even dare imply it.
a loyal dog may bark but a smitten one will bite.
"that's not it, sir!" the young soldier quickly tries to make amends, stuttering in the process but the only response he got was a small huff from varka.
the other soldiers circle around their table, snickering to each other, "now, now, you know your wife is never included in these kinda' stuff. we wouldn't dare speak of the grandmaster's beloved that way."
"damn right, she's above these petty discussions! AHAHAHAHA!"
he's actually hopeless when it comes to you.
a truly unorthodox man, he is. hard to understand but terrifyingly easy to trust and admire. adored by many despite his ruffian-like demeanor. a slacker yet somehow the most reliable knight there is in the people's eyes. a person of contrasting qualities.
varka of mondstadt is said to be a 'man amongst men', chivalry comes to him like second nature and his list of admirers could fill the favonius library's record book, literally.
but they're in tough luck, the grandmaster only has eyes for you after all. it is no secret how smitten the oh-so-great knight of boreas, varka is for his wife.
no one even tries to approach him with romantic intentions anymore after he's made it very clear where he stands, which is forever next to you. many women, early on in both of your relationship, have tried to swoon and seduce him but they're met with very firm rejections. if there's anything he's strict about, it's this. and he expects the same treatment others give him with you, meaning if someone ever tried flirting or oh lord barbatos â make you leave him, they're getting the harshest talk ever, from varka and the people of mondstadt. 'cause the vendors are your biggest fans after all. though just him would probably be enough, do you know how scary varka is when he's serious? it's more than enough to make a grown man cry.
that's only if you can't handle it or the person is too persistent and you might actually hurt whoever this is. varka's there as a middle man, and hey if he pushes a little too hard while trying to create some distance between the two of you, who's to say it's not a complete accident? he's not exactly a saint of patience, particularly when your safety and comfort is compromised. he isn't the grandmaster of the knights of favonius for nothing.
he's like an obedient angel towards you though, if the angel was over six foot and had a frame huge enough to become an umbrella during hot days.
like a dog wagging it's tail, he beams immediately when he sees your figure from afar. suddenly, he's standing despite jean's protests and kaeya's exasperation, jumping out the window (even though he's on the third floor) and jogging over to you.
"hon! over here!"
you try to walk faster, hoping you heard wrong. because if you did, that means varka is slacking off again and you have to force him to go back to jean, lest she actually pops a blood vessel this time.
"hey don't ignore me!" he catches up to you in no time, barely even taking twelve steps before making it to your side.
you look up at his hulking figure, "go back to work. jean looks about ready to drop dead. or drop you dead." you can spot her angry expression from here, shouting a stern 'grandmaster varka!' but varka pretends to be deaf, focusing on you.
"puh-lease!" he scoffs, laughing boisterously with hands on his hips, "jean dropping dead, hah! you're hilarious. that girl's tough as nails! plus, those look heavy â ah, here let me.."
varka takes your shopping bags from you, carrying three bags in one hand while he interwines his other with yours.
"cookin' up a storm, huh?" varka glances at the ingredients in the bag: some vegetables, fruits, spices, and heavy cuts of meat. no doubt for him and his big carnivorous appetite.
he's smiling in that gooey, lovesick, way again. varka has always been a smiley person, but with you, it was more of a devoted sort of smile â one with less teeth and more wobbly, licked, lips where he gets an itch to scream ' i love you ' on the top of his lungs â letting it echo all throughout teyvat to make sure everyone knew.
eh, he does the same thing anyways with the way he chatters about you to every person he's met. talks and talks and talks until the people are listless, for hours if he could.
he escorts you home, hand in hand. cuts the vegetables as you get the stove started. sings a tune of windchimes and cliffs in that raspy tone of his while he helps with the peeling and heavy work, places chaste kisses on your cheek while you giggle.
jean can't get too mad at that, but she can at least nag varka until his ears fall off.
varka hates writing, hates paperwork all together. can't even stand the sight of paper in the office, always dreading the mountains of it stacked on his desk.
he'd rather be out fighting monsters, training recruits, or having a drink at angel's share. there are a million better things to do than boring ol' paperwork, like bothering people and smothering you with his love. he really, reeeally hates writing!
but he loves you.
he only likes writing when it's to his beloved. it's rare for the grandmaster to actually smile whenever he picks up a pen, usually he does so with a grimace. scowling like a petulant child while he twirls the pen in his hand, sighing every second while he stares at the documents on his desk. however. . .
it's different with you, it always is.
fredwinn is looking at the grandmaster with a suspicious and concerned gaze, it's really odd to see him so happy. . .
while writing.
he's getting weirded out, enough to ask others why such a massive and well-known loafer is actually writing with so much delight his smile looks about ready to split his face. he's met with small knowing grins and giggles from the other soldiers instead. he'll figure it out soon, they say.
he takes a peek over at what varka's writing, met with over two pages of words, small doodles of things they've fought in the margins of the paper â and how the hell is it colored? did he seriously buy crayons just for this? it's badly drawn though if he were to be honest, looks like a child made it. but the amount of words written baffle him, he's never seen the grandmaster write this much.
sure, it's starting to look a bit like chicken scratch because of how fast and how much he's writing but varka's never been one to be happy while writing something â he barely even wrote! like at all. even if he did, he usually made others do it in his stead. the man's great at fighting but he's not exactly a sit in a chair and write reports sort of guy.
perhaps long expeditions change people.
or, maybe he's an idiot who rambles too much in his letters â as long as they're addressed to you. fredwinn soon learns of this after a while, spotting the name of the recipitent in every letter, always followed by a heart. because varka's sappy like that.
varka loves you to the point of blatant favoritism, although he's never been strict with his soldiers, he does dish out punishments when needed. makes sure they learn their lesson too, 'cause what kinda grandmaster would he be if he doesn't?
you could never do wrong though, simply not a concept that exists in that empty head of his.
his wife made a mistake? ah, no biggie, he'll take care of it. you accidentally set the favonius headquarters on fire? oh no! don't worry, he'll handle it, just make sure to get to safety. you ripped his coat to shreds while washing? haha! so funny, anyways did you hear what razor learned today? that's right, its how to write yours and varka's name! isn't that so cool?
you can slack of more than him and he'd still call you the most hardworking person he's ever met. you could never ever do wrong in varka's eyes, it's like telling him the sky is brown or alcohol is bad.
. . .wait, you hid the alcohol? honey, dont be like that! he'll cry, seriously.
you're an exception to many things, and for a good reason, a simple yet profound reason, and also the main reason he fell in-love with you in the first place: it's you. beyond being his wife, his other-half, and varka's closest confidant â you are you, that in itself is already enough for varka, even without the prior accolades.
with both of your legs entwined with each other, your face in his chest as you rest on his bicep. it feels like a rock is under the side your head from how firm his muscles are, but you've gotten used to it, now it just reminds you of home.
because varka is home, and you'd never get homesick if he's around.
"does it not bother you?" he hums, chin propped on your head. you can feel the rumble in his chest when he speaks, makes your head all woozy and sleepy. being surrounded by his scent relaxes your tired body, and you let your eyes clos in response.
"what do you mean?" you ask, nuzzling in his chest further, his clothes smell freshly laundered, with that familiar detergent that you use.
varka keeps quiet for a few seconds, wondering if he should even say anything, "the way they address you as 'grandmaster's wife' instead of your name."
you can only mumble an answer, something varka can't quite catch but he assumes the worst.
he sets a small kiss on your forehead, wrapping you in his arms, "i'll tell them to stop, don't worry."
finally, you jolt awake, "no, no! it's really okay, i don't mind it."
varka looks at you with a complicated expression, finding it hard to believe.
"i like it...being called your wife, being known as yours." you flush, hiding your face. honestly, whenever people greet you in the market as 'grandmaster's wife' or 'varka's lady', it makes you giddy, heart-racing like a girl being teased about her crush.
the people don't mean anything malicious, you know that much and he knows too but it makes you grateful that he's still asking how you feel about it. always so considerate, treating your heart like porcelain. varka's like that, you're pretty sure his worst nightmare is making you upset.
varka has been completely quiet for a few seconds now but you can hear the loud thump, thump, thump of his heart within embrace. you don't have to look at him to know he's just as, if not more, flustered than you.
"alright, if you say so." he buries his face in your neck, curling in himself to be much closer to you.
"i really like it too, when they call me your husband. gets me all happy, y'know?" he mumbles gruffly.
you already know that, because he goes beet red whenever the vendors tease him. it's really obvious. but he's always been obvious with his devotion, you love that about him.
varka loves you, he's loud and clumsy with it but who cares? that just comes with the package.
#it's-your-captain-ari-speaking â ....yes the phainon to varka pipeline is real and its coming FOR YOU. accept your fate. ive been obsessed with this man like holy shit. take this short drabble hehe.
everything is political and itâs not even the slightest bit hard to understand why that is. im so sick of purposeful obtuseness being the norm now. get fucking real immediately like we do not have the time for this
đ©âĄđȘ Pairing: Priest! Higuruma x Succubus! Reader
đ©âĄđȘ Synopsis: When you start running low on mana one evening, you are in desperate need of the one and only thing that will help replenish your energy. The source? Your husband of course.
Though this time around, instead of coming home immediately after an evening mass, he lingers behind longer at the one place that you havenât stepped foot into since meeting him, but you have no choice if you want to keep your secret from being disclosed.
Though, everyone has secrets and the funny thing is, they always tend to have a way of unravelling themselves.
đ©âĄđȘ Word count: 6.7k
đ©âĄđȘ Content warning: 18+ MDNI â supernatural AU â FEM!/AFAB! Reader â reader has a succubus/demon transformation (for the plot of course) â implied Christian ideologies â SMUT SMUT SMUT â porn with a side of plot (first time writing a fic of this nature) â husband! Higuruma â pussy drunk! Higuruma â yearning â praise â nipple play â oral (f! and m! receiving) â improper intentions/use of the âHail Maryâ prayer (the entire prayer is recited) â improper use of an altar (altar sex) â improper use of a rosary â fingering â unprotected p in v sex â reader gets creampied â mating press position â multiple orgasms (reader) â
â Author's note: As per the poll's result, here's the Higuruma fic! I really hope that you lovelies enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing this! <333
He was supposed to be another one of the victims that you seduced to be able to continue living your life in the mortal realm. He was supposed to be a mere mana source, but even fate has a way of throwing a demon off balance.
You only saw him as a human who spent his time at churches and cathedrals, who preached sermons like ancient litanies and initially, you feared what that meant for you. You didnât usually prey on humans who spent their time in places of worship, but you couldnât help but be drawn to him.
Hiromi Higuruma, the priest you thought youâd be able to toy with when you first met him, the man you thought would only be of use if only to satiate your hunger and be a stable source of energy, but you soon found out that he was differentâmore so than most humans.
Youâd sensed it the very first time that you managed to see into the deepest, darkest parts of him, the parts of him that one would never expect from a priest. You saw the parts of his soul where his desires danced like a flame; thereâd been a pull, the essence of an unbreakable soul, one that shines bright.
Youâd been so ecstatic at the time, and you remember the feeling vividly. An unbreakable soul meant an endless supply of mana and an endless supply of mana only meant that youâd grow stronger and stronger.
And you have.
You used him, divulged his wildest dreams and secrets, shaped yourself into whatever he wanted you to be, you fed on his desires and emotions, and you used him as a bonfire for his passion. Your kind thrived on those things after all.
He was nothing but a source of mana to you, nothing but a means for you to explore the mortal realm and live amongst humans peacefully, but you had soon learned that strong emotions, passion, often led to connection.
Youâd grown attached and fell in love with the one man you had thought wouldnât mean much to you.
It wasnât just the strength of his soul, it was the way his desires felt like gentle caresses when you explored them, the way his imagination captivated you and it was the way he looked at and spoke to you that had you weak in the knees.
It was the closest youâve ever come to being cherished.
Yes, you, a succubus, fell in love with a human and those strong emotions were enough for you to capitulate and give in to human traditions by marrying him. You started building a life with him and he had such significance in your life that you couldnât even bring yourself to feed off him as often as you used to.
Seeing him tired and drained simply so that you could be greedy? It made you feel guilty, so, to ensure that you donât run low on mana, you only take what you need once a week. Only once, never more.
So, when you find yourself slotted between your husbandâs legs with his heavy cock in your mouth, it doesnât come as a surprise. What does come as a surprise, however, is the fact that you even considered stepping foot into the cathedral where heâd lingered behind after a mass that ended an hour ago.
You used the excuse of a needy wife who wasnât quite sure she had the right to demand that her husband come home immediately once the mass was over and your ever loving, ever doting husband couldnât resist you.
The real reason as to why you couldnât wait is because youâd already been running low on mana at home and when you found the courage to make your way to the cathedral, its effect was imminent. Though, there was no pain, no blood that boiled to the point it felt like you were being cooked alive, the cathedral simply drained your mana a little faster than usual.
That meant that you couldnât waste time. The last thing you wanted was for Higuruma to find out what you are. You couldnât even begin to imagine how thatâd unfold. Your life would change if he found out.
Youâd lose everything.
You hollow out your cheeks, taking Higuruma deeper into your mouth, deeper into its warmth until his flushed cockhead kisses the back of your throat. The coarse hairs that decorate the base of his cock tickles your nose and you moan, the vibrations prompting your husband to thrust up despite his best efforts to keep still.
You didnât ever think that heâd be willing to do such a thing; sitting with his cassock pushed up to his stomach, mouth agape while he allows himself to give into you while he remains perched on the very front pew in the cathedral where youâd first found him sitting when you arrived in a rush.
Heâd been surprised and why wouldnât he be? You avoided the cathedral, hid under the guise of atheism so of course he didnât understand why you showed up unannounced. Until you revealed the reason that you managed to come up with that is.
âHmmâyou needed me this much, darling?â
âMhmm.â
Your tongue swirls around his globular cockhead while your hands squeeze the base, massaging his shaft in the way you know he likes.
âCouldnât wait, could you?â Higuruma groans when he feels his release build and he curses under his breath. âLook at you, my beautiful wife who has reduced me to a sinner.â
Drool collects at the corners of your mouth, and the salty-sweet taste of your husband has your pussy dripping with need. Your panties are completely ruined, completely soaked and your need makes itself known with near painful throbs.
Feeling this aroused doesnât usually come with your body needing mana, though Higuruma had conditioned your body to react this way. Unbeknownst to him of course.
âSuch a pretty girl, arenât you darling?â Higuruma coos, voice still so smooth and still so deep, though you hear the breathlessness, you hear the way heâs fighting with himself.
You feel the way his cock twitchesâa little tell-tale that youâre about to get what you need.
âYou want yourâhmnâhusbandâs cum? Then take it.â
With a desperate thrust of his hips, Higurumaâs cock sinks deeper into your mouth and with a groan, he spills his creamy release all the over the back of your throat.
You squirm, thighs clenching together to relieve the tension that has settled there. It throbs and pulses and the taste of Higuruma on your tongue isnât helping. He tastes so good, too good and all you do is swallow every single drop that he has to offer.
Your body hums, some of your mana replenishing as you continue to clean Higuruma up, sucking on his sensitive tip which earns you a strangled groan.
âOh, you really needed it, huh? My pretty succubus that desperate for mana?â
The world stops spinning, your heart skips one too many beats and your jaw goes slack. You heard him wrong, surely you did. You pull away from Higuruma, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand while your eyes go wide, breaths coming out in heavy exhales.
You stare up at him, half expecting him to laugh and say that it was merely a joke, but the words never come.
âWhat?â
âYou heard me, darling,â Higuruma shifts on the bench, adjusting himself and tucking his cock back into his boxer briefs. âYou are my pretty succubus, arenât you?â
Your heart feels like it lodged itself in your throat. You donât know what to think, you donât know what to say. He has to be bluffing. Perhaps itâs an expression, ana analogy that some humans use when theyâre trying to be sexy.
âI couldnât imagine that youâd feed off someone else.â
You feel so much that youâre sure your body goes numb.
âI-I donât know what youâre talking about.â
You donât know what it is that youâre attempting to do, what it is that youâre going to gain by lying, but the words tumble out before you can even think. He seems to know what heâs talking about and that terrifies you.
Itâs what youâve been trying to avoid.
âCome now, sweetheart, thereâs no need to lie,â Higurumaâs reaches out and his thumb smooths over your bottom lip, his eyes never leaving yours. âNot anymore that is.â
You swallow the lodge in your throat, guilt and nerves eating at you like youâre some fragile disciple that committed the greatest of sins. You thought that youâd done an incredible job at hiding your secret, but your husband is more perceptive than you gave him credit for.
âSo youâyou knew? This entire time?â Your voice comes out quieter than youâd intended it to, but it doesnât even bother you.
Higuruma remains quiet for a heartbeat and another and another.
âNot at first,â he admits, a small, tired smile pulling at the corners of his lips. âBut Iâve had my suspicions after we had gotten married.â
You drop your gaze. You want to ask him how heâd found out, but itâs obvious and you feel stupid for allowing yourself to think that youâd keep your secret from someone who has spent majority of his life learning about faith and demons. If he knows what you are, thereâs no doubt that he knows what youâve done.
It makes you feel worse.
âIâmâIâm sorry,â you finally manage to find your voice.
You consider the fact that maybe, just maybe had you told him the truth before, you wouldnât feel as terrible as you do now. You left him to figure things out on his own and he must have felt so betrayed.
âWhat for, darling?â
You blink, brows knitting together. He sounds so unbothered, sounds like heâs already come to terms with what you are, but he canât possibly be entirely okay with it. What you do is life threatening to the human you feed off. Surely he knows that.
âUsing youâlying to you.â You eye Higuruma with a narrowed gaze. âArenât you mad? You donât hate me?â
Higuruma chuckles as he shakes his head, the sound deep and clearly amused.
âIâm not mad and I could never hate you, darling. Youâre my light, my love, the one Iâve devoted my life to. Youâve devoted your life to me, no?â
Higuruma gestures to the cathedral.
âDespite your intentions, you were still willing to step foot in one of the few places that I can only imagine would be taxing for you.â Higuruma leans forward, lifting you before swapping your positions, allowing you to sit on the bench while he kneels in front of you.
âAll I ask is that you show me all of you so that I can worship my wife in all her glory.â
You sputter. This isnât how youâd imagined this interaction to go, but youâre relieved. You canât deny that. Though, as much as the sight of Higuruma on his knees in front of you awakens something from deep within, it feels wrong.
And you know why. That position is reserved for followers and worshippers of gods and celestial beings.
âNo, I canâtâworshipping a demon is wrong, I canât justââ
âYou,â Higuruma cuts you off. âAre more than just a demon, youâre my shrine, my altar of sin.â
His hands find the hem of your dress before he begins to lift it slowly. His intentions hit you like a freight train.
âDespite what you may think, demon or not, you are the answer to my prayers, the one thing that keeps thisââ
He places a hand right above the organ that pumps his blood while still looking up at you like youâre his salvation, like youâre his saviour and seeing that alone makes something tug deep in your chest.
Youâve never been looked at like that by anyone else before. Which makes senseânot many look at a demon and immediately think that they deserve to be worshipped.
ââBeating over and over again. So let me worship you, let me give you my life because itâs yours.â
His words are as sweet as ever, but still, you havenât ever been on the receiving end of someoneâs prayer and devotion. Youâre not sure if itâs even allowed.
âGiving your life to the one you worshipâŠâ You start, eyes darting over Higurumaâs features where shadows dance due to the flickering light. It suits him somehow, brings out the charm in his features.
âIs that not⊠what churches and religions are for? Serving a god is what humans have been doing for the longest time.â
Higuruma is silent for a long moment and when he looks up at you with those sinful pair of half-lidded eyes as he peers up at you and you can feel your resolve crumbling.
Slowly. Painstakingly so.
âThat may be true, yes,â Higurumaâs thumb traces mindless circles over your knee before he places a lingering kiss there. âBut youâre forgetting something, darling.â
You blink, nibbling on your bottom lip before you allow yourself to speak.
âWhat is that?â
Higuruma pushes the skirt of your dress a little higher along your legs before placing a gentle kiss on your other knee. He presses his nose to it, breathing in the natural aroma of your skin.
âThere are many people, including myself, who donât need a church or religion to find something worth worshipping,â he pants, gaze heavy and pupils blown wide. âAnd Iâve got a wifeâmy wife who I will worship wherever and whenever I so please.â
You suck in a breath as Higuruma spreads your legs a little further, making room for himself right between them. Right now, he looks so sinful while dressed in that cleric attire, slotting himself between your thighs like an apostle ready to commit a sin.
He is about to.
âSo please⊠let me.â
There it is, the last of your resolve crumbling into dust. You lift the rest of your skirt for Higuruma, exposing your drenched panties to him.
His cock aches at the sight of the way the thin material clings to the shape of your pussy and for the life of him, Higuruma canât do anything other than inhale deepâan attempt to breathe in the scent of your need.
He wastes no time in slipping your panties down the smooth planes of your thighs before they reach your ankles and he immediately discards the useless piece of material to the side.
âBut first.â Higuruma pushes your thighs farther apart, allowing his greedy eyes to take in the way your need glistens under the warm glow of the lamp.
You swallow hard when he leans in, his warm breath fanning the apex of your thighs, right where youâre dripping with need.
His nose slots between your drenched pussy lips and he inhales like the lewd man that you didnât truly know him to be. He has been so dexterous at hiding even his deepest darkest desires from you that itâs almost scary.
Almost.
âLet me pray to her first.â Higuruma speaks directly into your sex before he pulls back enough, after a short stretch of silence, to meet your gaze.
âWant to know what the purpose of the prayer that Iâm going to use is?â
Before you can even think about it, you nod. Youâre far too desperate, far too needy to deny this man.
âIt shows praise,â Higuruma spreads your folds so that he can get a good look at your drenched cunt. âIt allows for an opportunity to implore.â
Without glancing away from your pussy, Higuruma leans forward, tongue darting out before he drags it along your slit, an action that pulls a gasp from you while he collects the honeyed slick that just driiips there before swallowing it all.
âAnd most of all,â Higurumaâs eyes snap up to your half-lidded gaze while your breaths come out in soft, gentle pants. âIt shows gratitude and only the lord knowsââ
Higuruma peers at where youâre weeping for attention before he flattens his tongue, trailing the warm muscle higher and higher until it reaches your clit and that earns him a desperate whimper from you.
ââHow grateful I am for thisâhckâthis sweet pussy.â
Then, with a sloppy SCHLIK! Higurumaâs tongue plunges deep into your velvety canal, massaging the crevices while his thumbs keep you nice and spread for him.
âOh god, Hiro!â Your legs spread on their own accord, like your body knows what it wants and what it needs.
Higuruma makes a sound, one that has the vibrations shooting straight through you.
âNo, darling,â he pants. âWeâre not praying to god, not right now.â
Higuruma shifts as he adjusts his grip, allowing his hands to find the plush undersides of your thighs, keeping them apart as he devours your cunt. He fucks you slow with his tongue, taking the time to savour your taste.
Then, he murmurs something under his breath, something that you donât quite catch, but you surely do catch the words that tumble from his mouth next.
âHail Mary⊠full of grace,â Higuruma mouths into your pussy, pausing for a moment to slurp all of your need that gushes from you as the arched bridge of his nose presses against your clit.
You squeal, grinding yourself on his nose that earns you a feral groan from the man that has his face buried between your thighs.
âThe lord is with thee.â
Higuruma laps at your pussy like a starved man, drinking from you like he isnât murmuring a prayer right into your cunt. Itâs sinful, so much so that you donât even know what to do with yourself.
Your hands are braced on either side of you, hips bucking as Higurumaâs nose grazes your sweet bundle of nerves. It feels so good, but you know that the prayer is doing more harm than good.
Your energy feels like itâs being extracted from youâlike an evil spirit that no longer has the power to possess its host.
Still, your need coats Higurumaâs face, pouring down the corners of his mouth while he blinks languidly, like he himself canât think clearly. Not even too long in and heâs struggling to fight the effect that both the scent and taste of you have on him.
âBlessed art thou⊠a-among⊠women.â
You shudder, fingers raking through his dark hair as your head tilts forward, lips parting as breathless pleas roll off your tongue.
âHiromi⊠that feels soâso good.â
He doesnât respond and youâre not sure if itâs on purpose or not. He doesnât even look away from where your arousal bubbles out of your needy orifice before heâs slurping that up too.
He truly is dedicated to praying to your pussy and heâs so focused.
âAnd blessed is theâhahâfruit of thy womb, Jesus.â
He all but smothers himself half to death, coating his lower half of his face with your sap.
âHoly Mary,â Higurumaâs tongue plunges so deep into you that even your need splatters out and he groansâin both satisfaction and the pain of dealing with a raging erection that presses up against his slacks.
The prayer itself is powerful enough to have goosebumps littering your skin, enough to have you panting as you break into a light sweat. Itâs not hurting you, not burning your insides the way many other demons have warned.
No.
The prayer simply feels like a leechâone that latches on to your soulâand all it does is suck and suck and suck the energy from you. The little bit of cum that youâd gotten from Higuruma isnât enough.
âMother ofâhckâgod,â Higuruma moans into you, eyes rolling back as you arch your back, using his face for your pleasure, using it to chase the feeling that you want.
âH-Hiromi, please.â
The pressure builds and builds and builds.
âPray for⊠us sinners.â
Heâs too far gone; too far gone to hear the way you call out so desperately for him. Heâs drunk, completely intoxicated and itâs your lacquer thatâs the cause.
âNow,â Higurumaâs tongue finds your clit again and he hollows out his cheeks before abusing the little bundle of nerves with his tongue.
He nips at your clit, humming to himself when you curse under your breath, brows knitting together as you tug on the roots of his hair.
âAnd at the hour of ourâhmmâdeath.â
âHiromi, please, Iâm gonna⊠gonnaââ
Your grip turns to iron, but Higuruma doesnât care, doesnât showcase anything that gives away the fact that heâs bothered by the way you tug on his messy strands of hair as you press his face deeper into your pussy.
And, as if hearing Higurumaâs prayer, your greedy orifice clenches around nothing just as a cry tears from your chest the moment your orgasm crashes over you, hitting hard. You all but bless him with your release, drenching his face in your candied slick that he gobbles up without hesitation.
His cock twitches painfully in its confines this time and Higuruma fights literal demons in order to keep from palming himself.
Your body responds so beautifully to his mouth and even just watching you buck and twitch as you use his nose to ride out your high has him nearly creaming his pants.
He has to fight it. He knows that he must.
âAmen.â Is the last thing he mutters before he slurps the dulcet answer to his prayer, tongue still bullying its way past your slick folds and grazing you where youâre most sensitive.
âHiroâmmnâtoo much⊠please.â
Higurumaâs eyes dart up when he hears the desperation in your voice and his eyes narrow while a smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth when his eyes settle on your forehead.
Two pretty horns adorn it, shaped in a way thatâs uniquely you.
âI was hoping that the prayer would help drain your energy more than what it has just so that I can see all of you, but as it seems,â Higuruma licks his lips and his eyes glint with something dark, something that youâve never seen before.
âMy wife is stronger than she looks, hmm? My strong little devil, yeah?â
Your brows furrow. Youâre still coming down from the effects of your orgasm, and youâre struggling to think clearly.
âWhatâwhat are you talking about?â
Higuruma slowly pulls his hands from where theyâd been resting on your thighs before pointing to his own headâright where horns protrude from yours.
âPretty additions I must say, sweetheart. I guess even horns make a fitting crown.â
Your hands shoot up, fingers grazing the base of the part of you that you hadnât seen, let alone felt in the longest time.
You hadnât been aware of them, and your horns are a testament to the fact that the battle that youâre having with yourself is one that you canâtâone that you wonât win because even if itâs piece by piece, youâre breaking down.
Slowly, but surely.
Heat pricks at your cheeks. You know that the longer you stay in this cathedral, the longer your husband keeps you here, the harder it is going to be to keep your guise up.
âNow,â Higuruma places a lingering kiss to your puffy clit before he pulls away and rises to his full height. âIâm going to worship my wife.â
Higuruma pulls you off from the bench, lifting you with ease as he carries you over to the altar and your heart skips a beat.
He places you on the edge of the altar, allowing your legs to dangle in the air before he works on pulling your dress right off from your body, leaving you exposed under his heated gaze.
Your nipples are hard and perky, chest heaving while slick still clings to the flesh between your thighs. The only difference about you right now and any other time Higuruma has taken the time to admire you are those very prominent horns on your head.
He knows that youâre growing tired, that youâre too weak to even bother hiding them again. He doesnât want you to. Youâve been hiding for years.
âSo beautifulâŠâ Higuruma murmurs as he leans down, arms bracketing your form as he litters kisses along your neck. âEvery inch of you is just perfect.â
Higuruma pushes you back until your spine hits the flat surface of the altar, adjusting your position enough so that he can stand directly between your thighs. You feel every single hard inch of his need press up against your pussy and you whine at the contact.
âHiromi⊠I wantââ
âMy cock?â Higuruma murmurs as he presses his lips to your collar bone. âI know, but youâll have to wait, darling. Your husband isnât finished worshipping you yet.â
His hands glide over your body, from your waist to your sides before they reach your tits and with a gentle graze of each thumb, he rolls your hardened nipples under the rough pads of his fingers, pressing down with just the right amount of pressure.
You whine, the sensation urging your back off the altar and your hands find Higurumaâs shoulders for support. Feeling him grounds you, offers you a safe haven that you never knew was possible.
âThat feels good.â
âI bet it does, huh?â Higuruma leans down, suckling on the plush mound of one of your breasts, leaving a little bruise behind before he takes his time marking you, relishing the taste of your flesh.
Your pussy clenches around nothing when Higuruma sucks on your nipple next, tongue lapping at the sensitive bud while his fingers play with the other. He divides his attention between both nipples, giving the other the same attention and your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer to where youâre still drenched with need.
He groans, grinding his hips against yours and the two of you gasp in unison.
âWanna feel you,â you utter while tugging on Higurumaâs cassock and he hums, lips finding the valley between your breasts before he finally pushes himself up again.
You want his skin on yours; you want to soak up the warmth of his flesh. Itâs what you crave aside from anything else.
âYour skin on mine⊠please?â
âWho am I to deny my prettiest sinner, hmm?â He whispers, hands undoing the buttons of his cassock before the black material falls to the floor and the simple button-down shirt that heâd worn beneath soon follows suit.
He's left in the dark slacks that hang low on his waist, his belt still unbuckled and a rosary that drapes around his neck. The sight is as divine as it is sinful. Higurumaâs figure only glows under the dim light above the altar, sculpted muscles rippling as he leans forward again and the rosary dangles over you and you inhale a sharp breath.
Higuruma follows your gaze and he exhales a chuckle as his hand envelopes the crucifix attached to the string of black beads, gentle gaze darting back to yours.
âThis wonât hurt you. Iâd never allow it to.â
âBut what ifââ
âLet me show you.â
Higuruma pulls the rosary off from around his neck and you gasp when he holds it up for your gaze. For a moment, he doesnât do anything, only allows it to hover over your flesh and when it doesnât burn like youâd anticipated, you release a heavy breath.
Youâre not sure whatâs going on. It seems that the warnings youâve heard from the rest of your kind were but mere lies.
âYouâre fine. Iâd never let harm befall you, darling.â
Then, Higuruma holds the edge of the crucifix to your slick pussy, and you whine at the sensation as he drags it along your puffy folds.
âSee? All good yes?â
You nod and Higuruma pulls the cross back only to replace it with his thumb. He gathers your slick before he moves to push back the hood of your clit so that he can expose it in all of its glistening and puffy glory.
âH-Hiro.â
âI know, sweetheart, I know. A little sensitive, arenât you?â
Higuruma presses the smooth surface of the crucifix right up against your clit this time, pushing down on the sensitive bundle of nerves just right.
A gasp slips from your lips at that, hips bucking as you push them off the altar, thighs clamping together and squeezing Higurumaâs wrist, but he shakes his head at that, using the hand that he used to bear your rosebud to spread your legs again.
âCome on, darling, we canât have you doing that now.â
âBut Hiromiââ
He wraps the beads of the rosary around his index and middle fingers before pushing the digits into the heat of your cunt, silencing you before you can even think about it. The pretty black beads graze your velvety walls as Higuruma thrusts his fingers in and out of your leaky orifice.
You whine all while he keeps the crucifix pressed to your clit and the combined sensations have you panting for breath.
âBe a good girl and grind that perfect little clit on the crucifix, my love. You can do that for me, canât you?â
You whimper, but nod nonetheless and before long, you buck your hips, choking on a mewl as your clit grazes the textured cross that Higuruma keeps pressed up against youânot too hard, but with just enough pressure to keep you hooked.
âThere you go, thatâs it. Look at you, my gorgeous, gorgeous wife.â
Youâre far too gone, still fighting to keep yourself from transforming back into your true form, into your true self and itâs consuming a lot more energy. Sucking Higuruma off isnât nearly enough to replenish the energy that you need while being in the cathedral.
âHiroâfeels so good, please, I wannaâahn.â
âWant to what, darling?â Higuruma curls his fingers when you thrust your hips up and the beads around them presses on that hidden sweet spot deep inside of you.
âFuck, Hiromi, I w-wannaâcumngh again.â
You buck your hips, whining as your clit presses against the crucifix in the most delicious way possible and your slick gushes from your cunt.
âAgain? So greedy.â
Higuruma keeps his gaze on your drenched pussyâincapable of looking away from the pretty sight, of the way your arousal oozes from your desperate little orifice, of the way your need pours from you.
He licks his lips, feeding you the bead-wrapped inches of his fingers with every thrust and buck of your hips.
âHiro,â his name rolls from your tongue like a mantra, a desperate little plea while your thighs quiver as you feel another orgasm build. âIâm gonna cum.â
âThen cum for me, darling. Cum so that I can give my greedy wife what she needs.â
And you do. Your walls flutter, muscles clenching around Higurumaâs fingers as he presses the crucifix harder against your clit. You roll your hips, grinding on it, riding out your high with the sweetest most dulcet sounds.
Slick oozes from you, dripping from you like nectar.
When you come down, Higuruma slides the crucifix lower, smearing your syrupy slick all over it, coating it with your release.
You make a little sound as he brings it to his mouth before Higurumaâs tongue glides over the flat surface of the cross, licking up your sap that he just canât seem to get enough of. He doesnât look away while he does so and it has heat coiling low in your gut.
âHiromi⊠please.â
Higurumaâs lips twitch at the corners as he slurps the last of your release off from the cross in his hands before he places a soft kiss on it, murmuring something about being grateful about his newly blessed gift.
Then, he releases the rosary before he frees his raging erection. It twitches in his grasp, and you drool at the sight. Higuruma taps his leaking tip to your sensitive clit before he smears your wetness along the tip of his cock, and you squirm, oversensitivity pulling a whine from you.
âGuess Iâve kept you waiting long enough, hmm?â
Higuruma lines himself up with your leaking entrance, hissing when his flushed tip pushes past your puffy folds. You hold on to him for dear life as sheathes himself fully inside you, reawakening your sensitive crevices.
âYou feel like heaven on earth, darling.â
Higuruma pulls out before pushing back into you with a SQUELCH! and the sound is so obscene, so lewd that you canât even fathom that itâs coming from you.
âSo tight, so wetâalways so wet.â
Higuruma kisses the corner of your mouth as you gasp and his arms cradle you, holding you close as he presses his chest to yours. He keeps the slow, rhythmic pace until youâre pleading for him to go harder.
He gives you what you want with a grunt, cock plunging deep and hitting your most sensitive parts repeatedly. You canât think straight, no thoughts linger in your fuzzy brain and youâre incapable of focusing on anything other than the feel of Higurumaâs cock stretching you out.
âHahâfeels so⊠mngh⊠you feel so good, Hiro.â
He drags his cock out, only to push back into your velvety innards with toe curling precision. He fucks you with hard, worshipful strokes, pulling the sweetest sounds from your drenched pussy and in the sounds echo like sinful whispers in the night.
âYou feel so good, my love.â Higuruma buries his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in as he drags out your pleasure.
âAnd if itâs cock that you want, if itâs cock that you need, Iâll gladly feed it to you over and over again.â
âYouâre so filthy, I donât think that youâah!â
The cusp of Higurumaâs cock smacks your cervix and you choke on a wail. Every thrust breaks down your ability to stay intact.
âAnd you canât hold on for much longer, can you, my gorgeous, gorgeous girl?â
You shake your head just as a whimper slips free.
âI canâtâ"
âThen transform back, show me all of what youâhahâare because,â Higurumaâs cock reaches deeper and deeper and it becomes increasingly difficult for you to think clearly. âIt doesnât matter what form you take, I will alwaysââ
He groans as he delivers a single thrust that has the tip of his leaking cock pressing riiight on your sweet spot and you cry out, feeling your strength crumble, feeling the way your body fights so desperately to hold on, but youâre weak.
Too weak.
ââlove you the same.â
Higurumaâs hands find the underside of your knees as he presses forward, and he keeps you spread while pushing your knees back until theyâre pressed to your chest.
His cock reaches deeper than ever before with the change in position and itâs that sensation that is your undoing.
Youâre unable to hold on any longer, unable to find the strength that it takes for you to maintain your last semblance of humanity and before long, your skin colour slowly fades, tinting a pretty, pretty hue that isnât at all natural for a human along every single inch of your body.
Your wings struggle behind you, flapping uselessly while you hold onto Higuruma like only he can save you from how overstimulated you are.
âWould you just look at thatâŠâ
Higurumaâs eyes rove over your features and if possible, he falls all the more in love with you. He delivers another thrust before he rolls his hips, stretching you good and you cry out.
âYou truly are perfect, huh? My perfect, perfect wife.â
His hips stutter and his cock twitches, pre-cum leaking from the tip and when he thrusts in again, youâre creaming on his cock with a choked cry, eyes rolling back as you claw at Higurumaâs back.
Your orgasm steals your breath, constricts your lungs and has your legs shaking while you moans fall from your lips like sweet hymns that soothe Higurumaâs soul. His orgasm is quick to follow suit and Higuruma groans as he empties himself inside of you, your amalgamation of sap oozing out and back onto the base of his cock.
He helps you ride out your high, cock pistoning into your cunt just, just right, prolonging your pleasure in a way that has you seeing heaven.
You see it, you taste it and itâs magnificent.
When the pleasure ebbs, the two of you stay like thatâbreathless, panting messes. You feel much better, but youâve yet to get out of the cathedral. Youâre still weak despite the new flow of energy.
âI donât understand why you hid this version of yourself from me.â Higuruma murmurs, unmoving as he nuzzles your neck. âPerhaps I should keep you here so that you can embrace the worship that you deserve.â
You shake your head.
âI canât stay in the cathedral, Hiro.â
Higuruma hums before he sighs, breath fanning the heated flesh of your neck before he pulls away. He seems torn by whatever is warring in his mind.
âThis cathedral, my love, is not real.â
Your brows furrow, eyes darting around the interior and Higurumaâs eyes light up with mirth.
âStructurally, yes, it isâbut it wasnât built for the purpose of worshipping a god.â
Youâre confused and Higuruma sees that. As bright as day.
âMaybe this will help you understand.â
Higuruma stills for a moment, and you want to ask him what on earth heâs doing, but you feel it before you see it. Higurumaâs hips jerk while he braces his hands on either side of your head.
Your vision goes blurry for a moment, and you gasp, back arching as Higurumaâs cock swells while he keeps himself buried deep inside your warm confines. He stretches you, and your breathing grows ragged while he hisses.
He's growing bigger somehow and it has you whining because the stretch feels obscene. Itâs too much.
âWhat areâHiromiâugh.â
He grows bigger, every single inch of him. His limbs morph into a different shape, his flesh stains darker, though the shade differs to yours. Large horns adorn his head while a long tail, one that matches yours flicks behind him and when he finally finishes his own transformation, your eyes go wide.
Not just from surprise, but because your pussy chokes on his girth.
Your eyes rove his new features, weâll the features that he too kept hidden from you. This is the last thing that youâd expected to happen tonight, but it somehow makes sense.
Everything makes sense; the strength of his soul, his ability to ensure that no harm has been able to come to you, the reason why he wasnât mad when he revealed that he knew what you were and everything else in between.
You open your mouth to say something, anything, but your ability to speak betrays you.
Higuruma notices your speechlessness and his chuckle rumbles deep and, despite the immense change that happened right before your eyes, his gaze is no different from beforeâitâs still gentle, still full of adoration, still worshipful.
You find your voice before he can say anything.
âYou built the cathedral.â
âYes, darling. I didâmany, many years ago.â
âYou made me believe that it was real by absorbing my mana.â
Itâs not a question.
âI did, yesânothing thatâd harm you.â
Higuruma places a kiss on your cheek before he lifts a hand to cradle your smaller one so that he can bring it up to cup his face. Your thumb moves mindlessly, drawing light circles on his cheek as Higuruma keeps your hand there.
âIâve given you some of mine too, so I hope that you can forgive me.â
A beat of comfortable silence passes and not because youâre angry or struggling to come to terms with what youâve just discovered. Youâre simply allowing yourself to get a grip on the fact that youâd been right about whatâd happen when your secret is revealed.
Your life is going to change, though, just not in the way you anticipated.
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A/N: Amen. Aman. A manâA deman.

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i stole this off pinterest iâm sorry but i resonate with it on a deep level