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pathologicalreid · 7 months

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Dude I love ur writing sm!! It’s literally so good and Buried Alive was amazing! If ur down for it (totally no pressure at all) I was wondering if u would eventually write a second part where Spencer helps the reader with the aftermath? Like maybe they struggle with PTSD or severe claustrophobia after that? Idk ur literally amazing enough I’m sure u have great ideas and again, it’s completely up to u, I was just wondering

above ground | S.R.

part one part three

in which spencer helps you cope with the aftermath of your abduction, and you reciprocate

who? spencer reid x fem!BAU!reader

category: hurt/comfort, angst

content warnings: claustrophobia, being buried alive, nightmares/night terrors, ptsd, death, cpr, use of pet names, mentions of drugs, therapy, suffocation

word count: 2.2k

a/n: hello anon! i am absolutely always down for spencer reid hurt/comfort!! thank you so much for asking!!! i've been super overwhelmed with all of the support i've received on buried alive and i'm so so grateful for all of the kind things people have said.

Standing in a dark room, you looked around your surroundings. There was nothing around you that told you where you were. The walls were all blank, the ground was cement, and it was too dark for you to even see the ceiling.

Hesitantly, you reached out your palm, touching the wall just for it to be met with something… damp? You pulled your hand away, and your skin came back dirty. Your stomach churned as you observed the soil that had settled in the creases of your fingerprints. “No,” you breathed, quickly moving to dig at the walls.

You felt it on your elbow next, like the dirt walls were encroaching on you. You turned around to see the dark room was just getting darker, and the walls started to deteriorate. Like an avalanche, the dirt of the walls falls to the ground, covering your feet, “No,” you cried out this time.

Digging at the walls just made your earthly prison bury you faster, so instead, you tried to climb toward the ceiling. You whimpered in defeat as you reached the previously unseen ceiling. The loose earth reached your chest, constricting your breathing. You tilted your head back in an attempt to keep the dirt out of your mouth.

Your face felt cool like a gentle breeze was being blown on it. You choked, but to your surprise, you didn’t choke on dirt.

There were hands on you, one hand on your shoulder and another on your waist. That didn’t make sense to you, someone hauled you into a sitting position, patting your back in an attempt to help you clear your throat.

The choking turned to coughing, which then turned to dry heaving off the edge of your bed. Very rarely did anything ever come out, but you kept a trash can there just in case. You blinked as someone reached over and turned on the lamp on your bedside table, the comforting hand remained on your back.

Desperately, you tried to catch your breath, tilting your head back as you tried to open your airway. “You’re safe. I’m right here, angel,” Spencer whispered from behind you, he leaned his forehead between your shoulder blades and drew hearts on your back with his index finger.

You took a deep, shuddering breath as you finally filled your lungs, visualizing the air going in and out of your body. Breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth.

Spencer continued whispering to you, not once did he tell you that your dream wasn’t real because it was real. To you, being buried alive was very real. The suffocation was real, it had happened to you.

Two months ago, you had been abducted and buried alive by a family, a mother and her two sons. All of whom were in jail awaiting trial. The two agents from the Omaha field office who had left you alone in the funeral home apologized profusely, you had a private meeting with the director of the FBI, and the BAU rallied behind you, it was nice, but none of it made the fear go away.

The first nightmare came the same night you were back in Virginia, and you had screamed so loud that your neighbors called the police. Spencer handled everything, and when the officers insisted that they needed to speak to you directly, he flashed his FBI credentials, something he really wasn’t supposed to do.

Your response was to avoid sleeping, at least at night. You stayed awake at night, reading, or watching TV with headphones on, and you slept during the day so that when you opened your eyes, you could feel the sun on your face. The problem was when you needed to go somewhere, you didn’t sleep, or when it rained, you didn’t sleep.

The exhaustion just made your anxiety worse, and Spencer caught on to it. He sat you down on the couch and held your hands, telling you that he understood that you didn’t want to feel like you were burdening anyone with your nightmares, but he needed you to understand that you were killing yourself at the same time.

He didn’t do it for everyone, but for you, Spencer took over the role of protector. He found you a therapist in the district that specialized in patients with PTSD and claustrophobia. It was an hour round trip, but Spencer was more than willing to take you the first few times.

Dr. Montgomery quickly diagnosed you with PTSD and claustrophobia. You hadn’t realized that claustrophobia was something you could be clinically diagnosed with, but the doctor told you that there’s a difference between a fear of enclosed spaces and what you had. He was straightforward, which you liked, and he told you that your claustrophobia was a response to the traumatic event that you had experienced.

A steady course of treatment that included medication and exposure therapy had slowly been giving you your life back.

But then there was Spencer.

Spencer had Morgan help him take the inside doors of your apartment off the hinges so air would flow, and you wouldn’t be afraid of suffocating. He left the ceiling fan in your bedroom on even as the weather cooled so the air never got stale.

Six weeks ago, you had mentioned offhandedly that you were having a hard time sleeping in total silence, and Spencer had come home later with a white noise machine.

When you apologized to him for needing the lights on to sleep, he responded by stringing lights around the entire apartment, telling you he read that warm light can help prepare the mind and body for sleep.

He turned in all of his PTO, even accepting some from David Rossi, who didn’t use his anyway, so he could stay home with you while you were on mandatory medical leave. He tagged along to therapy appointments, to the neurologist, and even to the FBI physician who needed to clear your physical injuries to your ribs before you could return to the field.

On his nightstand, there was a stack of books all about claustrophobia and loving someone with PTSD.

Not once through this whole endeavor did you question your relationship with Spencer, he made himself perfectly clear through his actions. He wasn’t going anywhere.

The FBI physician cleared you two weeks ago, your neurologist faxed Hotch paperwork stating you were without any deficits, and your psychiatrist told you that as long as you felt like you could avoid your triggers, you should be able to go back to work. In fact, Dr. Montgomery thought going back to work could be beneficial.

You were supposed to go back tomorrow.

Spencer was now sitting in front of you, and he offered you a small smile as you blinked yourself out of your nightmare-induced stupor and met his eyes, “There’s my girl,” he whispered. For a moment, you focused on his movements, smoothing your hair back with one hand and leaving the other hand resting on your waist. “I love you. You’re safe, you’re at home with me,” he reassured you.

You narrowed your eyebrows, “It was- I was in the ground again.” Hesitantly, you looked down at your hands, they were perfectly clean, not a speck of dirt to be seen.

“It was a night terror, angel,” he said, speaking gently to you as he reached over and pulled the strap of your tank top up and over your shoulder from where it had fallen. A night terror, not a nightmare.

Tears dropped down your face when you closed your eyes. “I couldn’t breathe,” you whimpered. Taking a gasping breath, you looked at Spencer as you tried to draw air into your lungs, “I couldn’t breathe, Spence. I couldn’t breathe.”

Quickly, Spencer pulled you into his lap and held you, “Shh,” he cooed. “I’ve got you, my love. I’m right here,” he murmured as you set your chin on his shoulder and cried.

“I suffocated,” you whispered, it was a fact of your life, that you had stopped breathing for a period of time. The doctors estimated you had been down for almost ten minutes.

His hold on you tightened, “I know,” his voice broke slightly. “I know, baby,” he pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of your head. “What do you need?” He asked, watching you intently as he reached up and used the pads of his thumbs to wipe away your tears.

You blinked the last of your tears from your eyes before meeting his, “Can we go outside?” You asked him, placing your hands on both of his shoulders.

Spencer nodded, leaning over to grab his glasses off of his nightstand before standing up and picking you up as he went.

Instinctively, you yelped, but a laugh escaped your lips. It was a foreign feeling sometimes, but Spencer always knew how to elicit a smile from you. “Put me down,” you said, but your tone was light.

Once your feet were touching the ground, Spencer looked at you, “I just wanted to see you smile.” He said earnestly.

Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth quirked up, “Thank you.” You reached over to grab your phone off the charger and slide it into your pocket before you led Spencer out to your apartment’s balcony. He sat down on one of the chairs and pulled you down onto his lap.

You let him hold you, not moving and just letting your body settle on top of his. The cool autumn air filled your lungs as Spencer held you. You let him hold you because you knew that his fear was just as valid as yours. While you were afraid of confinement because you had been confined, he was afraid of you dying because you had died.

“I can hear you thinking, honey,” you whispered, leaning your head on his shoulder. “What’s on your mind?” You asked him, taking his hand and intertwining your fingers together.

He sighed, “I’m worried about you,” he admitted. “I want to tell you not to go back to work yet, even though I know that logically it’s the next step for you,” Spencer said, you watched his honey-colored eyes as they studied your face. “And I know that you need it, you need to return to something dependable.”

You move your head so you can look him in the eyes better, “But?”

“But,” he continued, “the BAU isn’t dependable. You have this great routine that we’ve very nearly perfected and I’m so worried about you straying from it. The long hours at work could very well cause you to lose all of the progress you’ve made in the last two months,” he tells you candidly. “What happens when you need to get on an elevator, or when you need to get on the jet, and you can’t? What about when you-“ He cut himself off, swallowing thickly before he said something he couldn’t take back.

You shifted so you were facing him, shoulder to shoulder, “What is it, Spence?”

He took a deep breath and cupped your cheek with his hand, “The last case you worked on, you died. I pulled your dead body out of a casket. Fuck, Y/N,” his curse took you aback, he usually strayed from swearing. “I did CPR on you before Morgan took over,” he finished, voice growing hoarse.

Your lips parted; you couldn’t answer him. You didn’t know how to answer him, but you took his hand and selected his third and index finger before pressing them to the pulse point on your wrist. In response, he sighed and leaned his forehead to yours. You watched his lips move as he silently counted the beats per minute.

The both of you jumped when your phone went off, and dread filled your stomach when you checked your phone.

Penelope Garcia: Local case. Round table room in thirty if you’re up for it.

“If you ask me to stay home, I will,” you told Spencer, sweeping his curls behind his ears. “I won’t hold it against you, I’ll tell Hotch I need more time.”

Spencer shook his head, “You know I can’t do that. I can’t make that decision for you, and I don’t want you to make the decision for me, you need to choose what you want.”

You both went, Spencer distracted you for the entire elevator ride up to the BAU, but he was still tense. Even though he insisted he was fine, you knew him better than that.

Spencer followed you up to Hotch’s office and when you told Hotch you wanted to work but you didn’t feel ready to be in the field, your unit chief nodded and told you that you were welcome to stay in the local precinct and work on a geographical profile with Spencer.

You watched the tension leave Spencer’s body. He tried to tell you that you didn’t need to do that, but you just rolled your eyes and dragged him to the roundtable room.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid whump #spencer reid hurt/comfort #david rossi #derek morgan #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau #spencer reid angst #written by margot #margot's asks #criminal minds angst

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messylustt · 8 months

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v.17.10.23 day nine: primal ( nsfw )

RUN, BABY, RUN — miguel o’hara: you’re on the run. running from a man with claws and fangs. you didn’t mean to trespass, it was your friends’ idea. too bad you’ve now found yourself alone in the woods.

marks predator/prey dynamic. dubcon. sex in the woods. claws and fangs kink. reflecting on old slasher vibe. finger sucking. nipple play. fear play. slight blood kink. slight monster kink.

it was far too dark, and far too cold. you didn’t mean for your feet to stumble against the uprooted trees, in fact you didn’t mean for any of this. it was an innocent night out with friends. but god you shouldn’t have gone to that stupid cabin. you really shouldn't have followed your friends into the woods.

now you’re here, forced to run. you aren’t sure if you can even call this running. what, with your tripping toes, and hair array in front of your face. you were barely making it past the trees, your breathing, one out of a horror movie. then a twig snaps. no. please no. you try to quicken. there’s ruffles of fallen leaves.

he wants you to hear him. that much is clear. you don’t mean for your hands to shake, but at this point your body is on it's own path. you stumble, palms hitting against the ground as you groan, chest still heaving. you’re covered in dirt, clothes far from a quick wash. you try to stand, hopefully run again, but you know it’s too late.

reaching a large tree, you hit back against it, pressing your fist against your cracked lips to drown out the sounds of pain threatening to spill. then it’s silent. the only sounds being the whispering wind, and a possible rush of a faraway lake. the bark scratches at your back but you stay still. scared probably isn’t the best suited word here. you were terrified.

you pressed further against the tree, hoping that it’ll just swallow you whole. “you don’t have to run...” you freeze at the voice. because you had been running from a monster, something that had claws and fangs, and distinct red eyes. not a man. your brows furrow, as your hand fists the dirt. “you’re probably scared.” his voice is…comforting, and you can’t help but let your breathing slow.

could he possibly help you? does he know about the monster in these woods? you swallow down saliva, your throat dry. “who…who are you?” you ask almost a fraction too quiet. but he catches it, his steps nearing you now. “miguel…” he answers softly. closer, closer, closer. still fisting the dirt you manage to stand up against the tree. “are you running from the monster too?”

“i think the monster might have gone in the other direction.” he says. and oh now he’s close, his low voice reverberating through you. “i think…” he continues, and your breathing catches as his breath tickles your ear. you swiftly spin to face him, and your heart stops. because in the moonlit woods his most prominent features stand out. red eyes. he smiles. fangs… “i think that you are far too trusting for your own good, mi querida.”

you begin to shake your head. “no…”

he steps closer. you stumble back. he’s grabbing your shirt and tugging you forward. you try to escape. his arm loops around your waist, pulling you flush against him, his lips hitting your ear. “shh shh…you’re okay.”

“please, i—“ you choke out the words as you try to get your hands free. hit him. anywhere. but he has you trapped, arms locked tight against your body like a vice. his hand moves to stroke at your hair, his mouth open against your ear. a shiver runs down your spine at the claws you feel. he chuckles, low and mocking, as he grabs your chin, forcing you to look up at him. “i’m quite a offended actually. you think i’m a monster?” but his words don’t show sadness they show taunting.

“you are.” you try to hiss out the words, but they do you no good. “hm…” miguel hums, his tongue poking out against his lower lip, dragging smoothly against his fangs. then he leans closer. “why is that? is it my claws?” he raises his hand higher up your face, the tip of his claw tracing the sensitive skin of your cheek. he drags it down leaving a fading red mark, until he reaches your lips. he pulls on your lower lip, forcing your mouth to open.

your frozen, completely unsure on what to do and how to do it. his eyes seem to be fixated on your mouth now, his claw actually sinking in, past your lips and all you can do is let him. “you know, I’ve never found humans to be…pretty in any sense.” he says, now finding your tongue with his claw, stroking it slowly. “you’re all such a…disappointing species.” you want to gulp, but you can’t with his finger inside your mouth. though your subconscious doesn’t seem notice the intrusion as it forces you to swallow, your lips wrapping around his finger. miguel’s eyes immediately darken.

“but you…you’re at least a little prettier than them.” he keeps his low, taunting tone, as he then inserts another finger. “suck it.” he demands. your eyes slightly widen, and when you don’t immediately obey he pushes his two fingers further into your mouth making you nearly choke, as you wrap your lips back around them. you slowly, hesitantly begin to suck, swirling around his claws with your tongue.

“that’s it...” he murmurs, completely focused on your mouths movements. “yeah…maybe you aren’t so bad. much better than them.” the barely audible hitch in your breath catches his attention as his lips curve up, slightly pulling his now dripping fingers out of your mouth. “my friends—what—what did you do to them?”

miguel, ever so calm, tilts your head up again and with his wet fingers he begins to trace them on your collarbone. “not much.” he replies evenly, as he keeps his gaze on the invisible patterns he's drawing. “no—please tell me they’re alright.”

“they trespassed—“ but you cut him off, ignoring the cold feel of your spit gliding further down your chest. “i trespassed. i was one of the first.”

“oh it was easy to tell who was stickler and who wanted to actually trespass. you, mi querida, are far too innocent to want to invade someone’s home.” he says, tugging you closer, as his hand skips over your shirt to reach the hem, sinking up and underneath, making your back unintentionally arch. you had no bra on. it was late. you were planning to go to bed when your friends had proposed this now awful idea.

"your friends are the ones i dislike." miguel says, grazing a claw along the underside of your breast. you can't help but let your lips quiver, tears welling, as you force them down. "but don't worry, i won't spare the details." he says, still stroking your hair with his other hand. "i wouldn't want to taint what's already so...sweet." at that he engulfs one of your breasts with his hand, large and demanding.

"p-please." you try, still stuck in his grip. "please what?" he taunts, flicking your nipple with his claw making your body jolt. he hums at the reaction pinching and rolling the sensitive part of you between his fingers. "how sweet are you, i wonder..." he leans closer, now licking at where the wet trail, from his fingers still lingers. "ay, cariño...you taste lovely."

you're shaking, body already exhausted from the running. "are you going to...to kill me?" you ask shakily. for some reason that seemed like the only plausible outcome right now. your adrenaline is running out, and all you can feel is his touch and fear. you don't mean to sound so weak, but in this position it's clear who takes the role as prey. "aw." he coos, now pulling at your hair to force your head higher up, as his mouth nears yours. he’s switched to your other breast, pulling, pinching, rolling. fondling almost tenderly, experimentally. "kill you? now why would i do that?"

his breath is now practically in your own open mouth, as you try to hold down unwanted sounds threatening to surface. "why would i kill someone so sweet...so pretty." he says in an almost low whisper. then as his lips graze yours. "i've already had that kind of fun with your friends." you gasp as he suddenly lifts you up by your thighs, your back now pressed against the tree you were seeking shelter from, as he forcefully widens your legs, his groin pressed right up against you finally making a small sound leave your lips.

he chuckles, his claws digging into your skin. you were wearing stupid loose shorts. again, thinking it was only a small night walk, and that you'd be heading to bed soon. he easily bypasses your shorts, his claw pulling your panties to the side. you didn't hear the unzip of his pants, until you felt his cock running right up your slit, making you choke a gasp. "what—"

"shh, cariño...“ he hums, not caring for your shock or your pleas. “my my, aren’t you soaked?" he continues to tease your entrance with the head of his cock, forcing mixes of whimpers and whines to fall from your lips. "yeah, look at you, all wet f'me." he whispered this more to himself, as he harshly pushes you further up against the tree, completely sinking into you, stretching you, and making you exclaim in a mix of pain and something else. "mierda..." he mumbles, licking at his lower lip as he thrusts into you.

"oh—" you whine, head hitting back against the tree, as your body moves with his thrusts. animalistic as he groans. "i knew you'd feel so—so tight—carajo..." his grip on your thighs has tightened, most definitely leaving marks. your hands are gripped onto the material of his shirt by his shoulders, your body at complete mercy to him.

then his mouth is on yours. hungry, demanding, and full of authority. with his harsh thrusts, and protruding tongue you can barely think. you have to kiss back, it's all you can do. your lips wrap around his lips as you join his tongue. miguel briefly opens his mouth against yours. "atta girl…mm, what an obedient sweetheart i found."

before he's pushing harder against your mouth, devouring your tongue. then your body jolts against his cock, still working in and out of you. he had bit you. your lower lip now smeared in your own blood, as your breathing stutters. while his claw moves down between you to flick and fiddle with your clit, his tongue drags right across your lower lip, tasting your blood with an audible groan.

he doesn't hold back, ramming up into you, as he widens your legs impossibly until they ache. the pressure building in your stomach is almost taking over your brain, as you moan and whimper. "you're—you're too big—too much—" you manage in chokes. he makes a point to fill you up entirely, nearly making you scream. "come on now, take all of it f'me, dulce chica, that's it...you're doing so well...so well for a so called monster. was that what you called me?" he knows the answer. and as you bounce against his cock, lewd sounds drowning out both your ears, you mutter a "y-yes.”

"hm." he hums, now nipping at the skin on your neck and chest, almost glistening in the moonlight with a mix of spit and sweat. "good." he murmurs into your skin. and as you near the precipice of your release, hands now discolored from how tight you’ve been gripping him, you hear him mutter right into your ear. "don't go looking for your friends now...they won’t help you."

"no—i—" but you can barely speak. "keep bouncing on my cock." he all but demands as you had slowed in fear. and with the help of his grip on your thighs, he ruts into you, his own release now close. and when he reaches his high, muttering curses in spanish, your body is exhausted to the limit. and as he places your shaky legs back down onto the ground, a cruel glint in his eyes, he whispers. "if you don't want me to taste more of you...i’d suggest you run."

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proxima-writes · 25 days

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HAND IN UNLOVABLE HAND

PAIRING: THOMAS HEWITT X FEMALE READER

RATING: EXPLICIT (18+ MDNI) | WORD COUNT: 5.8K

SUMMARY | This new man, the tall man with the icy somber eyes and expressionless mask, appeared above you, haloed in sunlight like an angel. By all accounts, he was a far more terrifying man than John or Mike or David, but you don’t see evil when you look at him, when his eyes meet yours for a brief second before looking away. No, not evil, but a familiar reflection, an unkind life that led to unkind circumstances and unkind decisions. You know the look well, it’s the same one you see in the mirror.

WARNINGS | 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT; DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT - this is slasher fan fiction with canon typical violence, mentions of blood, death, cannibalism and gore. if slasher fiction is not your cup of tea, please keep scrolling.

EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT: vaginal fingering, male masturbation, oral sex - f receiving, unprotected p in v, size kink, choking, creampie, praise kink

OTHER WARNINGS: no use of y/n, dual pov, able bodied reader, reader being picked up/carried, virgin thomas hewitt, no skin masks, monsters in love. if i’ve missed any tags, please kindly let me know.

Thomas hears a scream while he’s out in the barn. It cuts off so quickly he damn near thinks he imagined it but if he holds perfectly still and listens, listens, listens, there are noises that don’t belong. A grunt, a smack, a mumbled curse. Knife in hand, he ventures out in search of the source.

Out on the road there’s a car, hood up and smoke billowing from the engine. A man has a woman pressed to the driver’s side door, forearm tight against her throat and a knife poised in front of her face. Red creeps into Thomas’ vision and his fingers begin to ache around the hilt of his own knife but just as he steps forward, something amazing happens.

The woman spits at the man’s face and in that brief moment of surprise, she brings her hands up and shoves the man back. He stumbles, falling to ground. The knife falls and she goes after it, lunging across the dirt and rocks. The man wraps a hand around her ankle, tugging her down and dragging her back as she screams, fingers digging into the dirt. She kicks, once, twice, the third time finally connecting with a painful crack to the man’s shin and sending him down to the ground again. She crawls away, grabbing the knife and scrambling to her feet. Thomas can see her chest heave with ragged breaths, skin glistening with sweat in the Texas heat.

He’s not sure he’s ever seen anything more beautiful.

She approaches the man, the knife brandished in front of her. The man rolls onto his back, holds his hands up. A surrender. The woman doesn’t care. Her boot slams into his skull, a shout echoing in the vast emptiness of the road and fields. Thomas feels himself grow hard, pants tightening around his cock. He reaches down, adjusting himself.

The man is on his hands and knees now. Blood streaks his face and drips to the dirt, baptizing the land in violence. She kicks him between the shoulder blades, knocking him flat on his stomach, and stands over him with a leg on either side of his body. The breath catches in Thomas’ throat as she reaches down and tangles her fingers in the man’s hair, lifting his head. The man stares directly at Thomas and his lips move, a cry for help, but he doesn’t hear it. No, not when all his focus is on the way the woman leans close and drags the blade across the man’s neck and the skin splits, muscles and tendons ripping with the force of it and red, red, red spilling free.

The man’s gaze grows empty and the woman loosens her grip, his head dropping to the ground. She drops to her knees, slams the knife into the man’s back over and over and over, roaring fiercely as she does. She’s covered in the red, red, red, clothes soaked through with it, skin stained and sticky. When she’s finished, she collapses on the ground beside the man, on her back, basking in the sun.

It’s then that Thomas approaches, his shadow falling over her, broad body blocking the sun. She blinks at him but doesn’t scream. Doesn’t run.

Thomas holds a hand out to her.

To his surprise, she takes it.

Your mind is somewhere in the clouds as you walk beside the lumbering giant that carries John or Mike or David over his shoulder like he weighs nothing, is nothing. The body bounces with each step and you find it almost comical, lips twitching as you fight a smile. Something simmers in your veins, more potent than the adrenaline of the fight or the relief that you won another day against life’s shitty hand.

This new man, the tall man with the icy somber eyes and expressionless mask, appeared above you, haloed in sunlight like an angel. By all accounts, he was a far more terrifying man than John or Mike or David, but you don’t see evil when you look at him, when his eyes meet yours for a brief second before looking away. No, not evil, but a familiar reflection, an unkind life that led to unkind circumstances and unkind decisions. You know the look well, it’s the same one you see in the mirror.

A house appears on the horizon, a two story Victorian era farmhouse that must have been impressive once before falling into a state of disrepair. There’s a woman on the porch, arms crossed over her chest and a stern look on her face as she watches the two (or is it technically three?) of you approach.

“Bring ‘im downstairs. I’ll tend to the girl,” she says. The man looks at you, hesitating to follow the command. You give him a nod, the slight dip of your chin enough for his shoulders to relax. His heavy footsteps rattle the dilapidated porch as he disappears inside the house.

The woman leads you to the kitchen and pulls a chair out from the rough wood table for you to take a seat. You watch as she wets a cloth before returning to your side. Cool water hits the hot skin of your face and the rough fabric drags away the dried blood. Her touch is surprisingly gentle.

“You do all that to the fella my boy was carryin’?” She asks.

“Yes,” you reply, voice cracking on the single word that claws at your vocal cords.

“‘Atta girl.” She smiles. “I’ll get you some water.”

“Thank you.”

She sets a glass on the table and you don’t hesitate to reach for it, chugging down the cold water so quickly it makes your stomach turn. She wordlessly refills it for you, twice, before murmuring a gentle, “That’s enough now, you’ll turn your stomach sour if you keep it up.”

“What’s with this fuckin’ car out on the road?” A voice yells from outside the house. Through the window you catch a glimpse of a man in a Sherriff’s uniform, shotgun held loosely in his hand as he approaches the house. The woman stands, wiping her hands on her apron.

“You don’t say nothin’, alright? You let me handle Charlie,” she commands. You nod.

The man appears in the doorway, eyes immediately landing on you. His leery gaze traces you from head to toe and you fight back the shiver that threatens to race down your spine. Your gaze drops to the floor as he addresses the woman.

“What’s with the whore?” He spits.

“She’s a guest.”

“A guest? This a bed ‘n breakfast all of a sudden?”

“Thomas brought her up here.” As if summoned by his name, the monster returns. He looms behind the other man, silent. There’s a bucket in his hand that he drops to the floor with a loud clang that makes you jump. The woman pats your shoulder.

“Tommy boy is takin’ in strays now, huh? What’s next, he’ll find himself some dumpster baby and finish buildin’ a whole happy family?”

The monster, Thomas, grows tense. His shoulders lift and the muscles of his arms flex, his eyes narrowed on the man who’s giving him a shit-eating smile.

“Tommy, honey, why don’t you bring your guest to one of the rooms upstairs?” The woman suggests. Thomas shoves past Charlie and into the kitchen and stands wordlessly by your side. She nudges your shoulder and you stand, following him as he stomps through the second door to the kitchen.

Shouting starts up as you leave, the words muffled when the door swings shut behind you. Thomas leads you upstairs to the second floor, where the hallway dark and a thick layer of dust coats anything it can reach. With a grunt he opens a door at the end of the hall and stands aside to allow you through the doorway.

The room is bare save for a small but tidy bed and dresser. Despite the dust in the hall, the room itself is surprisingly clean. You sit on the bed, testing the squeaky springs with your weight. You look up at the man.

“Your name is Thomas?” You ask. He nods, once, a sharp dip of his chin that has his dirty hair falling into his face. You tell him your name and his blue eyes blink back at you, the only acknowledgment you’ll get.

He lingers for a moment, eyes searching. It doesn’t feel gross, not like when Charlie leered at you downstairs. No, it’s more like he’s committing you to memory. You realize, then, that he’s not looking at you like a predator looks at prey.

He’s looking at you like you’re a prize.

Thomas slams the cleaver down, the thud of it rhythmic, soothing. His thoughts keep straying to ones of you, upstairs in the kitchen with his mama. You’ve been here for two days now and he’s having a hard time concentrating on his chores knowing that you’re in the house, knowing that you’ve stuck around for God only knows what reason. It makes him antsy, suspicious.

The door to the basement opens and he expects to hear Charlie’s boots stomping down the stairs but he’s surprised when you appear on the last step in an ill fitting dress that mama must have scrounged up for you. Thomas stands perfectly still as you look around the room.

“This is what you do all day?” You ask. He nods. “That must be hard work.” Mama shouts your name from upstairs, making you jump. You give him a sheepish look. “I’m supposed to come tell you dinner’s ready.”

Thomas grunts, setting down the cleaver and wiping his hands on his apron. He washes up in the bloodstained sink, scrubbing at his fingers as best he can. You’re still on the stairs when he finishes, watching him. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, the way you don’t look away, ashamed of your staring.

You turn to climb the steps and he follows, a step below you. Your hips sway in front of him and he has visions of grabbing you by the hips, pulling you against his body so tightly you can’t leave, can’t leave, can’t leave.

Mama is sitting at the table when you both emerge from the darkness, bowls of stew set out for each of you. Thomas sits down to mama’s left and you to her right, across the table from him. The two of you chat about the chores she’s assigned you and are they too much, honey? No, you tell her, you’re happy to help. Mama smiles at you and he knows what she’s thinking, that you’re sent from God himself, the perfect addition to the family. The daughter she never got to have, only the fucked up sons she was cursed and forsaken with.

Thomas feels something prod his knee beneath the table and he freezes. All of your attention is still focused on mama, your head propped in your hand and your elbow on the table, relaxed as can be. He thinks maybe he just imagined it but he feels it again and this time he jumps, rattling the dishes on the table and sloshing stew from its bowls.

“Thomas! What’s the matter with you?” Mama asks, patting at her dress with a napkin. “You just got us all wet.”

“Yeah, Thomas,” you chime in. “Got me all wet and messy.”

By the look on your face, he knows that you’re not talking about the soup. He’s got some dirty magazines he snuck into the house over the years, women with their legs spread and their hands tied, glistening pussies on full display or the one videotape that Charlie got him, where the woman is split open on a man’s cock, begging for more as the lewd, slick sounds of sex grow louder and louder. The thought of you like that, maybe even because of him, makes his cheeks burn. He grunts, an apology, and his mama waves a hand at you both.

“You better get changed outta that dress before it stains. Can’t be lettin’ one go to waste so quick,” she tells you. You nod, standing from the table and heading for the door. You pause, looking over your shoulder at him and give him a wink. Mama clears her throat, a stern expression on her face as she looks at him.

“And you, boy. Go get yourself cleaned up and brush your damn hair for once. I raised you better than that.”

She didn’t, not really, but he listens to her anyway, trudging back down to the basement to hose himself off and change his clothes. As he cleans up, he thinks about you, because when hasn’t he been since you appeared? His cock hardens and he tries to ignore it, tries to think of the Bible lessons mama loved to teach and how it’s a sin to touch himself but maybe God will forgive him, just this once?

He wraps a hand around his thick length and squeezes, almost punishing himself. His head drops back and he stares at the ceiling, eyes wide as he tugs and pulls at his cock, slow at first then fast, fast, fast, fist flying with a tight grip until stars burst in his vision and warm come dribbles over his hand. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, blinking away the dark spots as his high fizzles out.

Thomas dries himself and gets dressed before lying down on the mattress in the corner to toss and turn until the sun rises.

The next morning, Thomas doesn’t realize that you haven’t come down from your room until well into the afternoon. Mama’s gone to town and Charlie is off playing Sheriff so it’s just the two of you in the house. He debates whether he should check on you or leave you alone but ultimately the worry that something might be wrong pulls him upstairs and finds him knocking on your door, a quick tap of his knuckles to the wood.There’s no sound from the other side, no shout of fuck off like he’d get from Charlie or a quiet just a minute, sweetheart he’d hear from mama. Tentatively, he turns the handle and pushes the door open, just a crack, enough to peek inside.

You’re in bed, sprawled out on your back with the quilt kicked off to the floor. Your bare breasts draw his eye and he looks away quickly, shame clawing up his throat. The bed creaks as you shift, sleepy noises leaving your lips in the process, and panic races through his veins, worried that you might wake up and find him standing there, worried that it might be what sends you running, worried about what mama will say if you up and leave and it’s his fault, worried, worried, worried.

“Thomas?” You ask, voice raspy. He didn’t even realize that you were awake, stupid, stupid, stupid of him. He should have turned around and left, should have—

“Hey, it’s okay,” you murmur, sitting up. Thomas hesitates, eyes still fixed on the floor. You must notice because from the corner of his eye he notices the quilt get picked up and then you’re telling him, “I’m decent.”

He swallows around the rock lodged in his throat and looks up, meeting your gaze. You don’t look mad or disgusted or upset. You’re actually smiling at him, a hand held out in welcome. He doesn’t dare touch you, but he takes a step closer, body moving like a moth to a flame.

Your head tilts to the side, assessing him, eyes flaying him open and leaving him feeling more exposed than when someone catches him without the mask. You’re holding the quilt up over your chest but Thomas can still see the tantalizing curves of your shoulders, the long line of your neck with the flutter of your pulse beneath delicate skin. It makes his mouth go dry.

“You ever touch a woman, Tommy?” You ask. The question catches him so off guard that all he manages is a strangled noise. “Well? That a yes or a no?” He shakes his head. You smile, lowering the quilt just enough to expose the top curve of your breasts.

“You wanna?”

Thomas’ eyes drop to your chest before quickly looking away. A flush creeps up his neck, staining what little of his cheeks you can see above the mask he wears. His hand flexes at his side, fingers curling open and shut.

“It’s okay, you can look,” you say, gentle, gentle, gentle, like coaxing a scared animal. He looks at you again, blue eyes wide. “Come closer.”

He shuffles closer, looming over the bed, back so wide that he blocks the sun streaming through the window and casts a shadow over your body. You reach for his hand and he jerks away, as if on instinct. You pause, giving him a few seconds of reprieve, then reach for him again, keeping your eyes fixed on his face. Lightly, you touch his hand and when he doesn’t flinch, you grasp it more tightly.

You guide his hand to your breast, settling his warm palm to your chest. He holds perfectly still for a moment and the restraint of it drives you insane, makes you bite your tongue so hard the taste of copper blooms across your tastebuds. Finally, he leans a little closer, fingers digging into your skin and making you gasp. He massages one breast, then the other, playing with the weight and feel of them in his large hands. You press your thighs together, cunt aching from the attention.

“That feels good,” you tell him, arching into his touch. The praise spurs him on, makes him more confident, and he starts to focus his attention on your nipples, pinching and twisting the sensitive buds. He’s surprisingly gentle despite his size and demeanor.

You kick away the quilt from your legs, exposing the rest of your body to him. His eyes trail down your body, hands going still. He looks up, tilting his head, asking a question, looking for permission. You nod your head quickly and your heart races as a palm slides down, down, down, until he’s cupping your pussy over your panties. Your hips jump at the friction.

“Oh, fuck,” you whine. Thomas holds his hand still as you grind yourself against his palm. You reach your hands down, holding onto his forearm with a death grip. “Please, please, please!”

His fingers slip beneath the elastic of your panties and you both groan. He plays with the embarrassing amount of wetness, smearing it over your skin. You guide his hand the slightest bit upwards until the calloused pads of his fingers swipe over your clit.

“That’s it, Tommy,” you tell him. “Right there, right there.”

Dutifully, he continues to lavish you with attention, taking every direction beautifully. Slower, faster, harder, he adjusts to every suggestion and has you moaning and crying his name in desperation, but it’s not enough. You’re right there, so close, but you feel so empty, you just need—

“Inside?” You ask. He pauses, brows pinching together. “Put your fingers inside me.”

Slowly, slowly, slowly, he eases one thick finger into your drenched hole. Your head drops back at the sensation, at the relief, and begin to grind your hips again. He starts to see the pattern, moving his hand so that he’s working with your rhythm. You look up at his face and the concentration in his eyes leaves you breathless. All he wants is to do good, be good, make you feel good.

Thomas presses another finger to your entrance, glancing at your face to make sure it’s okay. When you don’t say otherwise, he works both inside of you in tandem, the stretch making you groan. He curls them, exploring, skimming a spot inside of you that makes you cry out and dig your nails into his arm so hard that he grunts but doesn’t doesn’t pull away.

“I’m gonna come,” you tell him. “You’re doing so good, Tommy, oh my god.”

He’s panting, sweat dripping down his neck, muscles tight with his efforts to wrench an orgasm from you. The lethal combination of his fingers inside of you and his palm against your clit and the muffled noises sneaking past his mask have you tumbling over a precipice so high you worry you might never come down. Your cunt pulses around his fingers and you babble his name and an incoherent stream of praise as your release washes over you, wave after wave of it.

Thomas waits until your body collapses against the mattress and you’re gasping for breath before slowly removing his hand. He holds it up to his face, pink tongue darting out from the slit afforded for his mouth to taste your cum from his fingertips. He groans, his other hand reaching down to press tightly to the sizeable bulge in his pants. He thrusts against his palm once, twice, before going still, shoulders shaking.

A door slams downstairs. Luda Mae’s voice shouts for Thomas and he takes a step back, head whipping towards the door and eyes wide with panic. You scramble from the bed, grabbing your dress and pulling it on quickly so that you can rush out the room, shutting Thomas inside. You lean over the banister and see Luda Mae standing at the top of the basement stairs, hands on her hips.

“I think he went out to the barn,” you call down. She looks up at you.

“Why would he be out there?” She huffs. “And what are you still doin’ in your room? You look a mess.”

“Sorry, m’am. Had trouble sleeping last night.”

Your politeness softens her annoyance. “That’s okay, darlin’, you’re still learnin’ the ropes. I gotta go find Thomas, Charlie’s found some troublemakers.”

“If I see him first, I’ll let him know.” You nervously smooth your hands down your skirt. “What kind of trouble?”

“You don’t worry yourself about that. We’ll let the boys handle it, alright?”

“Yes, m’am.”

“Good girl,” she says. “I’ll be back.”

Luda Mae leaves through the front door and you return to your room. Thomas is standing where you left him, hands curled at his sides.

“You hear all that?” You ask him. He nods. “What’s going to happen?”

He walks to the window, peeks through the curtain. His shoulders are tense. When he turns back to you, he sets his hands on your shoulders and steers you to the bed, pushing gently until you’re sitting, the springs squeaking beneath your weight. He cups your cheek with one hand and points around the room with the other.

“You want me to stay in here?”

He nods.

“What if you need help?”

He shakes his head. He won’t need help.

“Okay. You better get down there.”

He nods again. Leaning down, he presses his forehead to yours, an approximation of a kiss. You smile at him when he pulls away. He lingers for a brief second longer before tugging open the door and disappearing from the room.

Trouble is heralded by the arrival of Uncle Charlie. You watch through the window as his cop car pulls up in the yard and he gets out, spitting curses you can’t hear. He waves a shotgun in the air, firing off a warning shot that makes you jump. You know Thomas told you to stay in your room but curiosity gets the better of you and you head downstairs.

Luda Mae is in the kitchen, sat at the table with a cup of tea. A piercing scream filters through the open window as she takes a tiny sip from her cup.

“You need somethin’, dear?” She asks, unperturbed by the interruption. You shake your head.

“No, m’am. Just came to ask if you needed help with dinner.”

“No, no, that’s alright. I got it covered.” Another sip. “Could you get the laundry from the line?”

It’s then that you realize she’s testing you. Earlier she told you to let the men handle it, but she wants to see where your loyalties lie. Thomas told you to stay put, to stay safe, but she’s sending you out to join the wolves because she knows, she knows, she knows that you’re just like them.

She just needs proof.

You smile. “Of course.”

On your way out of the kitchen, you slip a knife from the butcher block.

One of the men that Charlie dragged home writhes in pain, one leg bent at an unnatural angle. His friend takes off at run, pace as fast as his injured ankle will allow. They’re the last two that need to be dealt with. Thomas raises his chainsaw in the air, ready to end the animal’s suffering, but movement from the corner of his eye makes him pause.

The back door to the house opens and you stroll out into the yard, looking around frantically with a frightened expression. Thomas feels a rush of anger that you didn’t listen to him, didn’t stay up in your room, didn’t stay inside. The anger quickly turns to fear when he sees the other man, the one he intended to deal with later, rushes toward you. You take off, running across the field toward the barn.

Thomas cuts the gas, tosses the chainsaw aside. The muffled whimpers from the man on the ground piss him off and with one, two, three strikes of the heel of his boot, he silences him for good. He heads for the barn, red in his vision with every step. If the other man lays a single finger on you, Thomas will keep him alive but begging for death.

“Come on, we gotta get out of here,” a male voice shouts. “They’re goin’ to kill us!”

Thomas throws open the barn doors, the wood shaking with the force of it. You’re turned away from him and the first thing he notices is the knife held in a tight fist behind your back. The man stumbles to the ground, trying to scramble back from you as Thomas comes closer.

“No. We’re going to kill you,” you tell him. You spring forward, jumping on the man with a feral scream that sounds like music to Thomas’ ears. Your arms swing up, up, up and then slam down, down, down, burying your knife into the man’s chest over and over and over.

Thomas can’t wait anymore. He approaches you from behind and wraps an arm around your waist, lifting you away from the mangled body. You struggle in his hold and he hauls you over to a work bench, swiping the tools to the ground with his other arm and setting you on the surface.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you say immediately, head shaking side to side. “I just wanted to help, I just—“

Your rapid apologies morph into a choked off moan when he lifts your legs, wrapping them around his hips, grinding his painfully hard cock against you. He buries his face into your neck, licking at the blood that stains your perfect skin, the taste of salt and copper opening a pit of hunger in his belly that could never be filled by food.

“Tommy,” you whimper, head dropping back. He licks and bites at all the skin he can find and when he runs out, he drops to his knees and begins anew on the muscles of your legs.

He pushes the fabric of your dress up, bunching it around your waist to expose your pussy, still covered by the same panties you wore earlier when he made you come on his fingers. Wrapping his fist in the elastic, he pulls until it snaps under the pressure, fabric falling away and leaving you completely bare.

Thomas pushes your thighs apart, spreading you open. He leans closer, biting at the soft flesh of your thigh, a little harder than he should. The tiny indents his teeth make in your skin are proof that this isn’t some dream. You’re flesh and blood, just like him.

Just for him.

His mouth waters as he nears your cunt, the earlier memory of your taste making that hunger grow to near starvation. His tongue slides over the slick flesh, exploring the dips and folds that taste so sweet it hits him like a sugar high, like when he’d steal a handful of candy from the corner store and eat it all at once, afraid of getting caught.

There’s a quiet thump and Thomas looks up to find that you’ve collapsed onto the table. Hands reach down and your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling on the strands. He remembers the spot that he rubbed with his fingers and searches for it with his tongue, knowing he’s found it when your thighs press against his ears and you moan his name like you did in your room.

“Oh, god! Just like that, Tommy,” you say, holding his head in place. “So good, so fucking good.”

He licks and sucks and grazes his teeth against you to his heart’s content and you writhe beneath him, bucking up against his face so fiercely he has to hold you down with an arm across your lower belly. He grows braver, dipping his tongue into the warmth of your cunt and drinking you from the source until you’re shaking. When he pulls away, he’s awed by the mess he’s made of you, your lips puffy and skin slick and shiny from your cum. He uses his thumbs to spread you apart, admiring the way your hole clenches around nothing.

Thomas stands, unsure of what to do next. You sit up from the table, expression dazed. Tear tracks stain your cheeks and a brief strike of worry hits him. Did he hurt you? Was that too much? Are you—

“Come closer,” you whisper. His thoughts go silent as he obeys. You reach up, cupping his face, hands trailing down to the strap of his apron. You lift it over his head and drops down, hanging limply.

Your arms wrap around his thick middle, working the knot of strings loose behind his back. It falls to the floor in a heap now and he stares at it, pulse racing as your hands roam to his chest. His breath stutters as your touch traces lower, lower, lower, until your palm presses against his cock and his mouth drops open at the pleasure of it, so different from when he touches himself or ruts his hips into the mattress. He can feel the heat of your skin even through the thick fabric of his pants.

You’re popping the button and dragging down the zipper, wrapping a soft hand around his cock and pulling it free. Thomas groans, loud and rough, as you slide your hand up, thumb swiping over the clear fluid gathered at the very tip.

You tug on his cock, hard enough that he stumbles forward, pressing closer. You look up at him as you rub the flushed head through your wetness and his shoulders shake at the sensation. You feel so good, so warm, he just wants to—

You notch him at your entrance and on instinct he thrusts forward the slightest bit, just enough that the fat tip of him sinks into tight heat. You gasp, eyes going wide and he’s once again struck with the fear that he could be hurting you, maybe he’s too big, too much of a monster, but when he tries to pull away you’re grabbing his shirt in a tight fist.

“Don’t you dare,” you hiss. “Keep going.”

Thomas obeys, just as he always does, pushing his hips closer, shoving his cock deeper, deeper, deeper. He watches his length disappear, your body stretching to accommodate his size. You look beautiful, with the tears that gather in your eyes and the blood smeared on your chest and the way your thighs shake with the effort to take him, that his chest aches, that last thread of control keeping him slow and steady snapping like his hips as he buries himself inside of you, completely and thoroughly.

You’ve never been this full before. You fall back on the rough wood of the work bench with a gasp, stars in your vision as your body adjusts to the sheer size of the man, the thick length of him splitting you open and leaving you breathless. He leans forward, the angle changing and tears spilling from your eyes as you stare up at the hulking monster above you.

“So big,” you gasp. “God, you’re so fucking big.”

His cock twitches inside of you and you moan, back arching off the bench. He feels so good, even through the burning stretch. You give a tentative wiggle of your hips and his eyelids flutter, a moan escaping him. When the pain eases into a dull ache, you lift a shaky hand to his face, settling your palm against the cool leather of his mask.

“I want you to fuck me, Tommy,” you tell him. “I want you to ruin me.”

His pupils grow impossibly wider and a shadow falls across his features, his demeanor changing in the blink of an eye. Gone is the man who was worried he would hurt you and in his place is the ravenous beast that matches the one clawing at you from the inside, just beneath your ribs where your chest aches with need. He draws his hips back until the tip is barely inside of you before thrusting forward. Your mouth opens, a scream ripping from your lungs but it’s cut short when a large hand wraps around your throat and squeezes.

Thomas is a man possessed, pounding into your body like it’s nothing more than a toy for his pleasure, filling your pussy to the limit with each stroke. The hand on your throat holds your body steady and he uses his other arm to lift one of your legs, then the other, your thighs pressed to his thick belly and your ankles by his ears. His moans mix with the lewd sound of skin against skin, a soundtrack of hedonism that you want to listen to on repeat until God calls you for judgment and sends you straight to Hell.

Your orgasm is quick to build, a pressure in your tummy that grows tighter and tighter until it bursts, all your muscles going taut with the force of it. Thomas roars, hands gripping your hips and holding you impaled on his cock as he floods your pussy with his release. You feel untethered, like you’re floating, and it’s not until you’re squinting into the Texas sun that you realize you are floating. Thomas is carrying you through the field, back to the main house, one arm supporting your back and other under your knees, holding you close to his chest.

Luda Mae is on the porch when he reaches the door, hands on her hips. He pauses and her keen gaze assesses you both. Finally, she smiles.

“Get yourselves cleaned up. Dinner is almost ready,” she says.

Wordlessly, Thomas brings you inside and down to the basement, where does exactly as he’s told.

Just as he always does.

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macfrog · 2 months

Text

san angelo | one shot

what happens when joel miller meets his star-crossed lover?

big love to @mrsmando and @5oh5 for cheering me on with this one, and @bageldaddy for being my eyes, my ears, and - only sometimes - my brain.

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader summary: it's the summer of two thousand eight. after two weeks following his little brother cross-country on the back of a harley, joel follows him through the doors of a dive bar - where fate delivers him to you. warnings: story is inserted into canon, so cordyceps outbreak happens, sarah dies (off-page), joel dissociates, doomed love, lots of mention of fate, alcohol consumption, reader is a smoker, cursing, drunken one-night stand, oral sex, unprotected piv, joel's cock is massive, a lot of angst, a lot of fluff, a lil smut to tie it all together. enjoy! word count: 9.8k

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Palm lines.

It’s the first thing he thinks as soon as she stops moving in his arms. The second her little whimpers cease, the moment her chest stops heaving and her eyes glaze over. Suddenly, Joel’s little girl weighs more than he can bear.

Palm lines. And he has no fucking idea why.

He closes his eyes and there you are. The whir of the ceiling fan, the tinkling of bracelets loose on your wrist. You have sorta earth hands, you told him. Or, well – they could be water, if you look at ‘em this way. I don’t really know. I’m still learning.

You told him that air hands were long, spindly. And Sarah was always a lanky kid – tallest on the soccer team, head and shoulders above the other girls by the third grade. Her hands, he thinks, must be air. They must be.

Her fingers are still twisted around his right now. Lifeless, slippery with the blood still wet and quickly cooling.

Joel cradles her, squeezing so hard that he wonders whether he might be able to fuse their bodies together. Lock them in some white-knuckle grip so that he never has to let go of her – never has to leave this hill covered in dirt and blood.

His palms are ruined; a maroon river carving its way down his heart line, dirt deep in the groove of his life line. Why does he even fucking remember what they’re called?

Why the fuck are you what he’s thinking about, right now?

“Tommy,” he says, opening his eyes again. “We gotta…we gotta get to…”

She’s limp, draped over his thighs as though she’s nothing more than a stretch of crimson curtain. He looks down at her and begs her to come back, begs her to open her eyes and look up at him again.

But the night is passing and she’s still not breathing. Dawn is breaking and Joel’s daughter is dead.

He sucks in a shattered breath. “…to San Angelo, Tommy.”

The younger Miller stuffs his gun into the back of his jeans and paces over, soles coated thick in shit and grass. “I hear you, Joel.”

“You ain’t listenin’ to me, I –”

“I’m listenin’ fine, Joel.” Tommy hooks his hands under his niece’s arms. “Now, help me lift her. We can’t…” his voice strains, fighting the death grip his brother has on the girl, “…we can’t leave her here.”

Joel’s frozen to the spot; sinking further and further into the earth. Staring at his open hands, the stains like rust on his palms. He says to San Angelo again, and Tommy snaps.

“Jesus, Joel, enough! I’ve heard enough goddamn it! I see your hands, now – we gotta fuckin’ bury Sarah.”

Your fate line, your nail tickled, and Joel held his hand steady, It can change, if something big is coming.

Somethin’ big? he asked. A little younger, a lot more naïve. Still a healthy dose of belief in the world, an echo of the god-fearing faith that raised him.

His hand felt so light, cradled in two of yours. He half hoped he’d never have to let go – just lie there with you forever. Your legs tangled with his, the sheets disturbed; the room injected with amber from the streetlights outside.

You nodded. A big shift, or something.

And he scoffed. He actually scoffed, right there and then. Incredulous. The hell kinda big shift is comin’ our way? he asked, laughing.

You just smiled back, shrugging. You were so fucking casual, that whole night. It would’ve unnerved him, if he hadn’t been so swept off by the sparkle in your eye, the glowing cherry of your cigarette.

Guess we just gotta wait ‘n see.

It’s August thirtieth, two thousand eight.

Almost five thousand miles on the back of a Harley, and Joel just wants to go home.

He arches his aching back, palms flat against the crests of his hips, and blinks in the light from the food mart in front of him. Twenty-six, he thinks to himself, only twenty-fuckin’-six.

It’s ninety degrees out. An uncomfortable heat, for a man who feels ten years older than he really is. For a man who hasn’t had a decent shower in almost two weeks. For a man who’s spent the last six hours tailing the brake lights of his little brother’s bike.

The sweat gathers sticky between his shoulder blades, prickles along the nape of his neck. There’s dust spattered down his bare arms and buried in the grooves of his knuckles.

He’s tired. He’s tired, he’s dirty, and goddamn, he wishes he was back home.

He holds a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun, the yellow sky melting to a purple haze. Squinting, he follows the soar of two swallows overhead, looping through the sky, until he’s rubbing the image from his eyes with the back of his wrist.

He’s gotta remember to call Sarah before she goes to bed.

The door opens with the tinkle of a brass bell older and rustier than Joel feels. A swaggering figure splits the glow from the store in two – a figure with a pack of Marlboros in one hand and an already half-empty bottle of water in the other.

Tommy holds them both out to Joel, who swipes the water with a scowl.

“Ain’t killed you yet, brother,” Tommy scoffs, stuffing the cigarettes into his back pocket. He swings a frayed-denim leg over the seat of his Harley.

Joel drains the bottle, panting as he crushes the plastic in one fist. “Damn near tryin’,” he mutters, tossing it in the trash. He runs his tongue across his bottom lip.

“Where are we?” Tommy asks. He glances over his shoulder, staring from the cracked roads to the telephone wires overhead. A Syclone pulls into the lot; a dehydrated squeal as it rolls to a halt.

“San Angelo,” Joel says. “Only a few more hours to go.” He settles on his own bike, pulling his leather jacket over his shoulders. “We passed a Super 8 coming into town, if you feel like restin’ up. Or – we leave now, be home around midnight.”

Tommy chuckles. “What’s the rush? We ain’t gotta be anywhere anytime soon.”

And Joel agrees – for the most part.

His mom is watching Sarah while they’re gone, and he reckons she’s hardly missing him. Too smart for her own good, Joel’s realizing: plotting and scheming her way into staying up past her bedtime, drinking Pepsi at dinner, watching Curtis and Viper – and swearing that her dad lets her do it all, too.

But, still. He misses his kid.

It’s the most they’ve ever been apart – time or distance. The longest he hasn’t had her climbing up his back or hanging off his arm. The least he’s been called Dad since he was eighteen years old.

He just…misses his kid.

He sighs, drumming his fingers on the body of the bike. “Tommy, I gotta get back home to Sarah.”

“Look,” Tommy says, and Joel knows that the argument is lost already, “By the time we got back, she’d be asleep anyways. Let’s leave in the morning – first thing, I swear – and we’ll be home in time for breakfast. Deal?”

They stare at one another, a stand-off in the parking lot. Both waiting for the other to break. The swallows gather on the roof of the store, basking in the weak wash of flickering fluorescents.

“Come on, brother,” Tommy pleads, “It’s one more night.” He lifts his helmet, punching it over his mop of shaggy hair, and kicks the bike to life.

Joel growls to himself, watching it drift over to the side of the road.

He considers heading to the Super 8 alone, grabbing a room only to shower and get some food, then hitting the road and leaving his little brother in the dust. Waiting for him to stumble through the door tomorrow morning – tired, groggy, probably hungover – while Joel, fresh as a daisy, drizzles syrup over Sarah’s pancakes and pours her orange juice.

He’s a pragmatic man. He’s a grown-up. Scares away the ghosts and ghouls and monsters of his daughter’s nightmares. Shushes her back to sleep in the crook of his arm, tiptoes as lightly as he can out of her room so as not to wake her.

Things like God, like the universe, things like horoscopes and laws of attraction…for the most part, Joel can do without them. Has done his whole life.

But then – the glow of indigo overhead, and the mysterious shadows lurking behind the buildings. The birdsong tittering in his ears, the twinkle of the sun in Tommy’s helmet – something distant in the dusty sphere.

Something, someone, winking at him from far away.

Something a little heavier than the breeze nudges at his spine, and Joel’s arms lift – fitting his own helmet over his head. He swings the heel of his boot into his kickstand and revs the bike, Harley roaring as it joins Tommy’s out on the boulevard.

Murphy’s is a small, green bar on the corner of an intersection. All peeled paint lettering and buzzing fluorescents – the y burnt out and pulsing.

Joel doesn’t think Tommy picked it for any reason other than the huge Lone Star mural on the side of the goddamn building, the way he tosses his thumb to it as they park up. A squint smirk on his face, muttering something like ‘s good to be home, big brother, as they hook helmets over handlebars.

Tommy leads Joel inside, their boots tacky on the wooden floor. Walls paneled by aged frames and sun-bleached photographs; air hanging thick with a smell like vinegar. The babble of slurred conversation is pierced by the sharp crack of pool balls breaking.

Metal-plate belt buckles snaked through strained jeans; low eyes which shift to size-up the two strangers. They all turn back to their fingerprinted glasses when Joel and Tommy settle into an empty booth.

It feels hotter in here than it is outside, stuffier. A thick humidity which clings to Joel’s bones, humming like the string lights draped from beams above his head.

Tommy reclines between the creaking leather cushion and the wall. He pokes at a yellowing poster of some Western, hums to himself, and then looks across the table.

Joel’s eyes loop once around the room before they meet his brother’s. “What?” he asks.

“First round is yours, old man.”

“Oh, is it, now?” He cocks an eyebrow. “Thought this was your idea?”

A weedy grin stretches across Tommy’s lips. He needs to fucking shave, Joel thinks. Whiskers poking from around his small mouth like pine needles. “’s my birthday trip,” he reasons.

And can Joel argue with that? Does he have the fucking energy? Will it get him out of here and back to Austin any quicker?

“Goddamn it,” he grumbles. He pushes himself to his feet, heels of his palms against the tacky wood.

He wanders over to the bar, tugging on the front of his tee to unstick it from his damp chest. Slots in beside an ivory cowboy hat with a pair of jeaned legs. The man fixes his bolo tie and watches Joel’s hand as he flags the bartender down.

And then he feels it.

You.

Then he feels you.

First, the weight of you – crashing some into his back. He shunts forward from the suddenness of it, knocking his ribs against the bar, and lifts a hand to brace himself on the ledge.

And then – heat, like an iron. Like every hair and freckle on your skin is branded into his the second you come into contact with him. A feeling like the roll of a wave against his spine, a hand hooked around his forearm when he begins to turn.

“Shit,” you hiss, steadying yourself on the curve of his shoulder. You glance down at your feet, clicking between your black boots. “I’m sorry, that was…that was my bad.”

“’s alright,” Joel says instantly. He holds his arm still until you let go and he sidesteps – though only a little. He watches, dumbstruck, as you rest your elbows on the bar and lean forward. His eyes linger on your back, trailing the crisscross straps wrapped tight over your spine.

You squint up at the menu pinned above shelves of crystal bottles. Your eyes move back and forth across the chalkboard, slowly descending until they’re meeting his in the speckled mirror opposite – a sweet smile growing on your lips.

It runs like whiskey through Joel’s veins: warm and dangerous.

And the way his head spins, the way the world blurs for a moment into one swipe of color around you; the way your cooing laugh echoes between his ears long after he’s heard it –

Joel’s already intoxicated.

He’s still staring when you pull back and motion to the bar. “You can go first, by the way,” you say, waving a hand. “I wasn’t cuttin’ in line. Just trying to read the drinks.”

“I’ll wait,” he replies, remembering how to be polite, how to be charming. Old cogs long out of use jerking to life inside him again. “Can’t read any of ‘em, either, anyways.”

It draws from you that same little laugh, a puff of air from your nostrils. You nod, biting your bottom lip.

He’s quickly forgetting why he’s stood in this room, why he’s in this city. He’d probably forget his own fucking name if you asked him right now what it was.

“’nother drink, darlin’?” a low voice interrupts, and you’re turning away.

Joel’s eyes follow you – a moth chasing something golden and radiant – as you face the wiggle of a snow-white mustache poking from beneath the brim of that ivory cowboy hat.

You shake your head, lifting two fingers with a bill slipped between them. “I’m good, thanks, George. Maybe next round.” You wave to the kid behind the bar – some name that Joel’s too fucking mindless to hear. Too distracted by the glint in your eye, the sparkle of your crescent moon earrings in the light.

If only he knew this feeling. If only he could put a name to it. As familiar as the sun and yet, brand new like dawn. His stomach swirls in a fleet of butterflies – as though he’s fifteen again, bumping elbows with his high school crush.

You nudge him, thumb pointing in the direction of the bartender.

Joel shakes his head. “Ladies first,” he says, heart skipping when you hold his stare.

“Nuh-uh,” you shake your head, “Told you I ain’t jumping in.”

He asks the guy for two beers, barely taking his eyes off you. “Alright,” he leans in, lowering his voice, “Then let me buy you a drink. Make up for gettin’ in your way just then.”

You prop your chin on your knuckles, grinning as you push your twenty around the wooden bar top, dodging pooled rings of alcohol like it’s an arcade game. “I don’t do that,” you say, eyes tracing the slick trail left by the bill.

“Do what?”

“Accept drinks from strange men in bars.”

His tongue presses against the back of his teeth, the taste of humor honey-sweet. “Yeah? ‘n how long have you known…” he nods to the – what is he, sixty? Sixty-five? – year-old on your right, “…George?”

Your gaze lifts, eyes wide. Apparently as impressed by Joel’s confidence as he is himself. “We’re actually in a very serious relationship. Marriage proposal imminent.”

“Damn,” he mutters as the bartender reappears with two Coors, “And here I thought I had half a chance.”

You hum to yourself, studying him. Looking from his jaw across the span of his shoulders, his wide-knuckled hands and then back to his lips. Curious and wary, judging the strange animal stood before you.

And he knows he’s weathered from the weeks on the road, and all the years before that. Dirt under his nails and the light sheen of sun on his forehead. The flecks of gray through his thick, brown beard.

You take a deep breath, eyes twinkling, and tell him, “I’m here with my friend.”

“Ain’t that lucky?” Joel glances at Tommy. “I’m here with my brother.”

You look across to the dirty blond, sat tilting a glass candle in his hand. “He single?”

Joel nods. “Is she?”

You nod.

“Alright. You wanna come sit with us?”

Your smirk answers his question. You take the beers, rings clinking off the glass. “Rum,” you call over your shoulder, wandering off, “I drink rum.”

Joel’s gaze lowers to the sway of your hips. “Rum it is,” he says, turning back to the bar.

“So…a cross-country bike trip, and you wound up in San Angelo?”

You’re on your fourth drink, the first one Joel hasn’t paid for – and he only allowed it because it’s a Diet Coke (and maybe you got to the bar first, held his wrists with one hand so he couldn’t stop you from slapping your own money down).

“Yep,” Joel replies, pinching the lime from his drink and dropping it onto a napkin. “Just passin’ through. Shower, sleep, then head on home.”

“Where’s that, then? Home?”

“Austin.”

“Austin,” you pout, “Nice.”

Joel smirks, licking citrus from his fingertips. “Is it?”

“I’ve never been to Austin,” Brooke chirps, fiddling with the umbrella in her piña colada. She twirls the paper canopy and glances up to Tommy.

He snaps out of his slack-jawed gaze when he realizes what she’s implying. “Oh – yeah, well…” his head wobbles as he stutters, “…you two ever come down that way, we’d be happy to, uh…show ya ‘round, huh, Joel?”

Joel doesn’t reply, staring back at his brother with the same amused expression you are.

You’ve been an inch apart all evening – doused in the dive bar darkness, the shrouded conversations and muffled TV static. The tip of your nose and curve of your shoulders lit only by the luminous signs dotting the walls.

Tommy and Brooke are already deep in conversation again about the best car Tommy ever owned. Joel watches as your eyes flit between the pair, entertained by the way they trip over each other’s sentences. Your cheeks lift when Brooke lays a hand over Tommy’s, and he squeezes her fingers back.

Where did you come from? Joel’s thinking. He takes a swig of his whiskey, feeling your eyes on him. As he lowers his glass, you lift yours. When he turns in his seat towards you, you’re already facing him, back against the wainscotting. He smiles, and so do you.

Every movement feels choreographed, some merry dance only you two know. You’re in your own little world.

Where did you come from, again, and where have you been my entire fucking life?

“So, what about you?” Joel asks instead, swallowing – all warm-bellied and brave. “You grow up here?”

You shake your head, taking another sip. “Nope. Just liked it enough to hang up my coat for a few months. I grew up in Phoenix.”

“You travel a lot?”

“I’ve been around. This is the longest I’ve stayed in one place since I was a kid.”

He thinks of home: of Austin and its silver-snake river, burnt-orange jerseys and the pleated bunting lining Sixth Street. He thinks of late nights on lawn chairs, nursing a beer and shooting the shit with his brother. Keeping their voices lower than the buzz of the cicadas, looking more at the dusky sky than at each other.

“You don’t ever get tired of it?” Joel asks. “Of moving around so much?”

You scoff, breath clouding the inside of your glass. “Three weeks on a motorcycle starting to get to you, huh?”

He breathes a laugh, loose again. The cicadas fade from his ears.

Your head tilts in a shrug. “I don’t know. I guess the universe keeps on surprising me.”

Joel doesn’t do this. At least, he hasn’t done this since he was a teenager – crate of beer under his arm and a chest full of courage. He’s long forgotten the feeling of heat blooming in his cheeks, the twitch of his heart anytime you look at him.

But fuck, if there isn’t something about you. Something in the way you move, the way you look at him. Something in the way you play with your straw, knocking ice cubes around and chewing on the plastic once you’ve drained the glass.

Something – though it’s a little too early and Joel’s a little too tipsy to tell just what. He tries to remember that he’s pragmatic. A grown-up. He chases away the monsters in his daughter’s –

“Oh, shit,” Joel says suddenly, scrambling to pull his cell from his pocket. It’s nine thirty. He was supposed to – “I forgot…”

A miserable tone from his Motorola cuts him short. The screen flashes an empty battery before fading to black. He jams a thumb into the keypad a couple more times, cursing at the winking symbol.

“Someone you gotta call?” you ask.

He meets your eye and winces. “Yeah, I’m…I said I’d call an hour ago.”

“You wanna use mine?” You twist around, fishing in your purse for your own. “We can go outside.”

“No, no, it’s…it’s alright, I’m sure she won’t mind, she –”

You shake your head. “Shut up. Come on, let’s go. I could use some fresh air, anyways. Be back in a minute,” you tell Brooke – who nods and turns straight back to Tommy.

Joel extends his hand to help you out of the booth, then follows you to the door. The cool air tugs every nerve in his body to attention, pin-sharp when he steps out of that lazy heat. Under the emerald glow of the Murphy’s sign, he settles his glass on a window ledge. “Next round’s on me, alright?”

You roll your eyes, pushing the phone against his chest. “Just call, Joel.”

One last apologetic glance, and then he’s dialing. He makes to wander along the curb, the tone already pulsing in his ear, when he notices –

“You ain’t brought a jacket?”

You’re sitting on the ledge, clutching your elbows. Swatting midges from the light you’re bathed in, charms on your bracelets jingling. “Hm?”

He tuts. “A jacket. Here.” He shrugs his own off, sitting it around your frame. It’s warm from the bar and from Joel’s body heat, and you sink into it – letting the dark leather drown you as you rummage through your purse again.

“Nice,” Joel’s eyes narrow, “Fresh air.”

You hum into your hands, flicking your lighter. The cigarette trembles when you murmur, “We all got our skeletons, I guess.”

He turns on his heel when a familiar voice picks up.

“Hey, hey, M–Yeah, sorry it’s late…Yeah, we got held up. My phone died, so I’m using…Is she still–? Can I–? Oh, Sarah. Hi, baby.”

His little girl begins chattering down the line immediately, telling Joel everything she’s been up to since they last spoke this morning.

“…and then, Emily thought I was one of the Armadillos – I don’t even know how, ‘cause they play in red, remember Dad? – but she did, and she slide tackled me so bad that Coach Thomson had to sub in Akari for me so I could ice my ankle. Grandma was kinda mad about it, but she took me to Burger King after to cheer me up, and…”

Joel wanders back and forth, smiling to himself and scuffing the heel of his boot along the concrete – barely able to squeeze more than two words between her chirping. It’s all, Yeah, baby? and Wow, sweetheart; all uhuhs and mhms until she finally quietens, excitement plateauing again.

“Alright, well. You know what time it is, right?”

“Yeah,” Sarah groans. She knows it all too well.

Bedtime.

“…But you didn’t call when you said you would, Daddy, and it’s Saturday, it’s –”

“I know, baby, I know. I’m sorry. Just…somethin’ came up. But I’ll see you tomorrow, right? We’ll be back before you know it.”

“Where’s Uncle Tommy? Can I talk to him?”

Joel turns to face the bar. “He, uh…I’m not with him right now, sweetheart. I’ll tell him you asked after him, though.”

Sarah concedes, and then begins asking questions Joel knows she’s only asking to stay on the line a little longer – to stay awake a little later. But still, he answers each one – humoring her and, at the same time, letting himself listen to her voice just a little more before he has to let her go.

He thinks of scooping her up in the morning; thinks of being slumped on the couch after dinner with her head on his stomach – fast asleep with whatever movie she chose droning on in the background.

Despite the thousands of miles and close to two weeks between them – she makes him feel closer to home. She always does.

When Sarah asks where he is, he glances your way. Clocks your flat expression, the half-burnt cigarette hanging from your fingers.

You flick ash to the ground. Eyes unreadable beneath low brows, a tiny crease between them that Joel’s only just seeing for the first time.

“Uh…” he clears his throat, “…just a little – a little north of you, baby. Home first thing, I promise.”

He tells her he loves her and she says it back, and he tells her to sleep well and she says that back, too. And then he’s hanging up – Alright, see you soon, bye, Sarah, bye-bye, byebyebye – and pressing his thumb into the red button.

He wanders back over to you – ears flat like a guilty dog, though he isn’t quite sure why. He mumbles a quiet thanks as he passes the phone back, then stuffs his hands in his pockets.

You lean back, ankles crossed, studying him. Swirling what’s left of the cigarette in your fingers – the smoke lifting like a winding snake to the dark sky. “So,” you pout, “What are you doing flirting with me, if you got a wife and kid back home?”

His jaw ticks, a hand coming up to scratch his beard. “I don’t have a wife,” he says.

You stare blankly, filter back against your lips. “Okay, then – a girlfriend. Does she know you’re out tonight with us?”

He shakes his head. “No wife, no girlfriend. I don’t have an anything.”

“But you have a kid.”

Joel nods once, tongue in his cheek. “Uhuh.”

And then the penny seems to drop. A small oh; your jaw slack and eyes wide. The cigarette smolders between your fingers. “Fuck,” you whisper, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“No, hey,” Joel steps closer, “You didn’t know. It’s alright.”

He straightens the jacket on your shoulders. When you finally look at each other again, you snort.

“Sorry,” you repeat, shaking your head. “Is she okay? Your daughter – is she…?”

“Sarah,” Joel says. “She’s…she’s fine. Thanks.”

You look down, stubbing your cigarette against the brick. Voice quiet, you ask, “Her mom’s not around anymore?”

Relief settles in his chest: you’re softening to him again.

Joel slots onto the ledge at your side. Shoulder to shoulder. He reaches behind and lifts his drink. “Not since she was a year old.”

Your mouth pulls in a wince. “Jesus. That’s rough.”

He doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have to – you’re not asking him to explain – and he doesn’t want to, either.

You’re not stupid – you’ve seen enough of the world to hear what he’s really saying. The darkest, dustiest corners of it – all the places no one ever wants to look.

You don’t seem disturbed, barely even moved by the reality that…well, shit happens. People leave, families break; a two-car driveway is suddenly taken up by just a pick-up truck and a little pink bike with tassels.

He figures you get it. You don’t need to know how can that be? – you just…know that it can.

“So, uh…” you look up at him again, “…my apartment is, like, five minutes away if you wanna…you know. You can charge your phone, can shower – if it’s bugging you that much.”

Joel’s eyebrows lift. “Oh, really?”

You simper, eyes thin. “Really.”

“Charge my phone ‘n shower?” He stands, palm flat against the wall above your head, and leans in. His face is inches from yours.

You look up, mirroring his expression. “Yes,” your voice curls in a half-truth, “What’s the big deal?”

“What a goddamn line,” Joel says, smirking. “How long you been sittin’ on that one for?”

His blood thrums faster, harder, louder in his veins when you stand up, hands on your hips.

“It’s not a line, I’m serious –”

“I didn’t take you as the type, baby, I really didn’t – but if that’s how you wanna play this, then –”

He feels you before he sees you moving, like he’s stood at that bar all over again. Your hands on his jaw, your chest pressed to his. Your lips – soft as satin, with a tinge of sweet rum and smoke – against his.

Joel barely misses a beat. He closes his eyes and lifts a hand to the back of your head, kissing you back. It’s dizzying, the taste and feel of you so close; the wet of your tongue on his. The little scratches of your nails in his beard, the moans caught in your throat.

Dizzying – and fucking perfect.

You break apart and lean in to each other, catching your breath. Joel’s hands slip beneath the heavy leather of his jacket onto your waist.

“Unless…” you whisper, pulling away from him, “…you don’t want to. In which case, I’ll just…” You twirl back towards the door, batting your eyelashes.

Joel smiles. He catches your wrist and reels you back into his body. “I want to,” he breathes, kissing you again. “I want to.”

“Let’s go.”

You make it to your apartment door, fumbling with your keys – and Joel’s hands are glued to your waist.

You miss the lock over and over as he kisses your neck, grazing the skin with his teeth. Anything to satiate the hunger quickly taking over, the tightening in his jeans.

He pulls you against his hips – rough denim grinding into the curve of your ass. He can smell your flowery perfume, a strange melding of peony and menthol sharp in his nostrils.

It’s the hungriest he’s ever felt, he thinks – a starved animal pinning his prey to her flecked apartment door. He pauses, bottom lip damp against your neck; breathing a liquor-laced laugh over your skin.

You jam the key into the lock. The door finally shunts open and you spill inside, dragging Joel with you.

Your place is dark. Angled strips of streetlight thrown high up the bare walls and across the ceiling, splintered by tilted shades. The spill of a blanket draped over an empty couch; a pair of sneakers left on the rug. Joel’s knees brush by a houseplant guarding the door – heavy leaves which pfft when they sway out of his way.

It’s half-decorated. Temporary. Caught somewhere between home and away. Little fragments pieced together into something the shape of home: a mosaic vase that scatters light across the surface of the coffee table; a beaded curtain pinned around the closet doorway.

Like you’re a little magpie, collecting trinkets of silver and gold until your nest feels like yours. Bags dropped long enough to keep a Monstera plant alive, not to put nails in the wall for the frames propped against the skirting board.

You shrug Joel’s jacket off, dropping it over the back of the couch. When you spin back around to him, he lifts your chin with two fingers and presses his lips to yours. You lead him down the hallway, tumbling into your room.

He follows you over to your bed, collapsing onto a tousled mess of sheets with his hips between yours. The hem of your dress rides up your thighs, bunching around your hips and revealing a flash of pink lace underneath.

The world around him seems to sober up for a second, sharpens into focus. It begins to seep in: the realization that he has you – some girl he met no more than two hours ago in a bar – pinned to your mattress. A slick gathering in your underwear and a weight building in his.

Right now, he should be sinking into squealing bedsprings in a Super 8. Bathing in the flicker of a television set twenty years too old. He should be showered and rested – ready to head home at sunrise, if not sooner.

But then something led him to you, and – well.

There’s no fucking helping him now, is there?

Joel’s fingers hook around your panties. He pulls down, leaving a trail of kisses along your bare leg, until that same pink lace is dripping from your ankle.

His eyes flash up to yours, love-drunk and sparkling. He pushes your knees apart, watching your velvet folds open for him, and – oh, he thinks, staring at the glistening arousal smeared around your cunt. Such a slick little mess for him already.

“Goddamn, darlin’,” he licks his lips, “She’s so pretty.”

You hum, hands lowering. Your fingers separate, spreading your pussy for him. Your middle finger swirls around your clit, dips along your seam. And the n, silky and shining, you lift your hand again and slip your fingers into your mouth.

“Tastes even better than she looks,” you murmur, dappling your fingertip along your bottom lip.

Joel growls. He pushes down on your thighs, ignoring your little yelp, and drags the tip of his tongue through your slit.

“Oh, shit,” you gasp, back arching. Your fingers knot in his hair, twisting and tightening. “Shitshitshit.”

“Mhm,” he hums against you, tongue pushing inside.

Fuck, you’re just so perfect: so soft and warm and fucking dripping for him. He laps at your sweet center, wet already spreading all over his mouth and beard.

A dampness blooms in his boxers. He’s throbbing, fucking aching the longer he goes untouched. He grinds against the mattress, denim rough against his solid erection.

He lifts his chin, panting – satisfied by the way you squirm under the weight of him. “You like that, huh?” he asks, a sodden kiss to your mound. “Fuckin’ love it.”

He spits a thick bead of saliva, watching it dribble down your folds to your ass. His tongue swipes it back up, circling your clit, all slippery and swollen.

“Fuck, Joel,” you moan, tugging on his hair. Your legs spasm, hips lifting.

He loves the sound of his name when you say it. Broken in two, a lilt to it as it rolls from your tongue and down his spine. Like it’s yours as much as it is his, now.

He sucks hard on your clit, his tongue flicking. And he can tell you’re close; can feel your hips starting to lose rhythm, see your back desperately arching higher and higher.

Joel groans, pushing up to hover over you. He cups between your legs, dabbing two thick fingers at your entrance, and pushes in.

Your pussy draws him in knuckle-deep. Your chest lifts, the loose neckline of your dress exposing more and more. You grab your breast, pinching your nipple – a roll of pebbled flesh between your fingertips.

He lowers his lips to your ear – watching as you toy with yourself. “Come on, baby,” he grits his teeth, “Give me one. Let me feel this pretty cunt.”

Your head rolls back into the pillow; a high sob as your orgasm crests. Clamping tight around him; a warm flood down his fingers.

Joel kisses you as you come. You look so pretty, he thinks, with ecstasy behind your eyes and his fingers between your legs.

Christ, he wants to be inside you so badly. Wants to feel your cunt do all this around his cock instead.

The blood rushes between his hips.

His fingers slip in and out, bringing you back around. Joel’s lips are on your neck, murmuring, “Good girl, that’s my girl,” as you resurface.

Your eyes open again – glossy, glazed with the aftershock of your high. “Fuck,” you breathe, playing with the hem of his shirt.

He pulls his fingers out and sucks them clean. Whips the tee over his head in one motion; another kiss tucked under your chin as you peel your dress from your body. He tosses it to the floor.

Still dazed, your body still trembling, you ask, “Do you have a condom?” All dreamy and distant, your hands trailing along his belt.

Joel pauses. Tilts his head, frowning. “I’m on a road trip with my brother, baby – the hell would I bring condoms for?”

You roll your eyes, sighing. It’s the cutest thing Joel thinks he’s ever seen. You thread the belt through the loops of his jeans. “In case you meet a really cool girl at a bar and wanna take her home, maybe?”

He lifts his eyebrows, impressed. He slips his salty tongue over yours again.

You moan at the taste. “It’s just I’m…I’m all out.”

His belt drops to the floor; buckle clinking against hardwood.

“Well, shit,” Joel whispers.

It’s not exactly a scenario he predicted, setting off from Austin. Meeting you wasn’t on the bucket list for the trip. It’s another three, four, probably five things to add to the list of shit he doesn’t do, shouldn’t do, wouldn’t fucking do if it hadn’t been for you.

No, Joel thinks, groaning as you palm the solid shape of him – he didn’t bring a goddamn condom. Jesus, the most he has in his pockets right now is fifteen bucks and a stick of gum.

You unzip his pants, shrugging the denim loose. “We can just do it…without,” you offer.

Joel stares down at you. “You sure?”

You nod, biting your lip. “Just pull out, right?”

“Just pull out…” he echoes. Your hands are cold on his heated skin, but he’s not about to fucking stop you.

You tug his underwear down with his jeans, following the darkening hair from his navel down. Another quiet pull out passes your lips – your voice dissolving when you spot the thick base of his dick.

Joel’s shaft springs free, heavy against the inside of his thigh.

“Holy shit.” You push yourself up on your elbows, eyes flooding black.

His tongue runs along the bottom of his teeth. He thrusts forward into your hand, a glassy drop of precome dribbling from his slit.

Your thumb swipes across his flushed tip, fingers wrapping around his width. You roll his balls in your other palm, massaging and squeezing just the right amount.

“Easy, easy,” Joel whispers. Too much, too soon. He can’t come yet, not until he feels your fluttering cunt around his cock.

Instead, you reach up – snaking an arm around his neck. You pull him back down, his naked body flush against yours, and hike a knee over his hip.

He grinds into you, his cock nudging between your legs. They fall apart for him – pliant and keen, like petals unfolding. He covers himself in your slick, his tip catching below your clit.

“Pl-ease,” you whine, scratching at his shoulders.

Joel nips at your damp neck. “Please, what?” he taunts.

Your breath is hot against his cheek – a stifling request which curls up in the shell of his ear. “F-fuck me.”

And his hips roll into yours.

“Jesus f…” your face buries into his chest, “…you’re…you’re so fucking big, Joel, I can’t –”

He nudges between your walls, groaning into your skin. You’re even tighter around his cock, even cozier. “I know,” he pants, “I know. Take it, baby, know you can take it.”

You stretch around him, opening up the deeper he pushes. “Fuckfuckfuck,” you pant, the thick hair at his base finally brushing against your clit. “Fuck, Joel.”

“Look at me,” he taps your jaw, “Hey. Look at me. Breathe.”

You exhale, hot and shaky across his lips.

“Good, that’s good.” Joel nods. He holds you by the waist, lets you adjust to his size.

He pulls back, your cunt clamping around him. Halfway out, and then in again. Feeling you open up, inch by inch, until he builds a steady rhythm.

“Jesus, baby, she’s so…” he moans, “…she’s so goddamn tight.”

You drape an arm over his shoulders, a hissing pain where your nails dig into his skin. Yelping each time he bottoms out, your leaking cunt wrapped snug around him. “So – goddamn – big,” you whine, a ruined smile on your lips.

He slams his body into yours again, watching the way your tits bounce. Nipples hard, skin tacky and shining with sweat. Your pussy pinches, and he starts to unravel.

Fuck the road trip, Joel thinks, fuck all of it. This is where he should be: in the middle of your bed, burrowed deep between your legs. This is the only place he wants to fucking be, right now.

So he fucks you harder; the headboard hammering against the wall. A fistful of the pillow, his knuckles whitening. He guides his cock when he slips out – a filthy sound as your clutch sucks him back in.

“Fuck,” he growls, gripping your hips so hard he worries he might bruise you. His thrusts become sloppy – quick and desperate.

“So close,” you gasp. You’re squeezing him so tight that he sees stars. “I’m gonna – I’m…”

Perfect, Joel thinks, watching you bloom. You’re so fucking perfect.

He coaxes you through it. Slows enough to feel you come around his cock, your warmth as it gushes all over him. “That’s it, baby, I got you. Shit, you’re gonna make me come.”

He pulls out just in time to coat your stomach; a throaty groan as he comes. He pumps his shaft, covering from your sternum to the plush of your tummy. It dribbles down your waist, spurts between your breasts.

He collapses over you, pressing his forehead to yours. His dick, soaked and softening, smears the ejaculate across your skin.

You giggle, leaving sticky kisses along his beard.

“You okay?” he asks, breathless.

You nod, and his tongue dabs at the inside of your lips. You taste like sex and sweat – sweet and salt.

Joel shifts to the edge of the bed. He feels you follow, your lips featherlight on the curve of his shoulder.

You make to stand – going to clean yourself up, he reckons, your tummy dripping with his semen – and he locks a hand around your bare thigh.

“Stay,” he says, voice low and rough – sex still smoldering. “Let me get you a towel.”

You smile, resting your chin on his shoulder. Your fingers link around the other side of his waist. “I’ll get it. Just relax.”

And for a minute or two, you stay like that. Hooked onto one another, tired eyes closing over, breathing in rhythm. Your cheek on his shoulder, your knee brushing against his tummy.

It’s simple; quiet and still. Joel feels like half a person – the other half tracing her chipped nails along his bare thigh. Eyelashes fluttering, teeth holding back a grin that she thinks might give her away.

Eventually, you move. Shimmy yourself down the mattress, swipe a crinkled tee from the ottoman – and slink off to the bathroom.

Joel lies back against the headboard, body sticky hot. He watches the shadow of your figure stretch across the open door. His eyes drift upwards to the looping ceiling fan – only half as dizzying as the sound of your humming in the next room.

And just when he starts to think he might be fucking missing you, you reappear in the doorway. Leant against the frame, some worn band tee hanging from your shoulders. Arms crossed; smiling back at him.

A rush of words floods to the tip of his tongue. You look beautiful. Your makeup’s smudged, chains of your necklace twisted; your shirt is frayed and splotched with faded stains – and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

He holds his arms out and you prance over.

You crawl over his figure, kissing your way up to his lips, and then turn in his lap. Cradled against his broad chest, your head nuzzling into the dark threads of hair between his pecs. You clasp one of his hands in two of yours.

“Offer’s still there for a shower, if you want it,” you whisper, kissing the pads of his fingers.

Joel tilts his head, mumbling against your temple, “Will you be in there with me?”

You answer something shaped like a tease, just as sharp with wit – but he’s too busy watching your nails trace his open palm. Too distracted by the sweet scent of your skin: a fresh burst of fruit, singed with the edge of tobacco.

“What do you do for work?” you ask.

He makes some sort of sleepy sound – a grunt, a hm? into your skull. “Oh, uh – I’m a contractor,” he says.

Your chin lifts. “That why your palms are all…?” Your thumb strokes light as lace against his worn skin.

“Probably,” Joel admits. He draws shapes on your thigh with his free hand.

“Do you sand the wood with your bare hands, or somethin’?”

Joel scoffs. “Alright, alright. You liked my hands plenty, twenty minutes ago.”

Your cheeks lift, a low hum caught in your throat. You angle your head to let his lips trail along your shoulder, pressing into the hinge of your jaw. A dark nail following the landscape of Joel’s skin – each score and divot, the callused pads at the bottom of each finger.

“You have sorta…earth hands, I think.”

It sits in the air for a few seconds before Joel turns to you. “What?”

“Earth hands. Or, well – I guess they could be water, if you look at ‘em this way.” You open up his hand, fingers stretched. “I don’t really know. I’m still learning.”

He looks down at you. Feels the now-steady pulse of your heart on his sternum. “Learnin’…hands?”

You snort. “Palm reading, Joel.”

His brows draw tight. He licks the inside of his whiskey-stained cheek. “You’re into all that hippie sh…stuff?”

You knock your knuckles against his chest, still staring at his hands. The hills and their valleys, the ravine-like lines; the worn skin and hatch marks.

“Let’s see…Your heart line,” you whisper – more to yourself than Joel, but he’s listening all the same. “It’s pretty deep, which means the relationships you’ve had have been…important. But it’s kinda…it tails off right here, see? It’s broken. So…I guess they didn’t end too good.”

Joel raises an eyebrow – playful, encouraging your timid smile. Keep figuring me out, he thinks, stoking the curious flame behind your eyes. “Alright,” he says, “Now tell me something you didn’t already know about me.”

You gawk, holding his wrist up. “You don’t see that? The way it breaks up? I’m not bullshitting you, Joel, it’s –”

“Naw, I see it,” he nods, squinting a little at his palm, “Just – tell me more. What’s all these other lines mean?”

“Well,” you adjust between his hips, “you got your life line right here. Short, which means –”

“Don’t tell me that part.”

“No,” you roll your eyes, “It just means you’re independent. You never needed much from anyone. And it runs past this mount – these are called mounts – right here. Venus: all to do with love and sexuality.”

Joel holds your open palm next to his, comparing them. He takes less than a second’s look, lines his lips to your ear and says, “Seem like a pretty good match to me.”

You wriggle when he tickles your ribcage, trying to twist out of his grasp. You’re laughing again – the same laugh he’s been hearing all damn night. The same giggle that’s had his stomach somersaulting since he first heard it.

The room seems to light with it, this glow he feels from you – as if you’re the sun. Spent and still half-drunk; lazing with a stranger in the middle of her bed. Tracing the lines and scars on his palm, telling him how logical and grounded he’s supposed to be.

As if the world orbits around you – everything you touch turning to molten gold. And for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, Joel looks at you and wonders: Where the hell did you come from?

You hold your hand against his, folding your fingers perfectly together. The evidence of your night flaking from Joel’s knuckles; sweat still simmering on the nape of his neck.

He hasn’t done this for years. Hasn’t felt this gentle aftermath. It’s usually a rush, a hastened zip and clink of his pants. An awkward dance, plucking clothes from the bedroom floor and pacing back to his truck.

It’s never like this. Talking and laughing, holding and kissing. Questions about his parents and yours; his biggest dream as a kid, or the time you broke your arm falling out of a tree.

He tells you stories about growing up with Tommy; tells you Sarah’s favorite flavor of cake. He tells you about the time they tried to make it for a school bake sale, forgot to turn the oven off, and almost burned the damn kitchen down.

You snicker and tell him that never would’ve happened if you were there.

Yeah, well, Joel smiles, I wish you were.

He notices you’re drifting off, despite your slurred protests and your weak grip on his wrist. He pulls you under the covers, curving his body around yours, praying that the quickening drum of his heartbeat won’t wake you.

His nose nuzzles into the curve of your skull, his hands link in front of your tummy. And he wonders whether his body was made with yours in mind.

He glances out at the sky – light starting to bleed from the horizon – and wills the turn of the sun to slow. Only a little; just let him stay here a little while longer.

Just a little while.

Dawn forces her way in eventually – more unwelcome than ever before.

There’s a throb between his temples which swells to life when the light floods past his pupils. “Jesus Christ,” he grumbles, face turning back into the pillow. He gives you a gentle squeeze and then pushes up from the mattress.

You roll to the middle of the bed, still sound asleep. The sun spills golden all over the valleys and crests of your body. The bedsheets carve pathways up to your hips, dipping at your waist.

Last night, there was something so mystical about you – so otherworldly. Joel felt himself drawn towards you like a compass needle shooting north, the second he felt your weight crash against his spine.

A figure behind a cloud of smoke, like the mountaintops disappearing into a thick mist. And now, blood drained of alcohol, you’re just you.

Your shirt is twisted around your shoulders. Your lips puffy, mumbling to yourself in your doze. Makeup smudged like chalk under your eyes, and still – just as beautiful. Just as radiant as you were ten hours ago.

Joel rubs his eyes, sitting on the edge of the bed. He blinks down at his bare feet, the morning sharpening into focus. As he lifts his phone from the nightstand, the cable drops – hitting the wooden floor with a snap.

He pauses, shoulders hunched. Hears you stir over his shoulder, and turns around.

The earth of your body shifts beneath cotton hills, clouds of sleep clearing from behind your eyes. “Hey,” you whisper, voice pretty and broken.

A little bird in the palm of his hand – that magpie curled up in her nest of gems and trinkets.

“Hey.” He leans down and kisses your cheek. “Sorry, darlin’, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You wrap your arms around his wrist, tugging. “Are…are you…leaving?”

Joel feels a pang in his chest, and he doesn’t know why. He takes a deep breath. Your scent fills his lungs and steadies his heart. “I…” he sniffs, “…I gotta go home, baby.”

You give a slow and heavy nod. “S-Sarah…”

He strokes your head with his thumb. “Yeah. Shh, go back to sleep. It’s still early.”

He glances at his phone – it’s just after six. He knows Tommy will be waiting for him, parked outside the Super 8 and wondering where the hell Joel is. He knows Sarah will be, too – sat by the living room window, listening for the rumble of their bikes.

And still, he thinks – How do I fucking leave you? Leave this?

He shouldn’t even be entertaining the thought. He has a kid waiting for him back home; soccer practice, packed lunches, homework and bedtime stories. He has work to do, bills to pay, a roof to keep over their heads. It’s all waiting in Austin, two hundred miles away.

As though you can see the question flipping in his mind, you pull him closer. A weak finger in the palm of his hand, drawing circles. Your bleary gaze meets his, and you whisper, “In the next life.”

Joel smiles. Twelve hours ago, he’d have laughed at the idea of it. Now, he’s not so sure. He kisses your knuckles, muttering, “Promise.”

Another wave of sleep washes over you, and you’re gone again.

Joel pushes himself from the bed, reaching for his clothes. His back twinges as he stretches, pulling his T-shirt over his shoulders. He steps into his jeans; pinches his belt between two fingers and lifts it from the floor.

He leans over and tilts your shades the opposite way, dulling your bedroom. He unplugs the charger, neatly winds the cord, and sits it on your nightstand. He fixes his side of the sheets: folds them over the mattress, tucks them in at your back.

With a deep breath, he makes for the door.

His jaw turns, eyes still low. Your dress is in a heap at the foot of the bed; a tube of lip gloss lying next to it. He looks up, following the landscape of sheets – the slope from your ankle to your hip. Your hunched shoulders, your cheek smushed into the pillow.

If he looks too long, he’ll never leave.

The image burns golden into his eyes. He hopes for half a heartbeat that you’ll wake again and pull him back into bed. Kiss him all over, whisper something sharp and sweet in his ear. Touch him and graze him and wrap yourself around him – anchoring him right here and now.

But you don’t.

And Joel slips out of the room.

Jackson stirs to life over his shoulder.

A white lump in the snow-covered valley, the settlement seems so far away now. Tommy sets off up ahead, leading the way to the outpost. The blizzard is picking up – it almost swallows the silhouette of him whole.

Joel had tried to warn him: the weather would be too bad to see five feet in front of them, never mind any infected. But Tommy argued with the same determination that dragged the pair of them into that dive bar thirty years ago, and Joel didn’t have half the energy nor the will to argue back.

He’s thinking about you. He always is.

Your searing gaze over the rim of your glass; the weight of you against his chest. The tickling of your nail on his palm, severing each line and changing him forever. You and your palm lines.

You were just learning to read them. Joel didn’t know a thing about any of it, and he told you so. You took his hand in yours and said, Here. Let me see.

He runs a thumb down his fate line, swaying in time with his horse. And he shakes his head with a little smile – he still remembers which one is fate and which is heart.

He still remembers all of it. He has earth hands. All salt and soil and solid as stone. His earth hands have gotten him this far, right? Twenty-five years and he’s still here. Gray and grown; stiff joints and sewn-up scars.

His head line has channeled more strangers’ blood than Joel can count. Mounts that’ve stopped breath in the throat of any man who crossed him. He doesn’t think you’d recognize his hands anymore, if your fingertips traced over them again. Broken and bruised and bloody.

And he doesn’t think he’d want you to – doesn’t want you to meet the shadow of the man you knew back then. He’d prefer you remember that same brown-eyed, soft-touched stranger with enough charm and naivety to survive anything. No need for bone-breaking fists or bloodstained hands.

Where are you, he wonders?

The answer knots deep in his stomach: the same old rope twisting into the same old shape. A fist of anger, of guilt. Some terrible cocktail of both, spilling poison through his veins.

He’s terrified to wonder what might’ve happened if he had ever made it back there. What he might’ve found in your apartment – what he might not.

Where would you have gone, that day? Would you have fled, or would you have stayed?

You were smart, he knows that much. He saw the cogs of your mind turning right in front of him, standing opposite each other in that bar. Barely thirty seconds in and he could’ve sworn you had him all figured out.

But – oh, Jesus, you were kind. Open and willing to help a stranger with a dead phone and a tired smile. Would that kindness still glow as bright against the flicker of a world on fire?

A lone hawk swoops down before him, shooting straight between the pines. Joel slips his glove back over his freezing hand.

He thinks about you every day. Every fucking day, and it never eases. Never loosens. It keeps him up some nights – the truth he’s too afraid to look square in the face.

You live now in the back of his mind like a little ghost. His little ghost – still floating around that dusty city; the warm light of life and innocence still bright in your eyes.

Tommy glances over his shoulder. He gestures ahead as if to say, Would you take a look at this goddamn storm?

And Yeah, Joel thinks, I’m lookin’, brother.

All he wants is to go home. Jackson, Austin, the bedroom of your apartment in San Angelo. Just let me go back.

He blinks, and the snow melts to cracked asphalt under a lilac sunset. Tommy’s holding handlebars instead of reins. The horses’ hot puffs of breath darken to clouds of smoke, choking from the exhaust pipes of the Harleys.

You’re somewhere on the other side of town, waiting for him in the faint glow of a jukebox. Sipping what’s left of your rum and Coke, fishing a twenty from your purse for the next round.

Just let me go back home.

He tugs on his horse’s reins and pulls off after his brother.

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #the last of us #tlou #tlou fic #joel miller smut #joel miller one shot #san angelo

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wingsandpetals · 2 years

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[trembling, chest heaving, covered in blood, dirt under my nails] kill the part that cringes kill the part that cringes kill the part that cringes

#our post comrade.

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vampsywrites · 11 months

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balance of life

synopsis: "if you don't yield, we won't hesitate to kill the tsa-hik." as quadritch and his men launch a ruthless attack on your village, your life hangs in the balance.

pairings: olo'eyktan! aged up! neteyam x tsahik! fem! reader

tags: GRAPHIC VIOLENCE AND DEATH, mentions of guns, blood, gunshot wounds, violence, war, neteyam going feral, ambiguous ending hehe, mother neytiri suffering (again)

☄️part 2 💫

"Mawey! My people! Mawey!" Your anguished plea echoes through the air, tainted with a tremor of unbridled fear.

Gasping, you find yourself shoved to the ground as the weight of a marine's boot presses upon your back, mercilessly crushing you. A bone-chilling sensation courses through you as his rifle hilt presses against the side of your skull, the threat it posed abundantly clear.

The air fills with haunting screams, a cacophony of agony and desperation, as your people struggle frantically to break free from their restraints.

Quadritch chuckles, moving his gaze to the forest before him. "I know you're there, Sully. You and your little soldier boys."

Jake takes in the situation, clicking his tongue as he pressed his back further against the solid trunk of a tree.

Clutching his rifle tightly, he curses under his breath. The crackle of his communication device interrupts the tense silence as Neteyam's voice comes in.

"Sir? What's wrong? We have them outnumbered and surrounded…Why aren't we initiating an attack?"

Jake hesitates for a moment, a palpable fear gripping his heart as he struggles to find the right words. With a shaky hand, he presses a button on his neck, activating his device. His voice quivering as he delivers the news, "They've got Y/N at gunpoint."

Neteyam chokes, feeling the air get knocked out his lungs, his entire body tensing, muscles coiling like a tightly wound spring. From afar, Neytiri meets his gaze, and he can see the worry etched on her face as her hands shake immensely around her bow.

"Oh, my sweet girl," she rasps, watery eyes peeking at you from behind a tree.

Neteyam's teeth grind together, his jaw clenched so tightly that it might as well break. Swiftly, he pushes through the green foliage, moving closer and closer until you were in his sights. His heart plummets, and a nauseating feeling spreads through him as he catches sight of you.

Tears mar your dirt-streaked face, mingling with the soil as a soldier forcefully presses your face deeper into the ground. His heart shatters as he catches fragments of the frantic prayers that escape your trembling lips.

In the midst of the chaos, Quadritch's voice slithers through the air, its lethargic slur accompanied by a thick, heavily accented drawl. "Let me make something abundantly clear," he enunciates, his words laced with malice, "If you don't yield, we won't hesitate to kill the Tsa-hìk."

In an instant, Neteyam's snarl tears through the air, his fangs bared in a primal display as his instincts roar, urging him to protect you at any cost. The soldiers swiftly pinpoint his location, their weapons trained upon him.

Unwavering, Neteyam prepares to draw his bow, poised to take action. However, before he can make any moves, a hand firmly seizes his shoulder, dragging him into safety just as a barrage of bullets whiz through the air. He finds himself taking cover beneath a fallen log, with Lo'ak gripping onto him tightly.

"Bro," Lo'ak seethes through clenched teeth, arms wound tight around Neteyam in a chokehold as he struggles to hold the raging male down, "Listen to me! If you make any hasty moves, you'll only end up getting yourself killed."

Neteyam's muscles strain against Lo'ak's grip, his chest heaving with a mix of anguish and fury as his eyes dart to the direction where you're held captive. Eventually, Lo'ak's words begin to sink in, and he reluctantly relents, slowly easing his struggling.

Gritting his teeth, Neteyam focuses on the situation at hand, his mind scrambled and racing. The weight of his helplessness settles upon him, but a fiery resolve ignites within his core. He locks eyes with his brother, an unspoken understanding exchanging between them.

"Lo'ak," he growls, "I need you to cover my right flank."

A muffled sob bubbles up your throat as the sky demon circles you, his monstrous gaze drinking in the sight of your fear-stricken figure.

"That boy's takin' his sweet time, ain't he?" The colonel chuckles, his boot nudging against your cheek, forcefully lifting your face up. A low, contemptuous whistle resonates from deep within his chest as he scrutinizes your features with an unsettling gaze. "Well, well, ain't you somethin' to behold? No wonder he went ahead and crowned you queen."

The colonel's sadistic chortle then drops abruptly, his smug expression contorting into a frown as the forest echoes with a thunderous war cry.

A surge of adrenaline courses through your veins, compelling you to lift your head defiantly, your eyes locking onto a figure emerging from the shadows. "Ma Neteyam!"

Neteyam moves through swiftly, drawing his bow back and knocking an arrow dead set into a soldier's skull. The RDA, caught off guard, attempt to mount a defense. Their weapons swing and shoot haphazardly, their strikes frantic. Neteyam growls, easily avoiding their feeble attacks.

With a low hiss, he strikes, his blade digging deep into a marine's skin, leaving behind jagged, gaping wounds that mar their flesh. In a blood-soaked frenzy, his vision narrows, focusing only on his enemies, while the world around him blurs into a backdrop of carnage.

More warriors surge forward, joining the relentless attack. Arrows streak through the air, finding their targets with deadly precision, striking down the soldiers that had once surrounded you.

In almost no time, the weight pressing onto your back eases as the marine holding you hostage falls lifelessly to the ground.

Without a moment's hesitation, you propelled yourself onward, stumbling amidst the grim aftermath, desperately seeking sanctuary and cover from the chaos.

You were in such a state of blind panic that you failed to notice the piarcing gaze fixed on your back. Quadritch watched as you moved along the edge of the fields, a wry grin spreading over his lips, "Hey there, pretty bird."

In a single, fluid motion, he raises his weapon and mercilessly opens fire, his shots striking and finding their mark in your chest, sending a searing pain coursing through your body. You stagger back, a choked scream slipping from your lips as you feel your legs giving in.

"Y/N!" Neytiri's piercing shriek fills the air, her desperate cry reaching your ears as she swiftly drops down beside you, enfolding you in her protective embrace.

The crackle of gunfire intensifies, another relentless barrage of bullets tearing through the battlefield. With nimble agility, she hauls you into her arms, racing towards the nearest cover.

As her back finds respite against the rough bark of a tree, Neytiri's attention immediately turn to your injuries. Panicked, she assesses the extent of your wounds, her hands becoming stained with your blood as she applies pressure.

"My sweet girl," Neytiri's voice trembles in despair, her words saturated with raw emotion. Tears stream down her face, mingling with the dirt and blood that now stains her skin.

Sobbing, your body goes limp in her arms, sending the woman into a frenzy. Her voice rises in a haunting wail, a soul-piercing cry that reverberates through the battlefield.

"No. No. Great Mother! No!" she beseeches the divine with all her being, as if her fervent cries alone could alter the cruel course of your fate.

In that heart-wrenching moment, a figure drops down beside her, and Neytiri turns to see Neteyam, shrouded in blood as his usually steady temperment crumbled.

"Oh, Ma'Eywa, Great Mother, please no," he falls to his knees, his arms reaching out for you as he frantically takes you into his embrace. You whimper and stir, your head spinning as it falls onto his chest.

"Yawne? Hey, syulang. Hey, it's me," he cradles you closer, his lips gently pressing against your temple as you heave and shake in his embrace. "Shh, shh. I'm here now, right by your side. I'm here. I won't let you go."

"Ma'Teyam," you rasp, your eyes fluttering as the abyss of sleep beckons. "I…I am so tired."

With quivering lips and a voice choked with grief, he whispers your name, his voice a fragile plea."No, no, you have to stay awake, yawne. You have to stay with me," he presses in a hoarse whisper, his words trembling with a vulnerability you rarely see.

"Please," Neteyam's tears drip onto your pale face, fingers trembling as they brush against your blood-stained skin, gliding across your flesh with an almost desperate tenderness, as if his touch alone could heal the wounds that mar your body.

The battle rages on around you, the chaotic sounds of war blending into muffled ringing. In this moment, time stands still, and the world around you fades into shadows.

"'Teyam…" Gasping for breath, you feel a final heave escape your body before everything is consumed by a blinding light.

07/16/23 — I am writing a part 2 due to popular demand 🙈 I have a taglist ready as well! So feel free to comment if you would like to be added!

☄️part 2 💫

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willowbelle · 5 months

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Stay Here, With Me

part one

❤︎ trafalgar law x fem reader ❤︎

༉‧₊˚✧ (nsfw, afab!reader, 18+ only) ༉‧₊˚✧

cw & summary: established relationship, piv sex, cervix kisses, mating press, comfort and reassurance. mentions of reader's unidentified trauma, reader has a habit of crying after sex, law is comforting.

word count: ~1,300

note: this one is more poetic, and i wrote it to help me through something i am dealing with. :')

i hope you all enjoy soft, sweet law ♡︎

part two is here! : You Know Me

Stay Here, With Me

part one

Law challenged you in ways you weren’t prepared for.

He beckoned you into realms uncharted, testing the fibers of your being unanticipated.

You had always buried your anguish; covered it in dirt to be forgotten, locked it away and swallowed the key.

And it petrified you, an inexplicable fear, the way that your pain always trembled on the verge of unveiling itself in his presence.

Not because he echoed your burdens, or reminded you of your baggage, oh no, quite the opposite. It was because, with Law, you had finally discovered solace in the company of another soul. And for once in your life, you wanted to let it out, unlock your chest, crack open your skull, expose your brain, and let it out.

You wanted to tell him; to cry to him, to sob until your lungs gave out, to rid of all the contributors of your displeasure.

But you didn’t; too frightened of the guilt you’d feel if your burdens were to meet the weight on his already-heavy shoulders. You were stubborn, and you were determined to keep this distress as yours and yours alone.

You chose to stay numb in the home that you had built in your mind; made of iron walls and iron doors, shackling you to the metal. Each chain of your confinements spell out your anguish, far too long and far too heavy to name, so you locked yourself in your iron brain.

But, he knew, you poor thing, of course he did.

Law’s analytical, observant nature kept your relationship, unbeknownst to you, essentially secretless.

He didn’t miss a thing; from the way in which your eyes told a different story than your mouth, to the tears rolling down your cheeks that you disguised as sweat, he knew why you opted for excusing yourself to the bathroom following intimacy.

In defiance of his accustomed nature, this stone-faced “surgeon of death” taught himself to be comforting. Because he had come to learn that, above all else, this is what you needed.

You needed him to hold you, to redirect your restless mind, to curb your enigmatic sorrow.

Because when your tears threatened to escape; unexplainable, uncontrollable, Law remained, like he always did, lingering by your side, a constant presence in the ebb and flow of your emotions.

It wasn’t uncommon for you to cry after sex, though you didn’t know why; tears flowing down your cheeks without remorse, betraying your intention to conceal your trauma in the recesses of your soul.

And Law would listen, though it broke his heart to do so, to the cries you tried so desperately to muffle from behind the bathroom door.

And as the echoes of your cries made their way to his ears, he made a vow to himself.

He studied you intensively, silently, making a map of your body inside his own, determined to understand your tears in the only way he knew how.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The grasp he held on your delicate body remained gentle and kind as he fucked you into the mattress, a stark contrast to the jarring heaves of his able hips.

The softness of his touches, coupled with the sweet words of reassurance he whispered into your ears, made up for the unruly pace of his thrusts.

The lewd sounds of moans and skin slapping together dismissed the silence that hung in the air earlier, and even amidst the noises, the movements, he could sense you starting to slip away and into your mind. And so, he decelerates, a gentle hand on your cheek, ushering you back to the shared embrace of the present.

“Hey, y/n,” he begins softly, his velvety voice beckoning you out of your head. His hips stall, throbbing member still engulfed within your tight warmth, “Are you okay? Do you need me to stop?” he asks, his countenance and voice carrying an earnest concern.

“N-No, Law, please keep going,” you whimpered softly, nails digging down the muscular flesh of his back.

He kisses you in response. But not a typical Law kiss, no, this was different. This kiss was an ardent embrace of lips, a dance of passion. This kiss conveyed an unspoken promise solace, of pure understanding and security. With your cheek in his hand, tongues still dancing together, Law begins again, bringing his hips back to thrust into you. The sensation of being stuffed full again forces a moan to escape from within your throat, into Law’s mouth. You feel the corners of his lips twitch upwards against yours, satisfied with himself.

It’s hot. The room is hot. Your bodies are hot, pressed together, intertwined. Law breaks your kiss, tilting his head down to watch himself disappear into you over and over again, groaning at the sight.

“God-, you-take me so-well,” he slurs, enunciating each word with a harsh thrust.

With one arm holding him up, he uses the other tattooed limb to press one of your legs down, forcing you harder into the mattress, and it turn, pressing himself deeper into you.

Another moan emerges from your lips, this one more of a cry, as the tip of his cock now hits that one sweet spot within you dead-on, over and over again in time with his thrusts.

“A-ah-! Law-!”

His breathing begins to grow heavy, low groans and huffs rumbling out of his inked chest. He grips your leg tighter, his thrusts becoming sloppy and unsynchronized. He’s close.

He sits up a bit on his knees to give himself more room to move faster, now bringing both of your legs up to rest on his strong shoulders.

You throw your head back and moan loudly at the sensation. Goosebumps begin to bud all over your spent body as his blunt tip continues to bully your cervix, sending shivers down your spine with each bump to your sweet spot.

One more glance down at you, writhing and whimpering beneath him, causes the coil growing within Law to snap, and he shudders, groans, and unapologetically paints your insides white. He looks heavenly like this; head thrown back, damp hair clinging to his sweaty forehead, inked chest rising and falling with each exhausted breath, his powerful, tatted hands now trembling as they gradually relinquished their bruising grip on your legs.

As the two of you come down from your highs, your unspoken vulnerability begins to surface, like it always does. Law senses the impending swell of tears in your eyes, even before you do.

He knows it’s coming; it’s routine at this point for you to dart away afterwards, retreating into the bathroom to come undone on the cold, harsh tile. He wants nothing more than for you to abandon the hard and unforgiving flooring, stay in bed with him, and just unravel in his arms, instead.

So this time, he stops you.

The moment you begin to stir beneath him, he gently grasps onto your wrist, halting your movements.

“Law, what are you-” you begin, your lips trembling, trying your hardest to keep your tears at bay.

“y/n,” he starts, his free hand finding its home on your cheek, “You don't have to grin and bear it,” he smiles weakly, “Not around me.”

You could feel tears pricking in your eyes, and as you stared into his nurturing steel irises, you swore you could feel all your pain and discomfort seeping out of your skin.

His thumb rubs gentle circles into your cheek,

“Stay here, with me.”

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.

part two is here! : You Know Me

do not repost, modify, plagiarize, translate, or share on other platforms.

comments, likes, and reblogs appreciated!

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charlietheepicwriter7 · 6 months

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"Mr. Bubbles, Mr. Bubbles-"

A little boy's voice--the first little boy that Tim had discovered in the labyrinth city below Gotham--echoed through the cavernous halls. Tim crept over the rubble of a broken stalagmite that had fallen through the ceiling, destroying the white and gold decor and dripping water inside. The room up ahead was lit only from glowing green tubes of liquid that lined every wall of Amity, the ectoplasm that powered the entire city.

"Are you there? Are you there?"

He peeked out from behind a crumbled wall. On his own, the little boy was crouched over corpse, fresh enough that it's blood was still wet on the floor. The boy's giant needle, the go-to weapon of all the Little Sisters that Tim had seen so far, was jabbed into the corpse's stomach and, slowly, ectoplasm and blood filled the glass jar on the end.

"Bring me a lolli-"

There was no sign of a Big Daddy, but Tim knew there was one nearby. These children were never without their protectors after all.

"Bring me a toffee-"

And at this point, Tim had killed enough of them to know for certain that one was around.

His left arm, marked all over with the needle marks of constant Plasm and ecto-dejecto injections, tingled, like there were ants under his skin. Or more accurate, he mused grimly, electricity-

Don't Think About It.

"Teddy bear, teddy bear."

He kicked his bare feet excitedly as he finished harvesting ectoplasm. Screwing off the jar, the child lifted it up to his lips like a cup and drank the viscus liquid down in huge, chest-heaving gulps like his life depended on it. Unlike Little Sisters who wore gore-covered dresses, the Little Brother was dressed in a white medical gown, relatively clean considering his filthy surroundings. His arms and face were free from dirt or blood, and even his hair looked suspiciously washed and combed.

Tim tightened his grip on his gun.

The Little Brother sighed, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Brushing off his skirt, he yanked the needle out of the corpse. Then, like he could sense him, the boy looked straight at Tim. He froze.

Blank eyes covered in a green flim stared at him... and the Little Brother smiled at him, his teeth stained brown from the muck. "Mr. Helper! There you are, I've been waiting soooo long! Big Sister thought you'd never catch up!"

#bioshock au #dc x dp #dpxdc #dcxdp #dp x dc #little brother danny #c: tim drake #c: danny fenton #danny is just a creepy little baby #tim's having a mental crisis about becoming what is basically a meta on a bender #tim: this little brother looks strangely well taken care of compared to the little sisters what does this mean!?#Big Sister Jazz: take care of little brother. little brother should no get dirty... little brother keeps getting dirty #Amity in it's prime would look super futuristic. modernist and white #after the civil war though cave ins and water erosion is slowly destroying everything #there's an entire garden filled with hallucinogenic mushrooms that tim is going to have to deal with and he's NOT going to like what he see

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twola · 6 months

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your last rb… there’s something about an angry arthur, covered in dirt and sweat, dirtying his sweet s/o’s blouse and skirts as he rips them from her body so he can ease his frustrations with her 😩

His hands are shaking. He shouldn’t be surprised, with the simmering anger still pulsing beneath his skin.

Goddamn Micah.

The coach that slimy snake was so damn desperate to hit sure as hell wasn't worth the take. Sixty bucks? Certainly not worth the the dead bodies strewn around the road. Not worth getting bucked from his horse and tearing his damn shirt and goddamn it all, he hates that sonovabitch.

It's a good thing its so late, by the time they got back to the camp, most people had turned in for the night. Arthur stalks over toward his wagon and cot and strips his gun belt from his hips, tossing it on his cot along with his worn old hat. His satchel hits the floor. He grinds his teeth as he runs one hand through his hair, absentmindedly thinking that he needs to see a barber soon.

Like a livewire, angry energy pulses through his blood - there was no way he'd be able to sleep anytime soon. Groaning in frustration, he kicks the ground under his boots and leaves the yellow-orange glow of the lantern hanging from the wagon above his cot. Moving toward the woodline, he pulls a pack of cigarettes from pants pocket, having tucked them and a book of matches in before leaving his cot.

By the time he reaches a large oak tree to lean against a bit further away from camp, he's puffing large clouds of smoke from between his lips, the cigarette doing nothing to calm him down.

Goddamn Micah.

"Arthur?"

He breathes out another plume of smoke before tossing the cigarette to the ground, putting it out under his boot before looking up.

You stand a few yards away from him, wringing your hands and having a concerned look on your face. Worry is etched into your features as you eye him up and down.

Goddamn Micah. Now his frustration over this damn job has gotten you worried, the last thing he ever wants to do.

"Are you alright, love?" You ask softly, your voice higher pitched than normal as you take a hesitant step toward him, like a newborn lamb, afraid and fearful of the wolf that he his.

"M' fine." He grits out, unable to hide the hardness in his glare as he meets your eyes. You flinch, radiating discomfort as you come closer, braving the snarling of the wolf you've tied yourself to - knowing that he is not all harshness and sharp teeth.

"C'mere." He drawls lowly, holding out his arm toward you, knowing that you're dubious in your approach.

But approach you do, and he slides his hand around your small waist, absentmindedly noting that you need some more meat on your bones. He heaves you against him the last half step between you, and you stumble slightly before you are secure in his embrace, one large arm locking you in against him.

He knows he's dirtying your blouse, a faded pink that does not stand up to the dirt and grime painted over his blue workshirt, but right now, he couldn't care, closing his eyes and placing his chin on the top of your head, trying to assuage the aggravation in his blood. Your small hands press against his chest lightly as you situate yourself in his embrace, and your movement only stands to heat his blood further.

His hand moves from your waist, down, down to your rear, where he takes an entire handful of your ass as you yelp in surprise, clutching at his shirt as you push against him completely, continuing to stoke him.

Sometimes, there is a part of him that hates the idea of sullying you so - he's brash and dirty and an outlaw - you're meek and quiet and pickpocket when needed, your doe eyes seducing men with their innocence. But lord, when he strips you down and gets you beneath him, the sounds you make are downright filthy, rivaling far-flung whores he's seen over the years across the west.

Goddamn Micah. The heat in his blood and your body against him, he knew, he knew that the only way to power through this frustration was to bury himself inside you. His head moves further downward, nipping at your neck as you yelp again, jolting in his arm and fully pressing yourself against him. You shiver as he kneads your ass cheek, the long, hard line of him pressed against your stomach as he groans into the damp skin of your neck.

"Fuck, darlin'-" Arthur moves up toward your ear, whispering breathily in low tones that make you shiver again, "Lemme have you, right here."

"H-here?" You ask, turning your face toward his and he muffles any further question as he shoves his lips against yours, forcing his tongue into your mouth.

God, you sweet little thing. You never tell him no. You give a little sigh into his mouth and lean into him, giving your approval with a small press of your belly against his hardness, to which Arthur takes complete advantage.

Your pretty clothes, that dusty pink blouse and light grey skirt, pressed against his dirt stained outfit, they will need laundering right away. One of Arthur's hands yanks at the ties of your skirt, and with a bit of finessing, it falls to the ground as he pushes you back slightly, your eyes lust-blown and your lips swollen as he pulls at the hem of your blouse, pulling it up your midriff, up and over your breasts, and over your shoulders as you hold your arms up for him to strip it off you completely.

Arthur pants against you as he takes you in, shielded from his eyes only by a gauzy chemise. Your hands, floating to his pectorals, slowly trace downward, over the muscle of his belly before your fingers land on the buttons of his trousers, his cock pulsing beneath the denim.

He gathers your chemise upward from the waist, pulling it up and over your drawers, and he quickly pushes them downward to pool around your ankles, leaving you completely bare beneath your belly.

You blink up at him, as he returns to kneading your ass with one hand. He breathes heavily out of his nose as his other hand grasps your waist roughly.

"On your knees, little darlin'." Arthur rumbles, pleased when you nod and start to sink to your knees. For the first time tonight, the hint of a smile crosses his face as he quickly reaches toward the buttons of his trousers.

#miniprompt #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #red dead fanfic #arthur morgan smut #twolafic #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 fanfic #red dead fandom #red dead redemption

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usedtobecooler · 8 months

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I don’t know how it will happen but I need upside down Steve, all bloody and scratched up, underneath me. Idk in what universe I’d prioritize riding him over getting him to safety but….. I am only a woman. A man in pain, writhing and whining and gripping on to me to keep me going with what little strength he has, will always be the best ride. 5 stars on Uber

oh babe, this would 100% happen due to a sex pollen caused by brushing a weird looking plant in the upside down.

steve’s bloodied and broken up from fighting off a demodog, a gnarly gash on his inner thigh that’s bleeding hard, and you go on instinct, rushing to sit between his spread legs on the grimy ground. tearing at his jeans where they’re ripped to shreds around the gaping wound, pressing a firm hand to apply pressure.

the wave of heat courses through your body, the sharp sting from your skin touching is imminent. steve’s more reactive, hissing and bucking up into the touch despite the sheer amount of war wounds that are bleeding profusely all over his body. it hurts so good, so good in fact that he’s sweating with it, moaning. chest heaving with the need to be touched.

shared looks, hot and desperate but communicated perfectly without a single word have you tearing off what’s left of his jeans. every little touch sending flashes of pleasure up your spine, brain clouded with the violent urge to fuck. you mount him easily, slide down onto him with fingertips digging harshly into mauled shoulders.

“gotta be qu-quiet, fuck, fuck,” steve whimpers, slaps a hand over your mouth as your hips work together in a sort of tandem, you bouncing up and down as his hips punch upwards. your eyes roll back, it was always good with steve, but this? you’d never experienced pleasure like it.

the backs of your thighs are covered in his blood, and he’s so lost and gone from the pleasure that he doesn’t even feel the wound anymore, can’t feel anything past the tight heat sinking up and down on his length. he groans, desperate and pathetic, big hands smearing dirt and spattered blood all over your hip, your mouth, as he helps you bounce.

it doesn’t last long, you lean forward to kiss him and the sharp sting of your lips pressing to his cut ones have him pushing you down on him, hips pressing up to bury himself deep as he comes. he releases the kiss and bites down hard on your jaw to muffle the sound of his cries as he rides out the aftershocks of it, clinging to you so tight you know his fingertips will leave bruises in their wake.

#steve harrington smut #steve harrington drabble #steve harrington brainrot #i got carried away lmao #steve harrington x reader #mine #drabble #smutty anons #my fanfic

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namism · 16 days

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scars | roronoa zoro

➳ categories: canonverse, poor zoro rip bozo, gender neutral reader

➳ warnings: ep. 377/ ch. 485 spoilers

➳ word count: 492

➳ notes: i'm practicing how to write stories less than 500 words but i'm failing at it

It's when Sanji runs to you in panic that you start panicking yourself, too.

Without much words, the chef leads you to the bow of Thriller Bark, where your crew's swordsman is doused in blood from head to toe. Roronoa Zoro's white Henley shirt is torn with no hopes of salvaging the cloth, and his trousers are holed in his thighs and knees. Splattered blood accompanies the grime and dirt that rest on the rocks and stones, which have dried in the past hour that the sun has been up.

Zoro stands unbothered and unmoving, but his body shakes subtly from the injuries he sustains. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his eyes stay firm on the forest ahead of him. You attempt to talk to him but receive no reply, even with Chopper's incessant cries in the distance.

In a few moments, Zoro stumbles on his feet, and he finally collapses, his eyes closing as soon as you catch his body. Sanji runs to his aid, and together, you haul the man into a shaded space inside the castle ruins.

The Rolling Pirates watch the scene unfold. Chopper digs into his medical kit for clean bandages, while you fetch a pail of water from a nearby well. Your hands work expertly as bandages cover the man's body in no time. His torn shirt is gone, and his trousers are covered by dampened cloth to soak up the blood.

While the rest of the crew fall on their backs in exhaustion, you sit crosslegged beside an unconscious Zoro and a napping Chopper on your lap. You lean on the stone pillar behind you, slow enough that it won't shock the rickety structure from falling down, and heave out a sigh.

"You're an idiot, Zoro," you curse under your breath as you stare down at the injured man. "You do this every time."

You know that he can't hear you, but it's a truth that you want him to know in one way or another, whether or not he's in the proper state of consciousness for it.

"I hate you, dumbass." You pout as your vision blurs from the tears that trickle in your eyes. Chopper stirs in his sleep. "And if you get injured this badly again, who's going to look after you?"

It annoys you greatly that Zoro gets himself into deep trouble that results in fatal injuries and permanent scarring on his body. Zoro hardly makes it out of a battle alive, yet he still pushes himself to live another day like it's nothing. Without Chopper around, you might not have been able to save the swordsman yourself on the countless missions you've been on with the crew.

Amid your complaints and quibbles, Zoro hears the faint tone of your voice at the very back of his head. Upon recognition, he lets himself be pulled into a deeper sleep, knowing full well that he's safe under your care.

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grandlinedreams · 7 months

Note

You’ve done an aged up quirk story, could I request one one where the Heart Pirates get hit with the opposite, and suddenly reader and Law are frantically taking care baby everyone. And there’s something about seeing reader handling babies that stirs…something in Law.

Hiya!! I actually haven't done a story like that before so I think you have me confused for Coza who did do an aged up thing, but I hope I can do this justice for you! But also hey i made it a week on this blog before devolving into my law based brainrot also most of this is under a readmore bc it's LONG pulling in at about 2.4k

[!]: MINORS DNI. AGELESS AND MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED.

[Heads up!: devil fruit effects, fingering, reader is not gendered but there is usage of termed genitals(clit), unprotected sex, breeding kink, piv, i think i have my bases covered]

All in all, you’re really not sure this situation can get worse.

But on second thought, you amend it ㅡ things can always get worse. And so, correction ㅡ things could get worse, but you’re desperately hoping that they won’t.

“[Name]?” You look down at the tiny redhead, his arms wound around your leg. “Can you hold me?”

“Of course.” You bend down as he reaches up, your hands hooking under his arms to lift the small boy into your arms, situating him against your hip. “Careful though, don’t wake Bepo.”

The mink, now reduced to a small cub, is fast asleep in the cloth you’ve tied around yourself as a makeshift carrier, his head resting against your shoulder. Approaching footsteps make your attention shift to the newcomer, your eyes locking with familiar gold. “Any luck?”

Law shakes his head. “I didn’t figure that he’d hang around long afterwards. Baㅡ” Your eyes narrow in warning and Law looks away, jaw clenching as he surveys the mess that’s been made of his crew. Besides you and himself, the rest of the crew’d been the unfortunate victims of a devil fruit effect that’d reverted them to children ㅡ and without their current, adult frame of mind.

“How long do you think this will last?” you ask, adjusting Shachi on your hip again, and Law’s eyes flick from the redhead to Bepo’s sleeping face, then to his own hands. Both are occupied by a set much smaller than his own, and Ikkaku looks up at him and beams as Clione stares at the ground, scuffing his shoe in the dirt.

What an odd scene this must appear to be ㅡ two adults and a group of children of varying sizes scattered nearby, tucked far enough into an alleyway that the casual passersby wouldn’t spot them.

“Not sure. If we’re lucky, it shouldn’t last much more than a couple of hours.”

“Well, nothing to be done but figure out how to look after them until it wears off.” You wiggle the fingers of your free hand in invitation, and Law watches as Uni darts over to latch onto it with both of his. “Should we take them back to the Polar Tang?”

“That’d probably be our best bet,” Law sighs, and Clione looks up at him with a frown.

“Are you mad at us?”

Law turns, lips parting ㅡ and you cut him off before he can speak, your tone gentle in a way he’s never heard. “Of course not. Nobody’s mad at any of you, okay? You’re not in trouble, I promise.”

Clione perks up at your words and you smile, pleased that you’ve been able to help cheer up your crewmate. Pushing down the stir of something odd in his chest, Law looks back up at you. “We should head back.”

You nod and adjust Shachi again, coaxing him to wrap skinny arms around your neck for support and still when Bepo squirms at the accidental knock of Shachi’s hand against his cheek, though the mink otherwise stays asleep.

You slip past Law and he watches as Hakugan, Penguin and Jean Bart hurry to follow you, sight uncannily similar to that of ducklings following their mother. Glancing down at Ikkaku and Clione, he heaves a soft sigh before he moves to follow you.

You make it half-way back through the little town before Ikkaku is tugging on his hand, and he glances down at her. “My feet hurt.” Cheeks puffed in a tiny pout, brown eyes bore into his own as she tugs on his hand for emphasis. “Carry me!”

“It’s not much further,” he tries, adjusting his tone so that it’s something closer to yours had been and when it doesn’t do anything beyond making Ikkaku pout further and stomp one of her feet, he gives in and lets go of Clione’s hand for a moment to pick Ikkaku up. The tiny girl makes a noise of delight, and he reaches for Clione’s hand again, little fingers curling around his.

He knows how strange the two of you must look with your entourage of children, and he finds himself wishing more now than ever that the effects of that devil fruit will wear off. You’re stuck here until it does, after all ㅡ the two of you can’t pilot the Polar Tang on your own, and he’s not certain about the effect of deep-sea submersion on children.

“You have a lovely family, my dear.” Law looks up to find you halted by an older woman who watches his crew cluster around your legs, Shachi tucking his face against your shoulder. As Law steps closer, her eyes flick to him. “This must be your husband.”

There it is again, the odd flicker from before ㅡ stronger now, even as warmth threatens to rise to his cheeks at being called your husband. Your own are already pink, though your smile stays polite.

“Thank-you,” you say, and the lady beams before she hurries off ㅡ apparently her only intent to compliment you and your supposed family. The Heart Pirates are your family, you've said that before and made it clear ㅡ but that woman's words are rattling around in Law's head with an entirely new kind of persistence.

He's never given what he'll do after all of this much thought. To keep himself grounded in reality and not let himself hope for too much, he's told himself he'll be fine with just making it out alive. But now?

"Law?" Your voice pulls him out of his thoughts to find you watching him, your expression somewhere between confusion and concern. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he says, "let's keep moving. The sooner we're back on the Polar Tang, the better."

Now, he thinks he might give it more thought. Something soft, vulnerable ㅡ a future with you, where he can be your husband. He's never even thought about marriage like that, but being called your husband ㅡ he could get used to that.

And a family.

That surprises him, the sudden want for it ㅡ or maybe it's always been there, pushed down and buried. He doesn't even know your own thoughts on it ㅡ what you want for the future. You've never talked about it in depth before ㅡ but he still hopes that whatever you want, he can be the one to give it to you.

ㅡ

"They're all finally asleep," you report quietly as you slip into Law's room, shutting the door with a sigh. "They'll be confused if they wake up like that and they're back to normal." You pause. "They are cute, though."

"Small price to pay," Law says, watching as you climb over his legs to settle on the bed beside him. "I just hope they don't remember this."

"Embarrassed that they might see you as anything but a grump?" You tease, grinning when he gives you a flat look. "I saw you holding Ikkaku earlier, it was cute." You reach, snuggling into his side. "I can see you as a dad to a little girl."

Law tenses. "About that," he starts, and you pull away to regard him curiously as his attention shifts to you, eyes locking with yours. "Have you thought about what you want when this is over?"

Your head tilts. "I mean not really," you admit, "but if I had to…I think I'd want us to settle down somewhere nice. I'd want a garden, so it'd have to be a place with good weather…" Law is staring at you, and you trail off. "What?"

"You said 'us'," he points out, and you snort, amused.

"Well yeah, dummy. You think I want that with anyone but you?" There's a small smile tugging at your lips, one that gives him the push to continue with his next question.

"And…would you want a family?"

"Well, you're my family," you say and his lips part to protest that he doesn't mean like that, but you're continuing before he can. "But like…our family? Between you and me? Yes, but…I would never push for something you didn't want too, Law." Your tone is soft but expression serious, no sign of teasing. "Kids or no kids, I want my future to be with you, whatever that means for us."

He wants to agree. Wants to tell you that he feels the same way, that it doesn't matter as long as he has you ㅡ but instead, he kisses you.

He can tell he's surprised you with the vehemence behind it, the seconds delay before you kiss him back. You let him push you onto your back, caging you beneath him.

"Law," you manage when he finally pulls away in favor of kissing your jawline, "Law, the kidsㅡ"

"They're not really kids," Law counters and you huff, finding it hard to focus with the pinch of his teeth, worrying strawberry pink blooms down your neck.

"They're right there," you still protest weakly, though you know you're already on the losing side of the argument. Law hums, pausing against the flutter of your pulse point, lips curving into a smirk.

"Then you'll just have to keep your voice down." Law is an absolute menace when he wants to be ㅡ something he's making clear at the moment.

You bite back a whimper when his lips press against your collarbone, the upward skim of one of his hands on your stomach earning a shiver from you and the arch of your back as he palms at your breast.

There's the brief pause as he works your shirt up and over your head, his own following before there's the warmth of his mouth on your skin again.

Lifting you a hand to cradle the back of Law's neck, you whine when he reaches up, tugging your hand away and pressing it down into the bed beside your head. "If you know what's good for you," he murmurs, "you'll keep your hands there."

It's a threat and a promise, one that makes heat pool between your legs, instinctive upward roll of your hips against earning you a groan against your skin as he grinds down against you.

The path that Law makes down your chest is gentle but intentional, the brush of fingers down your ribs as he lets his attention linger at the soft skin of your stomach. Your cheeks burn at the soft intimacy of it, the strategic handful kisses at your navel, down to the swell of your hip bone.

And then Law is moving back up, kissing you soundly as he pops the button of your pants, tugging the fabric of your underwear down with it and thumbing at the plush of your thighs as he skims his hands back up.

The sink of one long finger into you gets a choked gasp of his name, one that makes him smirk, watching your face contort with pleasure as he adds a second finger.

"This soaked and I've barely touched you," he murmurs, eyes gleaming at the crawl of darker red across your cheeks before your hips buck at the curl of his fingers. You've been intimate only a handful of times but he knows you like the back of his hand, drinking in every sound and face you make and committing them to memory.

He can feel the slick pulse of your walls around his fingers, clenching with every curl and press of his digits, a moan slipping from your lips when he scissors them. A hard crook of his fingers paired with the abrupt press of his thumb against your swollen clit is what does you in as you cum, clenching hard around his fingers as you soak his hand.

He gives you a moment to recover, watches your chest heave as he reaches to shed the last of his own clothing. His skin is warm against yours as he settles over you, hisses at the slick drag of your core against his throbbing length.

"Want you," you say, and Law's chest aches as he leans in to kiss you. This time he does it sweetly, intertwines one of your hands with his, the other slipping down to guide himself to your entrance before he sinks into you.

Your fingers squeeze his as Law's hips meet flush to yours, room quiet save for the sound of soft panting as you try to ground yourself. Law hisses as you clench around him, kissing the corner of your mouth before he pulls back enough to start moving.

It's not as rough as you'd been expecting with how suddenly he'd pounced on you, but there's a certain intensity to his thrusts that doesn't go unnoticed. Your gaze drifts over the flush to Law's cheeks, the fine layer of sweat at his forehead, the shock of dark hair you so often run your fingers through during late nights and early mornings. Times where he's wholly, selfishly yours, just as much as you are his.

Pleasure lances through your veins when he shifts his hips a little, nudges your legs apart a tiny bit further apart so that he sinks just a little deeper into you. The hand intertwined with yours slips free, fingers drumming down your ribs and in.

The barely there swell of your lower stomach is what catches Law's attention, magnetic as he spreads his fingers against it, pressing down slightly. It's not enough to hurt you, would never be that much ㅡ but the way your eyes roll makes it beyond worth it.

"Gonna give you a baby," he says, words tumbling from his lips unchecked, "give you everything you could ever want, so long as you're mine."

He pairs it with a rougher thrust, aware of how you're clenching around him, dangerously close to that precipice. "Say you're mine, [Name]. Wanna hear you say it."

"Yours," you gasp, voice pitching higher when he slips his hand down to rub at your clit, working it in tight circles. "I'm yours!"

Law cums first, presses as deep as he can and groans into your neck as he spills into you, setting off your own orgasm as you clench around him with a moan.

He all but collapses against you, breathing hard as you drag a hand up and down his back. Once he's caught his breath, he leans up enough for a soft kiss, one you return before you thread your fingers into his hair and tug him away from your mouth.

He expects a comment on what the two of you just did, or perhaps something about what he had said, the potential ramifications of your actions. But you don't. Instead you stare at him sweetly, a juxtaposition from the words that you say next.

"If the kids heard any of that," you warn, "you're dead to me."

#ㅡmine.#one piece x reader #one piece scenario #law x reader #trafalgar law x reader #ㅡanswered.#anonymous #–ml: law.

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