Holy Holy Holy Fuck, This Is So Good. My Heart Is RACING At The Ending It Has Been So Long Since A Fic

holy holy holy fuck, this is so good. my heart is RACING at the ending 😭😭😭 it has been so long since a fic made me feel this much, so thank you!!! slytherin gojo is truly what i needed. will be awaiting part 2 patiently 🙇🏾‍♀️

𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

summary: six years ago, when they placed that sorting hat on your head, nobody expected for it to assign the muggleborn to the slytherin house, but it did. six years later, you find yourself as alone as the day you walked through those doors. little did you expect the prince of slytherin, the pureblood maniac himself, gojo satoru, to be the one to coincidentally fill your empty hours.

warnings: gojo is a pureblooded slytherin, slight angst, slight messy makeout

word count: 12.6k

note: yes, there is going to be a part two. yes, it'll probably come out later this week. thank you to @jadeisthirsting for beta reading as always!

slytherin!gojo masterlist + jjk masterlist

When you were little, all the strange and peculiar things that happened to you, such as Ms. Bromsely, the awful maths teacher's desk going up in flames, or Patricia Gallaghers rings disintegrating after she teased your dress, were chalked up to chance or just something else.

Your mother was too busy covering extra shifts down at the pub to worry about it, so she rarely made an occurrence to the meetings your headmaster had scheduled, resulting in very awkward meetings with just you as you were explained how peculiar it was that you always seemed to be in the middle of all these weird occurrences.

So when that brown spotted owl almost crashed into your bedroom window at the ripe age of eleven, explaining that you were chosen to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, you suspected that one of your classmates was playing a cruel joke on you, but alas, it turned out to be very real. 

You were whisked away soon enough, stumbling your way in some sort of haze through Diagon Alley, and then in a blink of your eyes, you found yourself waving goodbye to your mother from that red train, on your way to a life you may have only imagined when you were younger, dreaming of a place far away from where you were.

And you loved it.

The feasts, the history-soken steps that you walked on every day to get to class, the little town that was within walking distance that you could go to every weekend. 

While most of the students here had been introduced to this early on in their lives, you hadn’t. Your mother was just as shocked and as bewildered as you were all those years ago, and given your special circumstances, sometimes you wondered if you were yet to see the thick of it, wondering if some things were hidden from you given your upbringing, given your blood.

But you blinked out of your stupor, being brought down from your daydream to the sound of quills scratching, the smell of faint smoke burning in the background, and the quiet sounds of different animals in their cages. All of these tall-tell signs of the transfiguration classroom. 

After years of spending time in this classroom, it slowly became one that you’d look forward to, and despite most Slytherins having an aptitude for potions or defense against the dark arts, transfiguration was where you shined the best.

The light that carded through the high arching windows illuminated the desks, and you were glad seeing how the back of the classrooms was usually the most poorly lit place. Unfortunately, they’re the only places you found yourself sitting throughout the years, which is just another reason why this specific classroom in itself brought you a slight sense of comfort. 

“...cross-species and inter-species transfiguration is one of the most difficult, if not the most difficult, sort of transfiguration to achieve. Even the most accomplished witches and wizards find themselves struggling with it,” you watched as Professor McGonagall walked around the front of the classroom, her graying hair pulled into a tight bun behind her head, her emerald robes swaying behind her like green waves, “The only way we were able to replicate this form of magic is through ancient runes.” 

Her eyes raked over all the students of the class, to make sure that everybody was understanding the weight of her words. As seventh years it was expected that you all would be ready to face the challenges of such a high-level class. But especially with Professor McGonagall, seeing just how difficult her classes usually were. 

“Of course, this was all covered during your fourth years, so I hope that some of you,” she gave a knowing look over her glasses, “Remember your lessons.” 

You momentarily caught her eyes.

You squirmed in your seat, knowing that her displeased look was directed to the Gryffindor’s sitting next to you. The boy to your left had his mouth open in a large yawn, promptly shutting it when McGonagall looked at him, and the girl to your right was busily finicking with a piece of parchment, trying to figure out how to enchant it so that it could turn into a swan to send to her boyfriend who was sitting across the class. 

You loved Hogwarts. Most of the time. 

The reason why you usually found yourself at the back of class, sitting with people you barely knew, and the reason why you were yet to experience most of the core memories other witches and wizards your age experienced was because you weren’t welcomed the way other would be by their assorted houses. 

Nearly six years ago, when Professor McGonagall placed that sorting hat on your head, you didn’t know what to expect. 

You had heard from some of the people that you sat near on the train that Gryffindor was best. Of course, the boy who said it came from a family of Gryffindors, but his friends seemed to agree with him. Ravenclaw was only for the smart people, which you hoped you might be sorted into and Huffelpuffs were known for their loyalty, which, judging by your mother's statement about how you dared to leave home, you didn’t have much of. 

But the Slytherin house seemed…forbidden. 

At least for you, anyways. 

“And what about that girl we saw?” One of the boys pointed outside the carriage window into the little hall outside, pointing to a much older girl wearing green robes, walking with some other friends who wore adorning colors, “What house is she in?” 

The other boy, who seemed to have the most knowledge out of anyone, scoffed, shaking his head. 

“Not for you, sorry,” he leaned in closer as if he were telling a secret. You tried to listen in, not making it obvious seeing how you weren’t any of their friends and how this was the only cart available with space, “That’s the Slytherin house.” 

“Why’s it not for me?” The other boy argued, his face pulled into a scowl.

“Well, Slytherins are many things. Ambitious, cunning,” the other boy said but shook his head disapprovingly, “But above all else, they’re all purebloods. Some are half-bloods, but even that’s rare. You’re coming from a muggle family. My father works at the ministry, and he says that some of the people in his department who were Slytherin still despise muggle-borns and muggles even long after they’ve left.”

So you had a basic understanding of what to expect. Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Gryffindor.

But when the hat cried out “Slytherin!” you almost jumped in your seat, looking behind you at the professor, your face of hesitancy surely mirroring hers. 

And you soon found out that the boy on the train (who was sorted into Gryffindor, big shock), was right. Word spread quickly that a muggle-born was sorted into Slytherin, the first in centuries, and that it surely must’ve been a mistake. 

But the sorting hat doesn’t go back on its word, and what was said was done. So six and a bit years later you found yourself as the pariah of your own house and were forced to fade into the background to avoid any further trouble. 

“...and this is the one project in which I’m having you work with partners, picked by me, of course. The research that is needed to go into this is too much to be done alone.” Professor McGonagall continued, and you perked up in your seat a little bit, your brows furrowing at her words. 

You felt a part of your heart race at the thought. Normally when professors assigned partners, it either left you with a fellow Slyhterin who hated your existence and forced you to do the project on your own, or somebody from another house who didn’t know you and forced you to do the project on your own. 

Your tongue felt heavy as she began reading off the paired names on her list, your hands becoming clammy. 

“Miss Finnegan and Mister Belton. Miss O’Shea and Miss Adan,” The girl next to you, who you quickly pieced together was Leila O’Shea groaned, her face depleted as she realized she wasn’t going to be paired with her boyfriend, and you watched as she sulkily went to the other girl's desk. 

You listened in anticipation as she went down the list, your heart beating loudly and comically in your chest the closer it seemed that she was getting to the end. 

“Mister Reeve and Mister Thompson,” she paused momentarily as she watched the two boys clap each other on the back, her lips threatening to quirk up into a smile, just waiting to read what foolishness they were going to write, “Miss Ward and Mister Green,” you felt like you might be getting off the hook, that maybe she took pity on you but it all came crashing down when she looked at you, a knowing look in her eyes far worse than pity as she read your name along with perhaps the singular person you would’ve paid all your money to not be paired with, 

“…will be with Mister Gojo,” you heard some of your housemates laugh out loud, some of them pushing at the boy and ruffling his hair as if he were the one that was going to face the brute of everything. He sat near the front, and you could see a flash of his white hair as he begrudgingly began to pack his things up, having no choice but to sit next to you seeing how the seats next to him were filled up. 

You watched as she rolled the piece of parchment back up as if she hadn’t just sentenced your public execution, and she raised a singular thin brow at the faces that were looking back at her, “Well? Get a move on. This essay is due in a month.”

You tried to take in a deep breath, your eyes trained on the blank piece of parchment in front of you as if you couldn’t hear his footsteps getting closer and closer to you, as if you didn’t just feel his robes brush up against your legs as he sunk into his seat.

This can’t possibly be happening.

Anybody would’ve been better than him. Even Marley Petterson and her constant poking and teasing about how your clothes were held together by scraps, and how you must’ve lived with mud people before you came to Hogwarts would’ve been better than him. Being forced to be a partner with the Prince of Slytherin was torture, and you wonder if after all these years Professor McGonagall was just now starting to show her distaste towards you. 

That day on the train was the first time you heard his name. 

“You see that boy? The one with the white hair?” The boy discreetly pointed out the window to one of the kids standing outside your cart. All the other boys hurriedly nodded, each craning their necks to get a better look at him, “He’s a Gojo. He comes from a line of Slytherins, each one worse than the one before. They’re purebloods, obviously. You wouldn’t find a speck of anything else in them. They’re rich too, filthy rich. They could buy this school if they wanted to.” All the other boys guffawed, but he seemed serious as if this stranger's family was nothing to be taken lightly. 

“When it comes to Slytherins, there are four families to be wary of. There’s the Gaunts and the Malfoys. There’s the noble house of Black, but lastly…them. House Gojo is one that every other wizarding family steers away from.”

After the day you were sorted you also quickly realized why most wizarding families stayed away from them. His word seemed to be law, and all the other Slytherins, especially those in his inner circle, held him to it. 

You peeked from the corner of your eye, watching as he unpacked all his supplies, his face contorted in obvious anger and disgust, and you thickly swallowed. You had done a good job in staying away from him these past couple of months, fortunate enough to only be called a mudblood and an offense to their ancient house a couple of times by him and his posse. 

His left-hand ring finger almost caught your eye in the sun, the gold ring with his house emblem shining brightly, a clear reminder of your difference with him, and you tried to hide your old school bag, riddled with holes and stains, something you just couldn’t replace. 

When he was done unpacked, he sat there for a couple of seconds, the silence between the two of you thick and heavy. You felt like you could choke on it, your fingers twitching to do something, to leave.

“...this is insulating…” he was talking to himself, shaking his head in disbelief as you sat awkwardly, not knowing what to do.

Gojo Satoru wasn’t one for many words. You had observed him from afar, long enough to see that aside from the occasional words he’d exchange with his closest friends or the few times he’d mutter traitor under his breath when the two of you locked eyes, he was a more brooding type of person. 

When he was angry, he hid it well. His cheeks might’ve flushed a bit, his nose flaring, but he never made an outburst. Which is why, at this moment, you could tell that he wasn’t in a particularly elated mood. 

“I…” you started, your mouth going dry at the way his eyes snapped to you, cold and cruel, “I can do the essay. I’ll get it done in time…if you want.” 

Most times your partners would just tell you to do the work, expecting (and knowing), you’d just say yes and go along with your day. But here, you couldn’t afford to let your guard down, rather having your pride be bitten at rather than your overall self. 

You heard him snort, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he rolled his eyes. 

“What? And have you do everything wrong?” His voice was hushed and clipped as if talking to you a second longer than needed would ruin him and everything he and his family stand for. 

He unrolled his piece of parchment, opening up his book as he kept his head down. 

“Well, I’m fairly decent with transfiguration,” you spoke up, trying for a smile that quickly fell when you felt his eyes burn into yours. For most of your time at Hogwarts, the only times you’ve ever really spoken to Gojo was when he was hurling insults at you, his words spurred on by his group of friends behind him. 

Gojo Satoru knew his worth. He knew that his family name would last through centuries and that the gold his family owned could buy out the entire ministry if they wanted to. Those around him treated him as such; as if his word was law. It also didn’t help that he was incredibly charming, growing into his looks over the years. 

You watched as he grew taller, his lanky figure now filled out with muscles that you could sometimes see through the baggy uniform. His eyes were always a topic of conversation, the infamous Gojo blue. His arctic white hair grew a little longer, sometimes falling in his face when he wasn’t aware. He was gorgeous, and you couldn’t even lie to yourself that he wasn’t.

Aside from his looks, he was also freakishly smart. If he hadn’t been sorted into Slytherin you were sure that Ravenclaw would’ve been fitting for him as well. He was always top of the class with O’s on every exam. 

Above all else, he knew his difference from everybody else. Even his closest (pureblooded) friends weren't even near his level. Even before he could walk, he’s been told of this. Not only that but he’s been told of the vileness of muggleborns. How their nature threatens the very fabric of wizarding society, and how muggles who have somehow been blessed with magical abilities are below humans, that they don’t deserve the rights every other witch and wizard has. 

Which means that you, the sole muggle-born in Slytherin, stood against everything Gojo Satoru believed. You were an abnormality, inhuman, somebody that he should resent for even existing.

“Well, we could always divide the work…?” You offered, your feet anxiously bouncing on the ground as you waited for his response. One of the blessings of sitting so far away from everyone else is that sure, they looked over to see how this was going, but at least they couldn’t listen in as you embarrassed yourself even further. 

His eyes darted over to your paper, blinking once, deep in thought. 

He sighed deeply through his nose, swallowing thickly as he gave you a singular, curt nod. 

“Hm,” he hummed, not even sparing you a glance as he began going to work, his pen scratching against the paper as his eyes began reading over the page, “But I’ll read what you write,” he said quickly, “I refuse to have my rank tank just because you mudbloods can’t do your work properly.” 

Mudblood  

After six years of it, you know you should’ve gotten used to it, but the stinging in your chest would argue otherwise. 

Your shoulders sank, eyes falling to the ground as your fingers fidgeted. You murmured something inaudible as you opened your book to the page McGonagall instructed you to. 

—

The days moved on and everything continued as it always did. 

The essay you had to write with Gojo was a slight hindrance in your usual schedule, but the two of you worked in silence in class and never interacted outside of it. Sometimes when his elbow would accidentally bump into yours as the two of you were busy writing he’d make a sort of noise in the back of his throat, his hand snatching back quickly as if you had somehow burnt him, but that was the most of your interactions. 

Sometimes when you were in the common rooms, late at night, you could hear him talking with his friends, talking about how heinous and ridiculous it was that McGonagall paired the two of you together, but you tried to ignore it.

That following week you found yourself back in the transfiguration classroom, working away quietly as you tried to understand the scriptures on the pages you had to read. You found yourself lucky that this subject was the one you might have some sort of talent in, seeing that this sort of ancient magic was just as difficult as McGonagall made it out to be. 

You heard some mumbling next to you, your eyes discreetly looking over at your partner, only to find his head in his hands as his brows furrowed in both annoyance and confusion. 

“...what does this…?” You heard him say to himself, watching as he flipped the page back and forth as if he was missing something. 

You looked back at your work, the talking around the room drowning out whatever it was that Gojo was saying to himself. 

Or at least you tried to drown out the noise, if not for the fact that your partner made some sort of sudden movement that managed to knock his ink bottle down, spilling ink all over the table. You moved your work to the side, watching as some of the ink soaked into your robes.

“Fuck,” he snapped, moving suddenly from his chair so that the ink would drip onto his clothes, “damn it,” he looked around almost helplessly, his hands clenching in anger after seeing all his hard work soaked up in black. 

“Wait,” you suddenly say, your arm outstretching over his body, watching as his head snaps over to you, “Stop moving for a second.”

He didn’t have much time to bite back at how dare you order him around because you had already begun to pull out your wand, flicking it on a quick movement as you murmured “tergeo,” watching as the ink slowly yet surely began clumping up in the middle of the table, going back with snake-like movements into its bottle. 

There was a beat of silence. 

Gojo sat still in his seat, his lips pursing as he finally let out a deep breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing at his eyes. 

“Thanks,” he said, but it seemed like he had to bite the word out, choking on it as if thanking you was taking too much of his mental willpower to do. 

You nodded briefly, still watching him as he settled back into his seat. 

“Uh,” you scratched at the back of your neck, knowing that you’d probably regret asking this in a matter of seconds, but somehow not able to stop yourself as you continue talking, “I don’t mean to be rude, or intrude, but is everything alright?”

You hold your breath as you watch Gojo sigh, his eyes shutting briefly. You braced yourself to be snapped at, to be victim to yet another reminder of how much you’ve tarnished the Slytherin name, but he just shakes his head. 

“No,” he seethes, but when he peeks over at you he licks his lips, gnawing on the inside of his cheek as he grabs his papers, moving it over to the middle of you two as he motions to it, “Everything is not alright. Something’s wrong with the book…and I have no idea what. I’ve read this page at least twenty times and it makes no bloody sense to me,” 

You try to hide your surprise. 

That’s probably the most he’s ever spoken to you without any mention of your muggle heritage. 

You move in a little closer to look at what he’s pointing to. You try not to heat up under his stare, squinting your eyes as you try to make sense of what it was he was writing, trying to hide your reactions when you realize that he was doing most of it wrong. 

The point of this essay was to learn about the origins of cross-species transfiguration, and eventually an animagus transformation and how it even came to be. 

You had to reference at least five other books and scrolls to piece together the correct herbs and spells needed to even begin the process. McGonagall honestly probably told everybody to reference the textbook because there was nothing in it. This essay was a testament to how many people went out of their way to learn about the true nature of transfiguration. 

What Gojo had written was something you were sure almost everybody else was writing as well, a mistake you almost made. His research was simple and black and white, and he was getting everything wrong because he was missing at least ten different very important points. 

“So,” you swallowed nervously, chewing on your already chapped lips, “You have the main ideas down,” which was a lie, “But there are just some things-” Before you could even finish your sentence the bell tower chimed once, twice, and then a final time, telling everybody that their class was over. 

All around you people began hurriedly packing up, surely excited for lunch, the chatter of conversations growing in volume, and you didn’t have to look at Professor McGonagall to know that she was irked by her student's sudden enthusiasm to leave. 

Gojo sat motionless, still looking over at you, waiting impatiently for you to finish. 

“I…” you scratched at your hands, “I can’t go over everything right now, but tomorrow I’ll bring in the other-” He raised his hand, packing up his bag as he cut you off. 

“No, not tomorrow, I’m already behind,” you watched as he shoved his papers into his leather bag, “Just explain it now.” 

You wanted to laugh, not knowing how long it might take to explain your twisted thinking process to him and you doubted he wanted to stay in this classroom with you for a minute longer. 

“Well, there’s quite a bit of things,” you searched for the right word, “Missing. I have to study for the potions exam right now, but I’m going to be in the library tonight anyway. I could show you then…?” 

You stood at your chair, your eyes looking up into his, wavering. 

What did you just do? Surely he’d laugh now in your face, roll his eyes at how absurd it was that you could even suggest such a thing, just as he usually does.

Instead, he looks at you, then at his paper, and then at yours, which is at least three pages long at this point. He’d never admit it out loud, but you were understanding this assignment better than him and nobody in his group seemed to understand it as well as you were. 

“Fine,” he runs a hand through his hair, the white sticking out between his fingers like snow perched on grass.

Your brows furrow, your lips pursing together in sudden confusion. 

“What, okay,” you fiddle with your fingers, tugging on them in that anxious way you always do, watching him tighten the straps on his bag, “But wait, what time…” You try to call out but he has already left, his robes swaying behind him as you stand alone at your seat.

You slowly begin to pack up, your thoughts running at what you have just done.

—

The potions exam went well enough, but you couldn’t stress out about it too much right now. 

After dinner (which you ate earlier than most, too anxious to be late), you made your way to the library, found a table near the back, somewhere that didn’t get a lot of foot traffic, and set up your workstation for the time being. 

Amongst many of the amenities Hogwarts had, the library was one of them you loved dearly. 

It wasn’t usually too busy, but it filled up quickly the night before some exams. But you didn’t mind it, you liked being surrounded by people. In the Slytherin common rooms, you usually had to wait until everybody had filtered out or had gone to bed before you could make your way down, not wanting to face their icy looks or the way they’d talk behind their hands when you were near, so you opted to be in the library above anything else. 

The muted sounds of pages turning, of people talking in hushed whispers, and the books that would sometimes rearrange themselves were calming. You liked the candles that were lit carefully around the large room, illuminating it deep into the night. 

You made sure that the work you had already written was set out, your quill resting straightly adjacent to it, your ink pot above it. Your pile of books sat neatly to the left. You wanted to seem as organized and as composed as you could, this might be your one chance to show the prince of Slytherin that you weren’t the slob he must imagine you as. 

The clock on the wall ticks, and you note that it’s nearly ten minutes till five. You chew on your lips, cracking your fingers as you keep your eyes trained on the door, waiting for the familiar mop of white hair to appear. 

After the first ten minutes, you begin fidgeting again, moving your papers centimeters above where they were as if they could appear any straighter. You weren’t wearing the usual house robes, and you hoped that your decision didn’t cause him to walk in, scan the area, and leave because he didn’t see what he expected to see. 

But you pushed those worries aside, just doing your best to watch the people who filed in and out of the large double doors. 

After the clock struck six, you began to stop looking at the doors, instead choosing to just get some work done while you were here, and opened up one of the books. Of course, he probably just lied just because he wanted to. There might be some of his friends standing outside, snickering as they watched you wait stupidly. 

You felt your cheeks heat up in embarrassment, feeling like an idiot.

For the next half hour, you busied yourself with reading about the start of the animagus process, about the mandrake leaf, and the strenuous process of keeping it on your tongue for an entire month. 

Around you, you could hear the scrapping of chairs on the floor, and how most of the people were beginning to leave seeing that it was getting pretty late. The library closes promptly at eight, and although it was an hour till that happened, most people left till then. 

Your eyes flitted to the door, not seeing anybody, and deflated. 

Stupid, you repeated in your head. 

So you began shutting the books strewn out in front of you, packing them all up in your bag as you rubbed at your tired eyes. Madam Pince also made a deal if you left any ink splotches on the table, so you cast a quick tergeo charm to clean up any spots you might’ve missed. 

“You’re leaving?” 

You looked up from the table, eyes squinting to see his tall figure standing in front of you, his face flushed red, sweat dotting on his brow bone as a bit of his hair stuck to his face. Gojo was panting, his chest heaving up and down as if he had just run across the entire castle, and his brows were creasing in the middle, looking down at you as you seized your packing. 

You note his green quidditch robes and muddy boots. 

“I, um,” you looked at the nearly empty table in front of you, and you shook your head, giving him a small smile, “No, no, I just got here.” 

He looked at your bag, as if not believing you, but not caring too much as he hummed in the back of throat, rounding the table, and plopped himself down in the seat in front of you. 

Wordlessly, Gojo began taking out his supplies, and you figured you might as well, setting everything back up to where you initially had it.  You watched as he slyly looked around the two of you, his shoulder becoming less tense when he realized it truly was just the two of you left in the library. 

“Practice took up too much time,” he mindlessly explains, a clear explanation for why he looked so different from the put-together self he usually is. He pushed some of his hair out of his face, his breathing still a little erratic. 

You nod, swallowing thickly as you pretend to understand the ins and outs of quidditch. 

You were aware that amongst one of the many things Gojo could do, on his long lists of talents (which if there was a list would consist of his ability to speak five languages or his incredible ability to calm any creature down), was that he was an amazing seeker. 

While you weren’t very familiar with how quidditch worked, despite trying to best to follow along with others' conversations as you listened in, you could understand that his forte on a broomstick wasn’t talked about just because he was Gojo Satoru. 

He was fast on his broomstick, and thought it could be chalked up to the fact that every year he came to practice with the newest model, he could whize past anybody. He was nimble as well. With how large his hands were, larger than the other house seekers, he was able to secure a win for almost every single match ever since he got recruited. Last year he was named captain of the Slytherin quidditch team, so you were able to piece together that he got held up with the recent tryouts.

“That’s um,” you scratch at your arm awkwardly, “That’s alright…okay so I’ll try to be as quick as I can, but there’s a lot that McGonagall wants us to do,” you start slowly, letting his get situated as you push forward the first book that helped you out, “Oh, that textbook doesn’t help…right now,” you quickly said as you saw him pull out the assigned reading, saw how he looked at you for a second, his face scrunching up in an unreadable emotion. 

“This one is good, though,” you motion to the one in front of you. 

Gojo’s movements are slow as he takes it, eyes scanning over the title until he looks back at you. 

He doesn’t do much talking, you decide. 

“This book covers cross-species transfiguration, but it briefly mentions inter-species transfiguration. But the author referenced this one,” you pull out the other hefty textbook, sliding it over to him, “And this covers all things related to inter-species transfiguration and then goes into animagus transfigurations.” 

You pause, biting your cheek to stop you from rambling on. Transfiguration was something that you could talk about forever and ever, and you’d never really talked about out loud to anybody else up until now. 

“McGonagall said that the essay was on inter-species, she never mentioned animagus transfiguration,” Gojo said suddenly, pushing the two textbooks back, letting out a heavy sigh as if this was all a waste of his time.

You nod slowly, picking at some of the skin around your nails.

“R-right, and you’re right,” you quickly sputter, nodding, “But because cross-species and inter-species transfiguration are so close together, I doubt that this was what she wanted our month-long essay to be about. Which is why,” you pull out some old essays you had done earlier in the year, “I referenced back to these animagus essay’s we had done. I mean, she wouldn’t introduce us to the topic and then drop it for no particular reason, right? I suspect she wanted us to piece the two and two together.”

Gojo gently took the papers from your outstretched hand, his eyes raking over your words, and then back to the textbooks. He seemed to read it intently as if things were slowly starting to click for him. 

“Which is why the textbook she gave us isn’t really helpful, because it resembles more of an herbology textbook rather than transfiguration. So I think that this textbook, if anything, should be referenced at the end of the essay, seeing how it mentions the mandrake leaf and the properties of the chrysalis of a Death’s-head Hawk Moth. It’s all instructions on how to become an animagus without saying it.”

His eyes, a different shade of blue in the candlelight, watched your every moment. He listened carefully as you eventually did end up rambling, watching the way your face, on its own accord, twisted into a proud smile at your clever handiwork. 

You abruptly stop to catch a breath and glance up at him apologetically. 

“I’m sorry, I went too fast,” you shake your head, rubbing your temple in your hands, tired from staring at textbooks for as long as you’ve had. 

“No…it made sense,” Gojo murmurs suddenly, his lips pulled into a thin line as he quickly looks away from you, back down to his work which was now surely long after your in-depth analysis, twisting and turning that gold ring on his finger, the one he always wore, the symbol of his family crest as he looked through the books you had offered him. 

You stay silent, not knowing what to do, resting back in your seat, picking your nails. 

“Well, that’s all of it,” you rub your hands against your pants, your dry eyes blinking a couple of times, yearning for sleep.

“You could’ve said this during class,” he said, still reading, his attention preoccupied, as if this was a hindrance to him. 

You wet your lips, trying not to clench your hand in anger, frustration, and years of pent-up emotions, as you slowly nod, pulling the leather strap of your bag over your shoulders as you begin to stand up. 

“Right, sorry,” you apologize quietly, taken aback when he suddenly looks up at you, as if startled but you didn’t feel like spending any more in the presence of someone who despised you anyways, “goodnight,” you bid farewell, not noticing how he had opened his mouth to say something, scurrying out of the library as you make your way back to the common rooms before he could.

—

The next day at transfigurations, the two of you didn’t speak to one another at the beginning of class, like normal. 

You took out your books like normal, as did he, and began writing silently, like normal. Everything was going normally until he suddenly paused, his hand wavering above his essay as he set his quill down, turning his head over to you.

“Can I see what you’ve written?” 

You stop writing, eyes darting to the side as if you had misheard him.

Gojo points to the papers you’ve been working on as if you didn’t understand his first command. 

Wordlessly, you pass it over to him. 

He reads it over a couple of times, flipping through your endless pages, muttering some words to himself now and then. You would wager that compared to other people you had made far more progress in terms of how much you’d compiled, so you weren’t necessarily worried about the time restraint on this essay. 

You couldn’t say the same for him, however. 

You’ve never seen him look so intense, his brows furrowed and his lips pursed in clear concentration. He almost seemed frustrated, and it was a strange thing to see from somebody so usually put together. 

“Our work together is too divided, it looks like we haven’t been working with each other,” Gojo says as if that wasn’t purely what was the issue. 

You didn’t say anything, wanting to see what idea he’d propose.

“I need to finish the rest of these texts,” he jutted his chin to the textbooks you had given him last night, “We can work on the essay after classes are over, in the common room.” 

A part of you wanted to laugh at him as if he had just joked. 

But Gojo Satoru was not a joking sort of person. You rarely saw him smiling, even when with his friends, and it was even rarer for him to say something of any comedic value. Which could only mean that he was being serious and that he truly was proposing to work in the common rooms with…you.

A little snort escapes your lips, looking at him as if he were crazy. He looked at you as if you were the crazy one.

“I don’t go to the common rooms after class, it’s too busy,” you explained slowly to him, wondering if he was daft and even after all this time didn’t take the time to understand your situation. 

He blinked, eyes narrowing. 

“...and?” 

Your head tilted to the side, confused. 

“Well…there’s people there,” you explain even further. 

He scoffs, rolling his eyes as if you were stupid. 

“Ironically, that is the point of a common room.” Gojo looks back to his essay, picking up his quill as if he were done with this conversation, but you pushed.

“Right,” you say more curtly, nose flaring, “For you, it might be. But people don’t want me there.” You say, a truth that you had to stomach, something that you grew used to after too many unsavory encounters with other Slytherins when you tried to come down to the common rooms during social hours. 

“So during the hours of two to eight, you don’t go to the common room?” He didn’t even look up, his voice sarcastic, not believing such an insane thing.

“No.” You reply as if it was obvious as if he should at least know that this is why you rarely ever make an occurrence unless it’s early in the morning or late at night. 

That finally gets him to stop and look at you, confusion woven into his expression. 

“What?” He set his pen down again, and you noted that his eyes seemed a different shade of blue when he was confused, a little bit lighter than usual, he seemed like he was the only one not in on some sort of joke, “So from two to eight you just stay in your room?” 

You shake your head, playing with your fingers. 

“I’m not always in my room,” ignominy clear in your tone, “Most days I either go outside and do my homework or go to the library.” 

You hate the attention this brings to you from him. You’ve never had such a long conversation with somebody in your own house, let alone Gojo. You hated the way he looked at you as if you were either lying your arse off or even worse…pity?

But you almost shook your head at that thought. The great Gojo Saotru pitying you? 

“What if it’s raining?” He asked, pushing you to see if you were telling him the truth. 

“Then I go to the library,” you said as if it was obvious, mainly because to you it was. This was the usual schedule that you’ve become used to over the years, something you’ve just forced yourself to become used to despite wanting everything in your soul to go to the common rooms like everybody else, to laugh at their stories, to talk about your lives, like you were supposed to. 

“What if the libraries closed?” 

You squirm under his heavy gaze, wondering how the topic of transfiguration got turned around to him interrogating you. 

“Um, well, right now, because of the weather, I’d probably just go up to the astronomy tower if the library was closed. They don’t have lessons during the day. Or I’d probably just find a broom closet and do my work in there.” 

His head tilts just a bit, his lips quirking up into a disbelieving smile as if he just caught you in your lie. 

“In the dark?” Gojo presses, and you can hear the people around you already beginning to pack up their supplies, the class nearing its end. Had you spent this much time talking that you wasted nearly half an hour?

“I’d cast a lumos spell,” you argue, packing up your things as you break eye contact with him. You take your paper back, making sure the ink has dried before putting it in your bag. 

“I’ll be in the library,” you say finally, making sure that was the end of it, “See you there.”

—

In some strange way, meeting up with Gojo in the library became part of your routine. 

Every night at seven, after his quidditch practice would end, he’d run all across the entirety of campus to work on your transfigurations essay together. 

The two of you still didn’t talk much, but it was different nonetheless. 

“I’m tired,” Gojo suddenly announced, the candlelight flickering on and off from his face. 

You could visibly see the dark circles that were under his eyes, how he slouched (which was uncommon for him, seeing how he usually sat as straight as a ruler wherever he was), and how he couldn’t go four minutes without letting out an exhausted sigh. 

“You should take a break,” you muttered, not paying attention, head still stuck in your book as you continued to read the rest of the paragraph you were reading. 

Gojo snorted, rolling his eyes at the prospect. 

“I can’t take a break,” he dragged his hands across his face, “I need to finish this essay, the quidditch games in two days, and Snapes up my arse about that potion exam.” 

Your eyes flickered up to his, startled at how much he had spoken, but then tried to mask your surprise by looking back down to your book.

“Potions wasn’t too bad,” you offer, “And I can finish the last bits you have,” you look back up, putting your hand out, a silent ask for him to give you whatever it was that he had written so far. 

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, silently passing over his stack of parchment, and you scanned through it quietly, shrugging as you nodded once more. 

To be honest, the two of you were far ahead of the other students in your class. He had eventually concluded on his own that you’d be wasting more time not working together, so you guessed that he just had to suck up a bit and bite back on his pride and work with a muggle-born.

His rush to finish the essay was spurred on by the plethora of other things he needed to do, a drawback of being the prime and perfect Slytherin prince everybody made him out to be. 

“You don’t have much left,” you deduce, “I can just write about the Scalivier trials,” the trial in which a man refused to register with the ministry that he was an animagus, “I’ll have it done by Saturday, I’m nearly done with my bit.”

You slide his essay back to him, but stop when you see the perplexed look on his face. 

“Saturday’s the quidditch game?”. 

Your eyes dart to the side, squinting a bit as you try for a laugh. 

“…and?” 

He scratches at his temple, tilting his head to the side. After these past couple of days working with you, he’d be wrong to say that he became more and more increasingly perplexed with you. Six years he spent watching from afar, muttering words to his friends about the absurdity of your existence, but now that he was able to see you from up close, a part of him has to agree that you’re an enigma he’s never been able to crack. 

You don’t say much during class, you don’t talk to many people, and if he was being honest, in that sense, you mirrored him. You were reserved, but the times he picked and prodded at you, you seemed to open up. You don’t have any friends from what he could tell, often eating at the end of the table during the meals. He watched sometimes to see you during the common rooms during the times in which you said you never came, a part of him thinking he’d be able to catch you. 

Gojo Satoru would never admit it, but in a way, he had become interested in you.

“Well,” Gojo didn’t like to be the one confused, hating being perceived as if he didn’t know everything, which is something he prided himself on most of the time, “After the game, there’s the usual…party,” he bit out, hating the word, because it was so unruly from the usual balls and galas he was forced attend, too many people sweaty and jumping, “In the common room.” 

You blink owlishly at him, fidgeting with your quill, twisting and turning it around in your hand. 

“Right…so I’ll be here.” 

Now it was his turn to blink slowly. 

Was this really that hard to understand?

“Coming to the library after a quidditch game seems a bit anticlimactic, don’t you think?” He leaned back in his chair, playing with the green and silver tie around his neck. You wondered how he could bear to wear it even after classes were over, that even his most posh friend ditched their formal wear the moment they got back to their dormitories. 

“Thankfully I don’t go to quidditch games, so for me, it’s just climatic,” you said, smiling at your little joke, covering your mouth as you yawned, tired and longing for your bed. 

He sat up in his chair suddenly, looking even more shocked than before. This was the most emotion you’ve ever seen him emmett before and you didn’t know what to do with it. 

“What? Why not?” He seemed so startled that you almost wanted to laugh. It was strange seeing somebody you had regarded as stoic look like he did now. 

You shrug, rubbing your fingers across your eyes as you let out another yawn, resting your chin on your palm. 

“I went once, during my first year, but everybody seemed rather annoyed that I was there, and they crowded in front of me so I couldn’t see anything,” you recall back on the memory, one that you could remember vividly, “and I don’t know,” you’re suddenly very thirsty, your cheeks heating up the more he stared at you, laughing uncomfortably, “I don’t really understand…quidditch, so it works out in the end. And I also get to have some time to myself in the common room to do my homework, you know, unlike usual.” 

Gojo didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds, and you tried to pretend that you had read something interesting to not embarrass yourself any further with your mindless babbling. Sure, he might be willing to work with you now, but that didn’t mean that Gojo Satoru was up for a friendly conversation with you.

You looked at him briefly, feeling your stomach churn a bit to see that he hadn’t stopped looking at you.

“Everything alright?” You asked. 

He nodded, biting on the inside of his cheek as he picked up his quill, a wordless agreement that the conversation was over.

—

Transfiguration the next day went by oddly silent. 

Gojo didn’t talk to himself now and then, he didn’t sigh his exasperated sigh, and he didn’t peek up every once in a while to check how much you’d written since the last time he had looked over. 

You didn’t pay it much attention, keeping your head down, your eyes to yourself. Silence was better than being reminded of your muggle heritage, which even then, Gojo had yet to remind you these past weeks.

Briefly, you looked up from what you were doing to see if Professor McGonagall was walking around or sitting at her desk, but in doing so you felt Gojo shuffle a little in his seat as if he had felt your sudden movement. 

“Tonight…” he started and you quickly nodded, waving off any of his worries. Of course, you chided yourself, he’s anxious about the quidditch match, nothing else.

“Yes, yes, I know, you have quidditch tomorrow. I’ll finish up what I have left and then start reading about the Scalivier trials tonight,” you finished for him, tracing some of the wood grains of the table with your finger. 

He shakes his head. 

“Not that - and I’ll finish up the trials by Sunday,” he’s avoiding eye contact, and if you didn’t know any better it seemed like he was trying to find his words, as if they had slipped from his tongue and were dangling in the air for him to grab, “Tonight…tonight, don’t go to the library.” 

You purse your lips, trying to smile to see if that was his goal, maybe he was trying to be funny.

“Would you like to meet in one of the broom closets then?”

You felt even more lost after it seemed like he was debating taking up your offer, but his eyes shone a bright shade of aquamarine, and his cheeks twinged a slight shade of pink. 

Strange. 

“No,” he chewed on his lip, as if he were anxious, a preposterous thing to even think, “No, come down to the common rooms around eight.” 

The cursed clock tower chimed, three loud rings, and it cut the two of you off once again. 

“Look, I told you-” you go to say but he cuts you off.

“I know, just come down.” He was being so cryptic, and he looked so on edge that it was starting to freak you out. He was already beginning to pack up, his eyes snapping to his group of friends that were nearing the two of you, and he quickly looked back down at you, his head dipping down urgently. 

“Eight. Be there.” 

—-

You couldn’t say you weren’t at least a little apprehensive. 

You were so nervous that you just stayed up in your room, not even coming downstairs for dinner as you waited for the clock on the wall to read eight. 

Why were you so nervous? You first asked yourself, but then asked the more logical question, what did Gojo want with you?

The minutes on the clock seemed to take hours to pass, and the hours seemed to take days. It was such a slow process, and you knew it would be going faster if you were doing something more productive with your time until it was necessary, but you couldn’t. 

The other girls in your dorms could come in and out, sometimes exchanging glances with their friends when they saw that you hadn’t moved from your spot, but they didn’t ask any questions, opting to just leave you be. 

You were picked at your fingers, cracking your knuckles, and finally, finally, the small hand pointed to the eight on that ancient clock. 

Funnily enough, even though you had been mentally waiting for this to happen, you waited for a couple of seconds, trying to calm yourself down, nodding to yourself that this wasn’t anything big and that you were just overreacting. 

Slowly, you rose from your spot on your bed, a little dent in the mattress from just how long you’d been sitting there. You turn the handle of the door, taking in yet another deep as you take a tentative step outside the safe sanctity of your room. 

The common rooms are usually more busy on Friday nights, and that might’ve been a blessing in disguise as you’re able to slip past most people, keeping your eyes peeled for a flash of white hair. 

You scan the couch area, the sitting area, and the large window that looks into the black lake, but you don’t see him. It’s only until you look near the entrance to the common room, the large oak double doors, do you see him. 

It seems like he’s scanning the area as well, blue eyes looking everywhere until they fall onto yours, and you’re able to sneak past some people watching as he cocks his head in the motion of the doors, and before you could do anything else, he leaves, and you take it as your sig to follow him.

You’re glad that nobody’s looking your way as you push the two doors open, looking to your right to see him waiting for you. 

You go to open your mouth to speak but he beats you to it. 

“Follow me, and be quick,” he’s already walking and you have to nearly jog to get to him, walking at a much faster pace seeing how his legs were abnormally long, “Put these on over your clothes.” 

Gojo throws you a pile of ratty-looking uniforms, but the more you open up the folded mess you come to realize that they’re old quidditch uniforms. In fact, when you’re finally able to get a good look at him you realize he’s wearing adoring green robes. 

You don’t say anything, multitasking as you walk and shrug over the (huge, it was practically dragging on the floor) robes, buttoning them up as quickly as you could without tripping over your feet, the quidditch uniform, or over the stones. 

He looks at you briefly, and he’s glad that you’re too busy trying to figure out how the robes are supposed to fit over you to notice the way his lips quirked up slightly at the look of you at the moment. 

“Put this on too,” he says once you're finally done, handing you another huge helmet, and you take it silently, pulling it over your head. 

The helmet is way too big for you, as it nearly hangs over your eyes, and you can barely see anything with it on, and you pause, a smile making its way onto your face as you push it up only for it to fall again.

You stop walking for a second, and when Gojo looks back he sees the helmet masking most of your face up until your nose, the only thing he can see is your large grin, the sleeves of the uniform enveloping your hands, reaching to your knees, and for the first time, he hears the softest sound, 

You’re giggling as you try to figure out how to tighten the straps on the helmet, not able to see where Gojo is because you have your head tilted down, struggling with the buckle until his boots come into your field of vision. 

All of a sudden you feel a hand tip your helmet upwards, and your smile falters when you now see his face, the way his eyes are swirling with different hues of blues, something you notice that happened when he was battling multiple emotions at once. You can tell that there’s a small, barely noticeable smile on his face, surely from how insane you look right now. 

You’ve never seen him look so at ease. His shoulders seem more relaxed, his jaw not clenched. It helped that he looked like he was smiling for once. 

But there’s no time to think as you feel the brush of him on your skin, his slender and swift fingers working fast and expertly at tightening the strap under your chin. He looks focused, his white brows scrunched up the way he always does when he’s trying to figure out a transfiguration rune. You feel your breath lodge in your throat. When he’s satisfied with how it was resting on your face his hands drop to his side, and his eyes slightly widen, as if he just realized what he had just done. 

He cleared his throat, looking around the hall to make sure that nobody was around, and he turned his back as he began his brisk pace out to wherever it was that he was taking you.

You walked, corrected, ran with him for a little more until he brought you to one of the openings of the castle, the one that led directly to the quidditch fields. 

“Where,” you were a little out of breath, noticing how the sun was nearly about to set, and also knowing that you sure as hell didn’t have a pass to be out this late, “Where’re we going?” 

“To the field,” he said, which was the answer you were most dreading. 

“Right, I can see that,” you feel hot under all these layers, despite the fact that it was late October and the weather was biting at best, “Why are we going out to the fields.” The breeze that was hitting your cheeks was stinging, so you were at least glad in that aspect that the quidditch robe offered you some sort of warmth. 

“Ravenclaws practicing right now,” Gojo said, turning around to look at you for a fleeting second, “I need to see what Nanami’s strategy is, and you need to learn quidditch.” 

You almost trip. 

And you need to learn quidditch.

His words were ringing in your head, possibly even louder than the blood rushing to your ears. He had to be lying, or have some sort of cruel prank planned out. He must be waiting for his friends to run out from behind one of the stands so that they could tie you to a tree. Not that he’s ever done that, but also not the first time it’d be happening at the hands of other Slytherins. 

Because sure, while you might’ve offended him in saying you didn’t understand how quidditch worked, that wouldn’t mean that he, Gojo Satoru, the Prince of Slytherin, hater of all muggle-borns alike, would be taking time out of his life to fix this wrong.

You should’ve just run the other way, ditched the scratchy uniform somewhere, and ran back to your dormitory, somewhere where you’d at least be safe from experiencing any sort of humiliation. 

But the closer that the two of you neared the stands, the more you felt confused. Because nowhere could you see any other Slytherins, and he was right, the Ravenclaw team was practicing right now, if the flashes of blue and white from above you meant anything. 

Which could only mean that…? 

Gojo finally stops at the stairs that lead you up the stands, his hand on the wooden railing. 

“We’re going…up?” 

He snorts, nodding as he ushers you to move. 

“Obviously,” his voice now seems more amplified with his small and cramped winding staircase, “I’m not going to be observing them from the ground.” 

You’re the one that’s ahead, so you try to go even faster so that he won’t be held up behind you, but everything is moving too fast. Did he give you these robes so that you’d seem like another player? So that you wouldn’t be marked up if you were seen out of your dormitory so late at night?

When you finally got to the opening, you were able to hear the yells that the Ravenclaw players were enhancing with one another. You hold the tarp that acted as the door above your head, heading over to one of the seats in the far back, feeling Gojo right on your tail. 

It had been years since you were here since you looked out into the fields. The stands were high, and the winds were stronger up here. Gojo sat where you were, to your right, and you waited silently to see what he was going to do. 

Nanami was the Ravenclaw seeker as well as the captain. You could see the flash of blonde hair as he flew by, the other team members either watching him or practicing with their respective posts. 

Gojo rested his elbow on his thighs, leaning in as he observed intently. 

Eventually, after a minute or two, he sat back up, leaning in closer to you. You could feel his hair ticking your temple, his nose inches away from your cheek as he began to talk. 

“In quidditch, you have seven players on each side. One seeker, one keeper, three chasers, and two beaters.” 

You nod, following along. 

“You see number seven?” He points to the guy flying around near the three tall hoops, and you nod again, “He’s a keeper. He makes sure that the other team doesn’t get any balls into the hoops.” Gojo is leaning even closer to you now, and you can feel half of his body pressing up against yours. You feel like you're heating up, and not because of the excessive quidditch uniform you’re wearing. 

“The beaters, number four and two,” he then points to the boy and the girl flying around, holding wooden bats, “try to protect their team from the bludgers; which is this black ball that sort of follows around team members, trying to knock them off their brooms. Those bats ward off the bludgers.” 

You make a mental note of everything he’s saying, trying not to be distracted by the fact that you’re being given a quidditch lesson from Gojo Satoru. 

“The chasers, which are the rest of them, aside from Nanami, throw around the quaffle to each other. Every time they get it through the other team's hoop, they score ten points…do you follow?” Gojo pauses, looking at you and you push your helmet up so that you can see him, giving him a confident nod. 

“All that’s left is the seeker-” 

“Which is you, right?” You cut him off, rubbing at your nose which was now freezing at this point. 

Gojo pauses, eyes flickering to you as he raises a brow. 

“I may not know quidditch but I’m not daft,” you tell him.

For a second there, you swear you could see the start of a smile play on his lips.

“Yeah,” he says, almost softly, “I’m the seeker.” You’re too busy looking ahead to notice that he’s busy looking at you, so you continue to talk. 

“...plus, Kento was telling me about it a while ago. He said you were really good.”

This time, his brow raised even further. 

“You know him?” 

You shrug, your eyes following the quick and hurried movements of all the players, too focused on their practice to notice the change in Gojo’s voice, or overall, the change in his entire demeanor. You must’ve missed how he slightly tensed up, or the way his eyes narrowed. 

“We had potions with Ravenclaw last year, remember?” You turn slightly to look over at Gojo before you go back to watching, “He helped me with some of my brews, but we talked about other stuff!” You had to raise your voice, the wind was getting stronger, “And Quidditch came up!”

Gojo’s nose flared momentarily before he swallowed thickly, his jaw ticking as he tried to focus back on the practice as well. 

“A-anyways,” he cleared his throat, not remembering that last time he choked on his words, “The seeker catches the snitch. I can’t see where it is now, but once the snitch is caught, the game is over.” He tried to push some of the hair out of his face, getting annoyed at how it kept getting stuck in his eyes. 

“I need to get something, I’ll be back,” Gojo murmured in your ear, pushing himself off of the seat as he walked in front of you disappearing down the stairs within seconds. 

You glanced at where he left but found yourself looking back to the players, your face breaking into another excited smile when you began to piece together what Gojo had just told you, finally able to understand quidditch after all these years.

The sun had set and the stars were peeking out through the sky, and you watched the players as they furiously rode around, each one tense and stressed for the match that would be happening tomorrow. 

You tried to hide yourself in the background as much as you could, now feeling a little more out in the open with Gojo gone.

The minutes ticked by and yet Gojo didn’t come back. Now and then you found yourself looking at the stairs, eyes darting back and forth from those on their broomsticks to where you had first entered from. 

Slowly yet surely, you found yourself in that position the first night you saw him at that library. 

When the Ravenclaw players slowly began dissenting from the air, running off the fields as they went in from shelter from the old, you felt a part of your stomach twist. 

This was all part of his plan, you concluded, shivering to yourself as you tried not to feel let down, or even worse, like an idiot for thinking anything had changed, that you had maybe actually begun to have a friend after seven years.

You feel your eyes water, either from the wind or from everything, and you make your way for the stairs, your lips trembling as you suddenly start to feel claustrophobic under all the clothes you're wearing, your fingers slipping and sliding as you try to take that wretched helmet off of your head.

You feel like if you go any faster you’re going to trip and tumble down the stairs, and it doesn't help that you’re already too distracted with trying to take the helmet off. You sniffle, your eyes blurry as you feel your heart beat rapidly in your chest. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

You couldn’t even tell if you were thinking that in your head or saying it out loud as you neared the end of the never-ending stairs, unbuttoning the buttons of the scratchy uniform as you bundled everything up in your hands, wiping at your wet cheeks with your palm.

Amongst all the things people have done to you over the years, this wasn’t the worst. You’ve had your room ransacked, your trunk thrown into the river, your shoes stolen on multiple occasions. You’ve been called a mudblood more times than you’ve been called your own name, and none of these things were actually done by Gojo. 

Perhaps you thought that deep down, maybe he could change. That maybe after all that time spent in the library, talking to you, controlling some of his laughs at your awful jokes, he saw that maybe muggle-borns weren’t as bad as he thought they were. 

And yet tonight you suffered your first prank, if that’s what this could even be called, at his hands. It didn’t hurt because of its nature, but because a naive part of you actually thought that he could’ve been your friend. 

But none of that mattered now, not that you-

“Where are you going?” 

You stop in your tracks, your head whipping around to the voice. 

It was now fully dark outside, the moon and the spare candles that were lit around the castle and the stands were the only sources of light. You could see his figure standing a couple feet away from you, his white hair like a beacon in the night. 

He takes a couple tentative steps closer to you, close enough so that you can see the furrow of his brows and the small pout on his lips. Damn it, you wanted to curse, you could hate him more if he didn’t look so pretty. 

“Back to the castle,” you snap, wiping at the corners of your eyes, throwing down the old uniform and the oversized helmet on the ground near his feet. You sniffle, looking to the side so that you won’t have to see his face.

“What?” He steps closer to you and you take a step back, your head still turned, eyes trained on the dewy grass, “Why?” You try not to think too much about the two sets of brooms in his hands, or how for some strange reason, he actually sounded dejected that you were leaving.

Letting out a shaky breath you laugh curtly, crossing your arms over your chest as you look up to the sky, counting the stars, wondering if that could calm you down. 

You hear the grass crunch under his feet, the warmth of his body as he comes in close to you. 

Why does he care? 

“I brought you a broom,” he holds it to you so you can see the outline of it, “Here,” he bends down to pick up the helmet you had thrown to the ground, “At least put this on,” he’s already securing it on your head, not noticing the way your lips were trembling, his fingers brushing up against your chin once again but you don’t him faster it, smacking his hand to the side as you rip the helmet off your head, throwing it with more force on the ground. 

“S-stop,” you murmur harshly, wiping at your cheeks, “Stop, stop whatever it is you’re doing-” 

“I’m not doing anything,” he snarls, his eyes a dark shade of navy blue, “So stop crying, I don’t know what it is you think I did.”

He’s angry now, good, it’ll be easier to yell at him if he’s just as amped up as you are. 

But when you finally look at him and get to see his face, it’s not the kind of anger you’re feeling. His eyes are narrowed, his eyebrows pulling together down the middle the way they do when he’s confused, the way you often see him looking like when he’s frustrated at your cursed transfigurations essay. He’s not angry at you because of you, he’s angry because he doesn't understand where your frustrations are coming from. 

He’s at least a head taller than you, looking down as his chest heaves slightly, waiting for you to say something, anything, so that he could explain himself for whatever it is he’s done wrong. His cheeks are a little pink, either from the cold or…something else, and his hair is messy, no longer kept the way it usually is. 

Gojo looks different.

And you don’t know who it was that moved in closer, whose rational mind slowly turned irrational as you two took another step towards the middle, but all you do know is that the two of you didn’t care as you roughly grabbed him by his robes, tugging him in as you slammed your lips to his. 

It happened in an instant, your lips moving against his soft one, your hands gripping onto that fabric for dear life. And for a second, you begin to pull away, your eyes opening in shock, but there’s no use, because Gojo slams his lips down onto your closed eyes as he pulls you into his chest. 

It’s rushed and messy, your teeth clash against one another, your hands going up from his chest as they intertwine around his neck, your fingers tugging on his long white strands and you hear him groan into your mouth. 

He moves fast, biting at your lips, one hand sprawled on the expanse of your back, the other one behind your neck, tilting your head upwards to meet him. His tongue prods at your lips, and somehow, mindlessly, you part them a little more, moaning quietly at the way his tongue explores your mouth. 

Gojo leads you a little back, so that you’re up against one of the wooden pillars of the quidditch stands, offering you more stability, a good thing, seeing how you feel like you're becoming lightheaded, soon about to faint. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, heavy on your lips as he dips down again to kiss down your chin tilting your head up to expose the column of your neck, “Fuck,” he says once more, diving down as he sucks and bites at your skin, his movements growing faster and more erratic once he hears the soft and sweet mewls that escape your swollen lips. 

“G-gojo,” you whine, feeling hot as his hands travel across your chest, cupping your tits through your thin sweater as he continues to kiss down your neck, tugging some of the material down so that he could leave even more marks across your collarbone, “G-god, oh my god,” 

His pants tighten at your voice, his pupils dilate at the way you're pawing at him, pulling at him, needing him. 

“Satoru,” he says against your skin, “Not Gojo. Not you.” 

He’s delirious, he kisses you like you’re the air he’s been missing his entire life, and holds you to him as if you’re the only furnace in a land barren with snow. He needs you. 

Your fingers are lost in his hair, pulling and tugging, hearing the way his breathing stutters when you do so. 

One of your hands drops down to his chest, feeling at the skin that’s exposed from where his uniform was pulling up, and when your cold fingers make contact with the skin resting taunt on his stomach you swear you could hear him almost whine, his head momentarily dropping into the crook of your neck as he urges you to continue, holding your wrist tightly, pushing it up further. 

Your eyes find his, your breathing coming out in short spurts, and he seems so far gone, so transfixed with how you look under him, that the two of you fail to hear the footsteps that come near where the two of you were.

“Who’s there?” 

A voice calls out, and you see somebody behind him standing with a lantern. 

You push Gojo off of you, but he stays put, looking over his shoulder, shielding your body with his. 

“Oh, fuck off Taylor,” Gojo calls out, anger and irritation laced into his voice.

The boy's eyes widen when he realizes how it is, the blue and white Ravenclaw robes dashing away into the distance, the lantern long gone in a matter of seconds, but it’s no use. 

When Gojo looks down at you, you’ve been given too much time to come back to your senses. 

You push him away from you, and this time he moves, you take a deep breath, not looking at him as you wipe at your spit-soaked lips, blinking rapidly as you try to make sense of what happened. 

He didn't say anything, but you could hear the quiet pants that escaped his lips, trying to catch some air. 

You open your mouth to say something but close it promptly, shaking your head in disbelief. 

You don’t think twice as you make your way back to the castle.

taglist: @satorusemepls, @mokonasenpaiposts, @kao-ri, @rinxgojo, @notsochillnerd, @astral-hydromancy, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaron, @tedbunny333, @13-09-01, @mynameislove1, @hyunsuks-beanie

SO GOOOOD FUCK

imperfect for you (joel miller x f!reader)

masterlist | a/n written for @janaispunk's 1500 kisses challenge! i got joel + nose kisses with this lovely moodboard and actually managed to write something!!! believe it or not this started out as a drabble lmao. i hope you like it jana - sorry it's a bit late, and congrats again on your milestone 🤍 summary: you never thought joel miller would accidentally call you baby. warnings: age gap (joel is mid 40s, reader is 23), fluff, very brief instance of blood, tending to a wound, joel is eepy, soft kisses, cuddles word count: 5.5k ao3 dividers by @saradika-graphics

"When's the last time you slept?"

He doesn't bother to grace you with an answer, hands clenched on the steering wheel as you barrel down the vacant stretch of highway back to Lincoln. He's been ignoring you for the past fifteen minutes now, eyes straight ahead, brow furrowed, jaw clenched. But he looks pale, almost sickly, the whites of his knuckles stark against the sudden greenish hue of his skin. The last thing you need is for him to pass out and for the two of you to crash into a damn ditch.

"I'm just saying," you continue with an exasperated sigh, "I could drive the rest of the way, we're almost there."

No reply. You roll your eyes and cross your arms indignantly in the passenger seat, returning his icy demeanor. He's in one of his moods again, the ones only Tess really knows how to handle, but you'd volunteered to try your hand at a supply run in her stead which means she's not here to mediate. You should've known some issue would arise, stubborn Joel inventing problems in typical Joel fashion.

"You could've tried to last at least one more hour pretending to like me," you mutter, loud enough for him to hear. He doesn't say anything.

Almost a year of working with them now, and you still don't understand him. You're not sure you ever will. Tess, she's much easier to understand, much more open to being understood. She'd seen your potential and taken you under her wing, brought you in to help, taught you everything you needed to know about smuggling. And Joel... well, he's a different story.

"You know, Tess thinks I have promise," you continue anyway, expression crumpling into a scowl, "She thinks I can do this. I don't get why you don't."

No answer.

"And don't say it's 'cause I'm a kid, because I'm not. I'm twenty three now, I'm past the point of being called a fucking kid. The shit I've seen in that QZ-" you cut yourself off, shaking your head, "I'm not a kid."

His lack of response is beginning to hurt deeper than you'd really like to admit. You glance over at him again; he's still staring straight ahead, still ignoring your presence. It makes unwanted tears prick in your eyes, nose stinging a little as you peer down at your lap and fold your hands together.

You'd been excited for this supply run, probably against your better judgement. You'd wanted to show him how much you know and understand, how hard you've been working, how you're up to the task. Hoped maybe he'd give you a smile - rare, but not impossible - and tell you that you did good, that he sees potential in you too.

You care what he thinks, almost more than what Tess thinks. And you know why, can sense it deep in the pit of your stomach and in the way your heart stutters when he looks at you, but you're clearly living in a fantasy world if you think he's ever gonna get past whatever this stigma is that he has against your age. She's too young, Tess. She'll get hurt, Tess. She shouldn't be doin' this, Tess. You've heard it all, muffled through closed doors in a dark and damp hallway.

He doesn't want you, and you're not sure how much longer you can go on like this. If he's not willing to change his stance, view you as anything other than an inconvenience...maybe Tess will have to find somebody else to help out.

"I know what I'm doing," you mumble, a tear dribbling down your left cheek, "I just wanna help."

You spare him one more look, fruitlessly hoping that maybe he'll feel bad now that he's made you cry - a childish thought, considering you're trying to make a case for being mature, but you can't help it. You know he's capable of being gentle, of being kind. You've experienced it with him before, quiet moments between the two of you in his apartment while waiting for Tess to return, making small talk, him peering at you with a softness in those brown eyes that have since made frequent appearances in your dreams. Moments where you swear you felt wanted under that gaze, but it must've been in your head, because you certainly don't feel wanted right now.

He doesn't look well, you have to admit. His skin is covered in a sheen of sweat, getting paler by the second, turning an unnatural grey color akin to some of the hair on his head. His eyes are glassy, dark bags settled beneath them that you've noticed getting worse and worse over the past few weeks. You shoot a glance at his hands again and are surprised to see that he's loosened his grip, that his fingers seem to be trembling against the rubber.

"Joel," you say, raising your voice a bit, "Joel, are you okay?"

His lack of response no longer angers you - it worries you. Carefully, you reach over and slowly wrap your hand around his right wrist, eyes trained on his face. At your touch, he finally turns to look at you, almost like he's only just noticed you're even there.

"You say somethin'?" he asks, voice raspy, a bit slurred.

Your grip tightens on his wrist, "I think you should stop the car."

He looks at you curiously, dazedly. It's the expression of a man who's running on two, maybe three hours of sleep in the last few days. You choose your next words carefully, eyes flickering back and forth toward his face and the road that he's suddenly no longer watching.

"Let's slow down a bit," you murmur, thumb stroking gently along his skin - he's warm, warmer than normal - "I'm gonna drive the rest of the way, okay?"

You expect some pushback, an attempt at an argument, but the tiredness is setting in quickly. Without any hesitation he eases his foot off the gas and you hurriedly reach your own leg over into his space to push down on the brake. He doesn't seem to notice the way your bare leg brushes his jeans, the crease in your knee bending over the warmth of his thigh.

"There we go," you say softly, bringing the car to a slow stop. He's still looking at you, eyes unfocused as you carefully lean over a little more to unbuckle his seatbelt. You try to ignore how good he smells, how big he is compared to you, putting all your attention on getting him out of the front seat. You unlock his door and then unbuckle your own belt, hurrying out of the car to his side.

"M'okay," he mumbles as soon as you open his door. You start to help him out, and you think he's becoming a little more aware of the situation now, allowing you to pull him to his feet as you tug open the back door. "What's happenin'?"

"You're just tired," you tell him softly, "It's okay, you can sleep in the back, I'll drive."

"Bill n' Frank's," he says as you lead him the right way, pushing him a little and helping him place his knee down on the seat, "Y'know where it is? You remember?"

"I do," you tell him confidently, your hand coming down to press flat against his back - he's so solid, heat radiating against your palm, "Only twenty minutes away now, I got it. You just sleep."

He doesn't argue; in fact, he makes your job easier by crawling onto the seat and settling down with a low groan, rolling onto his back and breathing deeply. You can't help but let a small smile cross your features, watching as one of his hands comes up to rest atop his belly, the other dangling onto the floor. His eyelashes flutter a little, lips parting, and you're about to shut the door when he speaks again.

"I know you jus' wanna help, baby."

You stand there for a moment just staring at him, confusion racing through your thoughts. Goosebumps rise on your flesh as the last word repeats like a mantra in your head, steady and slow as Joel drifts off. It's only when the door is shut and you're in the front seat that you're able to put some meaning to the words, eyes wide as you stare at the faded lines on the road.

I know what I'm doing, you'd said, I just wanna help.

You leave him in the car when you get to Bill and Frank's, typing in the gate code with a backward glance at his loose form in the backseat. They must see him on one of the security monitors, because as soon as the doors open you spot them sprinting out of the house toward you, a scanner gripped in Bill's hand. Typical.

"He's okay," you tell them as soon as you're out of the car, instantly alleviating their stress, "He's just exhausted, I think he needs to sleep for a little while."

"Understatement of the century," Frank replies with a relieved laugh, eyeing the backseat, "Think we can get him in the house?"

"Just leave him in the car," Bill says with a wave of his hand, already turning to head back towards the house with the scanner hanging out of his pocket, "He'll be fine."

Your gaze meets Frank's and he rolls his eyes, "Come on, baby, let's get him upstairs." Your brows go up at the pet name, the same word that had fallen from Joel's lips only twenty minutes ago, but then Bill is shuffling back over with an annoyed look on his face and you quickly realize he's not talking to you.

Getting Joel out of the car proves to be a lot more difficult than getting him in. You try a gentle approach at first, brushing his arm and stroking his skin with your thumb again like you'd done earlier. You can feel Frank's eyes on you as you squeeze Joel's bicep, his wrist, his thigh, and you pretend you don't see the look that passes between him and Bill as you step out to let them take a turn.

Bill goes for a much more aggressive approach, shaking Joel's shoulders wildly and practically yanking him out of the car. Understandably, Joel wakes with a gasp and kicks his legs out, hand reaching for his pistol as he frantically tries to escape Bill's grasp. Before he can grab it though, he's suddenly falling forward, knees buckling as he faceplants onto the pavement beside the car.

Well, that certainly wakes him up. His hands press into the gravel and his head shoots up, blood trickling down his nose as he peers up at the three of you, stunned.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Bill," Frank groans.

"That was not my fault."

Ignoring them, you kneel down and gently touch Joel's shoulder, a concerned look on your face as you eye the splattered blood on the ground, "Fuck, are you okay?"

"What in the hell is goin' on?" he groans, turning to look at you, "Did Bill just break my fuckin' nose?"

"Don't be dramatic," Bill barks, spinning on the spot and heading into the house, "Shoulda just left you in the car."

Joel starts scrambling after him, rising up and standing on wobbly legs, hand reaching for his pistol once again. You and Frank grab him before he can do anything, both of you taking an arm and holding him back.

"Joel, you're exhausted," you tell him quickly, utilizing all your strength, "You just need to lay down. Please."

He turns his face to look at you and something flutters in your chest when you catch the way his eyes soften, the anger in his expression fading as he acknowledges your presence. You can vaguely make out Frank watching the two of you in your periphery, but you try your best to ignore it, instead opting to give Joel a reassuring smile.

"Let's just get you cleaned up, okay?"

You're grateful that Frank leaves you alone with Joel to tend to his nose. You've only met him a handful of times, but each time he'd somehow been able to clock the way you interact with Joel, the way you look at him. The last time you'd been here he'd subtly pulled you aside to give you a few words of wisdom.

"You do realize he's extremely unavailable, right?"

"I- I don't know what you're talking about."

He'd smiled, tapped his nose and given you a knowing look, "And I don't just mean because of Tess. That man is emotionally constipated, kiddo. He's an island." He'd laughed then at your confused expression, shaking his head, "Just be careful, s'all I'm saying."

You'd gone to walk away, forget the conversation even happened, when he'd softly called after you:

"And I'm pretty sure Tess would hang your head on her wall."

You think of those words now as you stand in front of Joel in the small bathroom off the landing, lip between your teeth as you eye the cut on his nose. It isn't broken, thank fuck, but you can see some dirt and gravel in there that you need to clean out.

"It's not broken," you tell him softly. He's sitting on the edge of the bath tub, peering up at you with a much more alert expression. The fall definitely woke him up, not to mention the choice words he and Bill had thrown at each other as you and Frank helped him up the stairs. He's still exhausted though, and he needs to rest.

"I know it's not," he grumbles, "Just wanted to give Bill a piece of my mind for once."

You laugh softly as you reach for the damp cloth beside you, bringing it up to carefully pat it against the gash on the bridge of his nose. You can feel his eyes on you, watching and assessing as you do your best to wipe the area clean.

"I can do that myself," he murmurs.

"I just wanna help," you say quietly, and your eyes fall to his in a knowing glance. He doesn't seem to remember though, just nods and lets you carry on.

It's rare for you to be this alone with him. And by that, you mean this far from Tess. You're painfully aware that it would be impossible for her to walk in at any moment, to see the way you're standing over him, touching him. Frank's words from last time echo in your head but you're not quite sure you believe them; would she really be that angry if she knew how you felt about Joel? It's not like he'd return it, right? The man is twenty years your senior and, as Frank said, extremely unavailable. Not to mention Tess and Joel's relationship has been a point of confusion to you for a year now, still unsure exactly what they are to each other - would she really care?

You reach for the antiseptic - one of the many perks of having an injury in a supply house - and carefully dab some onto the cloth. Your hand trembles a bit as you reach up to carefully hold Joel's chin, your thumb getting lost in his greying beard.

"You haven't shaved in a while," you breathe, your eyes meeting his, and you wonder if you've already crossed a line by even noticing.

He doesn't seem to mind though, sighing deeply, "I haven't slept in a while, so let's hurry this up," he eyes the cloth, "Don't gotta warn me, just do it."

His words bring you back to the present, and you slowly ease the cloth down onto his cut. He hisses a bit, a normal reaction, but it only takes a few seconds to clean and then you're already reaching for a bandage, reluctantly letting go of his chin.

"I was worried about you, before. In the car," you tell him softly, unpeeling the adhesive, "Why haven't you been sleeping?"

His eyes fall to the floor, "I just don't sleep good. Never have."

"Is there anything I can do?"

He shrugs, gives you a humorless laugh, "Handful o' pills and a couple sips o' whiskey usually does the trick."

It makes sense, then, why these past few weeks he's seemed worse. It's been longer than usual since your last supply run and the three of you had started running out of vital supplies over a week ago now, not only for buyers but for yourselves. Joel had written whiskey near the top of the latter list, along with hydromorphone which he'd underlined several times.

"You should've told me you weren't feeling well," you murmur, applying the bandage carefully, "I could've driven the whole way."

"Could've, should've," he dismisses you with a grunt, "Doesn't matter now, does it? We got here, that's what counts."

You linger a little longer than you should on the bandage, thumb falling to gently trace the crease of his nose as you assess your work. It might scar, but it feels pointless to voice this - he already has so many, scattered across his face and neck like confetti. It hurts a little, knowing he's been through so much, seeing the evidence written all over him.

"My mom had this superstition," you tell him softly, a smile playing at your lips as you trace one of the scars under his eye, soft and delicate, "Whenever I got hurt, skinned my knee or busted my elbow playing, she'd bandage me up and then kiss it. She said a kiss would seal her love in there, keep me safe and protected. And if it scarred, that meant it worked."

He blinks at you, expression faltering a bit, "That's...that's a nice thought."

You shake your head, "It's silly, and not true. But... but I still do it anyway, even though she's gone. Just in case," you bite your lip, "I mean, who doesn't wanna feel a little more safe? A little more protected?"

Your gazes lock, and neither of you seem to move, caught in the stillness of the moment and the way your thumb is still stroking his face. You know you have limited time, maybe a few seconds before he breaks it, so without much thought at all you lean down and lightly press your lips to the bandage, eyes closed.

He inhales sharply, a sound that triggers butterflies in your tummy as you hold your mouth against his nose, soft and sweet. It's the closest you've ever been to him, even if you're kissing gauze and not skin - you can still feel the warmth radiating from him, sense the way he freezes below you. A squeaking sound pierces the silence, his hand squeezing the edge of the bath tub tightly. It startles you, your eyes blinking open as you pull back to look at him.

His cheeks are tinged pink, eyelids heavy as he peers up at you with slow blinks.

"You're tired," you breathe, unable to stop your hand from flitting to his hair, pushing a little behind his ear, "Let's get you to bed."

The Joel Miller in Bill and Frank's guest room is not the Joel Miller you thought you knew.

This Joel is loose, pliant. He lets you lead him into the bedroom with a hand on his back, lets you carefully turn him on the spot to reach up and undo the buttons on his flannel. Frank had told you on your way up to make sure Joel didn't get blood on the sheets, so you're only following orders, only doing what you were told.

"Sorry," you murmur softly, fingers shaking every so often as they toy with the buttons, sticky with his blood. Joel doesn't seem to notice though, retreating more and more into the sleepy state he'd been in earlier.

Once his flannel is off you assess his t-shirt and jeans, and you're not sure how to feel about the fact that they didn't get dirty in the fall. On the other hand, though, you're not sure you'd have been brave enough to take them off. Instead you help him toward the bed, pull back the sheets and carefully push him ahead.

"There you go," you whisper, helping him under the covers and pulling the blankets back over him. The sun is streaming through the window, casting the golden light of early evening across the bed, and while it's quite beautiful you shut the curtains anyway, knowing he'll sleep better in darkness. When you turn back around, he's already fallen asleep, lips parted, face peaceful. A different man.

You don't linger, even though you want to.

It's around ten o'clock when you decide to check on him again. You'd watched a movie with Bill and Frank, feeling more than a little unwelcome as Bill tossed you a few dirty looks every so often, though Frank repeatedly told you to ignore him. Now they're in bed downstairs while you pad from your own room across the hall to Joel's, turning the knob carefully. The hinges squeak a little as you open it and you wince.

"Who's there?" you hear Joel grumble from the bed. So much for just taking a peek.

"Me, just me." You push the door wider and walk inside, eyebrows going up when Joel turns on the bedside lamp. He seems a little more rested, although you know he still needs a full night's sleep. "I sent a message to Tess through the radio to let her know we're not coming back tonight - well, Frank did. Picked a song called Tomorrow or something like that."

"Hope it was the Johnny Mathis version," he mumbles, and you watch as he brings his hands up to rub across his face. He accidentally dismantles the bandage and you step forward without really thinking, hurrying to his side and reaching down to fix it.

His hand comes up to grab yours and you freeze in place.

"I can do it," he says, giving you a curt look and then releasing your hand to adjust the gauze himself.

Well, you suppose lax and sleepy Joel couldn't stick around forever. You stand awkwardly by the side of the bed, toying with the edge of the blanket as he rubs his eyes and sits up a little, leaning back against the headboard. He looks so much older in this light; you can see the little flecks of grey in his beard and hair that have been starting to get more noticeable lately, the crows feet, the wrinkles.

He's so handsome.

He turns to look at you with a frown, as if he's only just realizing what you said, "We can go back tonight, I'm fine."

"You're not and you know it. Besides, it's already past ten and now I'm tired, I won't be able to drive."

"I can drive."

"Joel," you surprise yourself by sitting down on the edge of the bed, narrowing your brow as you give him a serious look, "You can't drive. You almost fucking killed us both."

"No I-"

"Yes you did," your tone is firm, suddenly angry - are you angry? - "If I hadn't been talking to you, if I hadn't noticed something was wrong, you would've driven us off the damn road."

He goes quiet at that, frown deepening, the lines on his face more prominent in the low lamplight. You sigh, eyes falling to rest on where your hand is settled on the bed, only inches from his. Part of you wants to reach out and touch, feel the warmth of his skin, the rough of his palm - the other part decides to do something even more stupid.

"You called me baby."

It's out of your mouth before you've even really acknowledged it, and once the words have tumbled out you know there's no taking them back. Your gaze snaps back up to his, slightly surprised to see that he doesn't seem very shocked by your admission.

He clears his throat a little, averting his gaze and shuffling a bit under the covers, "Did I?"

"...Yeah."

You think maybe he'll say something else - anything else - but he doesn't. God, it really is like pulling teeth with him; he's so fucking beautiful but so impossible, never being able to expand on something unless prompted, never being able to answer a single question without jerking you around first. How the fuck has Tess managed to deal with it for so long?

The thought of Tess sends a wave of guilt through your body, Frank's words echoing in your head, but you shove it down.

"What made you... I mean why..." your voice is soft, apprehensive and shy in the quiet of the bedroom, "why'd you call me baby?"

A beat of silence. Then-

"Don't ask me that."

The mood has shifted, your sudden anger ebbing and his annoyance fading into something else, something on the brink of being real. He's avoiding your eyes, peering at the window with the curtains drawn and tapping his fingers anxiously against the mattress, so close to your hand. He's nervous; you're making him nervous.

You stay silent, hoping he'll speak again, hoping maybe just this one time he'll tell you what he's thinking.

"I don't know why."

The words are barely a whisper, almost like he's telling you a secret, and he leaves them hanging in the air briefly before amending - "Well," he sighs and finally looks at you, an emotion you can't place crossing his features, "that's not true. But... I didn't mean - fuck, I was passin' out, for Christ's sake, I didn't realize-"

He cuts himself off again, raising his hand up to press his fingers to the bridge of his nose, briefly forgetting the bandage. He winces when he comes in contact with the gauze, "Can I take this off? It's drivin' me fuckin' crazy."

"Let me do it," you say quietly, inching forward on the bed and reaching for his face. He flinches when you go to touch him, and your hand freezes mid-air.

"Sorry," he mutters, shaking his head like he's shaking off a sensation, a chill, "Go ahead."

With careful - and slightly trembling - fingers, you remove the bandage from his nose. It looks much better than before, no fresh blood in sight, and you suppose it's okay for him to keep it uncovered for the night. Without really thinking about it you gently thumb the side of his nose just shy of the cut, the tips of your other fingers brushing against his cheek.

"It's not too bad," you murmur, and before you know it you're suddenly cupping his jaw, feeling the weight of it in your palm. Your gaze falls to his lips, your thoughts going a mile a minute.

You realize you're close enough that you could kiss him, if you really wanted to. If he really wanted to. All it would take is one small movement, one little push from the both of you, one leap of faith...

And then he whispers your name, almost a warning, and it's like his thoughts are mirroring yours - like he can see exactly what you're picturing, wishing for. Your eyes meet his and you feel a flutter in your stomach when you see the way he's looking at you, a quiet hunger hidden in the deep brown.

You decide to test the waters. You lean in and softly press another kiss to his nose, this time without the gauze in the way. Just like you'd thought, his skin is hot under your lips, soft but scarred, and his smell - god, he smells so masculine and safe, invading your senses as your lips trail downwards to press a small kiss to his cupid's bow, then another to the corner of his mouth. It's sharp, prickly from his scruff, but it doesn't bother you in the slightest - in fact, you kind of like the dull pain, the way it grounds you, keeps you in the moment.

"Baby," he whispers, and a soft little whine falls from your lips without meaning to as your lips move to ghost across his mouth, going for another kiss - a real kiss.

He pulls away before you get there, but then his hand comes up to touch your face, big and wide. He holds you like you're precious, small. His baby.

"S'not right," he whispers, though his thumb strokes your cheek soothingly, "S'not okay for me to want you like that."

You close your eyes at his touch, breathing deeply, "But you do."

"Yeah, I do," you hear him murmur, "You know I do."

"For how long?"

He doesn't respond right away, just continues to stroke your cheek, hold what feels like all of you in his warm palm. You tilt your head a bit to the side, eyes fluttering open to look at him again. You catch the way his lips turn up a little at the movement.

"Too damn long," he sighs, "But that don't... that's not..." he brings his other hand up to cup the other side of your face, holding you still as he peers at you in earnest, brow furrowed, "Point is, we shouldn't... you shouldn't be out here alone with me. Tess knows how I-" he cuts himself off again, and you can see now how difficult it is for him to communicate like this, to be open and honest, "I told her it wasn't a good idea."

"Why?"

He laughs lightly, thumbs circling the apples of your cheeks, "'Cause look where we ended up." He swallows, eyes falling to your lips, "Look where you are right now, baby. Look where my damn hands are for cryin' out loud."

"Keep calling me baby," you breathe, a desperation in your voice that betrays your emotions, tears pricking in your eyes as the weight of this conversation comes crashing down around you. He wants you - he's always wanted you. His words to Tess about not wanting to put you in danger, wanting you to stay away, those soft looks you've shared in his apartment, the small talk, all of it - it's because he wants you.

"We can't do this," he murmurs, leaning in to press his forehead to yours, eyes closing, "I can't do this, you're so- you're too-" he groans, fingers digging into your hair, "You're so young, baby."

"I don't care," you whine, butting your head forward to chase his lips, suddenly yearning to be kissed and held and protected by him, be wrapped in his embrace.

But he pulls away, removing his hands from your face and shuffling back a bit on the bed, away from you. Your hand drops but you reach out pathetically for him anyway, moving closer, attempting to pull the covers back. His hands capture yours and he squeezes them firmly, shaking his head.

"You need to go back to your room," he tells you, and his tone has changed from soft to serious, "It's late and I'm... well, you know I'm fuckin' exhausted. And you've had a long day." He looks at you with pleading eyes, like he's silently begging for you not to put him in this situation, "Let's just call it a night, okay?"

"But-" you start, tears shining in your eyes.

"Please," he breathes, "Please don't make this harder than it needs to be."

You do not want to get up from his bed. But you do.

You do not want to leave his room. But you do.

You do not want to lie awake in your own bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how his hands felt on your face, the way his eyes searched yours, the way his skin felt under your lips.

But you do.

You lie there for hours, thumbs twiddling against your belly, tears trickling down your cheeks every so often. All you can hear in your mind over and over again is the word Baby, punctuated by that soft groan he'd made, the way his thumbs had stroked your cheeks, how large and warm and safe he'd seemed in that bed.

All you want to do is be in that bed with him.

So it's no surprise when, as the sun is beginning to rise and that warm golden light starts to stream through your window, you crawl out from under your blankets and cross the hall one more time.

"We shouldn't" he murmurs when you climb into bed with him, when you tuck yourself into his side and bury your face in his shoulder, but his hands are already in your hair, fingers stroking along the back of your head.

Your bodies mold together like they've always been meant to fit that way, your legs tangled with his, arms trapped under big biceps and hairy forearms, breasts flush with his suddenly bare chest.

"I wanna be your baby," you whisper.

The nose you'd kissed brushes slowly up and down the side of your face, and he doesn't hesitate this time. He reaches up to turn your head, presses his lips against yours and lets you melt into him. Lets you trail your hand downward to unbutton his jeans in the silence of the early morning.

"You already are."

---

beautiful boy!

AEGON II TARGARYEN & SUNFYRE in HOUSE OF THE DRAGON Season 2, Episode 4, "The Red Dragon and the Gold"

---

SO FUCKING GOOD

pro: love: add

hacker!haechan x afab!reader

wc: 11.6k

warnings: smut, little plot, they are PERVERTS, slight invasion of privacy, esex, masturbation, praising, degradation, overstimulation, edging, sex meetup, oral, unprotected sex (NO!), switch!haechan, switch!reader, mentions of panty sniffing, breeding, fleshlight, this is all very unrealistic and i also know nothing about hackers thank u (also this represents haechan in no way)

a/n: HAPPY BDAY TO MY SPARKLY PRINCESS!!! this is the best guy ever... hope everyone enjoys my little present :3

if you asked him how he became a member of an underground maybe-not-so-ethical kinda-not-really mafia group, he wouldn’t know what to say.

when he was younger, he took interest in the technology around him. because of this interest, he finds himself in front of his laptop, quickly hacking into some random company’s firewall for his boss. he doesn’t mess with anything else, grabbing some information of a person he doesn’t know to send off.

he puts all the information about the man in a well protected folder and sends it off. that’s really all he does. he’s someone who works behind the scenes, unlike his other group members who have a more up close hand in everything. he wouldn’t want to either way, finding the solidarity and animosity in his room to be just right.

it was easy for haechan to get used to this lifestyle. he never really had too many people to talk to before, so now he gets to make easy money in the comfort of his home without talking a lot. he can do everything in his apartment without having to go out much, either. 

he yawns before closing all the windows on his screen. he’s done all the work he was assigned today, but he doesn’t know what he wants to do next. he takes his glasses off his face, hand moving to rub at his eyes before he slumps against his gaming chair. his hands fall to his lap, one of his thumbs massaging the soft skin of his inner thigh.

he smirks to himself, quickly acting on impulse as he moves to palm the front of his shorts. his cock twitches at the touch as he sighs contently at the feeling. his head rolls back against his seat, shutting his eyes as he gets hard. he bites his lip as he hand moves to slide under the waistband of his shorts and boxers-

he’s cut off by his phone buzzing loudly at the corner of the desk. he debates on not answering, but when he brings his phone close to his face, he curses. he sits up a bit before sliding his glasses back on, grumbling to himself as he answers the phone.

“what do you want, mark?”

“all i did was call you and you’re already mad,” mark huffs.

haechan rolls his eyes, “please hurry up and tell me why you called me.”

he can hear mark clear his throat, “johnny’s asking if you’ve sent that information taeil needs.”

haechan can feel his own mood turning sour. his tongue pokes at his cheek, “you can tell johnny that he can ask me that himself.”

it’s silent for a few moments on the other side of the call. haechan wants to scream at mark for taking so long when he could be doing other things. he feels his blood turn cold when he hears johnny’s voice, “hey, haechan? i need you to send those files before i make sure that your pay gets cut.”

“y-yeah, sorry! i just sent them a bit ago. please don’t reduce my pay, i might actually die.” 

johnny laughs lightly, haechan sighing in relief at the sound, “i wouldn’t do that to you. you’re lucky taeil likes you so much.”

haechan cries out a thank you to him, causing the other two to laugh. he waits for them to calm down before beginning, “let me know if taeil needs anything else. i have to go, i was a little busy before you called.”

mark’s voice sounds from the call, “doing?”

johnny interrupts, “probably something nasty.”

“no! why do you always say that?”

“what else should i expect from a guy who does shit with his computer and stays inside all day?”

haechan groans, “whatever. i’m hanging up.”

haechan is quick to turn his phone on silent before throwing it somewhere on his bed. he isn’t hard anymore, but now he’s too desperate to just ignore it. he opens a private screen on his computer before scrolling for a bit. he doesn’t want to watch porn, doesn’t want to read it, but there’s something he wants to try.

he’s heard through small forums of this website that allows you to chat with an online service that adjusts to your preferences automatically. he finds it after some time, hands slightly shaky as he presses on the link. it’s a nice looking website, stating some information before he can actually get into it. he wonders what mechanisms were used to make it. he can’t help it.

he skims through the information before clicking the start button. he’s met with the sight of an anime-looking girl, one that he’d find on hentai. the voice calls out to him, what would you like to do with me tonight?

he’s quick to type out, ive been so busy. just need someone to take care of me.

the character on the screen leans forward more, exposing more of her chest. haechan bites his lip at the sight, her voice calling out again, yeah? want me to take care of you? make you feel nice and good?

he responds with a yes, quickly shimmying out of his shorts as his cock strains in his boxers. it’s not often that he gets to talk like this with someone, even if this someone isn’t real. he’s too horny to care, not when he’s already been denied once. the character smiles at his response, groping at its chest. haechan watches closely, eyes hooded as he once again palms himself.

it must be so hard for you, right? the character says, getting bossed around all day when all you wanna do is get taken care of. i’ll do anything you want me to. 

there’s a voice-to-chat option, but haechan isn’t really sure he wants to do that for his own privacy. he’ll manage to type with one hand while his other grips around his clothed length. make yourself feel good w me, want u 2 tell me when to cum.

the character agrees quickly, the screen pushing back to get its whole body in frame. it’s clad in only panties, smiling at him before speaking, are you gonna touch yourself for me? let me see how big your cock is?

he slides his boxers down just enough to get his length out. it slaps against his stomach, leaking at the tip. he didn’t realize how needy he was until now, easily wrapping his fist around his length. it’s easy for him to give in, the character’s words drifting to his ear, causing small whines to fill the air.

he tunes it all out eventually (not counting when he gets praised). he can’t stop thinking about how bad he wants to do this with someone in real life. he always says it’s because he’s too busy with his job, but he knows he can’t keep lying to himself. he pretends that sweet voice that’s calling out to him is someone real, sitting right on top of him as he gets whispered praises.

his hand wraps around his cock tighter at the thought, his hips bucking up into his fist. he licks his lips as his other hand trails up his hand, his fingers brushing over his nipple. quiet whimpers fill the air, and there’s nothing he wants more than to moan out someone’s name. 

he could give everything to someone. he’d be so obsessed, practically at their beck and call. he just needs to put all this energy and desperation he has somewhere. he isn’t a loser, isn’t gross, but it’s hard to deny it all when he’s getting off to a character calling him sweet and coaxing him to an orgasm.

he bites down on his lip to stop the pathetic moan that tries to slip out. he’s not typing anymore, listening in to what the voice is telling him to do. speed up, show me how bad you need it, and all haechan can do is obey and fuck his fist faster. 

sobs sound throughout his room as his fist tightens around his tip, his thumb teasing at it. he no longer cares about how loud he’s being, no longer cares about denying how pathetic he looks right now. all he wants to do is cum, wants someone to come over so he can stuff all of his cum inside of a warm pussy.

it doesn’t take much longer, cum spurting all over his fist as he pinches at his nipples, loud whimpers slipping out of him. his ears are ringing, the voice speaking to him inaudible as he rides out his high. his hips twitch when he tries to overstimulate himself, a breathy laugh slipping out of his mouth.

the character looks fucked out, cheeks red as if it came down from its own orgasm. there’s a small smirk on its face, thanking him for everything, telling him just how good he’s been. haechan lays back onto his chair, heavy breaths beginning to even out. it’s when he hears the voice speak up again:

thanks for being such a good boy, lee donghyuck.

haechan’s heart stops. what did it just say? 

it was easy getting all of his information.

you don’t really tap into the chats happening on your website, but this one piqued your interest. the fake name put in sounded too familiar, something you're sure you’ve heard before. you can’t miss out on this opportunity of possibly getting to see one of the most renowned hackers. 

when you dig a little deeper, you’re met with some information about him. you’d think for a hacker, he’d be a little more protective about his information. it’s all laid out in front of you, almost as if he were begging for someone- for you to find it.

you can’t help but fuck with him a little. you make the character that he’s talking to call him by his real name. that’s all you were gonna do, really, besides look over his chat (to which you find out he likes being called a good boy). you know what he’s capable of, and if this is really him, you don’t want anything to happen to you.

except, you don’t really take into account how good he is at what he does, and you’re quick to get a call from someone you don’t know. you ignore it, obviously, given the circumstance you’re in. you should block the number seeing how you’re being spammed with calls, but you can’t get yourself to. you want to see how far this can go, to see if it’s really him, and just to make fun of him a little.

after what seems like the twentieth call, you finally pick up. it sounded like he was hyperventilating for a moment, but you assume he saw that you actually answered with how quiet he got. you don’t want to talk first, none of this is really your fault. you can hear him suck in a breath before he speaks, “who are you and what did you just do?”

“well, if you got my number, i’m assuming you already know who i am.”

he’s mumbling to himself in words you can’t hear. you should be scared, but knowing he just got off on your website makes this whole thing funnier. he can’t exactly report you, either. he would have to prove how he got your number when he doesn’t even know you.

“what made you even look into my conversation?” he pauses for a bit, probably recounting the whole chat,  “i wasn’t even doing anything wrong?”

“your username seemed pretty familiar to me. sounded like something i’ve definitely heard before.” you pause, letting your words sit in the air. you can hear his breath pick up, trying to pull himself together at the possible thought of being caught. you start again, “are you… 6sunfull?”

he doesn’t speak. you don’t need him to say that he is, the silence tells you everything you need to know. you speak again, “you know, for being such a good hacker, you kinda suck at hiding your information.”

“how did you even find it? if it’s how i’m thinking, then that’s like, a total invasion of my privacy!”

you laugh, “that’s crazy coming from you. isn’t your whole job all about invading other people’s privacy?”

“it’s different!” he lets out an exasperated noise, “you run a porn website, think about your customers privacy!”

you splutter out a laugh, “look, i’m not gonna report you or anything. i just think it’s funny that someone like you was begging to be taken care of.”

“how do you even know that i’m that hacker? what if i’m just a random person getting my info taken away from me?”

“one, you got my number out of nowhere. two, you knew how i got your information. you’re used to this. plus, your birthday was basically in your username.”

an annoyed sound comes from his side of the call, “all i used was a six! whatever. i don’t want to talk about this anymore. do whatever with that information.” he quickly hangs up afterwards. you can’t blame him, you would probably try to run away from this, too. he didn’t ask you to block his number either, which tells you should let him take his time.

after all, he sounded too cute to let go.

a few days pass and you haven’t heard from him.

you’ve been trying to pretend like you don’t want to text him or you don’t want him to call you, but it’s been hard. he hasn’t been back on your website, hasn’t shown any sign of thinking about you. you’re not sure why you’re so invested, but knowing that you might be one of the only people who knows who he is helps.

but today, you get a text from the same unknown number from the other night.

unknown: you’re not going to report me to the police or anything… right

you: why would i do that

knowing that he’s on his phone, you’re quick to press the call button. it rings a few times before he decides to answer, a smile beginning to form on your face. you want to start talking, but he decides he wants to speak first, “i will send you whatever amount of money you want if you don’t snitch.”

“who says snitch anymore? and it’s too embarrassing for me to go to a police station and tell them i found a hacker who was on my pornsite.”

by the tone of his voice, you can tell he’s embarrassed, “thanks, i guess…” 

“you do owe me, though. for not ratting you out.”

“what do you want me to do?”

you know exactly what you want, “just for you to talk to me. i’m giving you the chance to talk to someone, donghyuck.”

you can hear him scoff on the other side, “who says i don’t talk to anyone? and don’t call me that, it’s weird. just call me haechan.”

ignoring him, you continue, “just trying to be nice. maybe next time you won’t have to use my website and instead you can just text me.”

“what?”

“only a suggestion. you don’t have to, but i’m just putting it out there. if you’re that desperate to use a pornbot, you can just use me instead.”

the words you said the other day were only meant to tease haechan.

after you finished speaking, you could hear him choke on his own breath, trying to calm himself down. you laughed it off, but you didn’t realize how much it impacted him. you played it off as a joke, trying to move on before he could think about it any further. he said he had other things to do, quickly trying to hang up before you could continue. you hope you didn’t take anything too far.

you realize why he wanted to hang up so quickly when you’re met with a call late in the evening. lazily answering the call, you greet haechan. there’s silence on the other side of the call. you wait for him to speak, but you’re met with an airy groan as a response. your heart stops beating for a bit, and you quietly ask, “what’s wrong?”

when he speaks, it’s pitchy and breathy all at the same time, “t-thought you said… thought you said you could help me…”

did you really mean it? when you said you wanted to see how far this could go, you didn’t mean it like this. you start to mull over your options, but at your silence, you can hear the slick noise of haechan fucking his fist. the thought makes your body heat up, any thoughts you had were thrown out the window. how desperate is he to do it so openly in front of you?

it’s like he already knows that you would agree. he lets out a hushed whimper that almost sounds like your name, and you can’t help how your thighs squeeze together. you bite your lip, imagining how exactly he might look right now. you wonder why he decided to call you up, someone who’s practically a stranger, instead of someone else. 

you give in out of pure curiosity, only wanting to know more about what made haechan come to you. out of the few conversations you had, he wants you to help get him off, he wants to hear your voice telling him to cum. it’s why you ask, “are you going to tell me what you’re doing right now?”

“i’m… i was thinking about what you said to me. thought about what you would say to me, how you might sound… wanted to hear your pretty voice.”

you move to your bed, laying against the headboard as you get comfortable. you slide down your shorts, squeezing your thighs once more. you can feel how uncomfortably wet you are, feeling how you clench around nothing at the sound of haechan whining.

you try to stop your voice from being so shaky before you speak, “aren’t you embarrassed? moaning like this in front of a stranger?”

you can hear the sound of him fucking his fist faster, “d-don’t care. you’ve already seen how i’m like, spying on me and all… you probably like this, too.”

you scoff into the mic, but he’s right. he’s being so shameless, but you can’t help but feed into it. you do want to make him hold out though. you want to see him beg, just like he was on the chat. just this once, you’ll give into him. you breathe out, “you just need my help, hm? just need me to take care of you and make you cum?”

he’s moaning, obviously too horny to care about how loud he’s being. he laughs a little at how your teasing him for his messages, “wanna see you cum, too. please cum with me.”

you hum, “don’t know if you deserve it, you were getting off without me.”

“please? wanna hear you and how wet your pussy is.”

you can’t help the small whimper that escapes you, causing haechan to moan louder than you. your hand slides down over your panties, teasing yourself while haechan continues to get off on the call.

he picks up on how quiet you’re being, choosing to take over, “you’re touching yourself, too, right? stopped teasing me so much so you can touch your pretty pussy?”

you hate how much his words get to you, trying to hide your noises by biting down on your lip. he’s not even trying to be mean, he’s just rambling, saying all the thoughts he has out loud for you to hear.

“would you be mad if i said i looked up what you look like? just wanted- wanted to see how you looked like. it’s not fair that you already know how i look.”

you moan out, your fingers circling your clothed clit at his words. you don’t care about how obvious you’re being anymore, not caring how haechan could probably hear how desperate you are. if anything, the groan he lets out tells you everything you need to know.

his voice is whiny, “wanna see you, w-wanna see you cum. are you gonna cum, too? wanna see it… can i please facetime you, i just- i’m so close.”

“fuck… are you sure? aren’t you worried that-”

“no, i don’t care. promise, just need to see you. i’m gonna cum without you if you keep on-”

you hang up the call before he can finish his sentence, a smile forming on your face as a minute passes by. you quickly facetime him, greeted by the sight of the upper part of haechan’s face. his bangs brush over the frames of his glasses, eyes widening in shock when he realizes you called back. his head tilts back into his gaming chair, a moan slipping out at the sight of you smiling at him.

you laugh, “are you gonna let me see all of you?”

he blinks back at you, shyness seemingly taking over him, “i-i thought you didn’t wanna talk to me so i kinda… let myself cum.”

you let out an astounded laugh at his words, watching as he props his phone on his desk, showing you the mess he made. his shirt was lifted enough for all his cum to miss it, shorts tugged down as if he was rushing to touch himself. his cheeks are flushed, biting his lip as he shyly watches your reaction. you tilt your head, “do you think you can cum again?”

“only if i get to see you,” he pushes the hair out of his eyes so he can see you better. he can’t look away once you set your phone against your pillow, letting haechan drink in the sight of you. it’s almost embarrassing for you as he lets out a loud whine when he sees that you’re only wearing an oversized shirt and your panties. he pants, “you look so much better like this, needed more than just your voice.”

“yeah?” you slip a hand between your thighs, “nothing’s ever enough for you, right?”

you watch as he swipes his fingers through the cum on his stomach before wrapping his hand around his length, his hips twitching at the feeling. he’s trying to hold back his moans, trying to fight through the overstimulation as he starts moving his fist. his eyes watch you with intent, just waiting to see what you do next. “slow down if you wanna cum with me,” you sigh, “you’re gonna cum without me again.”

“yeah, sorry, just-” he hesitantly pulls his hand away from his cock, choosing to run it over his stomach. his hand pushes his shirt up, brushing his fingers over his nipples as he lets out a small whine. his eyes focus on you again, “you just look so good right now, can’t help myself.”

“really?” you ask, hand slipping under your panties to rub at your clit. you swallow down a moan, “all you wanna do is stuff me full of your cock, hm? take care of me, too?”

“yes, please. wanna do it so fucking bad. wanna fuck you full of my cum.” his eyes flutter shut, the thought being too much for him to handle. his eyes shoot open when he hears a choked whimper come out of you, realizing that you pulled your panties aside for him to see. even though it’s dark in your room, he’ll take anything he can get.

“isn’t that too much to ask from a person you barely know?”

“d-don’t act like you don’t like it. you’re just as bad as me, getting yourself off to a stranger.”

you clench at his words before giving in and teasing a finger into your cunt. all you can think about is him, the sounds of his moans and how hard his fucking his hand surrounds you. he can’t help it either, eyes glued on how your finger slides in and out of you. he debates on turning his volume all the way up when he swears he can hear how wet you are.

you slip a second finger inside, moaning at the feeling. hearing haechan whimper, your eyes focus on the screen, watching as his hand tightens around his base, stopping himself from cumming right away. you let out a shaky sigh, calming yourself down before speaking, “i’m almost gonna cum, too, just wait for me.”

“i just wanna-” his fist wraps around his tip, hips fucking into the tight space, “wanna do it for you. wanna finger you, wanna fuck you, wanna eat you out. i can do whatever you want.”

your palm rubs against your clit, your thighs beginning to shake. he sounds so desperate, just from seeing you like this. even though you’re a stranger, he can’t help but want you. everything about him screams that he’s a gross pervert, but that only draws you in more. he might just bring out the worst in you. 

“you’ll let me play with you, too, right? let you fuck my mouth, let me touch you how ever i want? let everyone know that you’re mine?”

he nods quickly, moans of your name spilling out of his mouth as he tells you he’s about to cum. you feel the same, one of your hands sneaking up to pinch at your nipple. haechan’s eyes struggle to stay open, watching you get yourself off just because of him. he’s the one making you feel good, all through the sight of him and his words.

“fuck, can you show me your tits? wanna- wish i could cum all over them.”

you pull up your shirt to expose your chest, haechan cumming for the second time this night at the sight of you on display for him. his hand pinches at his nipple, matching your movements as he rides out his orgasm. you follow right after, cumming at the sight of him looking so fucked out. 

haechan tries to catch his breath again, letting out a breathy laugh, “god… i should’ve taken a screenshot.”

your post-orgasm haze is ruined by his words, “why can’t you be normal and just ask for a nude later?”

“isn’t it more romantic knowing that i wanted to capture something so beautiful in the heat of the moment?”

you frown at him, watching as he pulls a tissue from his desk, wiping off the cum on his chest, “knowing you have tissues on your desk tells me that you know nothing about being romantic.”

a pout forms on his face, trying to make himself look more presentable as if he didn’t just cum right in front of you. you can’t deny that he doesn’t look good, and now that he brings his phone closer to his face, you can see just how good he looks. there’s a few moles adorning his face, tying all of his pretty features together.

he notices you staring for too long, smirking a bit, “you can’t be mean to a stranger like that! you’ll help me learn to be a little more romantic, right?”

as much as you want to say no, you’re forced to agree when you see the hopeful look in his eyes.

you’ve been talking to haechan a lot more.

he’s been telling you his interests other than coding and hacking. he lets you in on his day to day life, even when all he’s done was work. you think it’s cute how he calls you for things other than sex. you’ve gotten texts from him asking what he should eat for lunch, calls ranting about an episode from a show he’s watching. you like that he’s trying to get close to you.

you wonder if he’s ever had someone to talk to like this. even though he told you he talks to his coworkers, there’s only so much you can talk about with people you work with. especially if it’s for an underground-basically-illegal business. you try not to think about it too much, especially with how happy haechan gets when he has a chance to talk to you. 

today he called you while you were in the middle of fixing a bug that was reported on your website. he didn’t text you early that morning, and you didn’t want to bother him assuming that he was busy. you weren’t expecting his call, but you welcome it.

“why are you calling me at the grocery store?”

he laughs as if it’s the most normal thing, “people call at the grocery store, it’s normal. plus, i was feeling a little lonely. who else would i have called?”

“fine. right now i’m trying to see what’s wrong with my code. someone reported today that there was something wrong with my website.”

“those poor people.”

“haechan, you were one of those ‘poor people.’” 

he brushes you off, saying that he’s better than all of them now that he has you. he tells you that he’s getting a few things to make lunch for himself later. he was busy with work earlier, but he can’t tell you exactly what he was doing, not right now. it’s easy to forget that everything he does is supposed to be a secret, even from you.

“so, you’re gonna cook? you don’t seem like a good cook.”

“hey! i am a very good cook, you just have to trust me. i just needed to pick up a few things.”

you halfheartedly scan through the lines of code, not in any rush to fix anything. it wasn’t that important, not when the thought of haechan looking domestic seems to get stuck in your head. “yeah?” you hum, “wish i was there with you, wish i could try some.”

the laugh he lets out causes you to smile, not being able to fight off the effect he has on you. there’s a part of you that really does want to see him. how he might lean over the stove, his shoulders on display for you as you watch from behind. you lose your train of thought, hearing haechan grumble about them not having the right product.

“you know, if i was there, watching you cook, i wouldn’t be able to help myself.”

you can hear how his mumbling abruptly stops, catching onto the meaning of your words. if only you had facetimed him, you would’ve been able to see his face. he wouldn’t be able to hide behind his screen like he is now. you start again, “wish i could hug you from behind, maybe kiss your neck a bit if you’d let me.”

he whispers into his phone as if other people can hear you, “you’re gonna tell me this while i’m in the produce section? please calm down.” 

you let out a light chuckle, “as if you don’t like it.”

“why are you trying to get me hard in a grocery store? you need to be normal.”

you shrug, forgetting that he can’t see you, “it’s your fault you take everything i say seriously.”

it’s quiet again, and you assume haechan is trying to calm himself down. you can’t help but continue, “i hope when you cook, all you can think about is my hands all over you, especially where you need me the most.”

he speaks up again, soft, just for you to hear, “say one more thing and i’ll have to jerk off in the store’s restroom.”

laughter slips out of you, unable to keep yourself serious at the thought, “in the store’s bathroom? you really are a gross pervert!”

“stop! you are, too! you like seeing me be like this!”

you can’t deny it, so you let out a dreamy sigh, “you can just show me later, instead.”

and who is he to say no to you?

you always knew that haechan had a dirty mouth.

in all of the calls you both shared together, he always managed to say something that would catch you off guard. days where he wants to fill you up with his cum, days where all he wants is for you to call him a needy slut, other days where he threatens to buy a fleshlight if he can’t fuck you soon. this is who haechan is as a person, and you find yourself following his ways.

today, though, he really can’t stop talking.

he must’ve been worked up, trying to start the call as normal as one can before he eventually breaks down. in his own words, all he wants to do is “be smothered by your pussy.” as much as you want to cringe at his words, you can’t help the way your body heats up at the thought of him only thinking about you.

“fuck, just wanna taste.”

his eyes are zeroed into how wet you are, how all he can hear is the squelch of your pussy through his headphones. all he wants for you to do is shove your fingers in his mouth, letting him get a taste of how sweet you are. “please, i could make you feel so good. i just know you taste so good, smell so good, too.”

you let out a weak moan of his name, your body needing nothing more than for him to take care of you. his eyes are dazed, watching how his hips fuck into his fist just from the sight of you. you think he might just be a little bit obsessed with you, memorizing all the points of your body just from his phone.

“i wouldn’t stop eating you out until you’re begging me. wanna feel you pull at my hair and push me away. just need it so bad, need you so bad.”

“y-yeah?” you breathe, “do i need to send you some panties in the mail? p-perverts like you like that, right?”

he lets out a fuck, gripping at his base. through the low light and the slight grain on his phone, you can see pearly cum leak out of his tip, watching him willingly ruin his own orgasm. his whole body is shivering, and even in the darkness you can see how his cheeks are pink. there’s shock written on your face, and he just lazily smirks at you, “only wanna cum good if you’re feeling good with me.”

“then show me how good i should be feeling.”

he’s quick to continue his ministrations, curses leaving his mouth as he fucks through the overstimulation, whimpers filling the air. you swear you can see a few tears leave his eyes, his back arching up for your touch, wishing that you could just reach through the screen.

“j-just wanna,” a moan cuts him off, “wanna show everyone you’re mine. wanna mark you, wanna fuck you full of my cum.”

“wanna show me off? let everyone know just how good you fuck me?”

his free hand begins pinching at his nipple, causing his hips to stutter a bit, “of course. i’d record us, watch every single time i miss you. i’d post it to your website, too. make sure everyone knows that you’re mine.”

“all they’re gonna see is how good i can fuck you, watch how i can make you all fucked out.”

“wan’ it, want it so bad.”

“you always say that you’re gonna be the one fucking me, but that’s my job, right? you’d let me use you like a little toy? taking everything i give to you?” your own movements speed up as you watch him fall apart at your words. you can’t imagine how he’d be in real life if he’s acting like this over a call.

“fuck yes. all i wanna be is yours, i’ll do whatever you ask me to.”

you can tell he’s close, hand speeding up over his cock as he writhes around in his seat. you can hear all of the sounds he’s making, wanting nothing more than to cum at the thought of you two together. however, you cut through his thoughts, “then will you stop touching yourself?”

he’s shocked when he hears you, hooded eyes looking back at yours. his hand stops moving, but he still has a tight grip on his length. a little breathlessly, he asks, “what? i- i can’t…”

you cock your head to the side, “you just said you’d do anything i ask you to do though?”

“does it have to be now? c-can’t it be next time?”

you shrug, “i’ll do whatever you want next time if you do this for me now.”

he immediately rips his hand away from his cock, placing both hands onto his thigh. you scoot back a bit on your bed, showing off the rest of your body to him. you watch his cock twitch just from the sight of you, his hands itching to make himself feel good.

your fingers circle your clit, head tilting back at the feeling. “sometimes, you just have to slow down a bit. take a real look at what’s in front of you, y’know?” 

you know he’s not really paying attention when he’s slow to nod. you watch as his cock helplessly twitches on his abdomen, begging to be touched by him, to be touched by you. with how wet you are, you can slide in two fingers easily, moaning out his name. he looks so desperate, almost willing to beg for anything. “won’t you tell me how good i look?”

he runs his hands up and down his thighs, his blunt nails digging into his skin. you wanna laugh at how his cock jumps with the slight pain, haechan trying to hide the whimper he lets out. he heaves out, “l-look so good… i know you’d look even better filled up with my cum…”

you pout, “are you saying i don’t look that good right now?”

“no! i’m fighting the urge to not cum untouched just from watching you.”

you moan at the thought, your back arching up as your hips roll into your hand. your eyes focus on him, “you better hurry and touch yourself before i cum all by myself.”

he’s quick to obey, hand wrapping around his cock and setting a quick rhythm. he’s louder than you, whines and whimpers of your name being the only thing leaving his mouth. “think ‘m gonna cum… please, want you to cum with me!”

“y-yes! haechan, i’m cumming!”

your mind goes blank as you come undone, body tightening in on itself as you clench around your fingers. through blurry eyes, you can see haechan with his head thrown back, cum spurting all over his chest as he moans out your name. you think he looks the best like this, the only thing on his mind being you.

it’s quiet for a few minutes after you both come down from your highs. you’re laid down onto your bed while haechan is slumped in his gaming chair. you don’t bother to get up, enjoying the presence of haechan, even through the phone. 

the silence is cut off by haechan, “i really need to get you back for edging me. do you know how mean that is?”

“i personally really liked it. i should’ve taken a screenshot of how desperate you looked. i would’ve made it my wallpaper.”

“if you say it like that, then… i wouldn’t mind. everyone would see how obsessed i am with you.”

you watch as haechan contemplates his next words, and he looks a little too serious for you to be comfortable. you want to ask if something is wrong, but he beats you to it, “did you really mean it when you said that you would send your panties to me?”

you glare at him, “in what world would i want to do that? you are so gross.”

he coos at you, “you like it though.”

“i’d only want you to see them in person. you can keep them and do whatever gross thing you want with them then.”

“are you serious about meeting in person?”

you think about it for a few moments. as much as you’d want to, there are a few things you’re worried about. even though you’ve revealed so much to him, you’re not sure how you feel about inviting him over to your place yet. you let out a small laugh, “you could just look up my address.”

“i wouldn’t do that. not to you.”

his words make you a little shy, despite the meaning behind them. for haechan, these words are tender, keeping a part of his life away from you. he wouldn’t hurt you like that. it brings you relief, and it only makes it harder for you to hide the feelings that begin to grow inside of you.

you both think about what options you have. there’s only so much desire you can hold back before the urge to really meet him takes over. you throw an idea out, “how about we both meet at a selected place?”

“like a hotel?”

your eyes shine at his suggestion, “exactly! i forget how smart you are.”

his tongue pokes the inside of his cheeks, “only for you, baby.”

you threaten to end the call because of the pet name.

(he begs for you to stay on call with him.)

(you say yes.)

you spend the next few weeks planning out a trip where you can both meet.

the both of you figure out a place that’s convenient for the both of you, some kind of middle point where you can choose a hotel. haechan says he can pay for it all, willing to splurge a little more if it’s for you. it’s easy for you to agree, not willing to argue with a man who probably has way more money than he lets on.

there’s a lot of things that you’re nervous about when you start packing for the trip. you hope haechan is as nice as he lets on in person. you could end up not liking him by the end of this trip. what if he doesn’t like you? what if you do something weird and he doesn’t like you anymore?

it dawns upon you that he’s haechan. 

all of the days leading up to this, where you both talk for as long as you can, it’s obvious how much he likes you. he spends a lot of his free time with you, even if he’s doing something else. it’s safe for you to say that you feel the same way. you can only hope that this trip shows the feelings that have been building up.

it’s really nothing that you should be worried about. as the days lead up, you both talk about how excited you are. haechan says as soon as he gets you alone, he’ll be pressing you against the wall, kissing you until you beg him to do something. you say that that will most likely not be happening, but you like his confidence anyways.

the actual traveling day isn’t so bad. you don’t have to wake up too early, and you already prepared everything you need from the night before. you recount everything you need to do before heading out, letting haechan know that you’re already on the way. he’s quick to respond, telling you that he beat you by already leaving his house before you. you thumbs down his text.

after a few hours of traveling, you make it to the hotel. a grimace forms on your face when you see the fancy-looking hotel, wondering just how much haechan paid for the both of you. you arrive a bit earlier than scheduled, but it’s not too crowded in the lobby, so you sit down before texting haechan.

you: i just got here

you: are you close or 

haechan: im nearby so u can just wait for me

haechan: literally gonna shit my pants when i see u

you quietly laugh at his text before reacting to it with a thumbs down. you scroll through your phone for a few minutes as you try to calm your heart down. you’re not really paying attention to the screen, moreso trying to convince other people that you’re not currently trying not to die from nervousness.

it’s ten times worse when he texts you that he made it to the hotel. you shut off your phone, grabbing your bags before standing up. your eyes are focused on the entrance, biting your lip with every moment that passes.

you let out a breath when he walks in, relaxing at the sight of haechan walking in. he looks equally as nervous as you did, eyes nervously flicking across the lobby. it’s when he hears you calling his name that he looks at you, a small smile painting his face. 

any worries that you had from before fade away as you walk towards him, a grin on your face as you drop your bags to hug him. he jumps a little in your hold, his arms hesitating slightly when he hugs you back. it’s weird to be able to feel him after so long, you never would’ve expected this to happen.

“haechan,” you breathe out, “i’m so glad you got here.”

he holds you a little tighter, “me too. i… i can’t believe you’re actually real…”

you laugh at his comment, noticing something different, “i didn’t know you wear glasses?”

“stop, it’s embarrassing…” he mutters shyly, “just wanted to make sure i can see you good.”

you pull away from him, asking if he’s ready to check in now that he’s here. you make it over to the front desk. the person at the desk is subtly trying to text on their phone, quickly turning it off and around once you clear your throat. they smile, “how can i help you?”

you let them know that you’re checking into a room for two people. once you get asked for the payment, haechan fishes around for his card somewhere in his bag. it takes a few moments, the receptionist staring at you two. it’s almost as if they can see how this is your first time meeting each other.

you focus on the polaroid on the back of their phone, a picture of them with a man with a bright smile and dark hair. you break away once they give you the room keys, “let me know if you need anything else.” 

you thank them before grabbing everything, heading to the elevator. no one speaks when you two enter, no one else in the elevator but the both of you. you can see haechan’s fingers twitch at his sides before choosing to wrap an arm around you. a small laugh leaves you, easily leaning into his side, pressing a small kiss to the skin of his neck. you laugh harder when he shakes at the feeling.

he pulls away from you once you make it to your floor. your body is buzzing every second you’re apart from him, wondering why he isn’t all over you like he said he’d be. his hand is shaking when he messes with the key, opening the door and stumbling in.

the room is big, one large bed for the both of you. haechan laughs as you drop your bags to plop yourself into bed. you look back at him expectantly, watching as he cautiously puts his bags down and sits next to you in bed. you place your hand on his thigh to pull yourself up close to his face, your noses almost touching.

you can hear his breath hitch, how his eyes move to look at your lips, a faint blush forming on his cheeks. you cock your head to the side, “don’t you wanna kiss me? like you said you would?”

he licks his lips, “i… will you- will you let me?”

you do it for him. you press your lips against his, leaning into his body. his hand moves to hold your waist, gripping too tightly before he decides to hover his hand over your side. the kisses are slow at first, getting used to each other. his lips are soft against yours, his hand deciding to move up to cup your face instead.

haechan gains a bit more confidence as he moves his lips faster against yours. he’s quick to whine against your mouth, tongue licking against your lips. it’s almost embarrassing how fast you are to give into him, feeding into his desperation. you can feel how his hand feels clammy against your face, your hand moving to intertwine with his.

when you pull away to catch your breath, you laugh at how his glasses have fogged up. he whines in embarrassment, moving to sit himself against the headboard of the bed. he spreads his legs a bit, inviting you to sit on his thighs. you crawl over to him, an innocent smile on your face as he watches your every movement. 

as you place yourself on his thighs, you look down on him, his pretty eyes looking up to yours. your hand places itself on his cheek, tracing along the moles that you always found yourself staring at. he leans into your touch, mumbling more to himself, “i never thought i’d get to have you like this…”

“we have all the time in the world now,” you lean down to give him a peck on his lips, “we can do anything we want.”

his hands are hesitant when they hold you by your waist, bringing your body closer to his. he sits you right on top of his bulge, feeling how he’s already hard from just some kissing. you giggle to yourself, letting your chest press against his as you kiss him again. one of his hands slip under your shirt, hand warming the skin at your side.

his hips begin to shift under yours, his hand trailing higher and higher before it stops at the cup of your bra. he pulls away from you a bit, his hooded eyes and puffy lips letting you know what he wants. you nod at him before kissing him, his hand moving to cup your chest. his other hand joins, both hands now groping at your covered chest. 

he licks into your mouth, hands moving harder against you. you can feel his cock poking against your thigh, smiling into the kiss. your hand slips under the waistband of his sweats and boxers, touching his leaking tip. his whole body has a reaction, head tilting back as he lets out a moan. he tries to swat away your hand, and you try to argue, “i wanna make you feel good, too.”

“b-but i’ll-” a whimper leaves him this time, “i’ll cum if you keep touching me like that-”

you try to hold back your laugh, ultimately failing when you see the embarrassed look on his face. he whines before grabbing both of your wrists, pushing you down flat on your back. he hovers over you, eyes filled with desperation as he openly stares at you. his hands tug at the hem of your shirt, asking for permission to take off your shirt. 

you agree, watching him slide it off of you with your help. he’s met with the sight of your bra, hands shakily moving to take hold of your chest. he touches you how he likes, a dazed look on his face as he gets more greedy. “you don’t know how much i thought about this… just wanted to touch you here so much…”

your hands fumble to undo the clasps at the back, sliding your bra off so haechan can get a better look. he moans unabashedly,  immediately moving to mouth at the valley of your chest. he’s leaving marks as he pleases, making it to your nipple and sucking harshly. his other hand pinches at the other nipple, causing you to let out choked whimpers. 

your legs twitch at his hips, forcing him to stay in between your legs. you can feel how his hips grind down, mindlessly chasing his own pleasure. “you can probably get yourself off just like this, right? i can see you humping the bed.”

“fuck, i can’t help it. you’re so hot,” he mumbles against your skin, “i could make you feel good all day, that’s all i need.”

as if something goes off in his mind, he’s quick to begin trailing kisses down your body. your skin jumps at the feeling, his eyes peering up at yours. he unbuttons your shorts and pulls them down, not caring how rough he’s being. it’s quiet in the room when he sees you in just your underwear, his heavy breaths filling the air. his nose nuzzles against the seat of your panties, a chill running up your spine when you can feel him breathe in deeply.

he slowly pulls your panties down, his eyes zeroed in on your core. he holds the panties in his hands, looking back at you, “you said you’d let me keep these, right?”

you laugh at him, feigning disgust when he asks, “you’re so gross! but i did make a promise, right?”

there’s a giddy look on his face when he pushes them away for later. he focuses on what’s more important, your open legs inviting him to where he’s been fantasizing the most. he settles down between your thighs again, pressing quick kisses to your inner thighs. he feels them try to close in on him, one of his hands moving to keep one leg pried open. 

he takes a breath before looking at your core. he swipes a finger down your slit before sticking in his mouth. a moan follows, “you taste so sweet. fuck, it’s better than i imagined…”

it takes no time for him to press a kiss to your clit, sucking lightly as you let out a low moan. it’s easy for him to bring you closer to his face, spreading your cunt apart with his thumbs as his tongue licks at your entrance. all you can hear is how loud he’s being, the slurps of him against your cunt and the moans he’s letting out get to your head.

his tongue focuses at your entrance, switching between sticking the tip of it in your entrance and licking up at the slick that comes out. his thumb circles your clit, pressing hard against it causing you to twitch in his hold. his hand gives up on trying to keep your leg open, choosing instead to move up and tug at your nipple.

your thighs begin to shake around his head, feeling his fluffy hair tickle your thighs. when his tongue moves to tease your entrance again, you clench around it. he moves slightly away, eyes gazing up at you in wonder, lips and chin glossy with how wet you are. he licks his lips, “are you-”

you cut him off, “fingers- i need your fingers, haechan.”

he’s quick to comply, moving back to his original spot. his mouth replaces his thumb, now choosing to suck on your clit. there’s a finger at your entrance, slowly pushing in. he grunts against you when he feels you clench again, tongue flicking at your clit. your hands shoot to his hair, threading through the strand as your hips rut against his face.

it’s when you feel his glasses bump against your skin that he lets out an irritated noise. you open your eyes fast enough to see him pull away from you, quickly ripping his glasses off his face and moving right back to your pussy. you wail when he doesn’t add another finger, “n-need more, haechan, please.”

he nods against you, not pulling away as he adds another finger. all the air in your chest leaves as he curls them inside you, hitting spots that you could never reach on your own. he chuckles against you, “who knew that you can be this messy just from me eating you out? made you wait so long, didn’t mean to, baby.”

your hands tighten around some strands of his hair, causing him to whimper against you. the bed shakes a little when his hips grind against the bed. he chuckles lightly, “n-need you to cum already or else i’m gonna cum just by grinding against the bed.”

“keep going and i’ll cum soon. right there, haechan, please.”

your hands press his face closer to you, no longer obstructed by his glasses. his tongue teases your clit, giving you just enough stimulation to have you whining. he can tell you’re close just by how you’re clenching around his fingers. when he looks up at you, his heart beats a little faster with how good you look, and it’s all because of him. he moans out,  “god, you’re so perfect, everything about you is so-”

he’s cut off by your moan, your orgasm crashing into you, clenching hard down onto his fingers. he helps you ride through it, fucking his fingers into you until you start pushing his head away from you. he laughs before you take his wet fingers into your mouth, cleaning them up as you stare right at him.

he’s quiet now, no words coming out of him as you move to peel off his sweats. you eye how hard he is in his boxers, hand moving to palm his clothed cock. he whines, just like before, “please don’t. i will seriously cum right now if you keep on touching me.”

you blink at him, “what’s so wrong with that?”

“wanna do it inside your pretty pussy.”

you lean up to press your lips against his again. it’s desperate this time, tongues moving against each other as haechan holds you close to him. it only takes a bit of grinding against his cock before he breaks, standing up to clumsily pull his boxers and shirt off. in the meantime, you situate yourself against the pillows, haechan practically pouncing on top of you. 

he teases his tip along your slit, tapping it lightly against your sensitive nub. you hiss, your hands reaching for his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. he lets out a hushed whimper at the pain, cheeks red when you let out a laugh. you sigh out to him, “i needed this more than you can imagine. somehow i couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

he presses a kiss to your collarbone, and you can feel how he smiles against you, “what do you mean ‘somehow?’ i like to think that you’re just as obsessed with me as i am with you.”

he teases your entrance with his tip, causing you both to moan. you breathe out, “i can’t believe i let some loser hacker get me like this. you should be glad.”

“i’m the best one in this world, y’know? now tell this loser hacker how much you want him.”

you whine out his name, “please don’t tease… i know you want this as bad as i do, i can feel your cock twitching against me. just wanna feel you deep in me. i know you want it, too.”

he bites his lip to hold back a moan, his body betraying him when his hips push against yours. “a-alright, i know, baby. i’ll make sure to make the both of us feel good, okay? you ready?”

you nod, reaching up to give him one last kiss. you watch as he lines himself up at your entrance, his eyes losing focus. he pushes in slowly, your head pushing into the pillows as you moan out his name. he’s thick, your walls trying to adjust to his size as his head falls to your shoulder, his warm breath hitting your skin.

once he bottoms out, he looks down to see where he’s buried deep inside you. he lets out a whimper, his arms weak as he tries to hold himself up. he lets out a shaky breath, “i don’t- i don’t think i’ll last long…”

“i-it’s okay, just go slow. i can wait-”

he pushes his cock deeper inside you, “no i can- i can move just-”

he feels you clench around his cock for the first time, your walls sucking him in deeper. it’s all too much for him, your warm cunt and your needy little face is just too much. he can’t help it when his cock throbs inside of you, cum shooting deep inside your cunt without any warning. he falls on top of you, biting down on your shoulder to try to hide out the loud whimpers he’s letting out.

you’re not too surprised with how long he’s been holding himself out. he was even teasing himself, grinding against the bed when he was eating you out. you soothe him, hands running up and down his back as he lets out soft cries. you’re fine with it ending here, there’s still much more time you have together.

except, haechan pushes himself back up, cheeks red and eyes filled with tears as he fucks his cock into you again. he lets out a hiss, eyes fluttering shut at the overstimulation biting at him. you can feel how messy it all is, some of his cum slipping out of you and helping him fuck you. 

he’s slow at first, trying to will away the pain. you’re louder than him right now, his cock hitting every spot inside you. you can’t help but wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper. you cry out to him, “thank you, haechan. fuck, i feel so full!”

whining at your words, he quickens his pace, the pain bleeding into pleasure. “never thought i’d be able to feel you like this, so i-” a moan leaves him when your nails dig into his back, “i couldn’t help myself, had to cum- need to cum inside you.”

“felt so good, i didn’t care. wanna feel you cum again, wanna cum with you this time!”

“i’ll make sure you do, baby.”

he’s so sensitive right now, tears nearly prickling his eyes as he fucks you. he can’t seem to care though, not when your warm walls are clenching around him. not when you call out his name like he’s the only thing you need. how could he care when you’re the only thing he wants in his life?

“you know, i couldn’t stop thinking about this on the ride here. h-had to stop myself from getting hard in a taxi because of you.”

“y-yeah? needed you just as much, touched myself last night because i wanted you so bad.”

he whines at the thought of you stuffing your fingers in your cunt, moaning out his name just because of him. he can feel you shaking under him, wanting nothing more than to cum. “i’m here for you now, gonna give you everything you need. gonna stuff you full of my cum again.”

your hands bring his head down to kiss you, your hands softly supping his cheeks as you do. your fingers wipe away at the nearly dried tears, bringing him as close to you as possible. when you pull away for air, he moans out, “came so many times to the thought of having you like this. fuck, all i’m gonna be able to think about is you falling apart on my cock.”

you nod, because he’s all you can think about right now. you can’t think anymore, he’s taken up all of your senses. all you can do is moan out his name, letting him fuck you in the way that he’s always wanted. “haechan, ‘m so close, please-” you cry, “need you to make me cum, wanna cum on your cock.”

he can barely put a sentence together, “yeah, fuck, gonna cum on my cock? gonna show me how bad you need me? have your pussy milk me of all my cum?”

his hand reaches down to rub at your clit, urging you to cum. “i can’t hold back anymore, baby,” you can feel him throb inside you, “need you to cum, let me cum with you.”

that’s all it takes for you to let out a whimper of his name, cries falling from your mouth as he fucks you to an orgasm. with how you’re squeezing his cock, it doesn’t take long for him to cum again, a high pitched whimper joining your sounds. he cums inside, fucking his sensitive cock inside you to ride out your orgasm.

he collapses on top of you, hot and sweaty as his breaths mix in with yours. you’ve never heard him this quiet, basking in your warmth as he enjoys the haze he’s in. you don’t bother moving, even as he starts to soften inside you. he nuzzles himself against your chest, pressing small kisses on your skin. his voice is barely above a whisper when he speaks, “thank you for everything. i mean it.”

you let out a faint laugh, “that’s sweet. i didn’t realize you could be this nice. thank you for giving me a chance.”

“i told you i was romantic. you were just too obsessed with me to notice.”

“you’re weird,” you scoff.

“you like it.”

“i do.”

when you both have time, you take turns on choosing places you both want to go to. haechan always offers to pay for any traveling fees, laughing when you suggest he’s practically your sugar daddy. after many months of meeting like this, it’s easy for you to confess to him. it’s even easier for him to wrap you in his arms, a kiss pressed to your cheek as he tells you feels the same way.

now, you’re both due for another trip. there was more of a wait between now and your last trip, finding yourself just as busy as haechan. when you finally have time to yourself, you realize that it’s your turn to choose a place to visit. you find yourself looking at a quieter city to indulge both you and haechan’s homebody trait.

of course, haechan makes it possible for you both to head over. when you had originally brought up the city, haechan showed some hesitance. when you question him, he responds with, “well… i have a friend over there.”

you ask if you can meet his friend, and after some thinking, haechan decides it’s okay for you two to meet. 

when you both walk around the city, exploring the shops they have to offer, you can tell haechan’s mood shifts. his eyes begin to scan around the small crowds of people, making sure no one is looking too hard at the both of you.

when you make a turn to another street, you’re met with a bigger shop, right in the middle of a junction. haechan stops you from going any further, letting you know that this is where his friend works. you eye the store, realizing that it’s a jewelry store. he takes your hand in his before stepping in, opening the door for the both of you.

he calls out to someone named mark, waiting near the entrance as you look around. there’s gold jewelry on display and other antiques all throughout the store. before you can ask haechan what this place really is, a man who looks just as young as haechan steps out, his confused face morphing into one of giddiness.

“it’s been forever, man! and is this- is this who you’ve been talking to me about?”

“shut up!” haechan whines, looking back towards you, “this is mark, someone who i work with.”

while mark is complaining about how they’re more than just coworkers, everything is hitting you all at once. you completely forgot that haechan works with other people, and you fully believed everyone else to be hackers. you wonder what a man in a jewelry store contributes to a group overall. you don’t bother asking now, not trying to ruin the reunion of two friends. 

it’s nice watching haechan talk to someone he’s comfortable with. you see a lot of him that you don’t normally see. you let them talk, joining in when mark tells you something to embarrass haechan. it never works out in mark’s favor, though, haechan immediately spilling mark’s secrets to you.

time passes by quickly in the store, mark telling you stories that have happened to him while taking care of the place. eventually, mark gets a call from the store’s phone, pulling him away from both you and haechan.

when the call ends, he sighs and looks at the both of you, “i have to go pick something up from this guy. will you guys be okay if i leave you here for a bit?”

you both nod, watching mark pick up a few things before getting ready to leave. he turns back suddenly before walking out, eyes narrowing at your boyfriend, “no funny business, haechan. i mean it.”

haechan raises his hands in defense, a sickly sweet smile on his face as he tells mark that there’s nothing he should be worried about. mark shakes his head and tells you both goodbye when he walks out. you both watch him walk away from the store, out of his sight.

it’s quiet for a few moments before haechan speaks, “do you think we can fuck in here?”

“haechan! where would we even do that? there’s cameras in here and the whole front is made of glass!”

you watch his eyes glance over the store before watching them land on the door labeled staff only. when you turn to look at him, he’s smiling at you innocently, as if you don’t already know what he’s thinking. you groan, “if you’re alright with a quickie, then okay.”

he takes no time to drag you inside the small staff room, locking the door behind him as he smirks at you, “let’s hurry before mark comes back.”

with haechan, you come to realize that you’re willing to do anything he wants.

a/n: JESUS i wrote this way too fast and now i have to stay away from google docs for at least a week... but anything for haechan... happy bday to that guy... ALSO THANK U TO @hrts4doie FOR BETA READING HEHE...

tags: @hxxchxn @sourkimchi @hcheach @axo-l0tl @hazyhae @taexoxosgf @hyuckdolle

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heartbreaking stuff in hotd, whos surprised💀

aegon's realization and then his "no" .... brotherthatfuckingkilledme

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ahhhhh this was just so well written, the way readers thoughts are defined yet still confused and the gradual melting of joel’s energy towards them!!! i love it

Sea salt

Summary: You need to escape an unwanted engagement. Joel reluctantly helps you.

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: ~12.7k

Warnings: au though i am at a loss as to say what kind - it takes place in neither our universe nor the outbreak universe, slow burn, lots of joel and ellie, brief oppressive social norms, unwanted arranged marriage (to an m!oc), blood, descriptions of field dressing an animal, Joel showing care/love through food, talk of food and eating, reader had food restricted in the past and has associated body image issues (implied to be overweight though not necessarily), anxiety, allusions to/mentions of past sexual assault, dissociation during a consensual sex act (please, please be mindful of this and don’t read if it may upset you), m!receiving oral

A/N: Hi! First and foremost please please heed the warnings on this. This is the - sea fic? fisherman fic? escaping a marriage fic? - that I've been working on for a long time. I think I finally got it just right. I'm happy with it anyway. As always, thank you for reading and thank you for being here! I would love to know what you think if you have anything to share. <3

You hear them before you see them. 

Father and daughter, you assume, meandering through the market back out towards the docks. The sea is a roar along the shore, the vast sky stretching palest blue through the early morning. 

It’s a springtime sky; the promise of warmer days ahead. 

The girl is full of energy, careening from market stall to market stall as the surly father follows resolutely, steadfastly behind. 

You watch him carefully; the turn of his hands as he takes wherever the redheaded girl drops into his waiting palms, exchanging money with only a weary shake of his head. She doesn’t pick up much really, and you can tell he’s happy to indulge.  

There’s such familiarity there, beyond familial ties. It’s obvious that they spend much, or all, of their time together. 

Despite that, it’s also clear that he doesn’t notice the girl’s sticky fingers, palming a couple extras as she goes by. 

It makes you smile, reminds you a little of yourself as a child, whenever you could escape the house.

You follow them out of the market and past the edge of the city and into the sunny outskirts of the fishing district. The girl is complaining of the day already being too hot, and the man is reminding her of their cruel winter in the north, the turbulent seas there, and not to complain too much. This is better. Warm, calm waters are always better. 

She rolls her eyes. Yeah, yeah, Joel. Calm down. 

Joel, not Dad.

Maybe not father and daughter after all, at least not by blood. 

Your decision to pick that man with a child proved right, even more so knowing they may not be related. She clearly trusts him. 

Joel. 

You tuck the name inside your cheek, roll it over your tongue a few times, decide you like the sound of it, the shape of the vowels. 

They continue along, the girl recounting something she’d recently read. Joel nods in all the right places, asks a question here and there and meets the answer with a contemplative hum. 

He’s broad shouldered, handsome in a rugged way. He looks tired when you get glimpses of his face, circles under his eyes. You can’t tell what color they are from the distance you keep, but you can see the dark gray creeping into his hair, the patches of it in his beard. 

Eventually, the pair pass the city gates and you follow a few minutes later, keeping your head down and your face turned away. You don’t breathe as you pass, hoping you continue to go unnoticed. 

The roadway turns to a dirt path that meanders down to a beach. Coarse golden white sand and leafy palm fronds await them, the shush of the ocean growing louder the further down the beach they go. 

It’s only when they climb the sun bleached stairs to the next dock that they acknowledge you. 

You’d thought that you were being sneaky, trailing them, following at a distance, but the girl is a thief and her Joel is clearly protective and perceptive. 

“Somethin’ you need from us?” He asks, looking down at you from the top of the stairs, and you wince. His voice is stern, like a warning growl. 

The girl tilts her head, the red of her bangs flopping into her eyes for a moment. 

“I overhead you were heading to the north of the island—”

“Overheard, huh?” He scoffs and crosses thick arms across his chest; blue-green veins twist beneath his skin, highlighting the few thin scars scored there. 

Unfair, you think, that he looks that pretty with such a mean look on his face. His eyes are  brown; you can see coarse, dark chest hair where a triangle of his skin is visible above the buttons of his shirt. 

Something warm blooms in your low belly that you quickly quash. 

Want, one of your most detestable qualities. 

“Yes,” you tip your chin down. “Overheard.” It’s only a minor detail that you were looking for someone to overhear in the first place, desperate for a way to leave. Joel had not been your first choice. “And I was wondering if you could—”

“I ain’t a taxi service,” he interrupts sharply. “C’mon now, Ellie.” 

Joel turns away but the girl, Ellie, meets your eyes. “I can pay. I have money,” you say to her because Joel has his back to you. “Please.” 

“Are you in some kind of trouble?” 

“Ellie—” He turns back to the pair of you, glaring. 

“Joel,” she snaps back. “Just hold your horses.” 

You swallow when they both focus on you, waiting. Joel waiting because Ellie said to, you notice. “If I don’t leave now,” you explain, voice sticky in the back of your throat. “I may never get another chance. I can’t take any commercial ships and the mountains are too treacherous to pass over alone, and no guide will take me.” 

“Why?” 

You clear your throat and look away. 

There are a couple other reasons you had chosen to follow this pair, ultimately. They’re going where you need to go, or at least making a stop there. You trust a man with a child that seems to trust him, more than any other random sailor. They are not from your city, so they would not know your husband-to-be. 

Ellie is still looking at you curiously, waiting for a response to Joel’s barked question, head tilted to the side. He’s bristling, prickly. He doesn’t trust you and doesn't want you near them and you realize you can’t do it. 

It’s too much trouble. You shake your head and look out across the waters.

The sea is crystalline, calm, perfect, even if the waves crash as noisily as they always do. There’s a snap in the breeze, though, that probably means trouble.

“Sorry,” you smile. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. Travel well.” With that, you turn and head back up the beach. 

You aren’t sure what you’ll do, maybe just accept the fate you’ve been handed.

Marry that man, hope that if you pleased him, things might not be so bad. 

A hand hooks into your elbow, and you jump. “Hold on a minute.” Joel tugs you around to face him. His eyes flick over your face. He’s quiet for a long few seconds. “You on the run or somethin’?” He looks at you again, and you know what he’s thinking, that you look exactly what you are, some rich merchant’s daughter, and so what could you possibly have to run away from? “Be straight with me.” 

You’ve never been a good liar, and can’t think of one at that moment anyway. If you were smarter, maybe you would have thought of a cover beforehand, but leaving had been spur of the moment, a choice made in desperation two days prior, hiding ever since. His eyes flick over you again, and he seems to see that now, how disheveled you are.  

So, you tell him the truth. You’re meant to be married in a fortnight. Your husband-to-be is abusive and mean and dumb to boot. He is known for assaulting women in brothels though no one calls it that because they’re just whores, of course. 

And that’s different to what he did to you, though you don’t tell Joel about that. That is for you, a secret you have to keep inside yourself. There had been no possibility for no because you already belonged to him, just a duty you had to keep. 

He’s known for his cruelty and you’re afraid that he might end up killing you, and that no one would bat an eye if he did.  

He doesn’t ask, but you tell him anyway: you did not agree to this, not at all, not at any point. The one time you had met him, he had, well, he— “I’m being sold,” you say, stumbling away from that sentence. Your father’s words echo. You are getting far too old to be marriable to anyone else. So, that was it. No one else would give their daughters to the man who held your fate in his hand. 

“Not literally, I suppose,” you continue, “but close enough. I have money. I can pay.” 

Maybe if you had been thinner, better behaved, quieter, you could have avoided it all. 

But they forgot you were the girl that used to run away, escape into the city at a moment’s notice.

Joel just looks at you for a long moment. His expression betrays nothing. “You ready to go right now? Storm’s comin’ and I gotta get her home before that happens.” He jerks his head back toward where Ellie stands, leaning over the railing, paying you rapt attention. 

You only have the bag over your shoulder, but it would have to be enough. There was no going back for anything anyway.

“Yeah.” 

“C’mon then.”

“Really?” 

He doesn’t answer, just walks away. You scramble after him, feeling distinctly graceless as sand kicks up around your ankles.

Ellie links her arm through yours when you climb the stairs behind Joel on shaking legs. By the time you reach her, Joel is already halfway down the dock. “He’s really a big softie,” she says, tugging you along. “Just kinda grumpy about everything. Right, Joel?” She calls the last part loudly, a grin on her face. 

“Cute,” he says dryly without looking back. The girl raises a brow at you, as if to say, see? I told you. 

Ellie falls into action easily behind Joel once you reach the ship, a small fishing boat really. 

“I can help,” you offer. 

Neither of them seem to hear you. They work together efficiently and quickly, never in each other’s way, never out of place. 

It makes you sick with longing, to look at two people who know each other’s movements so well it’s second nature to guess their hand’s next placement, the next step of their feet. You stay out of their way, and then let Ellie pull you into the ship’s quarters when she’s finished and Joel is shooing her away with a mild, “Go on.” 

It’s cozy and cramped, and clear that they spend a lot of time there together. Books in little stacks, pages folded back, rugs and blankets, warm, rough, dark wooden walls that only feel a little claustrophobic, a chess table sat on a tiny table with two chairs, a camping stove, a medical kit, canned food stacked in a little triangle. 

Ellie plops down in one of the chairs.  

You feel out of breath suddenly, looking around. The end of a life over so quickly. You might never return to the shore you’d stepped away from so easily.

It feels too easy, like the ground should have risen up and wrapped around your ankle and fought. 

“So, you’re rich, right?” Ellie asks, watching you curiously.

All you can manage is a small, amused, smile back. “Not quite.” 

The shore you spot in the distance a week later, just staying ahead of the storm in increasingly turbulent waters, is a welcome sight. 

It’s not where you need to go, but Joel refuses to sail further in the increasingly treacherous waters with Ellie aboard. 

The girl protests, of course. She can handle it, she says, they’ve been through worse together. She wants to see you where you need to go.

Maybe, he concedes after a moment, after we ride this thing out on land. 

She rolls her eyes at you, like the idea is ridiculous and Joel is being overly cautious for no good reason. 

Fine by you. Land is good. You were violently seasick for the last twenty-four hours onboard and aren’t keen to see if the feeling might return. Despite growing up around the sea, you’d had little cause to be anywhere near a boat or ship, and your body still isn’t used to the constant movement.

You like the pair of them, and the way they are with each other, the easy love they have with each other. At night, Joel drops anchor and you all gather tightly together in the ship’s quarters because there’s nowhere else to go. You eat canned food and sleep writhed in the center of the room, in the dark. The lull and rock of the ocean pulls you toward sleep each night, but more than that the slow sound of their combined breathing and the scent of salty sea air, the slight cinnamon smell that lingers in the cabin, drags you down. 

It’s nice not to be alone. 

Ellie starts sleeping with her back pressed against yours after the second night, when she accidentally wriggles into you and you don’t pull away, a comforting little comma of warmth against your spine. 

You get used to it far too easily.

Some part of you feels as though you should be afraid of Joel, but with Ellie there it’s impossible. You chose well, you think. At least you’re content to think so for now. 

Joel seems keen to keep a steady, slightly wary distance with you anyway, but Ellie sure doesn’t. She makes it her business to know exactly everything about you. 

Still, every evening so far, after Ellie inevitably falls asleep reading, even though she isn't tired, he plays chess with you, quietly moving the pieces without speaking. You never break the silence, aware of whose goodwill you were at the heel of. The clunk of the pieces being sat down and picked up, the scratch of Joel’s hand over his beard as he thought, the slap of the waves against the side of the ship, is strangely comforting.

If he never breaks the silence, you won’t either. 

“Joel,” Ellie says that afternoon as you draw closer to shore. He’s kneeling, winding a length of rope up, circling it from palm to elbow and back again. You’re doing your best not to stare at him, the twist and swell of muscle in his arms, as he does. 

He grunts to let her know he’s listening but doesn’t look up. “She said that her dad was making her get married. He can’t do that, can he?” 

He glances at you and then at Ellie, who has a worried line bent between her brows. His eyes shift to you again, dark, and then back to her before he refocuses on the rope. “You don’t have to worry about that,” he answers gruffly. 

“But is it true?” 

“Now why would she go and make somethin’ like that up, Ellie?” The girl shrugs and you think to intervene when he sighs, drawing from patience stored somewhere deep inside him. His voice softens. “He ain’t supposed to be able to but it still happens there. That’s why we didn’t hang around. They’re different there. Mainly happens among rich folks, anyway, so you don’t gotta worry about it. Clear?” 

Properly assuaged of her worry, some of her gusto returns. “Good, because that sounds fucking horrible.” She looks at you then, “You don’t have to worry about it anymore either.” 

There’s a certain degree of relief in her voice that makes you smile.

“Just as I said, right?” You tease. 

It’s cute, her fact checking with Joel. 

She rolls her eyes and jumps down from the counter where she’d been sitting next to the camping stove, watching the steady approach of land and fidgeting with a label on one of the cans.

“She’s a good kid,” you say to Joel when she disappears onto the deck, and who tries to protest you rolling up the other knotted rope on the floor next to him. He does soften up a little though, with your words. “Really smart, too.” 

“Yeah, well,” his knees crack as he stands to his full height. “She’s supposed to be in school.”

“But she wants to stay with you.” 

“No sense sending her if she’s just gonna run off. Cause trouble somewhere.”

He doesn’t say it, but it’s clear he likes having her around. 

You nod and hand him the rope you’d rolled up. “Thank you,” he says, nodding, fitting it together with the other one. “Should be a couple hours before we dock.” 

“And how long ‘til the storm passes?” 

“Hard to tell. Looks like it might be a couple days though.” 

Your stomach sours and rolls and the nausea that unspools in you has nothing to do with the heave of the waves. 

Maybe they wouldn’t look for you. Maybe they would. 

Would a storm give them time to catch up? Or put them off entirely? 

Maybe they didn’t care at all and some other poor soul has already replaced you. That makes you feel even worse, for sealing another woman’s fate. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but how much are you worth?” 

You huff and lean back against the table. “Why? Gonna try to make a profit?” It’s a joke that falls flat, because you didn’t say it like a joke, because he could. He could very well do that, if he wanted to. 

He shakes his head, fidgets with the band of his watch. “Not that kinda man,” he says quietly.  

You pause to consider that. 

Every man is that kind of man, you think. Joel just hasn’t been faced with the right price yet. 

“I’m just askin’,” he continues. “If folks are gonna come lookin’ for you. We need to know.” 

You look out the window. Ellie is on the deck, face turned toward the wind and the sea salt spray of each wave that you crest, looking toward home. He needs to know, you think, he needs to know because of Ellie. 

But you don’t have an answer. 

Maybe you’re important enough to follow across a treacherous sea, maybe you aren’t. 

“I don’t know,” you say, and think about what it would be like, just to float to the bottom of the ocean and live there instead.

It would at least be easier.  

The shore is rocky. 

It’s nothing like the beaches you left behind, the warm air and blue skies, the palm fronds and soft, hot sand. 

This beach, this dock, seems a million miles away from the one you’d left. 

The climate is harsher, the trees leafed and deep green, most of them belly up, veins on display, in anticipation of the coming storm, or otherwise needled.

“It’s usually nicer,” Ellie yells over the wind as you stumble up the rickety wooden steps towards what looks like a little village built up and away from the churning seas, against the side of the mountains. “Prettier, I guess. Look,” she points. “Those are the mountains you would have gone through. Think you would have made it?” 

Mountain isn’t a big enough word for the sheer cliffs and bluffs that face you. The dense forest that blankets every side of the town but the one facing the sea. “I think I can do anything,” you say to her, smiling. “It’s one of my great follies.” 

Rain is starting to spatter down, just a few cold drops that sting when they hit your skin. 

She nods, her grin spreading wider. “Me too. Looks worse from here, though. You would have gone through the pass and not all the way around to here. The only way to get here is the sea.” 

Good, you think. You only have to worry about being followed from one way. 

Joel shuffles you both on when you pause in the stiff wind to watch a gull get buffeted back and forth by the gale winds, Ellie pointing to their nests, just visible in the great crevices rent in the rockside. “Keep on,” he says, low voice audible even against the weather. “Don’t want caught in this.” 

“It’s just rain,” Ellie says and rolls her eyes at you in exasperation. 

Evidently you’ve proved a good enough ally in her quest to annoy or disagree with Joel about everything, to earn those eyerolls. Everything, except for when she needed something clarified or explained for which Joel’s word was law. 

“Just rain ‘til the wind picks you up and carries you off,” you joke and pinch her side.

She threads her arm through yours, elbows hooked together. “That’s called flying,” she says. “And it would be so fucking cool.” 

Eventually you reach the top of the stairs, and turn onto a little cobbled side street. Ellie releases your arm and leads you and Joel through the labyrinth, all the shutters drawn and doors closed tight against the incoming storm, until you arrive at a tavern, wooden sign over the door creaking in the wind. 

Inside, there’s a fire roaring at the grate; dark, wood paneled walls, and leather seating. Ellie and Joel are greeted by name by a few voices scattered around the room, before a suspicious silence descends when the patrons notice you.

Small, isolated village, it shouldn’t surprise you and it doesn’t, but it does make you feel small. 

“Who’s this?” A woman behind the bar calls out into the sudden quiet. Her eyebrows are raised, a rag in her hands working at an already spotless glass. “Pick up another stray, Joel?” 

Joel nudges the two of you further inside, slamming the door shut behind him against the wind. The room is warm, and you realize how icy your skin feels, the pins and needles of feeling coming back to you. 

The question makes you worry for a moment. It hadn’t seemed like Joel wanted to help you at all but if he regularly did things like this then maybe—

“Ha ha,” Ellie deadpans at the same time that Joel says, “Funny.” 

Ellie must be Joel’s only stray then, and you know for sure without her he would have left you where you stood. Or, is Joel Ellie’s stray? It isn’t really clear, and might be a little of both. 

“Where’s Tommy?” Joel asks instead of answering the woman’s question. 

“He’ll be coming in any minute now.” 

Her eyes stay locked on you but when you open your mouth, feeling like you need to explain yourself to her, Ellie beats you to it. “We’re helping her get to the next port but,” she waves a hand at the window. “Storm. Joel wanted to wait it out here.” 

The woman eyes you and you nod. “She’s right,” you speak up, clearing your throat. “Just passing through.” 

“Well,” she says, nodding at you, “good that you did. The storm is supposed to be bad.” She sets the glass on the counter and introduces herself as you all make your way closer to the bar. You shake her hand and she finally introduces herself. “Maria. We have a couple rooms if you need somewhere to stay.” 

“Yes, thank you,” you interject before Joel or Ellie can answer for you. “Of course I can pay,” you say, even though no one asked.  

Ellie scoffs. “Pay. You can just stay with us.” 

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “That’s all right. You don’t have to do that.”

“What? You’re just going to lock yourself up here until the storm passes? It could take, like, a week!” She asks, managing a level of incredulousness that only a teenager could muster. 

“May as well just ride it out with us,” Joel shrugs, fiddling with the bag he holds. “Easier. Cheaper.” 

Maria surveys him again, and then looks at Ellie and you in turn. She seems suspicious, but if she thinks making a fuss is worth the trouble of antagonizing the two of them, she decides against it. 

You’re starting to realize that Joel and Ellie are both like a dog with a bone, and one you’d better not try taking something from if you liked having both hands. 

“Fine,” you agree. 

“Good,” Joel says and rounds the counter. He says something to Maria and leaves the duffle bag with her. “Tell Tommy we brought back a haul. Nothin’ we can do about it ‘til the storm passes.” 

As soon as you’re back outside on the street, you take Joel’s arm in your hand and pull him to a stop in the rapidly worsening weather. “You will let me repay you somehow. And you can’t argue with me about that. I won’t let you. I’m not some useless, spoiled— I don’t expect anything from you. You don’t have to help me.” 

It’s probably the most words you’ve ever spoken to him at once since climbing aboard the ship. It feels like he’s playing chess with you, moving pieces while you aren't looking. 

Why offer up his home? If not to use it against you, take something from you?

You’d hike up those impossible fucking mountains by yourself before you ever let that happen, before you let yourself owe someone. You won’t be beholden to someone again. 

His brows inch up his forehead. “All right.” 

“Good.” You release his arm and gesture for him to lead without another word.

As you follow him through another winding alleyway, Ellie is laughing beside Joel. The wind drowns her voice out and you can’t be sure what she’s saying, but you can’t miss the way she’s smirking at Joel or the way the tips of his ears go red. 

The walls are cream. 

Pine bookshelves line one wall, packed with tomes and a long collection of colorful looking comic books. The furniture is well loved and comfortable looking. You’ve never seen anything quite like it, something so obviously a sanctuary, a lived in home. 

Part of one wall is traced with the outlines of leaves and vines, snaking their way across a bare wall to end at a window, like the art might crawl past the glass, like vines are growing right out of the walls. 

“Like it?” Ellie asks, hanging up her drenched jacket and kicking off her shoes. One boot goes flying and smacks into the wall with a dull thud. 

Joel automatically picks it up and lines it up in place with the other by the door. “What have I told you about doin’ that?” He grouses and immediately moves away, through the curved archway and into what must be the kitchen. 

“I painted it,” she says proudly.

“I love it. It’s beautiful,” you say earnestly, because it very much is. “You’re very talented.” 

The living room is rattled with a chill, a thin weave of air pressing in around the edges of the windows and around the door. 

The window panes rattle in the frame, the wide expanse of them taking up most of the far wall. Beyond them, and down below, the ocean is a churning, violent mass. The clouds are a deep purple and blue, like bruises knuckled into an unwilling sky. 

“Thanks,” she says, suddenly shy, her voice just a soft little whisper as she joins you by the window. “Don’t worry about the storm. It’ll be loud but that’s it. Maybe blow someone’s porch furniture away if they didn’t bring it in, but that’s it.” 

You laugh and turn to her. “You know, I grew up on the coast too. I’m not unaccustomed to storms.” 

“Oh,” she says and looks back out at the sky. “I didn’t. Grow up here, I mean. I didn’t like the storms at first. Not that I was scared or anything. I just didn’t like them.” 

You open your mouth, not sure what you’re about to say when Joel calls out to the pair of you from the kitchen. “Come on in here and get warmed up,” he says.

Ellie leads you to the kitchen where there’s a fire just starting to smoke in the grate. 

Joel is at the stove fiddling with a pot. 

“You like coffee?” He asks, the question directed over his shoulder without looking at you. 

“Sure.” You blink, a little confused at being included. 

Ellie makes a face and settles herself in front of the growing flames. “Gross.” 

The wind howls down the chimney, sends scattered drops of rain against the window. “Can we get something to eat or what?” Ellie asks, watching the pinging raindrops roll down the glass. 

“You live here, don’t you? Make somethin’.” 

“He’s shit at cooking,” Ellie says to you but doesn't move to find something to eat. “Should have just eaten with Maria.” 

“Well you’re welcome to go back over there and ask her to fix you somethin’.” 

You end up eating sandwiches instead, you and Joel with cups of hot coffee and Ellie with warmed milk. She talks almost the entire time. It’s odd, eating like that, so casually, at the counter, with your hands. You like it and you wish you could say that without sounding crazy. 

It’s also the first time, in a long time, that you aren’t monitored while eating, tutted over about it, fussing that you might gain more weight. What man would want to marry you then? 

Joel asks you if you want another one when you finish and when you tentatively say yes, almost convinced it might be a trick, he just makes it for you. Like it’s easy, like you should eat. 

When was the last time you ate like this? What you wanted and with your hands? Not since you were a child, escaping the house, stealing peaches from market stalls to greedily eat in alleyways, juice dripping down your fingers, until you were gorged on them. 

Gluttonous, you’d been called when you got home. Greedy. Fat on your little arms pinched, size of your growing body examined. No matter what, even when you weren’t stealing food, you were always too big, one way or another. 

The sky is violent and dark by the time you finish, belly full. Ellie gives you a tour of the house, one room at a time, past lime washed stone walls, pine furniture, thick carpets layered on top of dark wood floors. 

The house is cozy and lived in; dust and messiness, haphazardly piled stacks of books, tools, manuals on woodworking. Instruments, music, pictures, art. You would not have guessed there would be so much art. 

The house mirrors the ship, in some ways. It makes sense that it’s theirs. 

Ellie tells you again not to worry about the storm, points her own room out to you and leaves you in the spare bedroom that must be used for their hobbies. You run a hand along the desk, the tools scattered on the scarred wood, run a finger along the spines of comic books scattered nearby. 

You can imagine the two of them there, Ellie reading her comics to Joel, laughing out loud; Joel grunting so she knows he’s listening, laughing unexpectedly, like the sound got tricked out of him as he carved. The picture is so clear in your mind, it makes you ache, a cavity broken open in your chest. 

It occurs to you that you feel safer here, with two strangers, than you would have ever felt with a man you knew, in your marriage home. Changed name and changed heart and waiting for something awful. 

Because something awful would have happened. Because it already had. Your skin crawls with the memory of his hands on your body. Bile rises. You wish you hadn’t eaten that second sandwich. 

There is not even the question of maybe, you think, and twitch the curtains back, staring down at the black, writhing mass of the sea. There was no maybe things would have turned out all right. They wouldn’t have.  

A wave slams against the rocky shore, audible even from your perch, through the trembling glass and the walls. 

No one could travel through that. 

Could they? 

You had not been cared about, nor loved, by anyone. But, what you did was more than a slight; it was a shame that you had run away. It might be that, the humiliation and the need to put you back in your place, that might cause someone to come after you. 

There’s a knock on the door. You’re expecting Ellie, but find Joel on the other side. He offers a stack of clothes to you, all looking to be about your size. “Asked Maria to see if we had anything for you. Said it should fit ya.” 

“Oh, that’s very kind of you,” you say, a heartsore, bleeding feeling settling in the back of your throat. “You didn’t have to do that. Thank you.” 

He just nods, hovers there in the doorway. He rubs one hand over the back of his neck, eyes flickering over you. “Yeah. Ellie showed you around?” 

“She showed me everything in the whole house, I think.” She had pointed out everything, what you could use, what was hers and what was Joel’s, all the while going on about how sticky the air is. She never imagined salt to be sticky, or that sea air could be that thick.

He makes an amused sound. “Yeah, sounds about right.” He clears his throat and shifts. “Goodnight. You know where to find us if you need somethin’.”

“‘Night,” you murmur, tucking the clothes against your chest, watching as he heads back towards the steps. “Hey, Joel?” 

He turns, one foot on the first step down. 

“I meant what I said. None of this is for free.” 

He raises a brow, lips parting, fingers twitching around the band of his watch. He looks for a moment like he might say something, but only nods and then goes down the steps. 

It doesn’t feel like you’re playing chess at that moment. 

You shut the door. 

Even warm and clean, free of the salt slick residue that clung to your skin after so many days at sea, you don’t sleep. 

You miss the rock of the ocean, the sound of Ellie and Joel breathing near you, Ellie’s back touching yours. How quickly you had gotten accustomed to them, the comfort of their presence. You were only on that boat with them for a week, but already you miss it. All your life, you’ve felt something in the tug of the sea, and living near it, and living on it are two very different things. It had felt like living at the end of the world. 

The sound of the storm keeps you awake too, the rain finally began in earnest hours before and the sound is a cacophony that is impossible to drown out. 

You don’t sleep at all the first night, and the next day the weather worsens. The town worries about rockslides and flooding and you insist on helping them prepare for and combat the weather in whatever ways they can, building makeshift levees and moving sandbags until your very spine aches. 

Joel tells you that you don’t have to and you ignore him. 

Ellie thinks it’s funny. 

You meet Tommy, Joel’s brother, who seems knowing when he finds out that Joel had brought you there, like there’s a secret you haven’t been let in on. Maria, at least, is brisk and straightforward, and doesn’t try to coddle you. She puts you to work like everyone else. 

Ellie introduces you to her friends, one of which she seems to harbor a crush for. She groans when you tease her about it at dinner. 

Dinner is always held in the kitchen, sometimes standing at the counter, sometimes crowded around the breakfast table. Each time, you love it. You love bumping elbows with Ellie and listening to her talk. You feel trepidation when your knee brushes Joel’s, when your forearm presses against his, but you’re so close it’s impossible to avoid, and eventually you both stop trying. 

You come to like the feeling of his arm against yours, the firm swell of muscle and ridges and valleys of his veins, the coarseness of his arm hair scraping against your skin. 

It’s comforting, and feels like you’re playing with fire at the same time. You don’t quite trust Joel. 

He could demand anything from you, and might still, and you’d have no choice but to give it. 

You play chess in the evening with him like you had on the ship, because Ellie still falls asleep reading, lying on the floor or sitting upright on the couch. 

Joel always carries her to bed when she does and something about it makes you want to cry. 

The labor exhausts you, but still you don’t sleep at night. You wake from nightmares, more exhausted than ever, if you sleep at all. 

A week or so on, when the sheets are a tangled, sweaty mess from your tossing and turning, you decide to get up. The living room should be empty and the view of the sea wall there is better. You want to watch the hungry churn of the ocean, assured that nothing can reach you through that storm and lulled to sleep by the crash and swell of it. 

The stairs creak a little under your feet, but the sound is muffled by the rain, the din of it against the roof and the windows. 

You’re expecting the living room to be empty, but it isn’t. 

Joel sits in an armchair, a mug on the windowsill next to him, eyes trained on the storm, the mass of dark, roiling clouds and the night that obscures it. He glances up at you, gaze flickering over you for a moment before his attention goes back to the window. 

“Can’t sleep?”

“Sorry,” you say, edging into the room. “I didn’t think anyone would be awake.” 

“You ain’t botherin’ me.” He shakes his head, sighs. “Always have trouble sleepin’ through these things anyway.” 

So that makes two of you. 

You settle on the matching armchair and tilt your head at him. “Why?” 

He huffs under his breath and it almost sounds like a laugh, before he groans and sits up fully in the chair, bracing his forearms against his thighs. “Wake up thinkin’ I’m on a sinking boat.” 

“That’s very honest of you.” 

“Could be a lie.” 

You hum. “It could be, but I don’t think so.” 

He doesn’t disagree and for a while you sit in silence, the rain and the now familiar pattern of his breathing lulling you closer to peace if not sleep. It’s quiet for a long time, and you think again about how much you like listening to him just breathe. 

“I know what that’s like,” he says. “Makin’ the kinda choice you had to. Ain’t really much of one. Ellie, she—” He pauses for a long minute. “I guess she was the choice I wasn’t supposed to make.” 

You blink. It’s odd to expect nothing and be greeted with. . .this. It’s an oddly vulnerable thing for him to admit to you. Heat unfurls in your chest. He’s been thinking about you. “What happened?” 

He shakes his head. “S’all behind us now. She’s safe.”

Such finality in his voice, it makes you ache. That is what matters to him, what should matter. She’s safe; everything else is secondary. 

You nod. 

“She likes you, y’know.” 

Your shoulders loosen. “Oh?” 

“Mm.” He swipes a hand down his face, and leans back. “Yeah. She gives me more shit ‘cause she’s showin’ off.” 

“Something tells me this is the regular amount of shit.” 

He laughs under his breath. “You’d probably be right.” Joel looks at you, his eyes cast dark in the low light. “C’mon,” he stands and starts toward the kitchen, not waiting for you, disappearing behind the archway.

You get to your feet and follow him curiously to find digging through his haphazardly stocked cabinets. “Sit down there,” he says and you take a seat on one of the stools by the counter. 

Rarely did you have cause to be in the kitchen at home. You ate what was given to you three times a day, always served in the dining room, always in tiny portions. 

This is interesting to you. 

Eating in the middle of the night for no discernible reason at the counter. Just as you have most evenings. It’s still thrilling to you, in some odd way; breaking rules that don’t exist here. 

He stands at the stove, broad shoulders hiding most of what he’s up to. The smell of oil, then something crispy, hits your nose. 

“We just ate.” 

He snorts and glances at you briefly over his shoulder. “What’s that got to do with anything?” 

Joel turns and deposits crusts of bread, flash fried fish dotted with salt and glistening golden brown, a wedge of lemon and basil, onto the counter. 

“Ellie’s right,” he says, not looking at you as he works. “I’m a poor cook, but somethin’ I’ve always been able to fix right is fish.” 

“Being a fisherman, it does make sense.” 

“Think it's more because it’s quick,” he chuckles. “Couple minutes on each side and it’s done. No standin’ over the stove for hours on end. Ain’t got the mind for that.” 

“Patience, you mean.” 

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Got plenty of that. Just not for cookin’.” 

He slides the bread onto a plate, topped with a piece of fish and drizzled with lemon and sprinkled with basil, and pushes it toward you. 

Joel must have decided you could be trusted sometime in the last week, because he continues without prompting, “My brother is a better cook. He’ll fix you somethin’ before we haul off I reckon.” He looks up, “Go on and try that.” 

You take a bite, chewing slowly as the room continues to warm, from your bodies and the heat of the stove. It’s not bland. And it’s even better when Joel leans over and squeezes a little more lemon over it, a pinch more of salt from a jar on the counter. 

You eat in silence for a while, his company enough. You aren’t accustomed to silence in the face of others either when eating, but you find that you don’t mind. You don’t need to find some way to entertain Joel and you’re used to how quiet he is. 

Joel assembles and eats his own piece, watching you carefully from the corner of his eye. His fingers shine with grease from the fish. 

“That taste all right?” 

Your gaze bounces from his fingers to his eyes. “It’s delicious,” you answer quickly.  

He huffs out a laugh under his breath. “It’ll do.” 

“No,” you lay a hand on his forearm. He doesn’t get it, but it’s more than food. He wants to feed you and that means more than you can tell him. “It really is. It’s. . .crunchy? Crispy.” 

Joel looks at your hand and then back at you. You remove your touch from his arm and clear your throat, prepared to apologize for being overly familiar with him, but he just shakes his head and asks, “Never had fried fish before?” 

“I don’t know. I’m not well versed in how things are cooked. But I’ve never had it like this before. Never tasted like this at least.” 

It’s true, but there were also just a lot of things you weren’t permitted to eat. 

He seems to know it, shakes his head and looks away. “That’s a shame.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Well,” he says, watching you take another bite, eyes flicking over your face, “we’ll just have to find somethin’ else for you to try.” 

When you meet his eyes, something warm settles in the middle of your gut, makes your mouth go dry. You shove down the bloody want clawing its way up into your throat with an icy hand.

“Oh.” Your face feels hot. 

He’s so close you can feel the heat of his body. Joel smells like salt and you wonder if he tastes like it too. 

The wanting wars with the acid memory of unwanted hands. 

Right choice, wrong choice. Choice at all? Would you be allowed to stop? Does he really want you or is this what you owe for everything you’ve borrowed? Are you picking up signals that aren’t there at all because that’s what you’re expecting? 

You don’t know. 

Joel doesn’t seem like that kind of man but your own words haunt you, every man is that kind of man. 

He’s talking about food but it doesn’t really feel like it. And he’s being so kind to you. 

Anxiety and anticipation lock up in your chest.

He’s closer to you than you realized, maybe closer than he realized too because he suddenly clears his throat and takes a step back. 

“I’d like that,” you say when you find your voice.  

“Mhm.” He’s still close enough that the side of his leg touches yours, a gentle pressure. “Keep eatin’. You don’t get enough, workin’ all day long.”

Oh, you think. How strange.  

That he would suggest it, that he noticed at all. 

When you go back to bed, you sleep well for the first time since you stepped off the boat. 

So the slow movement of you together begins, like the inevitability of the sea washing against the shore. 

The storm passes after two weeks of bad weather, the sky clears, you continue working, and eating. You don’t mention leaving, and Joel doesn’t either. 

Tommy does cook something for you, Maria trusts you enough to leave you on your own at the tavern, the locals grow accustomed to you, you go hiking with Ellie and her friends and watch her flirt so awkwardly it makes you smile. 

You play chess with Joel and let him feed you a new treat each night, usually something small that can be eaten on a crust of bread, but sometimes something else. Some kind of drink you’ve never had before, purple and sweet, fruit that doesn’t grow where you’re from, local seeds and nuts and root vegetables torn out of the ground with his own hands. 

One evening gives you a pear cut into neat little slices, the simplest of his gifts so far. You’ve never had one before. 

It’s good, sweet but tart, floral. The texture of it is interesting and, at first, a little off putting. 

Joel must find something in your expression funny because he laughs. “Don’t like it?” 

“Just didn’t think it would. . .” you try not to make a face, and know you failed when his jaw ticks, amusement thick in his eyes, “feel like that.” 

The corners of his eyes crinkle up, the lines in his forehead deepen and you love it. You love that you've made him laugh.

“Uh-huh. You can just tell me you don’t like it.” 

But that would be rude, so you say instead, “My favorite used to be peaches. I didn’t get to have them that often, though.” You decide to keep the theft of said peaches to yourself. 

Joel hums, a far away look in his eyes, something calculating in the tilt of his mouth. “Peaches. Think I’ve had one before. Kinda. . fuzzy on the outside?” 

He’s teasing you. 

You wrinkle your nose. “At least they’re not grainy like pears.” 

“Grainy?” He laughs then, a real, full laugh. “As I said, you can just say you don’t like it, sweetheart.” He plucks the piece you’d taken a bite out of from your hand. You have to force yourself to look away from the juice that trickles into his beard when he bites into it. 

You want to kiss him, taste the juice of the pear without the texture of the fruit, and if you keep looking at him, you just might. 

Joel says he has something else you can try, since you’re so goddamn picky. You can tell he’s smiling when he says it, even though his back is turned, already picking something else out for you. 

Most of the protein you consume is fish, but a couple evenings you’re treated to stew that Tommy makes. When you ask where the beef came from, not having seen a single cow, you’re told there are none. “Mutton,” Joel answers for his brother that night. “Comes from sheep. We got so many of ‘em they’re basically pests. Sometimes we use deer.” 

“We,” Tommy snorts. “Only thing you’re good for is butcherin’ the poor things.” 

He leans over, conspiratorial. “He can’t cook fuckin’ toast, turns out black every damn time. And soup, my God it’s—” 

“All right,” Joel grouses. “Cut it out.” 

It makes you smile. It makes you feel like you belong, like you’re being let in on a secret. 

You’re there so long that the seasons start to turn. The turbulent spring morphs into a mild summer, like a spigot in the sky is suddenly turned off, the rain and storms stop, the sun shines high in the sky almost every day though the temperature remains chiller than you’re used to in summer. 

One day, blue sky clear, crisp breeze in the air, you ask Tommy about the deer. “Joel said you eat them but I haven’t seen any yet. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one.” 

He looks up from the list he’s making at the counter in the tavern, supplies that the town would need in the coming months. “Joel ain’t here is he?” 

“He and Ellie are out on the boat today fishing. Should be back sometime in the afternoon.” 

“Good,” he throws down the pen. “Grab your jacket.” 

Tommy takes you hunting. It’s a lesson in how quiet you can be, how watchful. Of identifying tracks on the ground and paying attention to the behavior of other animals. 

You get a brief lesson on how to shoot. The kick of it hurts your shoulder, but the lingering ache is nice in a way. Tommy tells you that you’re a natural though you don’t believe him. “Joel can teach you how to clean it and take care of it,” he says of the gun in your hands. “Reckon I’ll be in trouble for takin’ you out here.” 

“Why?” You ask. “Seems like it’s useful to know.” 

Though part of you figures you already know why. If you’re just going to leave, then there’s no point in teaching you. It’s a waste of their resources and a waste of Tommy’s time and Joel probably already knows that—

He snorts, interrupting your thoughts. “‘Cause he likes bein’ useful. He likes takin’ care of folks, always has. Never been interested in cookin’ til you came around. Now he needs to know every goddamn thing about it. Him and Ellie have been livin’ on sandwiches for years.” 

You feel shock roll over you, mirroring the emerald green shivering around you in a gentle breeze. “He—Really?” 

Tommy elbows you with a grin. “Don’t be too impressed. I taught him all a’ that and he’s still too stubborn to be good at it.” He crouches and points ahead where a buck has wandered in your path. “Looka there.” 

It’s exceedingly odd. 

Flirting with you, by cooking for you, feeding you? 

You adjust your jacket around your shoulders which is tighter than it had been when Maria gave it to you and stoop next to Tommy. 

Strange, in a nice way. You squint at the deer, watching him nose at the long sheaves of grass. His antlers are little.

“Leave it up to you,” Tommy says. “We can leave him or you can take a shot.” 

When you reenter the village at dusk, Joel tells Tommy not to keep you out that goddamn late again. There’s a frantic look about him. Didn’t think to tell anyone where you were goin’? 

You don’t think he realizes the way he hooks a hand into your elbow and tucks you closer to his side, like you might run off or disappear right in front of him. 

Tommy waves him down, says there was nothing to worry about. 

But Joel is proud when you interrupt their erupting argument to tell him you were the one to shoot the deer you’ve hauled back. “Tommy’s going to take me again some time.” 

You watch the last remnants of anger ease off his face, the tension out of his shoulders. “Just. . .leave a damn note next time.” 

Joel was. . .worried about you. The treacherous, warm feeling slides though you again, tugs the interior of you up into a tight embrace, laces your lungs together until it feels like you can’t breathe. 

“I can show you how to field dress it,” he offers. “If Tommy ain’t done that yet too.”

Tommy claps a large hand against your shoulder and moves off before Joel has even finished speaking, rifle over his shoulder, leaving you and Joel and the deer together. “You mean—” 

“Butcher it, I guess. Somethin’ you should probably know the basics of. If you’re ever—If you’re on your own for some reason.” 

“Okay.”

Maybe Tommy wasn’t lying about you being a natural shot because Joel compliments your kill when you have the deer on a rack. “Hit it just right,” he compliments. “Nothin’ wasted.”

There’s something sickly attractive about the dressing of an animal, the bunch of Joel’s shoulders and the flex of muscle in his hands and forearms. It’s clear he’s done this many times before, a quiet, competent expertise in the way he handles the knife.  

“Tommy said deer are out of season,” you say as you watch him. A sliver of skin appears between his shirt and jeans when he kneels, golden skin bared. The skin at the base of his back looks soft, and you have to stifle the urge to reach out and touch him. 

You wonder what he would do if you did, if you slid your hands inside his shirt just to feel his skin, if you pushed his shirt up to feel the swell of muscle in his arms and chest, the padded roll of his belly.

Instead, you yank your eyes away before he can catch you staring at him.

“It is,” he grunts. “Don’t usually hunt ‘em in spring.”

“Why?” 

Joel doesn’t answer immediately, instead explains the cut he’s making to skin the deer and not waste the hide. It makes your gut roll at the same time you can’t look away. Blood slides over his knuckles in a wet line, the blade of the knife slick with red. 

“We can use most of it, if you do it right. Hide and bones and all.” He glances over at you. “You all right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Doin’ better than a lot of the folks around here their first time.” 

But there’s something beautiful about it, and you aren’t sure how to explain it. It’s a little like when Joel cooks for you, or finds something for you to try. There’s something about it that sits right inside you. 

“You wanna give it a try?” 

“Sure.”

“Atta girl.”

Joel slots himself behind you; his hand slides over yours, engulfing your fingers entirely as he guides you, blood still slick on the interior of his palm. It’s surprisingly easy to slide the knife along the inside of the skin. Joel is warm against you, his chest pressed against your back. The salty metallic scent of blood combined with the ocean spray scent clinging to Joel’s clothes makes you dizzy. It makes you want to lick his skin.

“You got steady hands,” he says, voice in your ear, breath warm against the back of your neck. 

“I was forced to learn how to sew neatly or learn the consequences,” you say. “It requires a surprisingly steady hand.” 

It’s a sick feeling, too, the glide of a knife through the delicate sinew that separates skin and muscle, but rewarding, to be told you did it right. Joel releases your hand, steps back as you finish the most of the cut.  

You hand the knife back. Joel takes it but his eyes don’t leave yours. “Consequences?” 

The weight of so many failures suddenly burst and rain down on you, things you try not to think about anymore because you tell yourself they don’t matter anymore. “Yeah. I wasn’t very good at being. . .whatever it was they wanted me to be.” 

“What—”

“Why don’t you usually hunt deer in the spring?”

He must see something in your eyes, because he nods and looks away, brows tilted together in an expression you can’t parse. “Well, uh, the mothers are usually pregnant this time of year. Lot of them will be givin’ birth soon. You go shootin’ at ‘em then the babies never get born or don’t have a mother to nurse them. You’re shootin’ yourself in the foot in terms of food supply for the next season if none of ‘em get born, or die when they’re still babies.”

“Oh,” you whisper, looking at the carcass of your deer with a new found horror. “I didn’t know or I wouldn’t have—”

“Hey,” Joel shakes his head, starts to reach for you and then seems to remember the blood on his hands and pauses. You reach out and take it before he can take his touch away, because you already have blood on you too, between the grooves of your fingers and the lines of your palm, drying sticky and uncomfortable. 

And, his hand is warm in the encroaching evening chill.

You don’t get a chance to feel anxious about taking his hand because he squeezes your fingers.

“Tommy wouldn’t have let you. Look,” Joel’s thumb tracks over your knuckles, “his antlers are grownin’ back. How big they are already? He’s been around for more than a couple seasons.” 

You smile and let Joel hand onto your hand. You like how they fit together, even with the blood. “I still feel bad. He was just out on a walk.” 

Joel laughs and releases your hand to pick up the knife again. “That’ll fade when you see how good he tastes.” He looks back at you and nods, “Good job.”

You try to pay Joel back in whatever ways you can, wondering how long you could stay in his spare bedroom, reading comics with Ellie in the afternoons, eating dinner with their family in the evenings, before someone asks you to leave. How long would it take to figure something out, where to go, how to support yourself when the money you took from your father runs out, to move on? 

Ships move in and out of the harbor, none are vessels that are familiar to you. Each gives you a new wave of anxiety anyway. 

The feeling wars inside you, scraping. For them to come would be tantamount to disaster, but that they haven’t proves the thing you’ve always known to be true. You were nothing to the home you had known, to the people that had raised you. Maybe you should have known when they gave you away to a monster, but it turns out even the monster didn’t think you were worth tracking down. 

The feeling is washed away each afternoon and evening; when Joel’s knee is deliberately pressed into yours at the table, when you eat something new at the counter in the kitchen in the middle of the night, when you play chess together, when you listen to Ellie read out loud and laugh at her own jokes as she goes. 

No matter how tired you are, you meet him in the kitchen each night, even knowing his cooking skills are being secretly built up and manufactured when you aren’t looking.

Maybe that’s why you always go. The effort confuses you, and makes you feel warm. 

Tonight, he gives you some kind of cookie, a sweet you’ve never heard of or tried before but that he insists is a staple in the north, and that it’s supposed to be so salty. 

“I think you mixed up salt for sugar,” you say and dab a napkin at your mouth to hide your grin. “And I’m not eating any more of that.” 

“Swear it’s supposed to be like that.” But the corner of his mouth twitches beneath his beard when he says it. "Savory, they call it."

“I don’t believe you, Joel,” you say seriously, shaking your head slowly in mock remonstrance. "I think they call that being full of shit."

"Tommy teach you that?"

"Yeah."

He harrumphs about it, but it’s good natured. “I’ll get you somethin’ else, then.” 

You press a hand over his before he can move away to raid his own cabinets. “You feed me too much. It’s okay.” 

“You don’t eat enough.” 

“I eat more than I ever have before because of you.” It’s a joke, and true. "So thank you."

Joel seems to know it, and disagree with it. “Well, it ain’t like that here.”  

“Yeah,” you agree. Your voice comes out soft and small, heavy with some meaning even you can’t begin to pinpoint. 

And things are. Everything is different here. The way you’re treated and the value you seem to have in peoples’ eyes. More than that you’re allowed to hold your own, allowed to prove yourself, allowed to go where you pleased and when.

Never, for so many reasons, would you have ever been allowed to hold a gun, let alone shoot one. You never would have been allowed to watch someone field dress an animal either, to say nothing of holding the knife yourself many times over, now.

That kind of trust, confidence, seemed to extend everywhere and with most people. You never knew so many people could have such goodwill. 

You feel so safe, so at home. You knew that the first time you walked into Joel and Ellie’s home, and now, now you really can’t imagine ever having to leave it behind. 

Not just Joel, not just Ellie, but the little village at large.

With Joel, you feel so many things that had so long been repressed, stifled and strangled right out of you, the kid that snuck out to steal peaches and scarf them down in alleyways, the teenager that tricked guards and explored the city whenever she liked, that kissed people on beaches in the dead of night and was punished so harshly for it in the light of day, might be resurfacing. 

The same person that was too afraid to leave her room, that was pinched and poked and fussed over, too imperfect, too disobedient. It was inevitable then, when you first met your newly minted fiance, whether you wanted him or not, that he would hurt you. Your rumored exploits had been touted to him, you wouldn’t mind whatever he wanted to do to you. 

You did mind, but he didn’t mind that you did. What you wanted hadn’t mattered at all. 

You remember his breath in your ear, the suffocating heaviness of him against you, pinning you down. Afterwards, everyone knew and the kind of woman you were was no longer a rumor. You were tainted, then, for real, forever. 

He would be your life, because he’d marked you. You were his.

It was horrible, but it was the way things were. It was what would always happen. You were only as good as who you could marry after all. 

It didn’t say much about your worth in the end. 

It’s all mixed in your mind now, what you’re worth and who you are and how people should be willing to treat you. If they treated you like a whore, then it was because you were one. 

What does it mean that Joel looks at you the way he does? That he’s only ever really been kind to you? That he hasn’t asked you to leave even though autumn has set in early and the ships would soon be stuck in the harbor for the season? 

What did it mean that he saw value in you?

Or, maybe it's just wishful thinking on your part, a need for it to be true.

His gaze just slides over you and he nods slowly. There’s heat there, and something else you can’t name, sparking the kindling in your belly, a flame spreading wide. Your hand is still on his, and neither of you move. You can feel the stringy flex of tendon beneath your fingers, the fine scars on the backs of his hand, the muscle in his wrist. 

What would happen if you—

What if you just—

You pull him toward you, curling your fingers around his palm, squeezing tight. “Joel?” You ask when he’s so close you can feel the heat of his body against yours, breath caught between your lungs and his mouth. The sound of his name, the taste of it, coming out garbled, the syllables you liked to play over your tongue, tuck inside your cheek.  

Hearing it seems to break something in him, and you suddenly find yourself firmly in his arms, his mouth against yours, hands cradling your jaw. He tilts you against the counter, stool wobbling dangerously beneath you as he shifts to curl a supportive arm behind your back. When you moan quietly into him, his tongue slips into your mouth. You feel the sweep of his hands everywhere, like he can’t get enough of the soft curves of you, the shape of your body in his hands. 

He tastes like salty sweet, from the treat he swore wasn't that.

It makes you bold. Makes you feel like you used to, reminds you that you used to crave this feeling, this attention, that you were desperate for it, liked being touched and felt and looked at. 

“Jesus,  you’re—” 

He grips the back of your thigh when you hook your knee against his hip. The heavy, hot want of him pressed against your core.  

“Joel—” you whisper, eyes fluttering shut, his lips against your throat, scrape of his beard against the sensitive skin. 

He moves against you slowly, his hands against your thighs and hips, squeezing, tugs the tail of your shirt out of your pants, drags it up, the calluses on his fingers catching on your soft skin, hot against you, the length of your spine, then your belly. It gives you a moment’s pause, worried he might not like the swells and curves and dips of your body without the separation of clothing. But the moment quickly passes when he groans against you and squeezes, slides his hand higher to your chest, cupping the weight of your breast in his hand. 

You hesitate in touching him back, fingers clenched in his shirt, bunched at his side, but he makes a sound that so near a whine when you rake your hand though his hair that it makes your eyes roll back. Joel's hair is soft between your fingers, like feathers, and he makes that noise again when you tug at it.

Big hands cradle you closer, repeatedly sliding up and down your back, the curve of your waist.

He groans against you when you tentatively tuck your fingers beneath his shirt. His skin is hot against your palms where you skim his waist, trace a long line to his shoulder and then his throat. The strain of his neck beneath your fingertips makes want bolt through your veins. You have the sudden urge to bite him, to leave the imprint of your teeth in his skin, hooked purple around the vein in his throat.

You pull him impossibly closer instead, hips bucking against his, seeking friction against the ache between your legs.

With seeking fingers, you pluck open a few buttons of his shirt, brush over his chest hair, dark and surprisingly soft.

He guides your hips against him, slow, so you feel the length of his cock. "That's it, sweetheart," he murmurs, lips brushing wetly against yours, before he kisses you again.

Part of you wonders, a whisper in the back of your mind, well, is this the payment he’s been waiting for, is this what he wants from you? Is this what all the kindness has been about? 

Do you have the same value you've always had?

Something tells you it’s not like that, that he wants you because he cares about you, likes you, but the other part of you knows it must be like that. Maybe you should just give in, give him what he wants. 

But your mind has already switched tracks, and what felt good and freeing and needy moments before, becomes a task. Your breath comes in pants that are more panicked that pleasurable.

But who can tell the difference?

There's a goal now, and to stop owing him, to stop owing anyone, this is what you have to give.

You pull away with a gasp, the scorched fire of his palms trailing down your spine leaving you burned. You push him back and drop your leg from his hip to stand, palming him through his pants. 

He doesn’t stop you when you go to your knees, or when you start to tug the zipper down, or even when his cock is in your hand. He groans, cups one hand against the back of your head, cradles your jaw in his palm, guides you forward.  

So you guessed right. This is what he wanted. You’re doing the right thing and there’s nothing he can take from you. 

This is just the way things are.

This is good. 

He tastes good. A salty, muskiness that only comes from this. And you forgot that you like this, like the taste and the heaviness of him on your tongue, the smell of sex, the flex and pulse of a body beneath your hands. 

You want this. You want this. 

You want this.

You have to want this.

You feel yourself floating away from your body. It’s not your hand on him, not Joel standing in front of you, not your words leaving your mouth, things he probably wants to hear, things you’re supposed to say. 

If you can convince yourself you want to do this then—

It’s not your first time, but it’s the first time since—

That thought paralyzes you. 

The first time since—

You push him down your throat, attempt to take all of him. 

He groans, his thighs clench beneath your palms. You hold him there until your lungs start to burn, until something in your chest seems to give out. You pull back with gasp, spit trailing from your lips, down your chin, tears blurring your vision from the strain.

Maybe you're crying a little, too. But who could tell?  

You lean forward to take him again, when his hand circles your wrist. 

“Hold on.” His chest heaves.

He’s so much stronger than you. Your vision tunnels.

Oh, god, oh no—

The room is too warm, the spell breaks and tears swarm the back of your throat, choking you. “Wait,” his voice is hoarse, and, some part of you realizes, pained. "You don’t gotta—”

“I want to,” you say. 

The words sound wooden and mechanical to your own ears.

You wince, fingers loose around his straining cock, your other hand curled into his belt. You don’t dare look up. Movement seems impossible at that moment; anything you do will be wrong. 

Time slows to a crawl, panic and humiliation souring in your belly, poisoned worms. 

“No, y’don’t, sweetheart, c’mere.” He pulls you up from the floor. He’s still achingly hard but he only tucks himself away without a fuss. It’s only when he pushes his hands against your cheeks do you realize you really are crying, that the choking shame has spilled outside your body. 

“Sorry.” 

“No—that’s not—” He tugs you into his chest, into a tight embrace that you probably haven’t felt since you were a child. 

And you find it strange again. Both being hugged and that being hugged feels so intimate when you just had his dick in your mouth. His broad hand sweeps over your spine, the other cups the back of your neck. “Just stop a minute. Breathe. You’re all right.” 

His words rumble against your chest, arms tight around you, anchoring you in the moment. You feel stupid, ashamed and restless to get away from him and lick your wounds alone somewhere, but you can’t make yourself pull away and he doesn’t let go. 

Minutes pass.

A gentle rain begins outside, tapping at the window. It reminds you of those first few days in the house, washed in a safety you hadn’t felt in so long. 

The safety that had never vanished.

“You all right?” 

You nod against his shoulder, the collection of your tears and saliva and snot now coating his shirt in a thin, wet circle. “Sorry.” 

“You weren’t there anymore,” he says and pulls back to meet your eyes. 

“You wanted it.” 

“I did,” he admits. “‘Til you disappeared.” 

That strange shame swallows down the words you want to say. I wasn’t thinking. I stopped thinking. 

Surprise follows, as it always does with Joel, that he would notice anything at all. If you had been thinking, it would have been with a surety that he wouldn’t know just how far you’d floated away, that you really weren’t there at all. 

“I’m sorry,” you say again. “I shouldn’t have, um, I—”

“I ain’t lookin’ for you to apologize. I shoulda realized sooner.” When you start to protest, he pinches your chin between thumb and forefinger and lifts your gaze to his. “You sure you’re okay?” 

“Just embarrassed, I think,” you mutter and try to tug your face away. 

Whatever delicate thing had bloomed between you, has been ruined in one fell swoop. There’s a yearning in your heart that might have been echoed in his, and that was surely tainted, bittered, and unwanted now. He could see all the broken shards of you; he knows why you could only leave your home behind. 

It’s shameful, pathetic. You used to be stronger, and you aren’t sure where that person went.

Surely he’ll tell you, it’s about time for you to move on.

You can't even do this, you aren't even good for this anymore.

One more thing ruined.   

Joel doesn’t let you look away, just runs his thumb over your chin, the corner of your swollen mouth. “You can talk to me.” 

You shake your head. The thought of saying any of it out loud, of being forced to remember it, is too painful to bear. “No. I can’t.” 

“All right.” He strokes your back again, like you’re a startled animal that needs to be soothed. “You didn’t do nothin’ wrong, I need you to know that.”

The tight knot of anxiety sitting at the base of your throat eases a little. Even so, you ask, “Do you want me to leave? I’ve been—I don’t know how to go. I like it here.” 

“No,” he says simply, shaking his head. “That’s the last damn thing I want. I’ve been waitin’ for you to ask to go.” Something seems to dawn on him, brows tilting up. His voice hardens. “And you don’t owe me a goddamn thing for it, understand? Was this—”

You interrupt him. “I don’t think I want to go, but I don’t have to stay here, with you, in your house.” 

“But you can. If you want. Or we can figure out someplace else for you here.”

Odd, as always. What you want and don’t want, being considered. Decisions before you that you never could have had before. That he wants you to choose. 

“And, you—”

His thumb sweeps over your cheek in a gentle arc. “Yeah. I'd be mighty pleased if you chose to stick around.” 

You hesitate to kiss him, not sure he would want that now. 

This is just a courtesy, just so you aren’t embarrassed by jumping him only to have a breakdown. You duck your head away from his hand and start to pull away. “Hold on a minute,” he says. “Don’t rush off just yet." There's a tinge of desperation to his voice. "I really did have something else for you.” 

“Joel—” 

“I’m serious,” he says. He pulls away and jerks his chin toward the other side of the kitchen. “C’mere. It'll prove somethin' to ya.”

You frown. 

“I don’t think—” You stop.

Joel isn’t really one to pity people. It wasn’t pity that made him bring you here, ultimately, but heeding Ellie’s wishes. It was the fact that you were trying so hard to stand on your own. “Okay.” 

He digs through a cabinet. “Had to hide it,” he says. “Ellie gets into everything and I didn’t want you stumblin’ on it either."

Eventually, he retracts his arm and shows you what he’d kept so quietly secret. 

A jar of peaches in golden syrup is deposited on the counter. “Oh.” 

“Since the pears ain’t any good, I guess,” he teases. 

The back of your throat feels clogged with tears again. “Listen,” he says gently. “Last ship outta here north is tomorrow. But I think maybe you should try stayin’ here for the winter. See how you like it.” 

“I just. . .” you look at the jar of peaches. How he’d gotten them you have no idea. Must have traded with someone passing through for them. “I don’t want to owe anyone anything. I’m tired of something always being held over my head.”

He shakes his head. “It ain’t. I been sayin’ that.” 

So he had.

“I know.” 

Joel cups his palm against your elbow, a warm patch on your skin. “I mean that. You don’t owe any of us anything. Least of all me. I think you should stay, even if it ain’t with me and Ellie. We’ll find you somewhere else to stay.”

You pick up the jar of peaches, watching the fruit you had missed out on this year tilt slowly back and forth. It isn’t the kind of thing you remember about someone you just want to use. 

“What did you go through to get this?” 

His hand slides up your arm, cups your cheek. “Nothin’. I actually traded some of your deer for it. Crew was tired of fish.” 

You laugh. “So it really is mine.” 

“Either way you look at it, yeah.” 

This time, you lean into him when he tilts your face up to his. The kiss is soft and careful, maybe what your first kiss should have been like. Embarrassment and shame swirl in you again. He pulls you closer by your hip, like he can feel it too, and is preemptively putting out the fire, jar of peaches pressed between you. 

You never meant to stay in this village for so long, or feel anything for anyone here, least of all the surly man that had saved your skin against his will. 

You still don’t really get why he’d want you to stay and take up room in his house. 

Winters could be long, anything might happen in that time. 

But you decide not to question it, and trust him instead. 

“Okay,” you say against his mouth, forehead braced against yours.  

Bring tomorrow what may.

You can only describe the breath that leaves him as relieved.

Thank you again for reading! I would love to know your thoughts <3

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