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daryl-dixon-daydreams · 24 days

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Words: 6,924 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: the prison Warnings: language, mild gore (killing walkers), really none! it's mostly fluff! Summary: Daryl realizes how touch-starved he's been and exactly who he wants to satisfy that with. Really just sweet, vulnerable Daryl.[he is baby in this fic 100%]

Daryl startled awake, shooting straight up on his bed.

“Wow! Sorry! I was trying to wake you up gently!”

He looked up at her with a steely glare. Then he let out a sigh and his shoulders slumped, the frantic alarmed feeling passing quickly as he realized it was just Carol. “The hell ya wakin’ me up for at all? I didn’t fall asleep until the sun was nearly up,” he growled, swinging his legs down over the edge of the bed and planting his feet on the floor. He still had his boots on.

She gave him a sympathetic look. “Sorry… but I really could use a hand. The water line is clogged up with mud again. The others are going to keep the herd on the fence occupied and thin the numbers down while I try to clear it. I could use you to watch my back.”

Daryl nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, alrigh’. Just gimme a few minutes. I’ll meet ya out in the yard.”

“Okay, Pookie” she teased him, smiling. She reached to affectionately smooth a hand over his tousled hair but he deflected it hurriedly and shot her another look that made her laugh. “I’ll see you in a minute,” she chuckled.

“Yeah, go on and get outta here… Pain in my ass,” he grumbled, climbing to his feet.

As Carol’s footsteps retreated outside his cell, he glanced at his reflection in the cracked mirror hanging on the cell wall. His hair was a mess and he did what he could to hastily smooth it with his hands before abandoning the effort with a grunt. He hurriedly grabbed his crossbow and fixed his knife in its sheath at his hip. Relacing his boots to make sure they were tight, he called it good and made his way through the prison.

As he stepped outside into the sunlight, he could already see that things were busy despite the early morning hour. Rick and Carl were in the garden plots with Hershel and everyone else seemed to either be chopping and stacking firewood or working down on the fence. It was rare for Daryl not to be the first one awake and it left him feeling off-balance. He hadn’t been sleeping hardly at all and it must have finally added up to pure exhaustion since he’d actually caught a few hours until Carol woke him.

His blue eyes, squinted against the light, searched for you out of subconscious habit. He spotted you alongside Glenn and Maggie on the fence. He felt his heart skipping a beat.

The gravel crunched under his boots as he headed to meet Carol who was waiting at the gate that led to the alleyway between the fences. She greeted him with a tight smile. “Ready?”

“Yep. Good to go,” he replied.

Carol opened the gate and Daryl followed her in. Soon they were passing by you, Glenn, and Maggie putting down walkers through the chainlink.

“Are you alright, Daryl?” Maggie called out, shading her eyes with a gloved hand. “I thought maybe you were sick or somethin’,” she said.

“Yeah, unusual for any of us to be up before you,” Glenn agreed, leaning on the metal rod in his hand.

“Christ, ev’rybody’s got somethin’ to say about it,” Daryl retorted. “Can’t a man get a couple hours of sleep for once?”

You turned after putting down a particularly large and loud walker, gore dripping off the end of the sharpened makeshift spear in your hand and you wiped at the stray strands of your hair that were sticking to your face with your arm. You skin was already glistening with sweat despite it being far from the hottest part of the day. You smiled at Daryl, squinting against the sun. “I didn’t say anything,” you laughed.

“Yeah, well thanks for that,” Daryl said, meeting your eyes. “Yer the only damn one…” He gulped, always a little nervous when your full attention was on him.

“Alright, alright,” Carol said, laughing. “I think we’ve teased poor Daryl enough for actually sleeping. Just keep the herd down this end, away from the water line, okay? We’re heading out to clear it now.”

You all nodded and returned to the task at hand. Daryl couldn’t help glancing back at you over his shoulder a few times, until he slipped out of the hole to the outside behind Carol and closed it back up behind him, lacing the sturdy wire back through the fencing and pulling it tight.

Carol pulled the water line up out of the creek and began twisting apart sections of it to clear out the mud and muck. “Yuck… no wonder we were hardly pulling any water in,” she said, shaking a particularly large chunk of red Georgia clay out of the nozzle.

“Mhm,” Daryl hummed, chewing on his bottom lip. His eyes scanned the surrounding tall grass and trees for any approaching stray walkers, but he found that they continually seemed to return to you on the fence almost on their own.

“Hey. Hey!” Carol was suddenly laughing. “Did you hear me?”

“Huh?” Daryl’s eyes snapped back to her. “Sorry.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him and a small, perhaps slightly knowing, smile curved her lips. “Distracted?” she asked.

He shifted. “Are ya done?”

Carol laughed to herself again and dusted off her hands. “Yeah, I think so.” She walked back to the stream with the end of the hose and dropped it back into the creek. “So, what are your plans for the rest of the day?” she asked as the two of them started back up the slope toward the fence.

Daryl shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe work on my bike. Probably due for a tune-up,” he drawled, slinging his crossbow back over his shoulder.

She nodded. “Sorry I woke you up. I was shocked you were still sleeping to be honest. I waited around a bit but—"

“Nah, s’alrigh’. I probably needed to get up anyway,” he replied, glancing ahead toward the fence again. The herd of walkers was dwindling with the efficient work of you and the others but the bodies were piling up on the outside now. Clean-up duty would be needed.

“Well, you should head inside and eat something,” Carol said. “I know you haven’t had anything yet today.”

He ran a hand back through his hair and nodded. “Yeah… maybe in a bit. I think ‘m gonna start pilin’ up those carcasses. We’ll need to burn ‘em later and it ain’t no good havin’ ‘em up against the fence, attractin’ new walkers.”

Carol stopped. “Oh. Yeah, true. I’ll help. Looks like they’re about done anyway,” she said.

He nodded and they strode over, dew down in the longer tufts of grass wetting their boots and hems. There were maybe six walkers left clawing at the fence and they were quickly cut down to three as he and Carol approached on the outside. Daryl pulled his gloves from his back pocket and tugged them on as Carol walked over, watching the last upright body fall onto the pile a moment later.

“How’s the water line?” you asked, gripping the fence, the tips of your fingers poking through.

“Should be all cleared out now,” Carol said. “Nice work,” she said, referring to the pile of bodies at her feet. “Daryl and I will start pulling these away from the fence and piling them to be burned.”

“Alright. I’ll come help,” you said, setting down the metal rod you’d been wielding and briefly wiping at the sweat glistening on your forehead with your forearm again.

“You sure? You’ve done more than your fair share of hard labor today,” Carol said. “Looks like Maggie and Glenn are already heading back up to rest.”

“Yeah, it’s alright. I don’t mind,” you said. “It’ll go faster with three of us.”

“Alright. Come on out! Thanks,” Carol said, giving you a grateful smile.

You nodded and hurried to let yourself out the makeshift opening to the outside. Daryl had already dragged away four bodies in the time it took for you to make your way over. You offered him a wide smile that had his heart jumping and he paused before he grabbed another walker, lacing the fingers of his gloves together in a nervous gesture. “Ya alrigh’?” he drawled. “Ya ain’t gotta help with this. Ya did a lot of work on them from the other side,” he said. Your cheeks and chest were flushed red with heat and effort and the cotton of your t-shirt was clinging to your damp skin.

You shrugged. “I’m all good. It’ll get done sooner this way,” you said. He watched your eyes flickering up over his face a couple times and he became suddenly self-conscious.

He cleared his throat. “What?”

You laughed lightly. “Oh—it’s just—you’ve got this one piece of hair sticking up—it’s been defying gravity since you first came out here. I’m just a little surprised it’s still hanging in there,” you joked. You pulled your gloves off and stepped up to him. “It’s just sticking straight up,” you laughed again, attempting to smooth it gently.

An electric shiver ran up Daryl’s back as your fingers combed through his hair. “What’s it matter?” he drawled, attempting to sound gruff and not what he was actually feeling… which was completely jittery. “Ain’t like ‘m tryin’ to win a beauty contest out here.”

“Oh, so you want to be a unicorn? Got it,” you teased him, redoubling your efforts and using both hands and your fingernails to try to combat the stray strand, but it only sprung right back up. You laughed again, your eyes crinkling at the corners. A fluttery feeling burst between Daryl’s lungs. You sighed and shook your head, stepping back and crossing your arms, surveying him. “Nope. Won’t cooperate. I guess you are stuck as a wild unicorn today,” you said. “At least until it comes in contact with a wet comb.”

“Comb? I dunno if I’ve even got one of those,” he joked. “Thanks for tryin’,” Daryl said, half-sarcastically. You only flashed him another grin. You pulled your gloves back on and headed back to the fence to grab a walker. Carol stopped beside Daryl and he grabbed the body she was dragging by the ankles and helped her swing it onto the newly-formed pile. She gave him an appraising look when she stood up, her eyebrows lifting slightly. “What?” he asked.

“No, nothing,” she said, smiling vaguely. But it certainly wasn’t lost on her that when she had attempted to ruffle his hair, her hand had been pushed away brusquely.

Daryl ducked his head and went back to work. You were still at the fence when he walked up beside you. You were attempting to untangle a disgusting mass of limbs to pull a single walker out. Your nose wrinkled and you let out a noise of disgust. “I don’t think I will ever get used to the smell of them,” you mused aloud.

Daryl looked up, about to respond, but suddenly your feet went out from under you and you were landing hard on your back, all the breath pushed out of your body. “Y/N!”

There was a surprisingly strong hand that had emerged from the pile of bodies gripping your ankle and low, muffled growls emanated from a walker beneath the heap that was not quite dead.

Daryl jumped into action immediately, stomping his boot down onto the grasping arm until it released you and then quickly tugging you away by gripping you under the arms. He collapsed down on the ground behind you and you came to rest partially against him, still gasping for air as your lungs had not yet returned to normal, still seized up from the fall. You found yourself completely unaware that you were laying back against his chest as you just focused on trying to breathe. Daryl didn’t dare move.

Carol came running over at full speed. “Oh my God! Are you okay?!”

All you could do was nod urgently, unable to talk still. You pressed a hand to your chest and willed your lungs to start drawing in air again. Your heart was pounding.

“Fucker didn’t scratch ya ,did he? Please, tell me he didn’t…” Daryl gasped. “Carol, check her ankles quick!”

Carol quickly bent over you and looked, sighing with relief. “No, she’s clean.”

It was about that time that your lungs started working again and you realized you were sort of on top of Daryl. “Oh, shit,” you breathed, sitting up and turning. “I’m sorry. I—I’m leaning on you,” you said hurriedly.

Daryl shook his head, his brow still furrowed deeply. “S’alrigh’. Are ya okay? Ya sure?”

You nodded, trying hard to slow your breathing and heart rate. “I’m okay. Just startled me more than anything.”

Daryl climbed to his feet and offered you his hand. He pulled you up. You both watched as Carol kicked a body aside and plunged her knife into the head of the walker that had grabbed you and was still moving. “Got him,” she said, straightening up, her knife dripping blood onto the grass.

It was then that you realized your hand was still in Daryl’s. He hadn’t let go. You could feel the calluses on his palms from digging with the shovels the week before and the calluses on his fingertips from drawing back his crossbow. His thumb was closed gently over the back of your hand. He seemed to have realized then that the moment had passed when he should have relinquished his gentle hold on you and he suddenly drew back, wiping his hand on his pants as if that would rid it of the electric tingle on his palm. “Are ya sure yer okay?” he asked again.

“Fine. I’m fine… just knocked the wind out of me for a minute,” you said.

“How was that one not dead?” he growled, moving to peer down at the body.

“Here,” Carol said, pointing at the neck. “Looks like whoever was trying to put it down just missed the back of head.”

Daryl straightened up, looking worried still. “We’ll have to remind ev’rybody to be more careful on the fence. What if somebody had gotten bit ‘cuz that fucker wasn’t quite dead?”

“It could’ve been my fault,” you said quickly. “I was working the fence too.”

“Well, I doubt ya need the reminder now,” Daryl said seriously, giving you a concerned look. You only nodded. “Look, why dun ya just head back up to the prison for a bit. Get outta the sun and get some water.”

You cocked your head as you looked at him. “What? No,” you laughed. “You think that’s enough to scare me off? Hell no, Dixon,” you said, already smiling at him again. “Let’s get this shit done.”

Carol smiled and shrugged. “You heard her, Dixon,” she teased, leaning down to grab another corpse by the wrists and pull it away.

The pile moved away from the fence and ready to be burned, you and Carol were about to start back to the prison when there was a rustling in the brush nearby. A scraggly looking walker wandered out and started toward the group of you, reaching up with hands that were missing several fingers.

Daryl unsheathed his knife with a well-practiced movement. “I got it,” he said, jogging over to put it down with a skillful stab to the head. He paced back, wiping his knife on his pants. “I’ll ask Rick where he put the gas/oil mixture for burnin’ this later. Ain’t no reason we gotta do it in this sun. Let’s head back up,” he drawled.

You nodded in agreement and pulled your gloves off, glancing at him with a half-smile. “Hey, do you have your bandana on you?” you asked.

“Mhm,” he said pulling it out from his back pocket and offering it to you. “Why?”

You took it, stepped in close to him, and dabbed at a spray of blood on the side of his neck from the walker he’d just put down, wiping it away. “You didn’t feel it?” you laughed. “Apparently it was a juicy one.” You held his bandana out to him again.

“Thanks,” he said, feeling his face flush a little with heat. He noticed Carol watching the interaction with that same vague smile on her face. He ducked his head and cleared his throat. “Alrigh’. Let’s head back inside them fences… One close call is more than enough for today.”

_ _ _ _ _ _

When Daryl saw you again in a few hours, he could tell you’d cleaned up after your morning shift on the fence. Your hair was down, framing your face and was shining in the sun. There was no more sweat or grime clinging to your skin anymore. You waved as you caught his eyes already on you and he gulped as you made your way over.

Daryl, on the other hand, was still just as filthy as he had been when you all left the pile of walkers outside the fence behind, perhaps moreso. His hands were covered in oil and grime from working on his bike. He felt suddenly self-conscious as you stopped beside him in your fresh clothes.

“I was looking for you,” you said.

“Me?” Daryl straightened up next to his bike.

“Yeah. Carol said you haven’t eaten anything all day,” you said pointedly, your eyebrows lifting.

He shrugged. “Just ain’t gotten around to it yet, I guess,” he drawled, fiddling with the tool in his hands.

“I see. You’re just entirely too busy to take care of yourself?” you retorted. As you talked, you reached out and wiped away a smudge of oil on his forearm casually.

Daryl, however, couldn’t be casual about the spark he’d just felt from that little touch of your fingertip. It jumped up to his arm and seemed to have made its way to his heart, because it was now racing. He gulped.

“Well, what if I fix you a bowl of something and bring it out? You worked hard this morning. You should eat,” you said, cocking your head at him. “We can’t have you suddenly passing out out here and faceplanting onto the cement,” you teased him.

He fixed his blue eyes on you for a long moment. “Ya ain’t gotta do that. ‘M almost done out here. I can come in and—”

You grabbed his arm again and Daryl almost stepped backwards from the way his body seemed to react to your touch again. It was nearly overwhelming. “Daryl, what I asked was if you would eat it if I brought it out. It’s a simple question,” you said, shooting him a playful look. “So?” Your hand was still on his arm. It was light and gentle, but he could feel the softness of your skin. He stared at it for a long second and then managed to clear his throat enough to respond. “Y—yeah, I’d eat it, I guess.”

“Good,” you said, nodding. “I’ll be right back then.” You disappeared back inside.

Rick happened to wander by carrying the gas can for burning the pile of walkers just a minute later. Daryl was bent over his bike, muttering expletives under his breath. “Ho—watch out!” Rick said suddenly, and Daryl shot up as he felt Rick’s hand brush his back.

Daryl jumped, spun around, and shook him off. “What the hell, man?” Daryl growled.

Rick laughed and held his hand up, palm out. “Sorry! You had a huge horsefly on your back! You’re welcome.” He shook his head. “With that reaction next time I might just let you get bit,” Rick joked.

Daryl shook his head. “Sorry. Ya just startled me is all.”

“It’s alright,” Rick replied. “I’ll go take care of those bodies.” He gestured with the gas can.

Daryl nodded. “Alrigh’. Be careful out there. Fire will probably bring more of ‘em in.”

“I’ll take Glenn out with me,” Rick said, and then he was off.

A moment later you were back with a bowl of food for him. It was some kind of noodles with some venison and a few fresh tomatoes from the garden. “Alright. Break time, Daryl,” you demanded. “I need to make sure you actually eat, since apparently you won’t.”

Daryl tugged his bandana from his back pocket and mopped at the oil on his skin the best he could.

You set the bowl in his hands and your fingertips brushed his skin. You didn’t seem to notice. For Daryl it was impossible not to. “Thanks,” he murmured, grabbing a seat on a nearby concrete block.

“No problem.” You came and sat down next to him, sighing good-naturedly and looking out over the green grass of the yard. Rick was just lighting up the pile of walkers outside the fence. A breeze was blowing the tops of the trees around, sending the leaves fluttering and changing their hues. Fluffy clouds drifted by lazily.

Daryl dragged a hand across his mouth. “Mmm. S’good. Thanks,” he murmured, hurriedly taking another bite. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he’d started eating.

You smiled at his voracious eating habits and leaned your chin on your hand, your elbow propped on your knee. You reached over again with your free hand and attempted to smooth that same stubborn strand of his hair that had been sticking up all day. Goosebumps rose up Daryl’s back.

“Thought ya gave that up as a lost cause,” Daryl said through a mouthful, holding absolutely still while your fingers were in his hair.

“I did. Was just… I don’t know,” you shrugged, smiling. “I kind of like it.”

He shot you a look like you were crazy.

“What?” you laughed. “It’s endearing!”

“Yer nuts,” he joked, ducking his head again and turning back to his food. He didn’t see you biting your bottom lip as you looked at him, a fond and soft light in your eyes.

_ _ _ _ _ _

That evening, most of the group was gathered around a bonfire out in the yard. You’d all roasted scraps of venison from a deer Daryl had shot the day before, supplemented with vegetables from the garden and everyone was full and happy. Carol was rocking Judith and cooing over her. Maggie, Glenn, and Beth were playing a rowdy game of cards. Rick and Carl seemed content to watch the people they loved enjoying themselves and you and Hershel were off to one side talking about plans for fall crops when cool season time rolled around again.

Daryl was the only one who had wandered away by himself and seemed to be standing watch on one of the guard platforms. You noticed his broad-shouldered silhouette against the sky and excused yourself.

He turned at the sound of steps on the rattling metal stairs and straightened up when he saw you come around the corner.

You looked up and smiled at him and his heart jumped. “Hey,” you greeted him.

“Hey. Everythin’ alrigh’?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said, nodding. You came to stand beside him at the railing and leaned forward on your forearms. “You okay? Were we all too rowdy down there?” you asked.

“‘M good. Just thought somebody should be on watch, ya know?”

“Mmm,” you hummed, nodding.

“It doesn’t always have to be you though,” you said. “You take on a lot. You’re allowed to relax too. Your worth as a person isn’t tied to what you can do for the group.”

He looked at you with a semi-startled expression on his handsome face.

“And I see now that you needed to hear that,” you said your eyebrows lifting. “It’s true.”

You turned and looked back out over the shadows settling into the yard and the warm orange glow illuminating your found family.

Daryl was chewing on his bottom lip thoughtfully. He lifted a hand to rub at his right shoulder, wincing a little as he rotated it.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nah, s’nothin’. I must’a tweaked it when I was movin’ my bike this afternoon. Tha’s all. S’fine.”

“Hmm. Alright. Turn around,” you said, straightening up.

“What?” Daryl asked, one of his eyebrows quirked up with the question.

“I said turn around,” you said again.

“Why?”

“Just turn around!” you laughed. “What, are you scared of me?”

“Maybe a little,” Daryl replied, a half-smile turning up one corner of your mouth.

Your hands landed on your hips and you cocked your head at him with attitude. He surrendered and turned so his back was to you.

Your hands landed gently on his shoulders and you worked your fingers into his stiff muscles. They seemed to melt beneath your touch. “You are tense,” you said. You moved to massage his sore shoulder and you could feel that one specific spot seemed particularly tight and inflamed. Your touch became gentler and Daryl’s eyes shut. He was almost leaning into the light workings of your hands. “How’s that feel?” you asked him.

All he could get out was a satisfied hum which made you smile.

“You definitely pulled something over here. You’ll have to go easy on it for a bit.”

“Mmm,” he hummed. “Maybe ya can just keep doin’ that ‘til it’s all better,” he drawled.

You laughed lightly. “I take it this feels okay then,” you said.

“Mhm,” he hummed again.

You smiled to yourself. The man deserved a little TLC. After all, you had scared the shit out of him when that walker grabbed you. You’d never forget the sound of his panicked voice yelling your name.

Just then, there was more clattering on the stairs and your hands left Daryl’s shoulders as you both turned to look. Carol came around the corner and stopped short. “Oh—sorry. I hope I’m not interrupting, um, anything,” she said, smiling.

You felt your cheeks flush and Daryl was feeling the same thing in his chest and face. “No. Not at all,” you said, leaning back against the railing.

“I was just looking for Daryl,” she explained.

“You found him,” you said. “I should head back down and see if Rick needs help getting Judith down for bed anyway.” You glanced back over at Daryl and gave him a small smile. “Night. See you in the morning. Night, Carol.”

Daryl watched you go until you disappeared into the deepening darkness. Then he felt Carol’s eyes on him. He turned at looked at her and her expression and postured, crossed arms and all, could only be described as smug. “What?” he asked, nestling the edge of his thumbnail in between his teeth and biting down.

“I’m really sorry if I did interrupt something,” she said pointedly.

“Interrupt what?” he drawled, a little irritated.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head at him. “Let me just ask you something. How come eight out of ten times if I go to ruffle your hair or wipe a smudge of something gross off you, I get my hand smacked away, but Y/N always seems able to make contact, hmm?”

Daryl’s brow furrowed. He simply stared back at her. Internally though, his mind and his heart were working in overdrive.

Carol laughed. “You don’t have to answer. I think we both know why,” she said with a satisfied smile.

Daryl sighed and ruffled a hand back through his wavy hair before resuming his position leaning on the railing next to Carol.

“You do like her though, don’t you?” Carol asked.

Daryl only continued to stare out over the dark yard, chewing on his bottom lip in that signature way of his. Carol’s smile widened and she nodded.

“I thought so.”

_ _ _ _ _ _

“Well, you beat all of us awake again today. I guess everything is back to normal,” Glenn said, kindly reaching out to give Daryl a friendly pat on the shoulder as he passed him. The archer flinched and Glenn gave him an apologetic look. “Sorry,” he said quickly.

“Oh—nah, s’alrigh’,” Daryl drawled. “Just startled me… And yeah. Hope ya slackers had a good snooze. Some of us gotta get shit done around here,” he joked, shouldering his crossbow and heading toward the door to leave.

You happened to be coming back in with Judith in your arms and Daryl nearly ran into you, stopping short to avoid the collision. You laughed and greeted him, one of your hands reflexively landing flush in the center of his chest and staying there until the two of you had side-stepped around each other.

Glenn came to sit beside Maggie again, handing her the cup of tea he’d just gotten for her. “Did you see that? How he flinched?” he asked, a little sadly, his head indicating Daryl before the archer slipped out the door.

“Mhm,” Maggie nodded. “But did ya see that?” she asked, a faint smile tugging on her lips now. She nodded toward you across the room where you were sitting with Judith.

Glenn shook his head. “No. What? I was at the stove.”

Maggie’s smile widened. “Daryl nearly ran into her. She put her hand out and it landed right in the middle of his chest and it stayed there until they made their way around each other. And it almost seemed like Daryl didn’t want to step away from her. He didn’t flinch. He may have even moved in closer. He couldn’t stop lookin’ at her,” Maggie said.

Glenn nodded slowly, his eyebrows lifting as realization dawned on him. “Well, last night… the two of them disappeared from the bonfire... You don’t think—?”

“I don’t know,” Maggie laughed jovially. “But if they aren’t, they should. Daryl needs that. And he’d be good for her too. He’s always been so protective of her and you can just tell there’s somethin’ there.”

_ _ _ _ _ _

It was late afternoon when you spotted Daryl taking a break out in the yard. He was sitting on the stump used to chop wood, the axe leaning up against the wood pile nearby. Having just finished sorting some of the newly discovered supplies with Carol, you were ready for a break yourself.

“Hey,” you greeted him, tugging another round of wood over next to him.

“Hey,” he returned, watching you take a seat beside him. He found himself wringing his hands a little nervously.

As you settled in next to him, your arm floated behind him for a moment, your palm gently rubbing across his shoulder blades, almost giving his back a gentle scratch, and then tapering off down his spine in an affectionate gesture. Daryl froze, fluttering bursting to life in his chest again. Electric tingles ran up his back. He swallowed hard. “Why d’ya do that?” he asked suddenly.

You turned and gaze him a questioning look, the small smile dying on your lips. “Do what?”

“Ya know, ya rub my back or—or try to smooth down my hair—”

Your eyes went a bit round and then your brow furrowed, casting shadows over the rich color of your irises. “Oh. Does it bother you? I’m—I’m sorry, Daryl. I probably should have asked you if you were okay with me breaking the touch barrier like that with you. I’m really sorry if it makes you uncomfortable. I won’t—”

“What? No. No, it doesn’t—I, uhh—I just mean—” Fuck. How could he explain this without having to confess all his deeply held feelings for you on the spot? “It’s—it’s nice… is all,” he finished lamely.

Your expression relaxed. “Yeah?”

He nodded, pulling his bottom lip in between his teeth. “I just—I ain’t ever really had anybody that—that did that kinda stuff with me, ya know? I mean—” he broke off. He didn’t want to go there. He’d had sex. He wasn’t completely inexperienced, but it had never felt anywhere near as intimate as your fingertips brushing his arm did.

Your lips formed a soft pout and the worry lines in your forehead reappeared. “You mean, touched you… affectionately?”

He nodded a little, keeping his eyes fixed toward the horizon, unable to look at you in that exact moment. “Yeah.”

Your heart ached. You nodded. “I see…” you breathed. You paused thoughtfully for a moment. You thought of all the people in your past who had touched you with love of all kinds—your parents, your best friend, hugs from extended relatives and friends, playfully holding hands as a child, touches with past partners… To think Daryl had never really had any of that broke your heart. You turned toward him and your fingers landed lightly along his jaw, gently turning his face toward you so you could see his bright blue eyes. You clasped his face for a moment and his eyes closed for just a split second. He actually leaned into the touch of your palm and you felt another pang in your chest. “I’m sorry,” you said softly, your fingertips trailing off his skin. “You should have had people your whole life touching you with love and friendship and care. And I’m so sorry you didn’t. We all need touch. It’s something fundamental to us as humans.”

You were close together, your knees almost bumping together.

Daryl’s eyes flickered between yours. “Yeah… I dun think I realized that until—pretty recently,” he said. “But ya don’t, uhh—I mean, I’ve noticed ya don’t… do the same thing with ev’rybody. I mean—not—not exactly the same,” he ventured.

“You noticed?” A small smile came back to your face. “No. You’re right. I don’t,” you agreed. You gave him a significant look and his heart began absolutely pounding in his chest, like he was running for his life, hard and fast.

“Oh…” he drawled, his eyes going suddenly unfocused.

“Yeah,” you said with a laugh, your cheeks heating with a blush. “Um, listen—come find me after dinner tonight. I’ve got first watch in the guard tower. Alright?” You stood and Daryl found himself looking up at you, wishing you wouldn’t go.

He could ask you to stay… but he just nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Alright. Tonight.”

“Great,” you said, flashing him a smile that made him glad he was sitting down already. You would have nearly knocked his knees out. How was he going to make it through the rest of the day? The waiting would be excruciating…

_ _ _ _ _ _

Daryl looked up at the guard tower and could see your silhouette out on the platform against the warm splash of color from the setting sun. Inside the tower, a lantern glowed softly, illuminating the windows. He made his way up the winding stairs, trying to swallow his nerves to the best of his ability, but he found it wasn’t much use. He wiped his hands on his pants, suddenly aware that his palms were sweaty.

He pushed into the tower and found the door out onto the platform standing open. You looked over your shoulder at the sound of his boots and smiled at him, before returning to leaning on the railing, staring at the hues of salmon and orange and deep reds blazing across the sky as the sun sunk behind the trees at the horizon.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” you asked, meaning the sunset.

Daryl licked his lips nervously, but he was looking at you. “Yeah,” he drawled.

“I like how the sky is never the exact same. No two skies are alike. Something is always different with the colors or the clouds or the particular shade of blue. It makes me feel like even though the world has gone to complete shit… it hasn’t really. You know?”

Daryl leaned onto the railing beside you on his forearms and drank in the scene, humming his agreement. “Mhm.” He nervously shifted. “Um… why’d—why’d ya ask me up here?” He couldn’t stand the strenuous anticipation and wondering any longer.

You turned giving him a sympathetic smile. “Sorry. You’ve probably been wondering all day. Well… I was wondering if I could kiss you and this seemed like a nice place to do it—private, nice view, stars will be out soon, unlikely to be interrupted…”

Daryl thought he must have heard you wrong. “Wait—what?”

You smiled at him, your eyes sparking with light. “I’d like to kiss you, if that’s alright?”

He stared at you. “Ya wanna kiss me?”

“Yes,” you nodded.

“Huh… well—what if I wanna kiss you first?”

You gave him an amused look, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Then, I’d say this works out for both of us?” you laughed.

He ducked his head for a moment. “Cuz I’ve wanted to kiss ya for—for a long time now. Prob’ly longer than you’ve wanted to kiss me,” he admitted. He shot a cautious look at your expression but you still just had that serene smile on your face.

“Daryl—” you said, stepping in toward him and gently taking hold of the front of his vest, “I don’t care who initiates it, but I’d like it to happen n—”

You didn’t get the last word out, because Daryl’s lips landed flush on yours and his hand was tangling into your hair, the other landing lightly on your waist. He seemed a little tense at first, nerves maybe, but quickly you melted into each other, your knees weakening, and he tugged you against him as your arms looped around his neck.

Your hearts were racing in time together and you were both breathless when you broke apart, pulling back only enough to breathe. Daryl’s fingers drummed anxiously on your lower back.

“Was… that alrigh’?” he asked.

“Alright?” you repeated. “It was perfect,” you said.

He looked relieved. “Good. ‘Cuz… it was for me too,” he said softly. “And I’d like to do it again, if tha’s alrigh’?”

You grinned and arched into him, crashing your lips against his. This kiss was fiery and hungry and you didn’t break apart for a long time. Daryl held your body firmly against his and the two of you moved without any clumsiness or reticence, reading each other easily and sinking into it.

The sun was now nearly completely gone and the first stars were appearing in the inky sky. The moon was rising. You bit your bottom lip, looking up at Daryl. “I was hoping you’d stay until my shift is over.”

“Mmm,” Daryl nodded, his hands still on your waist. “Alrigh’. But s’gonna be hard to keep watch with ya distractin’ me.”

“Well, there are two of us… only one of us really needs to be watching at a time,” you joked, laughing lightly. You stroked your fingers through his wavy hair, brushing it away from his face, and his eyes closed at your touch. “I brought a blanket up to sit on. Come on.”

Daryl settled down on it first and then nudged his head in a way as to request that you sink down against him. His arm draped behind you and landed on your hip. His fingers moved a little absently, feeling your softness and angles. “Thanks,” he said suddenly.

“Hmm? For what?” you asked, looking over at him and catching his eyes for a moment before he ducked his head and shrugged.

“For bein’ you and… bein’ the way ya are with me,” he drawled. He didn’t know how to voice that as long as he’d known you, every little touch you gave him, innocent or maybe more, felt like nothing he’d ever felt before, and he found himself craving it, craving you. But he’d never known for sure, beyond the doubt instilled in him, if it was one-sided or not. Now, he knew.

"You don't have to thank me. You deserve to feel wanted, Daryl. You are." You smiled at him and then tucked yourself against him, your head resting under his chin, your hand moving softly on his bare arm, leaving tingles in its wake. The last light of the sun disappeared and was replaced with the cool glow of the moon and endless stars, and the two of you soaked in each other. Daryl seemed more confident as the minutes passed and drank you in, slowly touch-starved no longer and hoping he would never be again.

#daryl fluff #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon twd #the walking dead #twd fanfics #daryl dixon drabbles #daryl imagines #daryl x y/n #fanfics #writers of tumblr #twd drabbles

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tomriddleslove · 3 months

Text

Pt 4 - Drunk words are sober thoughts.

✩ Theodore Nott x Reader

Summary: The one where Pansy organises a dinner party, you’re on the run from Theo, and bad decisions are made. Alternatively: Uncomfortable awkward tension, then smut.

A/N: We aren’t out of the trenches yet. We’ve only dug ourselves deeper with this one.

REQUESTS ARE OPEN.

Please let me know in the comments if you want to be added to the tag list!

MDNI!

Tags: Smut (duh),Drunk sex, PIV, Hair pulling, praise.

Songs: Love survive - Michael Nau

Star Treatment - Arctic Monkeys

The sun filters through the cracks in the blinds, casting an almost heavenly glow on your bed. The warmth was soothing, and you’d almost call it a very peaceful morning.

That is, of course, if you weren’t woken by Pansy yanking the covers off you, tossing them to the side.

You groan sleepily, rolling over as you try to shield your eyes.

“Oh come on! Merlin, you've been asleep for so long! Everyone else is up! I refuse to let you spend all holiday rotting in bed.” She nags, grabbing your arm as she tries to pull you up. You let your body go limp, the dead weight pulling you back onto the bed as you use your free hand to pull a pillow over your head.

“You know Pansy, have you ever considered my idea of a holiday is sleeping in all day?” You mumble and she tuts, grabbing the pillow from you.

“Nonsense. I’ll kill you if we don't make the most of this.”She admonishes, faffing around you like a mother hen as she walks around your shared room with Theodore (who notably wasn't there, his bed made.) She opens your closet and takes the liberty of choosing you an outfit as she flicks through your clothing, speaking again.

“We're going to celebrate the start of this beautiful Holiday I have so kindly provided us with. We’re making dinner and having a small dinner party. Nice clothes, naturally. Mattheo, Lorenzo and Theodore will be making the starters, and Draco, Blaise and I will be making the main, which means you’re in charge of dessert. Consider it a penalty for waking so late.” Pansy explained as she crouched down to sort through your other clothes.

You grumble, muttering childishly under your breath as you sit up, on the edge of your bed as you come to your senses.

“I'm putting poison in yours.” You half-joke, and she isn't phased as she tosses you a floral white sundress and a handful of jewellery. You dodge the assortment of gold sent towards you and you glare at her.

“There. You’ll have to change for dinner but this is good for now. We’re all downstairs, but I sent some of the boys to fetch the ingredients. Chop chop!” She calls out, as she descends down the stairs.

Pansy. She truly tested your patience.

You manage to drag yourself up from the warm confines of your bed as you head over to the bathroom, going to take a shower. You walk past Theodore's bed as you do so, and you see his copy of Little Women lying on his bedside table. Curiosity tugs at you.

It would be bad to take a peek, right? I mean, he did hand it to you that day in the library. Granted, he took it back right after, but surely that implied you could take a look.

You (rather weakly) justify your decision and pick up the book, thumbing through the pages as your eyes scan over the various annotations and underlined passages Theodore had analysed.

One in certain catches your attention. There, messily underlined, is the quote:

“Watch and pray, dear, never get tired of trying, and never think it is impossible to conquer your fault.”

Followed by “No. 4” scrawled in Theodore's handwriting. You frown, confusion etched on your face as you try to decipher what the four could possibly mean. You flick through the rest of the book, trying to spot any other instances.

“You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and the wind, flying far out to sea, and happy all alone.”

No. 7

I've loved you ever since I've known you, Jo, - couldn't help it, you've been so good to me, - I've tried to show it, but you wouldn't let me; now I'm going to make you hear, and give me an answer, for I can't go on so any longer.

No. 5

You couldn't seem to find any rhyme or reason for this labelling. It was simply random parts of the text underlined every now and then with a number next to them, as though some sort of list. Your curiosity gets the best of you, and you're itching to look for more when the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs snaps you out of it. You quickly shut the book, placing it back down as you grab your dress and towel, dashing into the bathroom. You just manage to lock the bathroom door when you hear the door to your room click open, and you let out a small breath of relief. Your mind is working tirelessly, trying to decipher the cryptic annotations as you take a shower.

You finish off and get dressed in the bathroom, taking your time to avoid Theodore. By your luck, when you unlock the bathroom door and peer out the small gap, Theodore is not there, and you let out a small sigh as you step out.

You put on the jewellery Pansy set out for you and slip on some socks, combing through your wet hair as you dry it lightly. Satisfied with how you looked (you did feel rather pretty, in all honesty), you make your way downstairs.

The kitchen is empty, save for Blaise putting the groceries away into the fridge. You grin as you walk over to join him, his eyes flickering over to you as you walk in.

“Morning. You got your rest, didn't you?” He teases and you shoot him a mocking smile, rolling your eyes.

“Yeah yeah, make fun of me all you want.” You sigh as you reach for the second bag, helping him put everything away.

“Where is everyone else?” You ask.

“Pansy and Lorenzo went out to get drinks, and I'm pretty sure the rest found some sort of creek or something so I think they went out for a swim,” Blaise says and you hum, nodding.

Come to think of it, you had completely forgotten about the rather surprising development between Blaise and Pansy. You and Lorenzo had bet on it as well. Deciding to pay Pansy back the favour, you begin probing into their little dilemma.

“So Blaise, tell me. What's going on between you and Pansy?” You ask, and he chokes on the coffee he was sipping as he sets the cup down. You open one of the cupboards, storing away a packet of pasta as he looks at you.

“What do you mean?” He responded, and a small grin tugged at your lips.

“Oh come on, don't act all shy now. This whole flirting thing you have going on.” You say, vaguely motioning in his direction as you put some fruits in the fruit bowl resting on the kitchen island.

“There's nothing. Just friend.” He denies, and you turn to him, resting against the island.

“Sure. Just one thing? You're both stubborn fools. Don't let that prevent anything.” You advise, looking at him. You grab an apple, tossing it into the air before catching it as you walk past Blaise, patting him on the back.

“Right now, out. I need to start prepping the dessert.” You say, and for the first time in your life, you see Blaise ever so slightly red.

He playfully grins as he walks out, and you tie your damp hair up as you look through what the boys bought.

You settle on a classic after taking note of the copious amounts of cream cheese the boys had bought (You were reminded to never ever ask them to go shopping, and you'd be sure to remind Pansy the same.)

A salted caramel cheesecake. You decided to make the biscuit base yourself - it would serve as a good way to pass the time seeing as you had the whole day to yourself.

Before you begin cooking, you wander over to the living room. Your eyes settle on a collection of vinyl records in the corner, and you sift through the sleeves, settling on one that doesn't look immediately terrible.

You carefully place the vinyl onto the turntable, the soft crackle of the needle hitting the record filling the room. The sound of a smooth jazz melody starts playing, creating a cosy atmosphere in the kitchen. As the music envelops the space, you begin gathering the ingredients for the biscuit base.

You preheat the oven and begin making the biscuits, sifting flour into the bowl as you work. It's surprisingly relaxing, the villa is empty and you're left to your own devices, humming along to the music as you bake. Sure, you definitely weren't the cleanest baker. A simple biscuit recipe had left you with a white powder coating over the kitchen, stacks of bowls in the sink and somehow, flour on your clothes as well. You huff, dusting down your dress as you place the haphazardly shapen uncooked biscuits into the oven. It didn't matter whether they looked good or not - you'd be crushing them anyway.

It only takes about 15 minutes before the delicious aroma of vanilla fills the kitchen, You're admittedly pleased at just how good they smell, and you can only hope they taste as good as they smell.

Whilst those finish off, you begin making the actual filling of the cake. You reach for one of the bowls when a certain song begins playing, your ears perking up at the sound.

“This is my conquering song

played on a wave so strong

pulled the broke-down ride for far too long”

You lightly sing along to the lyrics, a small smile tugging on your lips as you do so. You had always imagined this song to be blissfully domestic, something you'd willingly play if you were to cook or bake, so the fact you selected it by chance made you oddly happy.

Sometimes it was the little things that count.

With a little pep in your step, you walk around the kitchen as you gather the ingredients. Liberated by the villa having no other occupants, your movements are freer, a small little (unnecessary) spin or a little break to sing along as you cook.

Now, it had been long established that you really did not have the best awareness of your surroundings. This continued to be the case now because you were sure you would have stopped immediately if you had seen Theodore leaning against the doorway of the kitchen, looking over at you.

Unfortunately for you, you did not notice him.

Theodore leans against the doorway, his eyes fixated on you. They always would be, he couldn't not look at you even if he tried to.

A fond smile is tugging at his lips, watching as you lightly sing along to the song. It's offkey, and your impromptu dance moves incorporated with your haphazard baking skills is laughable, but Theodore can only look at you and feel simultaneously so happy yet also so terrified. Terrified because he acknowledges how such a simple sight can't get that smile off his face, and the fact someone has the capability of doing that to him seems daunting. He was scared because, for a brief second, he imagined walking over and helping you. You'd look up at him with that smile of yours.

God, that smile.

You have that little impish look in your eyes, ready to poke fun at him. He does the same with you. The worst thing is if he hadn't fucked up so royally, you could have been doing that.

Instead, he pushes off the doorway to go and help you. The first part goes as expected, you see him and you yelp, spinning around. He knew your ears would turn red, as they usually did when you got embarrassed. Theodore knew you like that.

He knew you'd look at him akin to a deer caught in headlights because your mind would go blank for a second. Theodore knew you like that.

He also knew you well enough to know that, despite his own hopes of your once confused and mortified face breaking into a wide grin, it would instead fall and you would avert your eyes.

Theodore knew you like that.

He hated it.

“Oh. Hey.” You utter, clearing your throat. You berated yourself for always acting so obviously on edge when Theodore was near. He looks down at you with an indescribable look in his eyes before he speaks.

“Hey. Need help?” He asks, and you look around at the messy kitchen, before shaking your head.

You actually did, but you'd be damned if you had to spend more time with Theodore, alone. You'd either end up dead silent or stammering some embarrassing declaration. You couldn't tell which one would be worse.

“Alright.” He mused, looking down at you. He doesn't make any move to leave though, and you're hyper-aware of the fact that he is very close to you.

His hand comes up, cupping the side of your face gently as his thumb brushes against your cheekbone. His hand is there for a second too long, crossing the boundary of what it should have been. Again, it seemed as though everything you and Theodore did crossed that boundary.

“You had flour on your cheek,” he says, and you nod, drawing away your face. You turn around, praying to the gods above that they'd stop torturing you and make Theodore leave. You keep your back to him as you continue cooking, and he seems to finally leave, making you release a breath you didn't know you were holding.

You hasten your cooking after that and you're out of the kitchen in no less than 20 minutes with the cheesecake stored in the fridge as you make your way to Pansy’s room. You absolutely would not go back up to yours, as you were sure Theodore was there.

Exactly how long did you plan on running from him?

Hours have passed lazing away on Pansy’s bed, bored out of your mind when she finally returns.

“Finally.” You sassed, sitting up as she raised a brow at you.

“Why are you waiting here?” She asks, and you shrug.

“Can I not miss my friend?” You quip and she eyes you, knowing there must be another reason. She chooses not to probe further, however, joining you on her bed.

“We ought to get ready. I did tell the boys to dress nicely, we’re dignified people.”She chided as she got up, walking over to her closet.

You giggle at her swift change of actions and lean back on her bed, looking over at Pansy.

Her love for micromanaging you often was a negative, but now it could very much be a huge positive.

“Pans… You always know just how to style me right. Can you run up to my room and choose a look for me? I'm hopeless.” You groan, putting your hand on your chin in an exaggerated display of hopelessness. Her eyes light up, as though she was a little kid playing dress up, and she nods.

“Finally, you've come to your senses! I know exactly what I'm getting, wait here.” She gasps, scampering upstairs. You grin, having successfully avoided Theodore once again.

(The answer to the previous question? You'd run from him for a very long time, seemingly.)

Despite her reassurances, Panys arrives a solid half an hour later, a scarlet lace dress clutched in her hands. An impulse buy, the dress was shorter than what you usually wore. It had a fitted bodice but a flowy skirt, though it only reached your upper thigh. The long sleeves that extended down into flowy bell sleeves had to be your favourite feature of it, alongside the bustier style bodice at the front. She grins as she passes over the dress, alongside a pair of black boots.

“Dressed nicely but not too fancy. Plus I've been dying to see you wear this, so up and change.” She demands, pushing you up. You grin lightly at her antics as you take the dress, disappearing into the bathroom to change. You run your hands down your body as you admire yourself in the mirror. A hell of a good impulse buy, the dress looked incredible. The low cut was far out of your comfort zone but boundaries were meant to be pushed, right?

(No, they were not.)

Pansy gasps as you step out, pulling you over as she admires the dress, words of praise leaving her lips.

“You look so good! Oh my god, wear this everywhere.” She gushes, and you smile shyly.

“Thanks, Pans. Really. And you look incredible too, like positively mouthwatering,” You say and she grins, doing a small twirl in her satin black dress. After styling your hair and doing some light makeup, you make your way over to the dining room, which had already been set up beautifully.

The table, adorned with a crisp white tablecloth, is set meticulously with polished silverware, crystal glasses, and porcelain plates. A centrepiece of fresh flowers in varying shades of red and white adds a touch of elegance, their fragrance mingling with the soft glow of candles placed strategically around the room.

Pansy's attention to detail is evident in every aspect of the setup. Delicate linen napkins, folded artfully, rest atop each plate. You begin to feel excited for the evening, walking over to the kitchen as you look for everyone else. Theodore, Lorenzo and Mattheo are all in the kitchen, sorting panicking over the starters as they rush around like headless chickens. You step in and Lorenzo spots you, a wide grin breaking out on his face.

“Wow wow wow. Look at who we have here.” Lorenzo says admiringly, calling over the attention of the other two boys. You grin, ironically doing a small little pose to shake away the awkwardness of their gazes on you.

“Stunning!” Mattheo announces, slinging an arm over your shoulder as he ruffles your hair. You groan with disdain as you jab him in the side.

“Ow!” Mattheo complains, letting go as he frowns, rubbing his side.

“The bloody devil, you are.” He mumbles, glaring at you, A small laugh escapes your lips.

You affectionately pat him on the cheek, before turning to Lorenzo.

“What do you need help with?” You ask them, and Lorenzo shakes his head.

“Nothing. You go and rest, we’ll come serve them soon.” He says, and you nod.

You've been avoiding Theodore's gaze the whole time you've been in here, but you stupidly can't resist looking up at him and instantly regret it when he staring at you so intently. His eyes meet yours and he seemingly snaps out of it, swallowing harshly.

You quickly walk back to the dining room.

A solid 4 hours or so later, you're all lounging in the living room, stomachs full with what was a surprisingly good meal. Whilst the starters were good, Blaise, Pansy and Draco had really knocked it out of the park with the main, a mouthwateringly good risotto that you helped yourself twice to. The cheesecake seemed to be a crowd-pleaser though, with Draco having three slices.

With a glass of whiskey loosely held in your hand, you take a sip, leaning back into the couch. Whilst you tried to fit the aesthetic and sip some wine, you couldn't bear the taste and (truthfully) wanted to get drunk tonight.

It was a lazy and subdued atmosphere, and you didn't even notice Pansy, Blaise, Draco and Mattheo all retiring back to their rooms. You yawn as you get up, stumbling slightly (you had drunk quite a bit actually). You sleepily bid goodnight to the remaining two ( as vaguely as possible because god forbid you say Theodore's name) and make your way upstairs (in one piece.)

You walk into your room and kick off your boots, wandering over to your bed as you begin taking off your jewellery. You look up a mere few seconds later when Theodore walks in, seemingly equally as drunk as he looks at you. He shuts the door, yawning as he pulls off his knitted jumper, leaving him with his white t-shirt on. He throws his sweater somewhere to the side as he flops down onto his bed with a sigh, rummaging through his pockets as he produces a lighter. You can't help but openly stare at him as he does so, alcohol freeing you of what little inhibitions you had.

Something about the sight of Theodore laying on his bed, lazily smoking a cigarette with his slightly messy hair and those damn eyes….

You could see his muscles shift every time he brought the cigarette up to his lips, and you didn't realise smoking could be so erotic.

For some awfully stupid reason, really I mean, you had to question your own sanity, you get up, walking over to Theodore. You're alarmingly quiet as you approach him, and don't say a word as you stand there. His eyes flicker up to you, and suddenly you realise:

Alcohol + tension + two rash people

Is not a very good mix.

You reach down, plucking the cigarette from his fingers. Theodore observes you with a small smile, those sinful eyes of his boring into you as you take a drag, before passing the cigarette back to him.

“He was right,” Theodore says after a second, looking up at you, You tilt your head. If you were already slow at making these connections, the alcohol only made it worse.

“Hmm?” You hum.

“Mattheo. You did look stunning today.” Theodore says, voice low.

Instead of doing what you usually did (some awful combination of looking away, panicking or just remaining quiet), a lazy smirk tugs at your lips as you look down at Theodore.

“Yeah?” You question, and you're 100% sure you watch his eyes flicker down to your lips.

Theodore's eyes widen slightly, a mix of surprise and excitement flickering across his face as he absorbs your murmured words.

Tentatively, as though testing the waters, he sits up, back propped up against the headboard as he looks up at you. His hand tugs at the sleeve of your dress, pulling you down, His hand rests on the curve of your hip, massaging light circles, and you go dizzy at the feeling.

You make no effort to move.

Rather, in a bold surge of confidence that quite literally materialised from nowhere, you swing your leg over Theodore's lap, straddling him. His hands immediately find their place on your hips, as though they're meant to be there, and he's looking at you through half-lidded eyes.

You knew this was a bad idea, but the alcohol spoke prettier words than your rationale did.

“You certainly know how to make an impression.” He murmurs his fingers trailing lightly along your thigh. You resist the urge to shudder at his touch, goosebumps erupting on your skin as he touches you. You lean closer, admiring the features of his face as you speak, mere inches away from one another.

“Well, I had someone to impress.” You say. He lets out a small, wry laugh, though he's far too consumed with looking at you.

Close the gap. Do it.

You do.

With a surge of hunger, your hands fist his shirt, pulling him in. His hand cups the back of your head as he meets your lips in a passionate kiss, mouths melding together. He holds you tightly, his grip both possessive and comforting at the same time.

The bulge of his clothed cock presses against your wetness, grinding against you with a desperate need. A small meek escapes your lips and it’s as though Theodore immediately swallows the sound, tongue slipping into your mouth as you continue to make out. It’s simultaneously lazy yet desperate - hungry.

"Fuck," Theodore murmurs against your lips, his voice laced with desire. "You're driving me insane." He mutters, trailing open-mouth kisses down your jaw and neck. You moan, arching your back as you tilt your head back, giving him easier access. He wastes no time in sucking and kissing the delicate skin of your neck, tongue soothing the places he nips at you, your skin blossoming red and purple.

His hand trails down your body, his fingertips tracing along the swell of your breasts. A low groan escapes your lips, hands coming up to thread through his hair. You tug lightly and feel him smile against your neck. With deliberate slowness, he undoes the lace on the back of your dress as he continues to press sloppy kisses to your skin, undoing the top as he tugs it down. He pulls back, eyes hungrily taking in the sight.

He flips you over with alarming ease, pinning you down onto the mattress as he hovers above you, holding your hands down by the side of your head as he begins kissing down your neck to your breasts.

“Beautiful.” He murmurs, large hands coming up to cup one of them, the other holding your hands in place. He squeezes one of your nipples, pinching the bud lightly between his fingers as you gasp, arching off the bed. The sound is music to his ears, and he grins, his eyes remaining on you as he leans down and takes the other one into his mouth, tongue running over the sensitive bud as he pulls away, blowing lightly.

The contrast sends you into a haze, and a whimper escapes your lips. Theodore wants to devour the sound, he simply can’t get enough.

“Do you know how fucking long you’ve been on my mind?” He mutters, voice laced with desperation as he leans back down to kiss you, bulge grinding against your clothed cunt in a way that had you desperate for more. You can’t even formulate a response, because you’re all too consumed by Theodore. Everything about him.

He sits up slightly, hands resting on your thigh as he runs his hands up and down, his fingers disappearing under the hem of your dress.

You feel his fingers brush against the damp spot on your panties and swear that Theodore Nott will be the death of you.

Seemingly satisfied, a small smirk tugs at his lips, observing your reactions as he slowly pulls them down. He throws them to the side, and words cannot describe the look on his face as his eyes hungrily rake over you.

You needed him, every bone in your body ached with a visceral need for Theodore. Your hands come down to his belt, tugging at the buckle as you look over at Theodore, eyes glazed over as you were driven mad with your need for him.

He undoes his belt, the sound of the metal buckle clinking as he throws it onto your bed, unzipping his slacks. You can make out the bulge of his erection against his boxers and your heart skips a beat. You’re filled with this primal need to just have Theodore, you need as much of him as physically possible.

You tug his boxers down, freeing his strained erection from its confines. You swallow harshly at the sight of his cock, the tip glistening. You lean up to meet his lips in a kiss, your hands wrapping around his length as you give him a single jerk. You suddenly realise why Theodore was kissing you the way he was because the low groan that escaped Theodore's lips had you mad for more.

“Look at what you’ve done to me.” He murmurs, pushing you back onto the bed. He hiked the skirt of your dress up over your hips, eyes straying down as he spoke.

“You’ve unravelled every thread of control I have.” He says against your lips, teasingly running the head of his cock between your folds. A low moan escapes you, desperately seeking more friction.

“I’m going fucking crazy for you. I ache for you every second of the fucking day.” He mutters, and you pull back from the kiss, looking up at him.

“You have me now.” You respond.

His lips surge forward and meet yours in a kiss with renewed intensity, slowly thrusting into you.

You both let out a collective low groan as he slowly thrusts into you, and you can feel every inch of Theodore within, stretching you out so good you feel as though the simplest movement would split you open. A plethora of gasped curses escape your lips, but Theodore silences them instantly, coming down to kiss you deeply. He buried himself inside you fully, savouring the way you stretched to accommodate him, clenching tightly. He gives you a second to adjust before slowly pulling out. He rocks back in again, his moments slow and measured, but strained as though it’s taking every inch of self-restraint to not ravage you there and then.

“More. Don’t be nice.” You moan, and Theodores swears he won’t ever be the same again. One look at you, hair splayed out against the mattress, your back arched off the bed. It’s a sight he’d never forget.

“Don’t say shit like that. I’m already close to losing it.” He utters, voice strained as his hand grip your hips harshly, surely leaving imprints.

“Good. Ruin me.” You whisper, a fucked-out grin on your face.

Theodore groans, pulling out slightly before slamming back into you. You gasp, cursing as your hands grip Theodore's sheets. He sets a ruthless pace, fucking into you hard. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, though you’re sure it had to be muffled by the moans leaving your lips. It was only then that you were thankful for having a room all the way on the top floor. You both were too drunk to realise Muffliato did exist.

“God, you’re so fucking tight. Taking me so well. It’s like you were fucking made for my cock” Theodore groans, leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss. Your hands come up, running along his back as you lean up (to the best of your ability) to meet him in a kiss.

Theodore's forehead presses against yours, breaths mingling as he shifts slightly, before thrusting back into you. You can feel every inch of his cock brush against your walls, and you can’t help the pathetic plethora of moans and whimpers escaping your lips when he brushes against that spot, stoking a fire in your stomach.

“Theodore- Fuck! ‘m gonna…” You babble, and he lazily smirks, slowing down slightly as one hand tangles in your hair, tugging at it lightly. He experimentally plays with it for a second before harshly tugging your hair, eliciting another moan that felt like it came from the depths of your body, the line of pain and pleasure blurred.

“Hmm? You’ll have to speak up.” He hums, teasing you with shallow, slow thrusts.

You let out a whimper at the loss of contact, frustration gnawing at you as you look up at Theodore.

“Fuck, stop being such a tease. Please just..” You whimper, trailing off and he tuts, his grip on your hair tightening slightly as he forces you to look up at him.

“You have to tell me what you want. I don’t speak in half sentences, sweetheart.” He says, voice laced with an almost animalistic pleasure.

You groan, nails digging into Theodore's back as some slight form of retaliation.

“I’m gonna cum- please.” You say, breathlessly, and a small smirk tugs at his lips, his hand loosening its vice-like grip from your hair as it trails down the side of your face, his thumb running along your bottom lip.

“Good girl. Since you asked so nicely,” He muses, no longer teasing you with shallow thrusts as he wastes no time slamming back into you, cock brushing against your cervix. You moan, eyes rolling back as the heat in your stomach rises rapidly; the sensation of Theodore fucking into you was pure perfection.

“Theo…” You moan, breathlessly. He responds to you moaning his name with a harsh snap of his hips, nails digging into your hips as he grabs them tightly.

“Say it again.” He grunts, his thumb coming down to rub harsh circles against your neglected clit, sending a surge of electricity through you.

“Mmm- Ah, Fuck- Theo-“ You moan, and you’re sure you would have done it without him even asking.

“You close? Gonna cum on my cock?” He groans, and you’re sure you’ve become mush because you can’t respond, can’t think, your mind and body reduced down to one simple thing.

Theodore. Theodore, Theodore, Theodore.

You teeter impossibly close to your climax, nails scratching down his back. The sheer ecstasy was too much, and you felt like you couldn’t handle it but also like you needed more and more.

His eyes take over you, as if even though you're both inebriated, he tried to commit every little detail to memory, the way you moaned, mascara streaked around those eyes of yours.

His thrusts grow more intense, fingers working their magic against your clit as he brings you to your release. His relentless thrusts push you close to the edge over and over again,, eliciting a strangled moan from your lips as you feel his thrusts become sloppier, indicating that he was close. With what little strength you have left you wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer as his lips descend down onto you, ravishing you with messy kisses. It takes one last thrust for you to be sent hurtling over the edge, a cry of pleasure escaping your lips as your orgasm crashes through your body with frightening force. Your walls clench around Theodore's cock, eliciting a low groan from him as he chases his own release, eyes never leaving yours.

It’s positively sinful, but he’s sure he’s never seen a prettier sight.

“Fuck-“ He grunts, his movements becoming erratic as you feel him twitch inside you. your legs don’t give in, though you’re surprised you have the strength as the rest of your body convulses with the sheer intensity of your orgasm.

“So fucking perfect.” He gasps, and with one final thrust, he stalls, burying himself deep inside you as he groans, hands momentarily tightening their grip on your hips before relaxing slightly. He utters your name with reverence like a sinful prayer, coming down to press lazy kisses to your lips as he releases deep inside you.

You reciprocate the kisses, and embarrassingly whimper at the loss of contact as Theodore pulls out of you, collapsing down next to you. You’re both breathless, panting as you come down from a high you've never experienced before. The post-orgasmic haze lingers over you, making you feel impossibly sleepy. Your eyes flicker over to Theodore and it’s evident that he feels the same. Your eyes widen slightly when you see the red spattering along his neck, not realising when you had done that.

In any other situation, you both wouldn’t have done this in the first place. But the effects of the alcohol had you both giving into temptation, and you didn’t fully comprehend just how badly you both had fucked up.

You roll over, pressing a teasing kiss to the hollow of his throat as he tugs the blankets over the two of you, an arm wrapping around your waist as he pulls you into him. He rests his face in the crook between your neck and your shoulder, pressing a light kiss to your shoulder with an arm wrapped around your waist. You let out a small sigh of contentment, wrapping an arm around him as his hand massages your back and side lightly, the tender feeling sending you further into that sleepy state. The sheets smell of Theodore, and you find yourself (as you often did) consumed by him.

You and Theodore both fall asleep in each other's arms, holding onto one another as the night passes by.

You had fucked up, truly.

If only you knew the consequences your actions would bring in the morning.

You couldn’t even blame it on the alcohol, for it was a known saying that drunk words are sober thoughts.

The same undeniably applied to actions too.

@llpovi @camille-1019 @lovelyygirl8

#harry potter #slytherin #slytherin boys #tom riddle #draco malfoy #lorenzo berkshire #slytherin boys fic #blaise zabini #theodore nott #pansy parkinson #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x you #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott angst #theodore nott smut

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ghouljams · 2 months

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I can just imagine the first time König meets his darling goes a little like; he steps on one of her flowers and out of nowhere this woman appears and starts giving him the dressing down of his life for being "such a clumsy, unobservant oaf," but the whole time he's just starting at her with heart eyes.

She could also keep the name Bee, because she's buzzing about the flowers all day. Though, perhaps she's a bit more like a hornet with that fiery personality she has.

Yeah that's pretty much how it happens.

König has never cared much for plants, he walks through the garden with advisors in tow, grumbling and growling until he finally rounds on them to leave him the hell alone for two goddamn minutes. Christ he didn't become king so he could deal with all this mundanity, he became king because his father was weak and the kingdom was going to shit. Corruption was a hydra, each head he chopped off just sprouted three more. He needed people he could trust, not power hungry nobles that only sought to elevate their own status by joining his cabinet. He may have to look outside the kingdom for that.

König stops at the edge of a wide flower bed, well tended, but in his way. The garden is full of winding paths, ones meant to draw people in to the scenery and inspire admiration in whatever flora is blooming. As previously stated, König has never cared much for plants. He steps off the path and into the bed, not so carefully trampling over the blooms and delicate stems that live there. He's king, these are his gardens, he can destroy what he wishes. Actually it's sort of nice to destroy something after a long day of signing laws and reviewing tax nonsense. He steps more purposefully onto a rose bush, eyes wide and pleased at the way the thorns drag against his clothes and attempt to prick him. Good, he hopes they draw a little blood for the trouble it's causing to walk through them. He even hears them yelp.

Oh no, that was a human. He stops grinding his boot into the woody stems and glances back at you. You look horrified. You look mad. Oh you look mad. He feels the emotion sink down his spin like warm honey, your eyes are furious as you pick your way through the trampled flowers. Actually you stop and gasp in horror at one of the bushes he'd destroyed crouching to fret over the stems and cup the delicate petals. König takes that as his sign to continue his walk. He doesn't expect you to stand in front of him or push your hands against his chest to yell at him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" You ask him, fury edging your voice, his eyes dart between yours enjoying the fire in them, "Do you have any idea the work I've had to put in to make the hydrangeas that color? The soil has to be exactly right or they won't be red enough and look at what you're doing to my roses!" You push at him again, he tips his head to properly stare down at you.

"Move." He commands, and you push him again. Something shakes in his eyes, makes the world feel like it's trembling on the edge of insanity.

"You are supposed to stay on the path," You insist, "You move!"

"I am your king," König threatens, "Move or I will move you."

It hardly seems to make you do more than glare. He'd think you were stupid if he hadn't decided you were crazy. You point at the path he's made for himself. "This is my garden, and my flowers, and you-" You jab a finger against his chest, "-are going to apologize for ruining it."

König grabs your wrist and drags you, kicking, the rest of the way across the flower bed. You do your best, but he's sure to make you trample some of your precious flowers same as him. He tosses you onto the path and, though you stumble, you manage to keep yourself upright, glaring as he steps over the stone edging and back onto the path. You clench your hands into fists, and he hopes maybe you'll cry. He likes when that happens, it's fun seeing the waterworks. Instead you slap him, and all his anger and annoyance fall into the pit of his stomach as the chainmail mask stings both his cheek and your hand.

You seem to realize you've just struck the king almost as quickly as König realizes it. Though your reaction and his are miles apart. You freeze and he, decidedly doesn't. König grabs your arms and squeezes you, leaning in close to look you in the eye. You can smell the metal of his mask, see the almost reddish color of his irises. The mad dog that killed his father rather than wait for a throne that was already his. He's going to kill me, you think to yourself, watching the heave of his shoulders as he breathes.

"Do it again," He squeezes you tighter and your fear flips to confusion, "mein Herz, mein liebe, do it again Liebling."

Who are you to deny an order from your king?

#könig x reader #könig cod #könig mw2 #könig call of duty #cod x reader #x reader #x oc #cod x oc #medieval au #oc: liebling #König x oc #konig mw2 #they're freaks but that's fine #König finds out about Liebling's poison garden and asks to marry her #she turns him down immediately #I think König is a masochist #but in the way the hayao miyazaki is a masochist #he just assumes everyone enjoys pain like he does lol

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palioom · 9 months

Text

just a game

summary: you ask joel to fulfill a fantasy of yours. after some thinking, he agrees, absolutely surprising you.

pairing: joel miller x f!reader word count: 3.2k warnings:18+ content; no use of y/n (but a lot of nicknames) ; cnc (consensual non-consent); some knifeplay, oral (m receiving); fingering; unprotected p in v; some spanking; degradation & praise; aftercare; light bondage

• masterlist •

It was late when it happened. Standing at the kitchen counter, chopping some vegetables to add to the soup she was making.

The wind whirling the snow against the large windows, howling outside like the wolves in the forests.

She was too occupied to hear him, humming away to the tape he had gifted her on her birthday last year, swaying her hips from side to side as she concentrated on not cutting herself.

Just some old tunes, some she liked, some she didn’t at first but was falling more in love with as she played them over and over.

Hadn’t heard the noise of the switchblade or his heavy footsteps on the wooden floor.

Too wrapped up in her little world, thinking about how much he would love what she cooked.

Only when he stood right behind her, cold blade pressed to her neck, did she stop. Inhaling sharply as she felt him press up behind her, broad frame against her back, his other arm wrapping around her and crushing her against him.

Her kitchen knife falling out of her hand and onto the chopping board.

“Don’t scream or you’ll regret it.”

Heat already settling deep in her stomach, blood rushing through her ears.

So today was the day.

They had discussed this beforehand, and Joel had been apprehensive at first, unsure what she meant when she had brought up the idea.

The whole idea of wanting to be violated, to feel scared, it was strange to him, his look telling her everything she needed to know.

Feeling sad that he wouldn’t do this for her, but it had been worth a try to ask.

But then he had become interested, finding himself drawn to the idea of this, surprised by himself.

She seemed so excited by this idea, he couldn’t say no.

It was worth a try.

After figuring out a timeframe, and some safety measures, as he already pretty much knew her limits, she had just waited.

Day in and day out, anticipation keeping her on edge, just waiting for him to make a move, and now it was time.

“Been watching you for a few days, pretty girl living all alone?” He whispered against her ear with a smirk.

Adrenaline pumped through her, despite the fact she knew this was just a game, it was thrilling, feeling herself grow wet.

She struggled in his grip a little, at which his arm crushed her against his chest harder.

“You better stop resisting, darlin’, or I’ll cut your throat and fuck you while you bleed out.”

It shouldn’t excite her, but it did, struggling in his grasp and swallowing hard.

“What- What do you want?” She asked, voice shaking, trying to get a look at him.

He ground his hips into her ass and she could feel him already hard, having to bite back a moan.

“Just be a good little slut for me, think you can do that?” Voice dark and dripping with desire, but also something sinister. “Be my little whore?”

Her heart beat so fast in her chest she thought it was going to jump out of it, nodding with a shaky breath.

The knife travelled down her throat, down to her exposed collarbone, pressing the cold, flat metal against her skin.

With one swift motion, he had cut one strap of her tank top, making her gasp.

Her knees wobbled a little, scared but turned on by all of this, a whimper dying in her throat.

Joel yanked the fabric down, exposing her breast and letting the knife glide over it, goosebumps breaking out over her skin.

“Please, I’m-”

He shushed her, right in her ear, making her whimper loudly.

“Good whores don’t talk.” He said, smirking.

Eyeing the knife on the counter, she made an attempt to grab it, knowing she had no chance and it would only aggravate him, but trying nonetheless.

“Nuh-uh.” He grunted, tearing her away from the counter after slamming his own knife onto it in a swift motion, grabbing her wrists and twisting her arms behind her back so quickly she had no time to react.

Only yelping from the pain as he roughly kept them there, fishing a rag from the back pocket of his jeans.

“Good whores don’t struggle either, what do you think you’re doing, little girl?”

The rag stung her as he tied it around her wrists, pulling it tight so it cut into her skin, but not cutting off the blood flow.

She trusted him with this, even though she simultaneously didn’t trust him with anything right now, tears in her eyes as he stepped around her.

Feeling so scared, so anxious, but also safe at the same time.

It was a difficult tug of war of emotions inside of her.

The smirk on his face was downright devilish, she had rarely ever seen it on him, whimpering as he brushed his knuckles over her cheek.

Gently, like they were just back to normal.

She found herself actually recoiling from him.

“Please, don’t- I don’t- Please!” She sobbed, his hand twisting into her hair, yanking hard, making her cry out.

“I said good whores don’t talk, sweetheart. Maybe I gotta stuff that pretty mouth of yours to get you to shut the fuck up.” His dark eyes were stern, angry. “Get down on your knees.”

She knew there was no room for arguing, but she couldn’t, sobbing again, actually surprised at how easily he put her in this headspace of danger while also being incredibly aroused.

“No, please- I’ll-”

“Down!” He yelled, voice echoing in the small kitchen, pushing her down on her knees, towering over her. She wondered if the neighbours heard, what they were thinking. “It won’t get better if you’re being a fucking brat, darlin’.”

She looked up, seeing him blurry as tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Cry more, darlin’, only makes you look prettier.” He let go of her hair, hands moving to open his belt and then his jeans, pushing them down just enough to take his already hard cock out. “Told you not to talk and you did, maybe some cock in your mouth is gonna teach you how to follow some fucking orders, sweetheart.”

Wrapping one hand around the base of his cock, his other hand found the back of her head, fingers curling into her hair again. Joel guided his cock to her lips, smearing the precum all over them before giving her cheek a smack with it, chuckling.

“Gonna take it all, bet your mouth feels nice and wet.” Moving it back to her lips, he pressed against them. “Now be a good little slut and open wide.”

She refused at first, whimpering and trying to move her head away, but he kept her in an iron grip, yanking at her hair to get her to face him again.

“I said open.”

His voice was so cold and so dark that she did, feeling him slide past her lips, pushing in halfway with a deep grunt, stilling.

The salty taste already spreading over her tongue.

“Feel fucking amazing, doll. Now stay nice and relax and be a good slut for me.”

Slowly his hips rocked back and forth, forcing more of himself into her mouth with each thrust, groaning when the vibrations of her moans and whimpers went through him.

Tears still rolling down her cheeks, spit pooling at the corners of her mouth.

It was strange how she both enjoyed and hated it, keeping her jaw slack to accommodate his thick length.

“Just like that, ‘atta girl.” He grunted, enjoying the image of her on her knees and crying. “Ain’t that nice, mouth stuffed with cock? Bet you can take more.”

Forcing himself in all the way, she gagged, throat tightening around him and he groaned, having to keep himself from throwing his head back from how good it felt.

Her sounds became louder, struggling as she felt him at the back of her throat, trying to breathe through her nose, more tears stinging in her eyes.

Joel kept himself buried there all the way just a moment longer before he pulled back, letting her breathe.

She took big gulps of air between coughs, her jaw burning already, sobbing more, but also squeezing her thighs together, chasing some friction.

Joel noticed.

Grinning wider.

“Oh, someone likes that, huh?” He said, moving her head so she had to look at him, still breathing hard. “You dirty, little whore like it when I fuck your mouth? Bet you’re soaking your panties right now, wet from my cock down your throat.”

She shook her head, sputtering some words, trying to string together a sentence.

Unable to, her mind feeling like it was on a cloud, head spinning.

“If you love me fucking your mouth you’ll enjoy having my thick cock in your tight pussy.” He chuckled, his hand wandering to her throat now, gently squeezing the sides. “Tight little hole’s probably squeezing ‘round nothing right now, begging for some cock.”

She shook her head again, words stopping when he squeezed harder.

“You know you’re lyin’, sweetheart.”

Joel pushed her back, letting her fall onto the floor with a yelp and coming to kneel over her, ripping the other strap of her tank top and pulling the fabric down to her waist.

It hurt, the way she was lying on the ground, the way he looked at her unnerving her, the air cold against her exposed breasts.

His broad hands cupped the soft flesh, squeezing harshly, rough fingers rolling and tugging on her nipples, making her moan.

“Got such pretty tits, sweetheart.” He chuckled, staring her right in the eyes.

And god, was that stare frightening.

Joel was too good at this.

She tried kicking him, thrashing her legs but he swiftly grabbed the back of her thighs and pushed them up to her chest, making her cry out in pain.

“This won’t do, pretty girl, fucking kicking me when I’m just trying to enjoy your pretty tits.” He pressed himself against her, almost folding her in half, hands moving to the button on her jeans and opening them. “Looks like someone’s gotta need to learn their lesson. Don’t worry, darlin’, I’ll teach you and your tight, little pussy just right.”

She squirmed as he worked her pants down her legs, trying to kick more but giving up soon. He was too strong and too big, pushing her panties into her mouth when she started to protest again.

“Now look at you, gushing for me, dripping onto the floor like the little whore you are.” Holding her ankles in one hand, he pushed her legs up, making her cry out again, muffled against the fabric. “And you were trying to tell me you didn’t like this. Y’know, darlin’, I don’t really like lying, little sluts.”

Whimpering, she moaned loudly when he swiped one finger through her folds, bringing it up to his mouth and tasting her.

“Fucking delicious, sweetheart. Wish I had more time to really get a taste of you.” Joel worked two fingers into her, feeling her squeeze tightly around him, her legs squirming in his grasp.

Thrusting his fingers out rapidly, curling and scissoring them, he built her up fast, moans and grunts muffled as she squirmed.

The wet squelch of her echoed around them, feeling it drip down onto the floor.

“Listen to how wet you are, sweetheart, fucking dripping.” He chuckled, speeding up and curling his fingers into that spongy spot that made her see stars. “Gotta work you open a little, can’t have your pussy ruined the next time I visit. What a good girl you’re being when your mouth is full.”

Her orgasm took her by surprise, eyes rolling into the back of her head as she trembled, gushing all over his fingers.

“‘Atta girl, good, little slut. Get ‘em nice and wet for me.”

Slowing down, he finally pulled his fingers out of her, sucking them clean with a hum.

He let her legs down gently before grabbing her hips, moving to turn her onto her stomach, hoisting her ass up, her cheek pressed into the cool tiles of the floor.

She groaned, the pressure finally off her arms, still trembling slightly, fully exposed to him.

Her shoulders hurt, as did her wrists, but somehow it only added to the pleasure. A strange thought, that she was getting more and more turned on by how he treated her, all while tears still stained her cheeks.

Joel wasted no time, pushing himself against her, hands holding her up by her hips as he slowly dragged the head through her folds, then moved further up and teasingly pressed against the tight ring of muscle, making her try to move forward with noises of protest.

“Don’t want me to fuck your pretty asshole?” He asked, grinning as she shook her head but moving back down, nudging the fat head of his cock against her entrance. “There’s always a next time, sweetheart.”

Then he pushed in, sinking into her with one fluid motion, all the way to the hilt.

“What a pretty, tight pussy. All dripping for me, what a good slut you are.”

She groaned, tears in her eyes as he started a rough pace, pushing her up with each thrust, having to pull her back again and again as he sank himself into her.

“You look so good, darlin’, crying with your hands tied and my cock in you, feels good, huh?”

Her mind felt hazy, nodding as she cried, feeling overwhelmed by what was happening, the cool tiles in contrast to how hot she was feeling.

Like she was burning up from the inside.

A sharp smack landed on her ass, the sting making her cry out, which only earned her another.

“D’you hear how wet you are? C’mon, little girl, soak my cock for me.” He was losing his rhythm, leaning over her and pressing her into the floor with his entire weight now, his broad chest against her back. “Can’t wait to come back and fuck you again, sweetheart.”

Joel’s hand moved below her, finding her clit as he kept fucking into her, drawing rough circles into the swollen bud.

Ripping a second orgasm from her, her body trembling even worse, cries loud even despite the makeshift gag. The pleasure of it overwhelming, a mix of desire and shame rolling over her, burning into her skin.

Soaking his cock, hearing it drip onto the floor as he kept working his fingers over her, close himself.

“Just like that, ‘atta girl, ‘atta pretty girl.” He grunted, just rambling along, losing himself. “‘Atta fucking, little whore.”

He came with a loud grunt, burying himself to the hilt, filling her up.

It was like a switch had been flipped, as he slowly found his breath on top of her, feeling her still trembling and sobbing.

“Are you alright, darlin’?” He asked, removing her panties from her mouth, sobs now freely bouncing off the cabinets and walls. “Shh, I’m here, c’mere.”

Pulling out of her slowly, he undid her restraints, rubbing over the red, sore spots.

“Joel-” Her voice was hoarse, feeling spent and exhausted and just ready to sleep.

“M’here, don’t worry, sweetheart.” He said, gently picking her up and bringing her over to the living room, setting her down on the sofa. “You did well, wait for me, I’ll be right back.”

How easily he just turned back to normal.

One second brutal and unforgiving, the next carrying her like she was the most fragile thing in the world.

She tried to make sense of her feelings while he was gone, rubbing the red marks on her wrists, clumsily wrapping a blanket around herself.

It wasn’t because she was upset or terrified. Of course, it was terrifyingly real, to be subjected to him like this, knowing he could actually be capable of violence.

But it also felt exciting, the way he just took from her without a care in the world. His degrading words made her skin burn.

There was a war of emotions inside her, trying to shake that feeling.

“C’mere, drink something.” Joel was back, sitting down next to her, pulling her close as he held a glass of water to her lips, watching her drink greedily. “‘Atta girl. My pretty girl, you’ve done really well.”

He was soft and warm, gentle hands rubbing over her exposed thighs, his lips finding her temple.

Making her feel loved and protected.

Joel wrapped his arms around her once she had finished, leaning back with her on the sofa, kissing the top of her hair.

“Was I too rough? Talk to me, sweetheart.” He was worried about her, stroking her hair and her back as she slowly calmed down.

Joel had enjoyed himself, but this wasn’t worth it if she hadn’t.

“Was good.” She said, sinking into him, the warmth and softness of his body engulfing her, calming her mind and her nerves. Getting her out of that headspace, back into the real world.

Her hands wandered over his body, feeling his firm chest through his shirt, the soft belly.

“Did good, got me spooked.”

He chucked, kissing her forehead. “Guess I did. Did you enjoy yourself?”

She nodded, the hand on his side squeezing him gently

A quiet gesture, letting him know she was alright.

Sleep was already tugging at her, but his embrace felt so good, so safe, that she didn’t want to sleep just yet.

His voice soothing as he praised her, over and over.

“Did so well for me, like the good girl you always are for me, sweetheart.” He whispered, smiling. “M’glad you enjoyed yourself.”

Joel felt her drift off, just holding her tighter.

Feeling the need to protect her as he slowly found his head back in reality too.

“Thank you, Joel.” She murmured, sighing. “Liked it, felt good.”

A hiccup shook her, making both of them laugh quietly.

She felt safe again, his hands and voice dragging her out of the headspace she had been in. Comforted in his strong arms.

“Sleep, darlin’. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Seeing her so calm helped him tremendously, knowing he did it right, he’d done something she liked. That he hadn’t hurt her.

She nodded, letting sleep pull her under, feeling just safe enough.

“Love you, Joel.” It was barely audible, so quiet and words mumbled.

But he understood, squeezing her hip as his hand rested on it.

His response came in the form of a hum, allowing himself to sit here for just a little while, hearing her soft breaths, feeling her warmth against him.

It felt good, having helped her fulfill something she had thought about for a while, and despite her tears she seemed to have enjoyed it a lot.

“Let’s go to bed.” He whispered, picking her up. Careful not to wake her, smiling softly as he looked into her face, a little puffy and red but calm.

Yeah, he’d just make sure she got cleaned up properly in the morning and then they could talk.

Who knew, maybe he would get to help her again.

Maybe she had some more ideas to share with him.

#joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine #joel miller x reader #the last of us #the last of us hbo #the last of us imagine #pedro pascal #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal characters #my writing

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peachdues · 5 months

Text

SANEMI V. NO-NUT NOVEMBER

･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆ ･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳

In honor of it being Thanksgiving in the US, I thought I would feed you all. Happy Turkey Day, skanks.

CW: MDNI. Explicit sexual content.

Let’s count the ways you’ve tortured him over the last thirty days

You would purposefully wait until he arrived back home at his estate before getting yourself off — in his bed, or in his private bath, so that Sanemi had to watch or feel you working yourself, whimpering his name as you imagined your fingers were his.

You’ve never seen a man wound tighter than Sanemi, coming home after a long night of fighting demons and having to put up with incompetent younger Corps members, who is greeted with the sight of his lover, in his bed, legs spread wide open as she plunges her fingers in and out of her wet and ready core, moaning his name.

You also were fond of trouncing around his estate wearing little clothing — if any. In fact, you were far more fond of wearing nothing but his haori as you cooked for him. Sanemi thought you wouldn’t be able to resist him sidling up behind you and sliding his hands between its open folds to rest on your bare waist. He thought.

As it turned out, you were more than happy to swat away his eager hands and resume chopping vegetables. Sanemi managed to hold in his groan of frustration until you bent over to pick up a stray piece of carrot that escaped the pot.

Not to mention it was his BIRTHDAY on the 29th and you wouldn’t so much as let him eat his favorite cake (your pussy)

“But I’m not the one being pleasured, it’s you,” Sanemi’s voice bordered on a whine as he danced his fingers down the curve of your outer thigh. You swatted his hand away. “Need I remind you that, on more than one occasion, you’ve had to change your clothes after spending time between my legs?” Sanemi’s eyes are nearly bulging out of his head as you primly turn away from him, tightening the blanket around your half-nude form. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me —“ “Goodnight, ‘Nemi. Happy Birthday.”

But when the clock hits 12:01 AM December 1?

“If you think you’re walking out of this not pregnant — or that you’re walking out of here at all —,” he said severely, yanking you by the calves until your ass was pressed against his thighs. “Then you’ve got another thing fuckin’ coming.”

Listen. Sanemi respects the fuck out of women, but you’ve been disrespecting him for the last month. He’s about to get MEAN.

I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that Sanemi is going to need to purchase new furniture by the end of it; shit’s getting smashed by you two. The bed, dressers, tables, you name it, you’re getting fucked on it, and it’s getting broken.

You are being edged to oblivion. If you whine or complain, it only makes the punishment that much worse (so does crying but he actually wants to see those big fat tears). Sanemi breaks up pace consistently to ensure this happens. Also, he’s gonna cum as much as he wants, but you’re not until he says so.

And when he finally, finally lets you cum, don’t you dare think it’s over — now he’s going to overstimulate you until you’re sobbing (again)

“You think you’re done, sweet girl?” His saccharine coos made your stomach curl because you knew that tone meant he was being anything but sweet. “Like hell you are.” Sanemi flipped the pair of you over, forcing you to lay with your back against his chest, your arms pinned behind you. The hand not restraining you slid to your throat, gripping softly and tilting your head back against him as Sanemi began to thrust sharply up into you. “I’ve had to watch you cum around everything but me for the last month, darlin’,” his teeth sank down into the soft flesh between your shoulder and neck. The wince you made at the sharp prick of his teeth was quickly chased away with a few soothing licks and caresses from his deceptively soft lips. “So you’re gonna be my good girl and cum on my cock until I’ve decided you’ve had enough. Understand?”

It gets to the point where you genuinely cannot tell apart the fluids on your skin — sweat, your cum, his cum, or your tears

When he’s finally out of stamina (which is like. days later, RIP you), the last few rounds are much slower, and he’s much softer and clingier. Granted, he’s shooting blanks by then because he’s also overstimulated and exhausted, but he thinks he’s made his point clear enough. He’s actually asking you for just one more, and if you’re crying, he’s quick to kiss the tears away and murmur words of encouragement and love

“Fuck, baby,” Sanemi moaned, his feet digging into the plush of his futon as a means of giving himself leverage to push into you, his thighs and hips having long since lost the ability to work with the same vigor they had when he’d first bent you over. “You feel too fucking good to stop.” You cried out, fists clenching against the painful pleasure your lover continued to bestow upon you. Part of you was desperate for him to stop, to rest, but your body kept betraying you, your legs tightening around his waist to hold him in place. “S-Sanemi,” you whimpered, fingers digging into the ropey muscles of his shoulders, unable to decide whether to pull him closer or push him away. “No m-more — I c-can’t —“ “One more, sweetheart, just one more.” He cooed, bending his face low to brush kiss after kiss against your lips, swallowing your moans and whimpers. Sanemi braced his weight upon his fists, situated on either side of your hips as he continued to rock into you. His pace now was far at odds with the one he’d maintained over the last day or two, with the scar-speckled Wind Pillar forgoing his vicious, unrelenting speed that had you clinging onto the nearest piece of furniture for dear life in favor of something far softer and more gentle. “You can do that for me, right?” Sanemi circled his hips. "Just one more, sweet thing, that's all I ask."

And you give it to him; though there are big, fat tears leaking down your cheeks and though every nerve in your body is screaming for a break, you come apart around him once more. But Sanemi still isn't fully satisfied even though he's a groaning, cursing mess rutting into you, so his thumb works its way between your legs and presses down. Only when a surge of your sticky fluid springs forth and coats his abdomen and groin, does Sanemi finally relax, his own climax rolling into him like a steady wave.

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #sanemi shinazugawa #kny #kny x reader #kny fanfic #kny sanemi #sanemi x reader #kny smut #demon slayer smut #shinazugawa sanemi #sanemi smut

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grimesthinker · 10 months

Note

Stepdad!rick getting all jealous when you have a boy over and you have to try your hardest to bite back your smile at his attitude.

nsfw ˑ ੈ ♡‧₊˚ edging, fingering, condescending rick (kinda)

"you expectin' someone?" rick lifts a brow as he makes his way down the stairs, gesturing to the way you keep biting your lip and peeking out of the window.

"maybe." you smooth out your dress and turn to him. "i invited a boy over for dinner. hope you don't mind." your tone is sweet, polite. but rick knows you better than that. he can see through the princess exterior and can tell when you're taunting him.

he makes a face and you can tell he's fighting the urge to say more. if your mother wasn't standing in the kitchen chopping vegetables, he'd tell you to drop the attitude. his eyes drop down to your pretty, white, ruffly dress. it stops just above your knees. he remembers you trading a girl at hilltop for it, giving her a few seeds in return. he tears his eyes from your body, and goes to make conversation with your mother.

a few moments later, a knock comes at the door, and your eyes light up as you answer it. a bright eyed boy your age stands there, and you smile and invite him in. he hasn't been in alexandria long, so you politely introduce him to your mother and rick.

"this is my mom," she smiles politely. "and this is my... step father." rick bites back a chuckle at that.

"rick." he sticks his calloused hand out and the boy nervously takes it. rick grips too hard and the boy winces. rick smiles. what an ass.

dinner goes well. that is, if you don't count the way rick makes a face and fights the urge to roll his eyes at everything the boy says. although he was sweet and talkative enough, your attention wasn't even on him. it was on rick and his hands. and his jaw. and his eyes. he grips his glass a bit too hard when the boy says something about how pretty your dress is, and you squeeze your thighs together. you snap out of your thoughts, the ones about how good rick's big fingers would feel inside of you right now, and smile kindly.

the boy thanks your mother for dinner and you silently scold yourself for not being as into him as you should be. he's kind, really. but you're bored. as he prepares to go home himself, you speak by the door and say your goodbyes. you know rick is watching. that's why you place a sweet, simple kiss on the boy's lips.

a moment later, your mother says she has a headache and goes to bed early. you tell her you'll finish cleaning up. she kisses her boyfriend goodnight and goes upstairs. you turn the hot water on and begin to rinse a plate off. now that you're alone with rick, your breaths are shallow and you don't even dare to look back at him.

"he was nice, huh?" his voice isn't sincere. you know that. he takes a plate and gently places it in the sink. you don't even look at him. he doesn't like that, clearly, because he turns off the water and stands close to you now, nearly towering over you.

"look at me." you don't dare to disobey anymore than you already have. you turn your head and look up at him. your eyelashes flutter. you chew on your bottom lip.

"had so much attitude earlier, princess. what happened?" his hand gently smooths your hair from your face. his thumb traces your bottom lip.

"i.....well...." you stammer. he grips your hips and turns you around so you're pressed against the kitchen sink. your eyes widen. a deer caught in headlights.

"you think he'd treat you like this?" he whispers into your ear. he traps you against the counter, his hand running up your thigh. you don't answer. his hand forcefully spreads your legs and he traces a finger along your already soaked panties. you whimper. "you think he could make you come like i can?" he laughs. it makes you shudder. "answer me, doll."

"no..i'm sorry..i...." you stumble and he lifts your hips so your ass is on the counter. he swiftly moves your panties to the side and slips two fingers inside your cunt, making you gasp. you're so wet already, he hisses through his teeth. you always do this. taunt him when others are around and then immediately succumb to him once you're alone. you can't help it. sure, you can be a brat. you both know that. but then he gets like this, and you want nothing more than to be a good girl for him.

you become a teary eyed, whimpering mess as his fingers fuck you. he watches the way your pretty lips part and hips buck slightly. "shut up." he whispers against your lips. tears stream down your face at that. "sweetheart," he coos and kisses your wobbly lips. "don't wanna wake her up, do we?"

you shake your head and tension builds in your tummy. your breath catches and when you're about to shakily ask for permission to come, he pulls out. you cry out at the loss of contact and he grips your thigh hard. "you should've thought about that when you invited that little boy over."

#the walking dead #rick grimes ⛥*:･#rick grimes #rick grimes x reader #rick grimes smut #andrew lincoln #rick grimes imagine

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roanniom · 1 year

Note

also hi i reread the housewife!reader fic and uhhh eddie’s other ideas…like fucking you in only an apron?! hear me out: EDDIE is wearing the apron. *may be niche but i go feral for men in aprons!!!!!

The Apron

Eddie Munson x fem!reader

Warnings: NSFW, 18+ ONLY, dirty talk, slight sub!Eddie but really switch energy from both Eddie and reader, hand job

Eddie does nice things for you all the time, so it isn't surprising to find him in the kitchen taking care of dinner after you called him from work telling him what a shit day you were having.

Hearing you close the front door, Eddie turns from the counter where he's chopping vegetables to give you the biggest grin.

"There you are, beautiful. Come over here and let me get you a glass of wine."

You drop your bag on the floor in awe. Again, not because you're shocked by Eddie doing something so nice but because of the very look of him right now. He's shirtless, wearing just a pair of boxers and tube socks. And your flower print apron.

When he doesn't hear you move further into the apartment, Eddie looks over his shoulder, worried.

"Babe? You okay?"

Not a second later, you're on him. You've got him pressed against the counter, your front pushing into his back. You have to stand up on tip toes to reach, but you plaster kisses to the back and side of his neck once you sweep his long hair out of the way.

"Mmm missed you," is all you manage to mutter against his skin. Eddie is frozen under your grasp, not knowing how to receive being manhandled in this way. It is quite the role reversal. In fact, this exact situation has happened many times, just flipped. With him engulfing you in his arms in the kitchen and grinding against you and whispering dirty words in your ear until you're nothing more than a puddle.

"Missed you, too, sweetheart," Eddie stutters in response. But your next action has him pushing away the knife he'd been holding so he can grip the edge of the countertop instead. You step so that both of your feet are on either side of his right one and push your hips against him, finding friction somewhere between the expanse of his thigh and the curve of his ass.

"Love seeing you make dinner for me," you say into his shoulder before nipping at it. Eddie intakes breath sharply on a chuckle.

"Yeah? You like me taking care of you?" he asks.

"Yeah. I do. It's really hot." Your hands go from his hips to rest over her hands where they grip the counter, interlacing your fingers with his tight ones. You have no idea where this dominance is coming from. Both you and Eddie have always been pretty switch-y, but without the context of the bedroom, this is almost out of character. But Eddie doesn't seem to mind. Not when he's shifting back against your hips and humming.

"If this alone is turning you on, wait till you find out what I'm making you."

"Oh yeah, pretty boy? What are you making me?" you ask, sucking a hickey directly into the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

"That pasta you like," he replies, but his voice is breathier than before. It makes you run your hands up his forearms and under the top of the apron. So you can run your fingernails across his bare chest. He hisses and buckles forward a tiny bit, giving you more to press yourself against.

"Sounds delicious," you whisper in his ear. "But maybe I'm hungry for something else."

Before Eddie can respond, you're pulling him to face you, pinning him back against the counter where you've trapped him since your arrival and grabbing his face to pull him down into a soul sucking kiss.

It's need and dirty, and the sounds that issue from both of you are nothing short of filthy.

This is what you needed. During your awful day at work where you're the assistant to a horrible boss, all you could think about was your lack of importance. Lack of control. You had absolutely no power and no autonomy, especially not in the face of an office full of men who treat you like a piece of meat.

It's not that you want to treat Eddie like a piece of meat, of course. You love him and you respect him. He is everything to you and he takes care of you like you've never been taken care of before. But there is a sort of rush flowing through your veins at the idea of manhandling him. Of getting him worked up and using him for you own (and his own) pleasure after a day of feeling so insignificant. Here, in the warmth of this kitchen, you’re nothing if not significant.

Your tongue plunders his mouth and your hands slide down to his waist, squeezing and gripping and groping. Yet again you step so that your feet are on either side of one of his. Eddie immediately bends at the knee, raising his thigh up to slot between yours and giving you a surface to press against. You're feeling needier by the second, but your urge to stay in control makes it so that you reserve yourself to only a few intentional rolls of your hips.

Eddie's hands are in your hair, on your neck, on your back, on your breasts. He's practically beside himself, preening underneath all of the unexpected attention you are lavishing on him.

When you finally pull back for a more considerable breath of air, Eddie tries to chase your lips, so you keep him held back by your grip on the hair at the nape of his neck. The sting of the pull makes him hiss and he grins at you, almost drunkenly.

"I'm not one to question a good thing, princess, believe me, but what's got you so worked up?" he asks. His voice is low and gravely and it makes you want to swallow his vocal cords. So you do the next best thing, licking up the column of his throat and sucking another bruise just to the left of his adam's apple, making him moan outright.

"You. You in this fucking apron," you grit out finally, all thoughts of gender norms and their uselessness swirling around in your head in flurry of lust and confusion. You pull away from him to take him in once more and end up running a hand down your face. "Oh...fuck."

"What?" Eddie asks before looking down and seeing exactly what you're reacting to - the prominent tenting of said apron directly over his lap. With nothing but the thin fabric of his boxers covering him, his erection is standing proudly, almost begging for your attention.

Eddie laughs at your wide eyed staring.

"Of course my dick is hard. What was it supposed to do with you comin' at me like that? Rubbing that sweet pussy all over me." His words are dismissive, as if he doesn't know the way they seep right to your very core.

"I don't know it's just..." you cock your head to the side and drink in the image of your man, wearing your apron in your shared kitchen, his hard on lifting the fabric with the strength of his desire for you. You run your hand from the top of the garment down to squeeze his length through the fabric. “It’s sexy.”

“Me cooking for you is hot and sexy? I’m never letting you in this kitchen again, baby.” Eddie tries to make his joke, but it comes out distracted as your hand moves beneath the fabric of the apron and under the waistband of his boxers. He’s hot and hard and aching, and you’ve barely done anything. There’s something in the way you’re looking at him that makes him whimper, a sound you definitely don’t miss. It makes you bring your hand back out, and you lift it to his face.

“Spit.”

He does as you order immediately, without even a thought. You return your now lubricated hand back beneath the apron and his boxers. The rub is slick as you start pumping him.

“Fuck,” he says quietly, staring down with hooded eyes. He’s watching the way your fist pumps under the apron, moving the fabric up and down with each tug of his cock.

“Like that, baby?” you all but coo. Eddie nods his head distractedly so you hum. “Yeah? Like it when I take care of you right back?”

The role reversal is heady and you love that he seems just as lost in it as you are. Not that you had really been worried he wouldn’t be into it - it’s Eddie, he’s into almost anything that includes his dick and your body - but you preen with pride that the vibe pushing your buttons today also works for him .

The only thing is he’s kinda quiet. And as someone who is used to a motor mouth Munson, you’re not satisfied with his gasping silence.

So you decide to egg him on.

“You know what I really need from you right now, Eddie?”

“W-what?”

You lean up on your tip toes, gripping Eddie by the back of his neck with your free hand to bring him down closer to you so you can breathe hotly in his ear.

“I really, really need you to cum.”

Eddie lets out a strangled moan as you couple your statement with a pointed swirl of your thumb on his sensitive, leaking slit. His hips rock forward into your hand and you laugh at his eagerness.

"I need you to cum all over my hand. Can you do that for me, Eddie?"

"Y-yeah, I can do that."

"For me, baby?"

"Anything," Eddie says, eyes all desperate and hazy but still finding yours. You shift the apron out of the way finally so you can both watch your hand pumping away at his swollen cock. You gasp dramatically at the sight.

"Oh look at that! It seems like you really do need to cum, huh?" You're teasing him, your voice all taunting. The sight of your smaller hand on his big, throbbing dick, mixed with the sound of your sweet condescension, makes Eddie groan. Teasing was usually his job, but having you do it made all the blood in his body shoot straight to the space between his thighs, even more than before. Which means there was absolutely none left to power his brain, leaving him to babble almost incoherently.

"Need it," he grunts.

"I know, baby. I can feel you throb in my hand. Gonna burst, huh?"

"Oh fuck..."

You lean up again and lick the shell of his ear, making him shiver.

"If you cum right now, how long do you think it'll take for you to get hard again?"

Eddie's brain glitches and he stutters, his fingers turning white against the edge of the countertop.

"I-I...I don't know..."

"You don't know? Hmm?" you ask, letting your free hand slide down from his neck, over his chest and abdomen, over your slick-wet hand where it tugs at him, and down to cup his balls. "Well why don't you hurry up and stain this apron so we can find out. Yeah?"

"Oh my fucking god," Eddie gasps in response, hips bucking into you at this point.

The two of you have done much more depraved shit than this, so he has no idea why he is melting like warm butter in the sun under your touch. But there's something about the confidence of your hand on him. The newness of the gravel and heat in your voice. The promise mixed with the command. It's unlocking a door he hadn't considered before in your dynamic, and out of nowhere he feels close to tears from a simple hand job.

His hazy eyes find yours again and you correctly read the plea in them. The need for you to follow through with the power you currently hold over him. The corner of your mouth quirks up into a grin and you lean forward to suck a dark and sudden mark into his throat before whispering huskily into his ear.

"Cum for me, big boy."

The moan Eddie lets out is otherworldly, filling the space of your small kitchen and echoing throughout your small shared home. His cock pulses in your grip and then he's cumming. Fast and hard. Hot spend shooting out over your fist and onto your apron and your work top. It's so much, all over and you let out a shuddering, pleased laugh.

"There we go. That's it, Eddie. That's it, baby," you encourage, milking his cock for all he's worth, helping him expel the last of his cum so that it dribbles down over your wrist. "Mmm, bet that felt so good, huh? Mmm look so pretty for me."

You're swept into Eddie's arms before you can praise him any further. He crushes your body to his and clings to you, his lips finding yours in a bruising kiss. It knocks the air out of you but fills your lungs nonetheless. The act calls attention to the throbbing between your own thighs, and within moments you find yourself rutting against his thigh almost unconsciously.

Eddie is the first to break the soul sucking kiss, though he does immediately move down to rip open the buttons of your work blouse to litter kisses over your neck, clavicle, and the swells of your breasts.

"Gonna take what you want from me, princess?" he hums gruffly, words made husky from the way his groans had abused his vocal cords. "You already took all my cum."

There it is. Not exactly dominance, but a glimmer of the cheeky confidence that usually colored every sexual encounter between the two of you. You feel your body heat up even further as a rush of adrenaline makes your hips move faster, pushing your clothed pussy over his thigh at a faster rate.

"You've got more to give," you respond breathlessly. Your smirk makes his already dark eyes darken impossibly further. "You've always got more." There. You're not letting go of control that easily. Eddie's answering smirk makes you realize that maybe neither of you need to let go. Maybe the two of you can continue this back and forth, this give and take. This dance of pushing and pulling, breaking each other down and building each other back up until time itself bends around the two of you.

Eddie, to your disappointment, pulls away from you enough to pull the soiled apron off his body. The movement calls attention back to his cock, now tucked back inside his ruined boxers, allowing you to see that he's begun to harden again in a marvelous show of stamina.

"I'll give you anything, baby," Eddie grins. He turns the stove off before hoisting you into the air. Your legs wind around his torso and your hands find his hair so you can mark the remaining pale real estate of his neck and shoulders as he stumbles towards the bedroom.

"Anything."

~*~

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I hope you enjoyed!!! Please let me know and thanks for reading!

#eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x you #stranger things smut

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lizthewriter · 6 months

Text

gorgeous / roronoa zoro

PAIRING fem!reader x roronoa zoro

SUMMARY you have been absolutely smitten for one gloriously skilled swordsman for a long time now and zoro has been pining over you for as long as you have known each other. however, due to some extenuating circumstances and some accidental happenstances, the two of you think the other loves someone else. your crew takes matters into their own hands, forcing the both of you to admit your feelings for one another.

TAGS fem!reader x roronoa zoro, reader has she/her pronouns, sanji, nami, usopp, luffy, idiots in love, locked closet (well, kitchen in this case), admitting feelings, making out, when you realize the both of you are stupid

QUOTE "if you've got a girlfriend, I'm jealous of her, / but if you're single, that's honestly worse, / cause you're so gorgeous, it actually hurts (honey it hurts)," - gorgeous by taylor swift

WORD COUNT 1.7K

WRITTEN 10.24.2023

You weren't sure what exactly was going on with you and Zoro - you felt as though there was some romantic subtext between you, but it was just impossible to really tell because everytime you came close to kissing or holding hands or admiting your feelings, he left before you could even say "bye." And then there was the case of Nami. Everytime you happened upon him, he was always with her. And that wasn't to say you didn't like Nami. No, far from it, but it was just the unfortunate circumstance of Zoro feeling some type of way about her. It wasn't deniable - they were laughing and sparring and joking around together all the time. They even bickered like an old married couple too.

You sought comfort in the form of a friend - Sanji. The blonde-haired cook was always kind and warm, welcoming you into the kitchen with a smile and a bowl of soup. He allowed you to bring your tomes along with you (you were the crew's scholar) and even went as far to let you rant about your feelings towards Zoro. He would sit there, chopping up carrots and onions and garlic, while you whined and complained and cried.

Today was no different. You stormed into the kitchen, a large leather-bound book tucked under your arm, slamming the door behind you. Sanji didn't even jump, his back towards you as he stirred a large pot of soup.

"What happened this time?" He asked, his voice calm and unwavering.

"He - he - they're sparring and he landed on top of her and they just sat there!" You exclaimed, slamming your book down next to a bowl of soup. You grabbed the bowl and pulled it towards you as you sat down, shoveling a spoonful into your mouth. "Your soup tastes wonderful today," you told him begrudgingly, tone still enraged.

"I'm glad you think so - I added a bit lemon this time," Sanji responded. He turned around, flipping a towel over his shoulder and swinging his hair out of his face. He gripped the edges of the table as he looked down at you with a grin, tilting his head. "I wouldn't worry about the two of them if I were you - they're nothing more than friends."

You held up your fingers, your thumb and forefinger almost touching each other. "Their faces were this far apart. Do you see this? They were practically making out!" You spooned some more soup into your mouth, grumbling a string of noncoherent words.

Sanji sighed, turning back towards his soup with a shake of his head.

"It's almost sad to watch them," Nami said with a small smile, watching you and Zoro talking together while overlooking the vast expanse of the ocean. Both of you were blushing, your hands inches away from each other and pining to be closer. When one of you turned your heads to look at the other, and your eyes met, you immediately looked away with reddened cheeks.

"It is sad to watch them," Usopp responded, cringing as he watched the both of you. He turned to Sanji and Nami. "Are you serious? Zoro thinks she likes Sanji when she's really confiding in Sanji about him, and she thinks that Zoro likes you when he's really confiding in you about her?"

"Well, when you put it like that, it sounds a lot more complicated than it actually is," Sanji responded, letting out a puff of smoke. He put out his cigarette on a crystal ash tray and sighed. "Look, we just have to figure out a way to get them to confess to each other. A way where they can't run away from their feelings."

The three of them went silent, lost in thought. They were startled as something dropped onto the floor in front of them - Luffy had been hanging from the rafters, listening all along. He pushed himself up from the ground, brushing off his Hawaiian shirt and straightening his straw hat. "Why don't you just shove them in a closet together or something?"

Nami raised her eyebrows, glancing towards Sanji and Usopp who were both already looking between each other, grinning.

"You're the smartest one here, you're got to help him!" Sanji exclaimed, dragging you by your arm. You were trying to keep up with his pace, but your heart was beating a thousand miles a minute as aderanline pumped through your veins. Yes you were rhe smartest one here, bur you knew nothing about wounds or blood or bandages! You were all books, no blood. Whyever would the crew think you had an idea on how to heal a knife wound?

"Sanji, I'm a scholar, not a doctor!" You exclaimed with a gasp as you turned down another corridor. "I don't know how to care for wounds properly, much less how to dress one! Besides, weren't you the one that helped him when Mihawk -"

"That was all adrenaline," Sanji responded. "We've got you now, I know you can do it!"

Suddenly, you were shoved into the kitchen and the door slammed shut behind you. You turned around, slamming your hand on the door. "Sanji!" You shouted angrily, fidt pounding on the wood. "Sanji, you asshat, what the hell? Is this some kind of stupid prank, cause it's not. Funny!"

You heard the other door to the kitchen open and watched as someone shoved Zoro into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Zoro glanced at you, then glanced towards the door with a panicked expression. He let out a sigh of irritation, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"We'll let you two out in an hour," Sanji shouted from outside. "Once you sort out this - mess you lot have gotten yourselves into." You would've shouted at the bastard some more were it not for the sound of resounding footsteps, leaving the two of you completely alone.

"So . . ." You started, unsure how to approach the situation. You couldn't believe Sanji, that bastard, had locked you in a room with the crew member he knew you were in love with. "You're not wounded?"

"I was told you were hurt," Zoro said gruffly. "But I guess that's not true." His demeanor was awkward, more awkward than had ever been near you. You found it slightly unnerving and doubts began to creep in your mind. Had you done something wrong? Perhaps Nami had convinced Zoro to tell you his true thoughts about you, or even worse, that they were together and you couldn't be friends anymore. Your negative fantasies began to spiral and it was soon evident to Zoro that you were lost.

"You all right? You do look a little sick."

"What?" You asked, returning to reality. You suddenly shook your head with a shy smile, waving your hands in disregard. "No, no, I'm fine, I'm just thinking about - uh - something else."

"Right." Zoro's thumbs settled under his belt as he rocked back on his feet. As he did so, his swords clanked together, providing a lonely noise in the awkward silence.

"So you and Nami -"

"I've noticed you and Sanji -"

The two of you stared at each other for a moment before both responding at once again.

"What about her?"

"Sanji and me? Are you crazy?"

Both of you shared expressions of slight shock. You were the first to respond.

"I just - I've noticed the two of you happen to have spent a lot of time together recently. I thought maybe - you two were . . ." You let your voice trailed off, hoping that Zoro would understand what you were insinuating, but he looked much more like a lost puppy. "You know." It seemed he didn't. You let out an exasperated sigh and sunken over to one of the clean counters, hopping on top of it and gripping the edge of it. "Dating. Together. Or, something along those lines."

"Are you serious?" Zoro asked, bowing his head with a raised eyebrow. He chuckled, glancing away from you and running a hand down his chin. "No, no, Nami is just a friend, nothing more. You and Sanji, however, I thought were much more than that. Everytime I come into the kitchen, you two immediately stop talking with each other. I thought the two of you were fucking or something but Nami's been persistent in the assumption that, well . . ." He slowly made his way towards you until her was standing inbetween your legs, tilting his head upwards to meet your eyes with a strong gaze. "You like me."

You gulped and turned your head away with a nervous laugh. "What? That's - now that's ridiculous. You and me? Me, liking you?" You sputtered out another laugh but failed to hide your rosy cheeks. Zoro continued to stare into your eyes with that indifferent expression of his. You shifted uncomfortably. "Okay, fine, I do . . . like you, Zoro. A lot. I just . . . I didn't think it worthy of mentioning because you seemed like you and Nami were -"

"Well we're not." He placed his hands next to yours, gripping the edge of the counter and leaning in close. "So what are you going to do about it, hm?" His eyes flitted down to your lips and he ran his tounge against his own before returning his gaze to your eyes.

Now, he could be testing you. But see, at this point, you had spent so much time hiding your feelings for him, holding back. It had felt so relieving to finally tell him after all this time that you couldn't just go back to that phase of pretending as though you felt nothing towards the man.

It was rushed - one of your hand tangled in his hair as you ferociously smashed your lips against his. The other you placed onto his hand. He seemed shocked at your sudden confidence but swiftly and hungrily kissed you back, one hand coming up to grip your face. He groaned into your mouth but you quickly swallowed up the noise and wrapped your legs around his hips, urging him closer.

"Been waiting so long . . . I need you," you muttered into his lips before kissing him once more. You toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck, curling it around his fingers.

"Is that so?" Zoro asked in response, pulling away. His breath was hot and heavy on your ear. He planted a sloppy kiss on your neck, causing you to let out an almost imperceptible whimper. "So needy, huh? Don't worry baby, I don't think they'll be opening those doors for a while."

#— [ glizzy posts ☆ ]#zoro x you #zoro roronoa x reader #zoro x reader #one piece zoro #one piece #one piece netflix #one piece fan fiction #my writing #fanfiction #my fanfiction #my fic #writing #fanfic

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fyeahnix · 28 days

Text

Local Deadly Weapons Expert Sevika gets reeeaaaaal nervous when her gf handles sharp objects.

The way Sevika had been staring at you for the last minute made you want to burst into laughter. With her arms crossed, her fingers twitched and tapped her bronze arm. Her eyebrow cocked.

"You sure you don't need any help?" she said.

Funny.

"Yes, hun, I'm sure. You asked me already. Now go relax while I finish up."

She said nothing, but her eyes flickered between you and the cutting board.

You had always cradled kitchen knives in your fingers exactly the way your dad taught you: three on the grip, two at the base of the blade. This time, Sevika caught you before you settled in. Asked if you were okay. You kept up the charade for no other reason than to watch her squirm.

The corner of her top lip quivered with each awkward slide of the knife. You held the chunk of potato with your opposite hand, keeping your digits just out of reach in case of an accidental slip. The blade was sharpened well, mind, but you played up its dulled edge well enough to make Sevika fidgety.

The potato dwindled down to a scrap, barely enough room to fit the tips of your fingers. The final slice cut close. Sevika winced in your periphery, and in half a second she was nudged against you, massaging the knife from your hand.

"Lemme help. Please."

Hilarious.

"Vika, it's fine, I got it," you said, smirking, though you made no attempt to refuse.

Sevika set the knife aside. She clicked her tongue and trapped you against the counter. When she leaned in, she brushed her nose right up against the back of your ear. You couldn't help but roll your neck back a few degrees.

"I know you're doing that on purpose, you little shit."

"Doing what on purpose?"

"The knife shit. Thought you were tired or something. Don't be careless."

"Am I making you nervous?"

You shivered at the puff of air masking a scoff or laugh.

"Yeah. You are making me nervous," she whispered.

You turned immediately. "And what are you gonna do about it?"

Many moons ago, Sevika would have dodged the question. Her gruff exterior wasn't a front—she waved off any verbal expression of affection or care in favor of action. As much as you loved how action-oriented she was, any affection uttered directly always made you swoon. Buuut...you were still fine throwing her a bone.

The height difference between you never failed to make you melt. You felt small beneath her worried gaze. Not powerless, but definitely small.

And well, maybe, the combination of all three made you a little...needy. And hot.

She glared at you playfully before her expression softened. Her wolf-grey eyes twinkled. When she leaned in, your body followed the script. She gave you one quick peck on the lips before she delved deeper with lips and tongue. You returned with equal fervor as you pulled her closer by her pants waistband.

The kiss was fleeting but enough to leave you reeling when she pulled away. She glided her tongue over your bottom lip as a memento. You quickly moved from the waistband to her zipper, but she caught your hand and spun you around slowly. She placed your hand back on the counter. Her own trailed up your arm to your shoulder. From your shoulder blades down to your ribs. Waist to your ass. She squeezed you, shook you gently. Rubbed and squeezed again and again and—

Smack!

Your ass clenched and you sucked air through your teeth. It was a gentle, but loud swat that didn't do your situation any justice. Before you could even respond, Sevika grazed your ear again and whispered.

"Be more careful... please."

She pecked the space behind your ear and left you to finish dinner prep.

You stared at the mess of chopped potatoes and onions on the cutting board. Your cheeks and ass burned. Sevika played you at your own game, and you had no one but to blame but yourself.

taglist: @gaudesstuff @archangeldyke-all @abitohoney @sexysapphicshopowner @iamaboringrattat @animexaddictedtwt @ash-fall7

#Arcane #Sevika #Sevika x Reader #Sevika x You #Canon x reader #reader insert #Sevika imagine #Sevika headcanon #writing #headcanon #headcanon: sevika #if you wanna be added to my sevika taglist let me knoooow

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thebxghag · 7 months

Text

Fresh Start

Aang offers to tidy up the unruly mess that Azula has made of her hair three days after they've been on the road as a silent, tense, unit.

The others are off tending to the camp when he approaches her.

"Uhm...you know...I could maybe...even out your hair for you, if you'd like? It cut pretty messily when you sliced off your topknot...you don't -- have to keep it that way."

Azula turns to look at him, searching his face, looking for any signs of ill intention. As per usual, she can't really find any. The ever-present mischievous gleam in his eye is gone too, replaced with sincerity. She turns away again, looking at her dull reflection in the stream she'd gone to kneel beside. Her hair is lopsided, bedraggled. She hasn't run a comb through it since she'd chopped it off in the ceremony which had severed her ties with the Fire Nation.

She looks down at her hands where they're curled loosely in her lap.

"Fine," she says. The word burns in her throat like an ember.

He leads her away from the stream and out to a large, isolated, cherry tree in the middle of the meadow where they've decided to land for the night. Azula can feel the eyes of the waterbender burning into her back as she follows the Avatar away from the group.

She ignores it. What is she going to do in full sight of the entire camp anyway?

The Avatar cuts away the rest of her hair in silence.

His lemur has followed them, and curled up to sleep in a sunspot. The creature seems peaceful, and she finds herself staring at him as Aang snip, snip, snips his way across the edges of her once proud mane.

When he's done, he brushes the few strands that remain settled against her neck, tickling the skin, away. His hand is warm and calloused. She feels the prickle of gooseflesh at the casual touch.

"Better?" he asks, voice quiet.

It is, but Azula doesn't answer.

-------

Azulaang week 2023 day one! :)

#azulaang week #azulaang week 2023 #azulaang #my art #fanart #atla #avatar the last airbender #azula #aang #princess azula #avatar aang #I love them your honour

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syrupfog · 9 days

Text

The thing about Zoro— is that he’s lost.

What he doesn’t tell his crew is that he hasn’t always been lost.

He remembers being a kid, remembers running after Kuina every chance he had. He was ALWAYS able to track her down, always able to find her when no one else was.

He knew the land around the dojo like the back of his hand. He HAD to, since in the beginning he was sleeping in the underbrush outside and pretending to come from the edge of the village for practice every day.

The thing is, is he doesn’t know exactly when it changed.

It was sometime after be became a pirate hunter, he knows that. But timelines get tricky when he’s not sure if he was getting lost with Johnny and Yosaku because they were in a new land together, or if he was getting lost FROM them, outside of his control.

He doesn’t like to dwell on such things, things he clearly can’t change. During really lost moments he’s considered asking Chopper if it’s some sort of sickness, some brain problem, but then he steadies himself and pushes that thought down.

If he’s sick he’s sick, and if Chopper thought it was curable he would have already cured it.

Robin mentioned once that she wondered if maybe the curse of his sword has something to do with it, and if that’s the case, then it doesn’t matter. He’s not getting rid of any of them.

His swords are as important to him as breathing. He would be nothing without them.

Still, sometimes, as he takes the third wrong turn in as many minutes, lost to the trees around him, his thoughts turn sour as he thinks back to Kuina.

Kuina, who he could, without fail, instinctually find. Kuina, who always gave him an exasperated look when he popped up demanding a rematch.

He never questioned it, at the time, his ability to locate her. It wasn’t a marvelous ability, it was just what needed to be done.

And now, no matter how hard he tries, the frustration gets to him as he realises his crew is out of reach. Not because they’re dead, not because they’ve been kidnapped, but just because he is fundamentally incapable of locating them.

All these trees look the fucking same.

And he wonders what good he is, a first mate who can’t even find his crew. He wonders (not that he would ever voice these thoughts) if they see him as lesser— not in the joking way they tell him off for getting lost, but in a real, true, instinctual way.

Is he unreliable? Is he failing them?

He growls and unsheathes Wado, letting loose a strike that chops down about twenty trees in front of him but leads only to more forest.

Kuina had needed him and he hadn’t been there. What happens when he’s not there for his own crew?

They’re capable, but so had Kuina been.

If Kuina had been lost, Zoro could have found her. He’s sure of it. But if his crew now were to get lost, he’d be useless to find them.

Useless like he is right now, wandering in fucking circles while his thoughts follow the same spiral.

He knows his thoughts are getting too sour, knows he needs to center himself, so, with a growl of frustration, he plops himself down on the forest floor, cross legged, and starts to meditate.

It takes longer to clear his mind when he’s agitated, but he breathes deep.

His crew is strong, he tells himself. They can survive without him, if needs be. If he never finds them again, they will still be safe. If it takes him three islands to find them, he will manage.

He’s reached a place of neutrality in his mind, assurances repeating, when—

“Mosshead, are you ready to come home yet?”

Zoro opens his eyes.

Sanji is there.

He’s got a cigarette in his mouth and hands on his hips, looking down at Zoro with an expression that Zoro wouldn’t SAY is fond exasperation, but he might think it.

“What are you doing out here, Cook?” Zoro asks, wary. Is there a harem in the woods he doesn’t know about?

Sanji snorts. “Finding you, of course,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Finding… Zoro.

“Huh,” says Zoro.

He rises to his feet and Sanji pivots ninety degrees. “Come on,” he says. “We’re about forty minutes from the Sunny, and dinner’s going to be late at this rate.”

He reaches back, blindly, and grabs Zoro’s wrist, pulling him forward.

Zoro looks down at his wrist as he walks, then up at Sanji. “How’d you know where I was?” He asks.

Sanji’s not looking at him, but the smoke from his cigarette blows back in Zoro’s face. “Stupid,” he says. “I always know where you are. Your green hair is like a beacon.”

‘I always know where you are’.

Zoro stumbles, just a little, just for a moment.

He thinks of Kuina. Of finding Kuina.

The hand around his wrist feels like fire.

Zoro had… forgotten… that someone could find HIM, too.

#zosan #my writing

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uglypastels · 7 months

Note

okok I've had this idea brewing in my filthy mind for a few days so imagine sanji discovering camgirl! Strawhat reader and becomes kinda obsessed?? Maybe one day she wears something of his(maybe a ring or his shirt) live and he goes absolutely feral and has his way with her??😵😵💫

I took out the camgirl aspect because I just wasn't sure how to incorporate it into the universe?? (I'm still new to it, so trying to figure out the dos and don'ts haha.) but I hope it's still good.

masterlist | inbox - requests open

reminder that reblogs and comments are the best way to support writers on Tumblr

warning: 18+ content. MDNI. simp sanji. masturbation. suggestive language and actions. light biting.

Laundry Day.

'Can someone remind me again whose brilliant idea it was to fight the giant squid?' You looked down at yourself, stiff as a board, as you felt every inch of your body to be sticky with black ink.

When you looked up again, the rest of the crew had all found a sudden interest in the most mundane parts of the ship, not daring to meet your deadly glare.

'Thought so,' you mumbled. 'I'm gonna go change.' Awkwardly, you made your way downstairs to the bathroom to try and wash off the black goo the sea monster had spewed onto you. You scrubbed for what felt like an hour, with the stains just never seeming to seize. The water poured down your body, slowly turning from a black abyss into a drabby grey until it finally recovered to its natural clear state, and the smell of fish was exchanged for your hair conditioner and body scrub.

stupid. fucking. squid. You kicked around your thoughts as you got out of the shower, nearly falling over in the process.

Too tired to cross the ship to your room, you instead walked to the small laundry cabin that was next to the bathroom and picked up the first pair of shorts you found and a button-up shirt to throw on.

You had thought it was one of yours, always being fond of having some larger piece of attire to throw over a short sleeve, but you soon realised your mistake when you entered the kitchen.

Sanji was in the middle of setting some water to boil, glancing up at you from his work with a soft smile. That smile then quickly froze in what you could only describe as a shock.

'I know I look like a mess,' you sighed, reaching over to the cupboard where the crew kept their hardest liquor. The day just called for a shot. Or three.

'Not the words I would use.' Sanji said, the clicking of the gas stove intercepting him, 'Is that- is that my shirt?'

You glanced down, noticing the blue striped pattern on the material and the actual tailoring of the shirt as opposed to the ones you were used to wearing.

You cursed under your breath. 'Sorry. I'll go change.' You began unrolling the sleeves, already seeing how they started to crease.

'No,' Sanji coughed out. 'It's fine. Honestly.'

'You sure?' You looked up at him apprehensively, but he just shrugged and continued on cooking.

You poured yourself a drink and made yourself comfortable opposite Sanji, enjoying the show that was his meal prep.

'Where's everyone else?' you asked as he began chopping up vegetables.

'Uhm, probably sleeping off the squid,' he chuckled, focused on the ingredients. As he kept going, you realised his answers kept getting shorter and shorter with each question. What usually would be full of quips and flirtatious remarks was cut down, blunt, like the edge of a dull knife.

And at first you had brushed it aside as him concentrating on his craft, but the longer he cooked, the more noticeable it was how he avoided your gaze. Even when talking, he didn't dare look up.

'Are you really ok with me wearing this?' You asked eventually when he was done and washing his hands in the sink.

'Of course, darlin',' he wiped his hands on a towel. He was about to turn around, but you saw the moment as your chance and swiftly slithered by his side. He stumbled back slightly in surprise.

'So why have you been ignoring me for the past hour?'

'I haven't,' he slipped by you elegantly and got to packing up the prepared food into storage boxes.

'But you have-- you didn't even look at me until now.'

'Sorry, sweetheart. I was working.' Usually, his saying something like that would make you think things were back to normal, but he seemed nervous, and before you could say anything else, he excused himself to his cabin.

Confused and a bit flustered at the sudden departure, you stood in the kitchen for a moment. You had planned on going upstairs, to get some fresh air, when Luffy stormed into the room.

'Ah!' he exclaimed, 'glad to see you're back to your ink-free self.'

'Yeah, thanks, Luf.' You took another shot quickly and watched as the captain raided all the cupboards. 'Watcha looking for there?'

'The tangerine cookies that Sanji made yesterday. There should still be some here.' He stretched his arm out to pat around the back of the highest drawer.

'You sure you didn't eat them yet?'

'Nooo,' Luffy looked at you sternly. 'Because I put them there specifically so I wouldn't eat them earlier.'

'Right,' you nodded. 'Well, Sanji had been busy around here, prepping lunch for tomorrow; maybe he moved some things around,' you suggested. 'You could go and ask him.'

'Aaah, I could,' Luffy wavered, 'but I was hoping to do this without Sanji's help.'

'Did he ban you from the kitchen again?' After the last incident of Lufft stuffing himself full of snacks right before dinner, the cook had given him strict orders not to eat an hour before meals. Looking at the clock, you could see it was closing in on dinner time.

Luffy scoffed, which only confirmed your assumptions. With a sigh, you got up. 'Fine, I'll ask him. But he might be asleep, you know.'

'Thanks. You're the best.' Luffy said, arm the length of the room as he opened cupboard after cupboard. You just rolled your eyes and made your way to Sanji's cabin.

'Hey, Sanji,' you knocked softly, unsure if he had maybe decided to take a nap. With no response from the other side of the door, you tried again. You thought to just let it go and leave him be, but then you heard the clashing of the pans in the kitchen, followed by a Luffy 'I'm ok!' and knew that you needed an answer for your captain. These were desperate times.

'Hey, Sanji,' you opened the door. The only thing you had really seen was the shape of his body splayed out on the bed, and it was more of an instinct or a gut reaction that told you that you should not look any further. So, quickly apologising, you shut the door again as Sanji cursed out in shock at the door opening.

'Sorry!' You shouted through the door, simultaneously trying to comprehend the blurs of your vision and trying to forget anything you might have seen. He wasn't... no, that wasn't... no.

There was some stumbling coming from his room, followed by a few more curse words. You didn't know why you were still standing beside his door, but he certainly didn't expect you to have stayed there, and so, when he entered the corridor, your bodies practically collided.

'I didn't see anything!' You blurted out before Sanji could say anything. Both your faces were wide in horror. 'I swear- I just,' you made the mistake of taking his appearance in. His shirt was untucked from his trousers, belt unbuckled and hanging at his sides. Oh god. 'I just... I was wondering where the tangerine cookies were. The ones you made yesterday.'

He was still hard. Most of it was hidden by the layers of clothing, but there was no denying it. You did your best to keep your eyes on his face as he listened to you blurt out words like a maniac, but it sure was difficult as all the puzzle pieces came together.

'They should be in the left cabinet, bottom shelf. Behind the baking ingredients. I hid them so Luffy wouldn't eat them before dinner.'

'Good thinking,' you laughed, probably a bit too loud for the situation, but the nerves were getting worse by the second. 'Well, bye then.' And with that, you ran off to the kitchen, leaving Sanji in all his unspeakable glory behind.

In the kitchen, you were met with Luffy picking up the pans he had dropped and Nami looking at him with what could only be described as disappointment. Without acknowledging them, you walked over to the left cabinet, opened the bottom half of it and searched the bottom shelf for the box of leftover cookies, slamming them onto the counter. Luffy immediately lunged forward to them, oblivious to your shocked state, but the navigator was a bit more perceptive.

'What happened to you?' she asked, declining the offer of a cookie from the captain, who already had two in his mouth.

'Nothing,' you shook your head.

'You look like you've seen a ghost.'

'I didn't! I didn't see anything!' Nope, nothing at all. You definitely did not see that. Or how big it was... or how his hand looked wrapped around it... or his face when he- NO.

'Hey, is that Sanji's shirt?' Now, Luffy decided to be observant. You looked down at your shirt as if you had only now noticed what you were wearing.

'Oh, I guess it is.'

'He must be having a field day with that,' Nami snickered, to which you looked at her confused. She, in turn, rolled her eyes 'Like you haven't seen the way he looks at you on a regular day.'

'I- no?' you blinked, trying to grapple with what she was talking about.

Nami just shrugged before grabbing the last cookie from Luffy's hand and walking out of the room. If you thought he would be aware of anything that you had just talked about, you would have asked the captain if he knew what Nami meant by her comments but instead just contemplated on it all by yourself.

Against all your survival instincts, you walked back in the direction of Sanji's door and knocked again. This time loud and clear. There was shuffling coming from the other side, and a second later, the door opened to reveal Sanji. His lips were pulled in a tight line of a smile as he looked down at you.

'Hey, can I come in?' you asked softly.

'What?' Sanji asked before the initial question properly connected in his mind. 'Uhh, I don't think that's a great idea.'

'Sanj, we should talk about what happened earlier.'

'Do we, though?' His voice raised in pitch nervously, but you just glared up at him, unimpressed.

'Sanji, please just let me come inisde.' You pushed out any thought that just burst through your mind that did not have to do with the current situation, but it was hard to see the images of what you saw in his room before were still very much playing over and over in your head.

In the end, Sanji gave in and opened the door for you. As you walked in, he stayed behind you, hand running nervously through his hair, as he spoke: 'Listen, I'm really sorry about... everything that happened today, really.'

'You have nothing to be sorry for.' You turned to face him. 'I'm the one that stole your shirt and stormed into your room unannounced.' It was his room. He had the right to do whatever he pleased in it.

Sanji laughed awkwardly, looking away to the far side of the room, but even then, you caught how his eyes glanced and slightly lingered over your body. The blue-striped shirt still hanging over it.

You, in the meantime, fought the urge to look at his body, combined with the memory of what you had caught him doing.

Maybe it was the few shots you had taken earlier to forget about the giant squid attack that instead did nothing you had hoped for but only made you bolder as you asked: 'were you thinking about me?'

'What?'

'You know, earlier. When I walked in. Were you... thinking of me?'

'Shit, don't make me say it.' He combed his fingers through his hair. You walked over to him, closing the gap between you lightly.

'Why not?'

'Because I don't want to make things weird between us.' His jaw clenched as you came towards him, and you couldn't help but laugh at what he had to say.

'Oh, it's definitely too late for that now. Things are already weird.'

'Super weird, aren't they?' he asked softly, strangely intensely.

And so, when you responded, your agreeing words were only as hushed as he had been, too focused on each other's proximity. The two of you stood there, frozen between actions, taking each other's bodies in at the new lack of distance until Sanji took the final step over the edge, kissing you with his hands on cupping your cheeks.

You stumbled back at the force, steadying yourself when you caught onto the shirt he was wearing. One of his hands moved down to your waist, guiding you to his bed until the back of your knees hit the wood, and you lightly fell back.

Sanji placed himself over you, and as his weight pressed over you, you could feel his hard-on through his trousers. A curse fell from his lips when you reached for it and your fingertips moved over the material.

'You've been drivin' me insane the whole day, walkin' around in that shirt.' He said as he began leaving a trail of kisses down your neck.

'Figured,' you couldn't but be a bit smug about it, which he did not seem to appreciate given the pinch of his teeth you felt on your sensitive skin.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him even closer to you, trying to get some, friction out of the movement as he pressed himself against you.

'Cocky are we?' He smiled into his kisses, and at this point, all you could do was nod in agreement.

Sanji kept himself up over you with one hand as he used the other to unzip your shorts. One-handed and without a clear view, taking them off turned out to be a bit more of a challenge, far more awkward than expected when you tried to shuffle out of them, but his touch on your skin made up for it by tenfold.

You were about to make a start on unbuttoning the shirt you were wearing when Sanji stopped you. 'No, keep it on.' and kissed you before you could make any other snarky remark on his behalf. But when he pulled away again, though slightly dazed by the passion, you still managed to comment.

'If this is the treatment I receive for stealing your clothes, I might just do it more often.'

To this, Sanji groaned through his teeth. 'You're gonna be the death of me, sweetheart, I swear.

#sanji x reader #sanji x y/n #sanji fanfiction #sanji fanfic #sanji smut #sanji fluff #sanji fic #one piece fanfiction #fanfiction #smut #fluff #fic #request

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kiwisbell · 18 days

Text

helen ; chapter four

nowhere to run

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the capture.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, hitman!joel, husband!joel, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship (and blasphemy), sacrilege in the name of romance, flashbacks, graphic violence, guns, blood + injuries, tommy gets stuck with the babysitting gig, joel is still a bit of an idiot, childhood/religious trauma, joel in a church, violence against pastors, criminal underworld, secrecy/lies, betrayal, Big Angst, we're getting there though, the smut returns, fingering, conflicting emotions, kidnapping, Angry!Joel, cliffhanger (oopsie daisy), the typical alcohol/smoking/profanity, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 9k a/n: fucking hell. i'm so sorry for how long it took me to bring this chapter to you, friends! my thesis sucked all the life from me and i had to go on a quick trip to the underworld and back to get it back again. thank you so much to my baby @cavillscurls for beta reading and as always being the biggest goddamn help throughout the process. below is the moodboard that mya made for this chapter and the reason i'm her no. 1 lovergirl. prev | next

When he was young, he fed stray dogs on the street.

He would steal sandwiches, pluck out the meat to gnaw on himself, and toss the bread onto the pavement. He would sit back on his haunches just like them and lick his chops when he was finished. Being a runner earned him good money, but it was hard to find jobs that would take a scrawny eight-year-old with dirt on his nose. His memories of those days are far away, foggy around the edges, but he still smells the eye-watering prickle of trash, cigarette smoke, wet fur of the dogs. He still remembers the moist scratch of soaked-through denim after a night sleeping outside in the rain, the bone-deep chill that lasted for days in winter.

One night, a Sunday in July, a hand stretched out toward him. He had not eaten in days, and he’d begun to feel the stretch of his skin around his ribs. A skeleton haunting the wrong body. The face is blurred now, but he remembers the hand. Long-fingered and a little wrinkled, a bracelet dangling from the bluish vein-ringed wrist, a charm in the shape of a cross.

The hand brought him from his bed of ratty blankets and old newspapers to a giant cathedral. The bold lettering above the grand doors read The Sisters of Saint Eustace. Joel had been too small, too weak, to reach up and touch the golden words, but they were tarnished with age and buffed around the edges. He looked up at the owner of the hand—the hand which then lowered onto his shoulder, collarbones protruding, and squeezed just hard enough to sting.

He felt the warm soak of the daytime breeze on his face.

“You must come inside with me,” said the woman. He remembers that the hand belonged to a woman. There was a black hood around her head that made her appear as wraithlike as death itself.

The Creation of Adam was immortalised on the north wall. It was the first thing he saw when he walked inside.

“I can’t go inside,” he said.

“And why not?”

He turned his head away from the image of Adam and God, whom he did not know at the time, and could never have hoped to know. How could he, after all, when God had never appeared to him? Then, God was only a man, frail and old, reaching out a wrinkled hand. Why should the weak ask for aid from the strong?

“The dogs need someone to feed them,” he said.

He still does not know God. He does not suspect he ever will. But there’s a warm, soft palm encasing the skin and muscle over his heart, irradiating down to the bone. There’s an intermittent puff of air on the back of his neck, slow and ticklish, the way snow melts. The dog that still lives in the core of him shows its belly.

You’ve moved closer in the night, your soft skin warming his back where your shirt rides up. You breathe silently, catlike, as measured as the rise and fall of the winter sun. He listens for a while, his chest pushing out to match you. As he settles into the new rhythm, he feels for a moment as if it’s all been a dream. As if he never lost you, never lied.

His name leaves your sleeping mouth and his heart ceases altogether. It’s the breathless sound of need, of a desire he supposes you’ve forgotten. In your sleep, some stale withered flower blooms under a fresh rainfall, and he wonders what you’re dreaming about.

Before Joel put his mouth between your legs for the first time, you had forgotten what pleasure tasted like.

It was July, sweltering, and you were draped across the sofa with his head in your lap. It was date night, and his turn to choose the movie: some god-awful karate action film that was a sequel to a sequel to a sequel and so on, infinitely repeating. Neither of you were paying attention to the exchange of staged punches. You were occupying yourself with threading your fingers through Joel’s hair, and he’d taken to toying with the little bow that held up the waistband of your shorts. You watched him pull the strings until they unfurled only to tie them again with one hand. The white noise of on-screen blows lulled you into a gentle doze as you both lay idle.

“Joel.”

“Hm,” he said, the scratch of his beard tickling your belly.

“The door,” you said. “Someone’s knocking.”

“Hm,” he said again, his questioning pitch the only indication he was truly listening.

“You should probably get it.”

His sleep-soaked eyes fluttered shut, his lashes brushing your skin. He gently squeezed your hip. “I’m just fine here.”

“What if I told you I had a surprise for you? And what if I told you I worked very hard to find your surprise?” you cooed.

Joel blinked up at you. “You got me somethin’?”

Your heart swelled. “Yeah, I did. Come on, cowboy.”

Outside, Tommy lounged against the hood of the surprise as you guided Joel outside, your fingers over his eyes.

“I don't like bein’ blind,” he grumbled. “Can't you just tell me?”

“How about I show you?”

You lifted your hands. For a moment, Joel blinked, his eyes adjusting to the blazing light of the sunset, and his lips parted at the sight before him.

“Jesus,” he said under his breath. “You… got me a car?”

“It's not just a car. Boss Mustang 429,” you said sheepishly. “1969. You know, the one you never shut up about. I thought this might help.”

Joel’s breath hitched, and you watched him swallow it. “How…”

“Tommy called me a while back. He'd sourced it from another garage; it was bound for the dump, but I wanted to surprise you by fixing it up. So… surprise.”

Tommy tossed the keys to Joel, who caught them without even looking. “Your girl can get her hands dirty. Helped me fix up the whole damn thing.”

You tried to gauge his reaction, the slight hollow in his throat where he seemed to store the falling sunlight, a faint sheen of sweat turning him gold. Your heart plummeted into your stomach when he didn't say a word.

“It's too soon.”

His head whipped around, his brows curving up in the middle. “What?”

You wetted your lips, panic closing your throat in at all sides. “I know we haven't been dating long, but… I don't know, I couldn't pass up the chance. But now I know it's too soon. I shouldn't have presumed—”

Faintly, he shook his head, his eyes darting across your face as if he were trying to trace it, and closed the distance between you. You gasped as he slanted his mouth over yours, his hands cradling your face, old paper and salt and your perfume. You threw your arms around his neck, a buoy for the drowning man whose arms wound around your waist and pulled you so close he could disappear altogether. Maybe he was trying to. Selfishly, you would let him.

Tommy grumbled something—“You’re welcome, asshole,” probably—and his own car roared to life as it pulled away.

The car keys jingled in the bowl in your foyer as Joel tossed them blindly behind him, his heel shutting the front door. He kissed you like you were a fever he needed to burn out, and you felt the match strike where his hand curled its heavy weight around your neck.

“What time do you fly out?” he grumbled against your mouth.

“Not until morning,” you said breathlessly, watching him drop to his knees in front of you, taking your little shorts with him. Your chest heaved at the sight of your Joel, made humble at your feet, pressing his searing-hot lips to the bare skin of your belly. “Joel…”

“Nobody,” he said, his voice the velvety drag of night, “is like you. Not a goddamn soul.”

The admission caught in your throat the way a web ensnares dewdrops. The intricate folds of your brain would forever carry the imprint of the words—words no one else had ever said.

A starving artist, an old teacher of yours had said, remembers every kind word said about their art. They eat from them when there's no other food in the house.

“You're it for me,” he told you. “There's nothing else.”

You wake slowly, serenely, a yawning ache blossoming in the core of you.

Maybe that's why, even now, you cannot forget the way he touched you that night. You still recall every thumbprint, every stroke of his tongue, every soft cry into the otherwise empty room.

The fact is that nobody can love you the way Joel Miller does. Not even when his love hurts more than anything else.

He's watching you now. His eyes are half-open but alert, instinct pulling him closer to your side of the bed. Or, maybe you're the one who’s crawled closer to him.

“Joel…”

He doesn’t speak, but you feel the pads of his fingers on your belly, the soft fabric of your shirt bunching over his bruised knuckles, and his eyes shutter at the touch alone, a worn sinner.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispers, and it's chipped porcelain, the sound of his voice.

A part of you wants to cry, to let the pressure build until it crests, to feel the salt settle in the pores at the sight of him so close, so open. But you've shed your tears and he’s slept in your bed, and now his fingers brush the hem of your panties, not begging entrance, but asking, wondering—

You say so weakly, “I need you to touch me,” and he nods because he knows, because he's Joel, because your body has not become foreign to him even if you've made your heart a stranger.

You shiver as his hand dips beneath the cotton, two fingers sliding through the gathering wetness between your legs. Joel's gaze is fixed on you, black as the sky, his bicep flexing as he parts your folds with his fingers. Absently, possessed, you sling your leg up over his hip to spread your thighs.

The shockwave brings you down as he slides his middle finger inside you, sinking to the knuckle. The gasp that leaves your mouth feels like inhaling glass. You cup the back of his neck for purchase, tugging the little curls at his scalp, and watch as he bares his teeth.

“That's it, baby,” he says brokenly, the heel of his palm applying pressure to your clit as you writhe. Back in his arms, your heart thunders in your chest, the ache of his absence ringing in each rib like the aftershocks of a blow. He pumps his fingers inside you, curling up against the spot he knows as intimately as his own hand, studying your face as if he has become the artist and you the muse. For a moment, you think you see the reflection of your face in the whites of his eyes, and you’re overcome with a shudder that compresses your spine.

He’s too close. Too far away. Your hand curls around the scruff of his neck, a misbehaved dog. You’ve let him in, it’s too late, too soon, and you’ve assumed all the blood he’s spilled, taken it inside your body with the press of his fingertips past your begging entrance.

You hate that your body still sings for him, that your eyes cannot shutter, that you cannot shuck the curtains closed despite all he’s done. You hate that his eyes still hold the sorrow you’d seen in him since that very first night, and you hate that you existed so happily, so blindly, with him, in spite of the arid darkness that has always lingered just under the brown you thought you knew so well.

But he’s always known you, and that may be what hurts the most.

He’s always been keenly aware of your moods, your tastes, your body, and he plays you now like a pipe, lending his body to yours in supplication. Your heart aches as you let him inside, some feeble breach of contract, as if nothing is wrong, as if nothing was a lie.

He slides his fingers from you and spreads them before your eyes, the sight of the slick webbing eliciting a gasp you can barely hear. He licks his fingers clean and dips them back between your bodies, circling your clit with a renewed fervour.

“Fuck.” Your eyelids droop, your stomach tightens, and the glint of Joel’s bared teeth is that of a wolf’s in the dark. “I’m… fuck, I’m…”

“I know,” he says, “I know,” and you wish he wouldn’t.

The rhythmic, meticulous path of his fingers is nothing like the desperate writhing of your hips, the feverish grinding, the cries. Prey caught in a trap, you grasp the iron bars of his shoulders tight and beg for mercy.

And it feels so good, so right, that it slashes open your heart and spills the blood. The cold bite of his wedding ring bumps up against your opening as you blossom, brittle as a new bud, his fingers pumping in, out, in—

“Oh, God,” you whimper, burying your face in his throat, sinking into the familiar warmth.

Joel grunts, his nose sliding across your temple. “C’mon, baby girl, c’mon… I’ve got you… Can feel it…”

Normally, you would lick and bite and kiss the sweet, humid skin of his throat until you came, soft as dough in his arms. There’s a steel edge to the way you come now, fingers stiffly prickling his scalp, eyes bleeding tears into the crook of his neck. It feels good—good to slash at the bars that cage you in, good to weep over the loss of some willpower you let dissolve.

He doesn’t stop until he’s wrung every drop, inhaling the cloying smell of soiled linen and sticky perfume and saltwater. He closes his eyes against your temple and you can feel the caress of his lashes—wet, like yours.

His lips always carried the faint bitter bite of black coffee, and he always said yours tasted sweet. Like goddamn honey, he’d whispered into your throat the first night you let him inside, and you’d laughed—maybe the graze of his mouth was ticklish, or maybe you thought it was funny: the idea that you could be so sweet.

Now, you’re splintering as your eyes flicker down to his mouth, plush lips moist but split from the blow of an enemy. If you kissed him now, he would only feel a sharp sting. If you kissed him now, you’d let the blood win out. You would only hurt him and yourself alike.

“What are we doing, Joel?”

His eyes shimmer in the dark, his palm tentatively cradling the crown of your head. The hollow of his throat deepens, and you hold your breath.

“I’ll be anything you want me to be,” says Joel. “If you want me just to use me, then use me. You can have me whenever you want. I just wanna be someone you need—even if you don’t need me the way you used to.”

The sob lurches out of your throat, your forehead dropping to his as the climax burns out, smoke from a snuffed candle.

When you can breathe again, you push yourself upright and cross the room to gather your toiletries. “I’m not going to use you. I never should have done this.”

“Stop.” Joel grunts as he stands, apparently forgetting about his wounded ankle. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Joel, let’s just—”

“I don't want it to be like this,” he says. “I don’t want it to hurt when I touch you.”

“It doesn't,” you whisper, hugging your bag to your chest along with a bundle of clothes. “That's what scares me.”

His brows curve upward in the middle and you're overcome by the need to fix your eyes to the floor. “Baby, please… Please just look at me.”

You swipe your thumbs under your eyes and pin him with your gaze. “I feel like I’m mourning a marriage that didn't even end,” you tell him, and Joel lurches forward as if he means to grab the words in mid-air.

“And maybe we did lose it,” you say softly, though the words sting on the way out of your mouth. “But maybe that's… good. I don't want a relationship based on lies, Joel. I don’t want to wake up every morning next to the man I love and wonder what he’s still keeping from me.”

Joel lowers himself into the chair by the table like a weight is tied to his chest. He's still shirtless, his wound bleeding through the gauze around his arm, but he's staring at you. Suffocating you.

Twisting his wedding band around his finger, he says, “If there's even the smallest chance that you really could still love me… that this ain't over, even though I’ve done everything wrong by you… I’m gonna fight for it.”

Not everything, you want to say. Not everything, or I wouldn't be so hurt right now. It’s funny that the words won't take shape—wraithlike as the black ink snaking up and down his back. “I know you will.”

“And if you want all the truth I‘ve got, even if it's bloody, I’ll give it to you.” He leans forward, muscles flexing under inked skin. “You’re my everything. Nothin’ about that has changed. Not one goddamn thing.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, the tang of iron flooding into your mouth. “It’s not just about the lies,” you say, dropping into the chair across from him. “You've put me on a pedestal. You may be strong and you may know how to fight, and everyone in the world may know your name, but… I don't think I can survive being all that you breathe for. Not if it leads to this.”

He remembers waking up each morning in the orphanage, sunlight turning technicolour through stained glass images of praying hands. He’d always thought the sun was so strong, gathering pieces of itself just to wake half the world, reviving dead plants, rattling the bones that stirred dead in the earth. He’d put his fingers through the many colours just to watch them dance. He’d wiggle his digits and remember he was alive.

He watched you walk down the long aisle toward him in a white dress, a bouquet of daisies in your hands, the sun carving your path. His hand flexed at his side like it did on those long-gone mornings, and he briefly doubted he’d be able to touch you at all—like you’d disappear, smoke curling around the contours of his fingers, a dream.

“My heart hurts, Joel,” you say brokenly, your palm flattening against your chest. “I’m not as strong as you are. I’m just a girl who married the man she loved. One day, you're going to realise that I don't bleed gold. I’m not a deity. I’m not someone you go to war over. I’m not fucking perfect, and if you keep treating me like I am, you’re only going to be disappointed.”

Joel just watches the tears fall, somewhat enraptured by the way they linger like dew on your lashes, until you blink them away and they cascade down the curve of your cheek. He wonders if this is how it feels to be the painter, desperate to capture even a brushstroke of the subject in front of him. He used to watch you paint for hours, holed up in your studio, covered in splotches of oils he would later take his time to wash away. The colours would curl around the drain, a snake poised to strike, and he’d kiss you, his canvas, tasting the poison of paint at the corner of your mouth.

He’s made something dark of the light that grew inside you. He’s tainted your image with the blood he’s shed, and every one of the thousand cuts has struck true. He thought he was protecting you.

He was only hurting you.

“I just wanted to have you. And you wanted to forget.” Your eyes no longer meet his, tracing the lifelines in the oak table back and forth. “So where do we go from here?”

There’s a troubled tic in his brow, punctuating the feverish flitting of his eyes between each of yours, always restless. “You think I fell in love with you because I thought you were invincible?”

You lift your head, the whites of your eyes gleaming. Joel brings his chair closer to yours, and you don’t make a move to pull away.

“I fell in love with you because you’re human,” he says. “Because you’re kind. Because you have a heart bigger than any I’ve seen. Because you’re funny, and talented, and you love to make art, and when you find something you love, you give your soul to it. I love you because you’re an angry drunk and you hate mornings and you’re so fuckin’ frustrating when you won’t give up. I fell in love with you because you were the only person who’s ever taken a real shot at lovin’ me.”

Your bottom lip quivers and he wants to coax the heavy ache from your very soul, venom from the wound.

“You are my everything, baby. You are. And I know it ain't healthy, but I don't care. If that means I see you as a god, fine. You think I can stop lovin’ you the way I do? I can’t. But I never once thought you were perfect. Perfect people don’t fall in love with men like me.”

You laugh a little, but it’s taut, stuck in the back of your throat.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me. I’m not even sure I want that. But I do want to be the kind of man you’re willing to love again. You’re my best friend, and I’ll do whatever it takes, you hear me? I’m not givin’ up.”

You sniffle, your quivering hands folded into one another atop the table. He wants to reach out and touch you, pull you back into his gravity, smell your perfume. He wants to do a thousand other things he does not deserve.

“You’ve killed Manuel’s son,” you say quietly. “There’s still a contract on your head.”

Joel nods. “And he’s gonna pull it.”

You shake your head, lips parted around words you choose not to say. Instead, you look away, and he feels he's lost something he'd been holding.

“Do what you need to do,” you say, and every syllable cuts him along the bias of the bone.

He has known your hurt, your anger, your sadness. Something in an artist’s heart has never seen a day of peace, you told him once. He thought it was a joke; he may have even laughed.

I loved you.

Joel swallows. “I need you—”

“—to stay here.” The corner of your mouth pulls up despite your sombre tone. “Yeah, I know.”

There’s a knock at the door before he can open his mouth to reply. You stay apprehensively glued to your seat as Joel peers through the peephole only to unlatch the chain on the door.

“Anyone see you come in?” he asks Tommy.

“I’m sure plenty of people saw me, brother. But they can’t do anything, now, can they?”

A muscle in Joel’s jaw feathers. “You bring everything?”

Tommy scoffs, gesturing toward the bags weighing down his arms. “Everything on your fuckin’ mile-long list? Yeah. You gonna let me in?”

Joel ushers him inside and triple-checks the hallway to make sure nobody is lurking nearby. Your voice brightens by a fraction and it feels like an electric shock tingling at his fingertips.

“Tommy.”

“Hey, sweetheart.” He squeezes your shoulder and drops the bags at your feet. “You hangin’ in there?”

Joel watches from the shadows of the hall, his heart leaden at the sight of you smiling for someone else. He’ll do anything to earn that. He’ll forsake all he has, all he is. He’ll crawl on his hands and knees all the way back through hell; he already knows the way.

“Brought your supplies,” says Tommy, kneeling at your feet and opening the bags. Your brows knit together at the sight of your oils from home, your brushes, your pallets long ago stained with colour. “Heard you were feeling inspired.”

Your gaze lifts to Joel, eyes narrowed. “Is that right?”

He’s sheepish, ducking his head. “Just… thought you might be goin’ crazy, stuck in here.”

“That's not why I’m going crazy,” you grumble.

Tommy chuckles. “Well, if anything’s missin’, it's his fault. Most of your canvases were destroyed, but these are all good.”

Your heart feels a little lighter now that you can smell the tangy, cloying scent of your paints and run your fingers over the bristle of your brushes. You give Tommy’s hand a pulse, your thank-you barely snaking past the lump in your throat. “Tell Maria I said hi.”

He gives you a knowing look. “I’m holdin’ you to your promise, y’know. You still have to paint the nursery.”

You cast your eyes toward Joel, who leans against the wall in the dark corridor. “Yeah,” you say softly, stripped to the bone by the way he watches you, unblinking. “I don't break my promises.”

His fingers twitch at his sides, and the gleam of his wedding ring lingers in your periphery long after you've torn your gaze away.

“Tommy’s gonna stay with you,” says Joel, “while I take care of the rest.”

The rest. Of course. “Why now?”

“He just killed Cabrera’s son,” says Tommy. “And we don't want to risk anyone comin’ around, lookin’ for revenge.”

“But you said no business can be conducted here.”

“For enough money, a person will break any rule.”

“That kind of undermines the entire concept of your entire Underworld, doesn't it?” you say. “Rules aren't really rules.”

“But there are consequences,” says Tommy. “Just… if you’ve got enough money, you can hide from ‘em for a while.”

“Until they hunt you down,” you utter, looking across the room at Joel. His silence feels like hot hands on your bare skin. You turn back to Tommy. “What about Maria?”

“She's with her mom this weekend,” says Tommy. “Won't even notice I left the house. You need someone to model, I’m your guy.”

“No,” says Joel.

“I didn’t mean I’d get naked,” says Tommy.

Joel clips Tommy’s shoulder on his way to you, and his brother takes the hint to make himself scarce, disappearing into the bathroom. Joel kneels at your feet and places his hand on your calf. The weight of it is warm, carrying words he has no time left to give.

“This will be over soon,” he says, and he sounds so sure that you almost believe it.

“And then what, Joel?”

He sets his jaw. There's little of the predator, of the boogeyman, in his eyes. All that rich brown betrays now is a quiet resolve. A promise.

“Home,” says your husband. “We’ll make another.”

You squeeze your eyes shut only to open them again and find the hand that rests on your skin. He's bruised, bloodied, and violent, but he does not squeeze or press. He never once has. You wonder idly how often he's put those hands on your body while thinking of a time he'd taken the life of another.

“And what if we can’t?” you ask him.

The first time you'd unveiled a piece to him—the first piece you'd ever painted of you and him, together—Joel had instinctively touched the supple blue skin beneath the woman’s breast, as quickly as a nurse finds a vein.

“She’s blue,” he said. “Is that… how you feel? Like you’re… blue?”

“Blue doesn't just mean sadness,” you told him. “It could almost mean serenity. Stability.”

He looked at you, puzzled, for a while, his hand still extended, pressed to the barely-dry canvas. “Where I grew up,” he said, “I was never really taught anything besides black and white.”

“Colours are different that way,” you said. “They mean a thousand things to a thousand people. They can all look at the same painting and feel something unique.” You gave him a wry smile. “You look at a painting of us having sex and see sadness. I’m trying not to read into it.”

He chuckled. “You should know that's not true. And I like the way you think.”

“You never told me what you think about the painting,” you said playfully. “Do you like it?”

Joel’s hand travelled from the woman’s breast to her hand as if pondering the wash of blues that coloured her skin. Her fingers, intertwined with her lover’s, squeezed down on him—a lifeline.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It's the way I feel when you touch me,” you said. “Like I’m falling apart and coming together at the same time.”

Joel tentatively reaches for your hand and turns it over in your lap, palm to the ceiling. “If you decide a home isn't what you want with me,” he says, tracing your lifeline, “then that’s all right. But I just… I want to know if—”

“Don’t,” you whisper, pressure accumulating behind the inner corners of your eyes. Joel meets your gaze and it takes all you have to suppress the shudder at the feeling of his thumb making its ghostly pilgrimage across your palm. “Don't ask me yet. Please.”

He bows his head and his hand slips from yours, and you choke on the memory of a love uncompromising, effortless, simplistic.

“Just come back alive,” you tell him. “Come back to me, okay?”

Joel rises to his feet, and a kiss plants its roots at your hairline. “Always.”

“When he said to watch me, I don't think he meant the whole time.”

Beside you, Tommy clears his throat, averting his gaze to the floor. “Sorry. Just… it’s impressive, what you do.”

You’re still outlining the tangled limbs of the man and woman, their bodies disappearing into one another, each line indistinguishable from the next. “Well, if it helps, I don't know how cars work.”

He laughs. “Yeah, all right.”

You set down your pencil, casting a glance out the window. Outside, the stars wink down at you. “Will he be okay?” you say softly.

Tommy sighs. Now that he no longer needs to hide the fact that it isn't his brother doing the books, the sting of the reminder rings in your chest with the sound of his binder closing.

“I don't blame you, y’know,” he says, “for stayin’ pissed at him.”

“Good,” you reply, “because he's an idiot.”

“Yeah, that's one thing that's never gonna change.” Tommy leans back in the chair, taking a swig from his beer. “I tried to tell him he was makin’ a mistake. He's a stubborn bastard.”

“He is,” you say, frowning at the curl you've drawn over your subject’s forehead. He looks back at you, brow furrowed, one eye visible, the other blending with hers. It's gruesome, in a way: the frenetic lines, the frantic way their fingers dimple one another’s flesh. “But I can be stubborn, too.”

Tommy leans forward, studying the beginnings of your sketch. “I know he's made mistakes, and Christ knows I’m crazy for defending my dumbass brother. But if you knew how much he loved you…”

“Tommy,” you cut in, setting down your pencil. “Loving me isn’t the problem.” The outline of the bodies on your canvas blur as your eyes burn with tears. “I wonder if he ever really left—in his heart, I mean.”

Tommy’s voice is quiet. He’s twirling a small switchblade in his hand. “All he's ever wanted is peace.”

You cast your eyes toward the ceiling to stop the tears from spilling over, or to find some answer spelled in stars you cannot see. “Then why couldn't he just stay out?” you whisper. “Why did he have to come back?”

“You know, when we were kids, Joel would take all my beatings,” says Tommy, flicking out the blade. It glimmers in a way that catches the light as easily as a flame on kindling. “He'd say everything was his fault when it was really me who knocked over a shitty old vase or vandalised a fresco. And he'd just fuckin’ grin and bear it because that's who he is.”

He’d just been a kid. Just a kid who wanted to protect his little brother, who took every beating, who grew up in a faith he never had faith in.

The fragile wobble in your voice betrays the steel wall of your back. “He let me fall in love with him, Tommy. He let me give my soul to him.”

He ducks his head, folding the blade back into its wooden hilt. “Yeah, I know,” he says softly.

“And Maria?” You let out an airy laugh. “How did she react when you told her about all this?”

He doesn't meet your eye, and you feel your stomach turn over as he sets the blade on the table, bringing his hand over his jaw.

“Oh,” you say.

“We all do things we’re not proud of. Anyway, I had it easier,” he says, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “I’m just a mechanic.”

“And my husband’s a killer, right?”

Tommy sighs. “I know you shouldn't take my word for it. But he does want peace. And he came back because he didn't see another choice.”

On the canvas, the man holds the woman close, pulling her tight to his chest, as if he knows she's about to fall. “I hate it,” you say softly, “knowing he's felt so much pain, and I can't make it better. I hate that this is something he needs to figure out himself, Tommy. I hate that I can't be the person he thinks I am.”

“I think you don't give yourself enough credit.” When you turn to face him, Tommy puts the switchblade in your open palm. Your fingers reflexively close around it, and it's cool to the touch. Smooth. The grain in the wood looks like the wriggling lifelines in a human hand. “You made him leave this life. You got him to care enough to make a real one, and you didn't even know it.”

You flick open the switchblade. “This is beautiful.”

“Gave it to me for safekeeping when he retired,” says Tommy. “It was the prize for completing his first job.”

You frown at your reflection, angling the knife up and down. “How old was he?”

Tommy covers the blade with his hand and retracts it. “Keep it,” he says. “It never belonged to me.”

You try to push it toward him, suddenly repulsed. You've heard from his own mouth about the lives he's taken, but the thought of your Joel holding the very same weapon, sinking it into flesh, slicing through the strings that hold a person together, makes your fingers tremble. “It doesn't belong to me either, Tommy.”

“Maybe not,” he says, “but I think you’d know what to do with it better than me.”

You swallow hard. “A man declares war because he wants peace.” Your thumb slides along the smooth edge of the hilt before you hide it inside your bag. “I can't pretend to understand what you both went through, Tommy. But know that I’m glad you found a good life. And know that if you break Maria’s heart, I’ll make you swallow paint.”

Tommy nods sombrely. “I’ll tip the can myself. We're thinking green for the nursery.”

“Green is good.” You give him a conciliatory smile.

“Joel’s a good man,” he says. “He's just… misguided.”

“Are you a man of God, Tommy?”

He laughs. “I don't think anyone who came out of that place alive still believes there's a God. If only the Sisters could see us now.”

“I hope they never do,” you tell him. “I hope they never get the satisfaction of knowing they hurt him.”

“I don't think they’d be much satisfied,” says Tommy, “if they knew he'd found peace after all.”

Hours unfold. The canvas sits untouched as you and Tommy sit next to one another, the moon outside slowly enveloped by clouds. The silver silhouette casts a halo through the grey, and you think of your Joel, alone on his warpath, bloodying the ring on his finger. You think of your name on his back, nestled above the praying hands, and the pit of restlessness yawns wide open.

“He should be back by now.”

Tommy rubs his palms over his thighs, a behaviour you've noticed in Joel. “Yeah, he should.”

“But he'll be okay,” you say, a minute warble colouring your voice, “right?”

“He's Joel,” is all he gives you in return.

Your fingers twist themselves into knots in your lap until the jab of a car horn outside jolts you back to life. “Tommy,” you rasp, wetting your lips. “Go find him.”

He nods, standing abruptly from his chair and yanking his coat free from the hook by the door. “He’ll kill me for leavin’ you alone,” he says.

“We both know he needs you,” you say, turning your head to watch the moon peek out from behind the sheet of grey. “Just bring my husband back.”

There's a distinct sensation that erupts across the skin of a nonbeliever who crosses the threshold of a church. It begins in the floorboards, where the soul of a supposed Christ lingers, and radiates up through the soles of the feet, through the knees, until it circles the brain, persistent as a murder of crows. You don't belong here.

The little church is nothing extravagant, which Joel has to find a little funny. Five rows of pews on either side, a basin of holy water next to the pulpit, a smattering of devotees kneeling on the padded seats in front of them. He swallows the burn and approaches the pastor.

“My son,” says the man, spreading his arms wide as if welcoming Joel back from a pilgrimage. “Welcome. What troubles your heart today?”

Joel pulls the Benelli from his canvas bag and blows out the pastor’s kneecap.

His deafening roar echoes off the domed ceiling and reverberates through the stained-glass paintings of the Virgin Mary. “Fuck!” cries the pastor, scrambling backward with a hand covering his bloodied leg. “Fucking cunt, fucking asshole, vete a la mierda! What the fuck is your problem?”

Joel turns and fires another two shots at the guards on the balcony. One of them tumbles over the edge. The kneeling figures flee the scene, some screaming, some praying.

“Donde esta Cabrera?” Joel growls, bunching the pastor’s white collar in his bloodstained fist. When he doesn't reply, Joel applies pressure to the wound in his knee between his thumb and forefinger. “Habla.”

“Fuck!” he howls. “He isn't here. Hijo de puta, he's not here!”

“Fine,” says Joel, hauling the man upright with little regard for his obliterated knee. “Then we're takin’ a little field trip.”

Joel knew many of Cabrera’s secrets during his time working for the bastard. He would have changed the codes to the vault, but it’s the same nonetheless. Joel shoves the pastor down the winding staircase and aims the barrel of the shotgun between his eyes.

“Open the vault.”

“Manuel will kill me,” pleads the pastor.

Joel lifts a brow. “You see me cryin’?”

A pale, trembling hand rises to the keypad and types in the code. Inside the vault, two women are counting piles of cash behind the counter. Joel gestures toward the door with his shotgun. “Ladies,” he greets, “out.”

They scurry out of the vault with their hands in the air. Inside the small concrete cell, safes are embedded in the walls, twice Joel’s height, one of them unlocked and brimming with neatly piled heaps of bound bills and documents. Joel reaches up and unlatches a shelf, watching the avalanche of blood money cascade onto the floor around his feet. With one hand, he produces a lighter from his pocket and flicks on the flame. It ignites the piles of cash and papers as Joel walks out, leaving the wounded pastor on the floor.

A whisper goes up in flames behind his back. “El espectro.”

At the aggressive slam of car doors, Joel climbs the staircase to the balcony and looks over the rear exit. Outside, Manuel Cabrera and his men cross the concrete toward the church. Joel curses, ejecting the shell from his shotgun and inserting a new clip. The stained glass crumbles with the first shot as he puts a bullet in a bodyguard’s head. The shouts flutter toward the sky in the ensuing panic. Joel hears Manuel cry out his orders: Around the back. You two, flank him. The bastard’s here; go fucking kill him.

The smell of smoke begins to stick to his throat as he takes another shot. The sound of dress shoes clatters, echoing, across the floorboards below him. “Goddamn it,” he growls. He’ll be flushed out before long if he doesn't move. Joel checks his clip, fruitlessly searches the body on the balcony for more ammunition, and kicks him over the edge. The resounding thud of his corpse against the pews is somewhat gratifying. Cabrera’s men crowd the dead man, which gives Joel just enough time to descend the staircase and shoulder open the back door. The parking lot teems with Cabrera’s army ants, creeping around parked cars as they search for the boogeyman.

One of the bodyguards ducks behind a Range Rover, and Joel bares his teeth, the wolf at the hunt. He shoots out the front tires, which deflates the car just enough to give him a glimpse of the man’s head. He takes the shot.

“Puta!” someone cries. Joel ducks as a shot pings off the front bumper of the Cadillac next to him, and he briefly takes stock of his ammunition. Fuck. He would have really liked to keep the fucking high ground. Now, he's as trapped as they are. Rats in a maze of shiny new cars.

Joel peeks around the corner and feels the heat of a bullet seat through the sleeve of his jacket. He shoulders the sting of the new wound and rounds the corner, raising his weapon and firing. He counts another two, three, five dead, and the moist air begins to cling to the back of his neck, sweat lining his collar, blood soaking his sleeve. He calls Cabrera’s name. He calls again.

“Let's end this,” he growls. “Come out, and I’ll spare the rest of them.”

An explosion nearby sets him off-kilter, rattling the earth beneath him. The church goes up easily, flames licking the sky, sirens blaring several blocks over, the steady eruption of chaos like golden nectar in his mouth. Joel rises to his feet and continues his charge.

He calls Cabrera’s name again. He thinks of your body, prone and cold on the floor, reaching for him. He thinks of that night and imagines himself saving you before any of it happened. He imagines turning out of the restaurant that very first night, retreating into the darkness where it was comfortable and you were safe.

No—he'd gone to the light. He’d let it all topple, and he'd do it again. This world is not where he belongs. You are what the word has led him to. All the gospel and the hymnals and the nights spent praying on his knees to a false god led him to your soft, supple side, not to the jagged edges of this unforgiving Underworld.

He calls Cabrera’s name again, but he hears the roar of the engine too late. The circle of vehicles crowds him, claustrophobic, and it's Manuel Cabrera who steps out.

He looks the same as he did eight years ago, when Joel approached him and asked to be released from his contract, if not a little more grey. He's dressed in an Italian suit and his shoes are unscuffed. His hair is combed back and his eyes are sunken into his face.

Something strikes Joel in the back of his head, and he sees the Creation of Adam on the north wall of the orphanage, the wrinkled old hand, the stray dogs.

The starchy scent of the canvas sack jolts him awake. Someone yanks it up over his head, and he blinks in the harsh light of day.

He's in a giant empty warehouse. Light filters through the broken glass windows high above their heads, shards and empty bullet casings and cigarette butts crunching underfoot. Judging from the scuffling of feet around him, ten or so men surround him where he sits in an old folding chair, bound by the wrists. He feels a throbbing ache in his skull and winces. You’ll give him hell for this.

“It’s good to see you, Joel,” says the silhouette sitting across from him, flanked by two more shadows. Joel blinks them into focus. “It’s been a long time.”

The edges soften until he can see the whites of the eyes, the cool detached gaze, the glimmer of a silver watch. “Manuel,” says Joel. “¿Cómo está su hijo?”

A huff of air is all he gets in reply. Manuel sheds his long coat and leans forward on his elbows. “You know, Joel, my son was a fucking moron.”

“I could've told you that,” says Joel, “and I would've saved you a lot of breath.”

“My son,” growls Manuel, “was a moron, but he was my son. I told him as much—told him there was nothing he could do, not when Joel Miller was hunting him down. And when I asked him what he had done to warrant the boogeyman’s vengeance, he said it was because of a girl.”

Manuel rubs his hand over his stubbled jaw, laughing like the situation is amusing. “Well, that’s good for you, Joel. Good to finally find something you care about, to find a reason. I see you're putting your retirement to good use. Fighting for your very own Helen of Troy.”

Joel says nothing, studying the manic glint in Cabrera’s eye. He recalls that same look from the night he asked to leave, placing his gun on the desk between them.

“I want out,” he said.

“Out?” said Cabrera. “And why, Joel, would you ever want out?”

“Because I’m done here,” he said. “I'm done in this world and I’m done with you.”

Joel wonders if Cabrera had been waiting for that exact moment: for Joel Miller, the ghost in the corner of the Underworld’s bedroom, to step forward and give Manuel Cabrera the opportunity he needed to rise to the very top.

“Very well,” he said after a long silence. “But I want you to consider whether your freedom is worth what I’m about to ask of you. It will not be easy.”

“It’s worth it,” said Joel. “Now tell me what I need to do.”

Cabrera sits across from Joel the same way he did eight years ago, the same insidious gleam in those black eyes, smiling smugly without moving his face at all.

“You've changed,” he says. “You’re softer, Joel. That wedding ring must've done a number on my killer.”

“Maybe I never stopped bein’ a killer,” says Joel.

“Maybe not. But the difference is that now, you have a reason to keep living.” Cabrera has the gall to feign remorse as he shrugs his shoulders. “You took my son from me, Joel. You understand how this world works.”

Joel kicks out his leg instinctively, baring his teeth at Cabrera like a caged dog. Two henchmen clap down on his shoulders and abruptly pull him backward in the chair. The rope around his wrists chafe.

“When I signed that contract,” he growled, “I had nothing to live for. Nobody to love. Until the day she showed up in my life. She gave me a word to follow that wasn’t yours or your God’s.” His mouth hardly fits around the name. Yours has always felt softer on his tongue. “Trust that Emiliano deserved worse than the death I gave him.”

“A woman above God,” Cabrera utters under his breath, rubbing his palms over his thighs before he rises to his feet and grabs Joel by the hair at the scruff of his neck. Joel winces at the prickling sensation erupting across his scalp. Cabrera’s breath stinks of weed. “El espectro,” he says mockingly. “The fuckin’ boogeyman. You're not so scary like this.”

Cabrera forces Joel to look up at him. The pressure accumulates behind his nose, painful enough to make his eyes water. “You burned my church down, Joel,” says his captor. “Money is replaceable, sure, but the leverage I had on this city… Hijo de puta. Just for a fuckin’ girl, Joel?”

Joel can't help but sneer. “Yeah, I enjoyed that part.”

It earns him a blow across the jaw, and he relishes the electric lash that wriggles down his side. Cabrera lets go of his hair and gestures with a glance to his men before he turns away, plucking his coat from the chair.

“Manuel.”

He watches Cabrera consider it: to indulge Joel, or to let him rot.

The first hit he executed on Cabrera’s behalf earned him just ten thousand. Then thirty-something, having long ago left the Sisters, the hard wooden floors worn with the pressure of so many kneeling bodies, the Marines, and the sound of warfare, Joel didn’t have many places to stay. He took the red money, earned from the body and probably the pockets of a dead senator, and rented a place.

Nighttime in the city didn't mean quiet, not outside nor in. That night, Joel sat on the side of his bed in a cockroach-infested Brooklyn apartment whose walls smelled of cigarette smoke, and he put his face in his hands. Leaving one war only to enter another, Cabrera told him, is just the way of life. You, Joel, are a killer.

But that can’t be all, he thinks now, his hands bound and his blood singing in his heart. He wonders if you're asleep by now, if you've taken to his side of the bed like you used to, if you've stretched your hand across the linen for a taste of the memory of that love-like-sunlight.

It's your blood, he realises, that courses through him. Your blood that tastes sweet as ichor, your blood that runs in his blue-green veins. It's your blood he hears whispering to him when the dreams go black as pitch and he cannot hope to breathe.

The last contract he took for Cabrera earned him no prize but his freedom. Nothing but the smell of your perfume and your warm body tucked neatly into his every night and the cool kiss of your twin wedding bands could have satisfied him. He was not just a killer. He’d proven it. He’d lived it in eight years of gentle mornings, kissing you awake starting at the roots of your hair, and he’d loved it as much as they all had tried to make him love a God that never loved him.

He’d never forgotten how to kill. But he hasn't forgotten how to love, either. That, he figured out all on his own.

“All I wanted was peace. And your son took that from me.” Joel lifts his head to watch Cabrera: the way his spine stiffens, the way his eyes narrow minutely. “He killed my peace and so I killed him. So you can either pull your contract,” Joel says, feeling the snarl pull at his vocal cords like jagged claws as his voice begins to rise, “or you can die screaming like your bastard son.”

He barely lurches forward in the chair before a plastic bag is shucked over his head, suctioned tight around his throat. Two men hold him down as Joel struggles against his bonds, gasping against the cool plastic. He's overpowered, hands wrenching his shoulders back against the chair. He kicks out for leverage, but his strength is waning, and the brief high of losing consciousness brings him back to you.

He took you to Greece for your honeymoon—or, rather, you took him. You were more travelled, more comfortable in the bright spots of the world, more settled in the spotlight. He thinks about how the sun adorned your skin like sequins, how eyes followed you everywhere you went, how you would see him frowning at all the attention and quietly take his hand.

They don't exist, you would tell him. You're all mine now, Joel Miller. And it’s just you and me.

Maybe there's a scrap of truth to fate. He's always been yours, long before he ever knew your face.

He basks in the sunlight on the beach for the time being. You wore his sunglasses when yours broke. You let him apply your sunscreen and you tucked your head into his shoulder on the luxurious chair. You fell asleep with your hand on his chest. Joel spent an hour studying the band around your ring finger.

Maybe Greece was a dream. Maybe the sun was a trick of the light and the clouds were smoke and the sky was black and the memory dwindles to a pinprick and he's grasping onto the image, your smile, your laugh, bells and perfume and a candle set at the foot of a golden statue—

“Stop.”

“Stop,” says a voice, and the air comes rushing back in. Joel wheezes, blinking hard to clear the spots or maybe to preserve the picture. But you're gone, slipping softly away as the brush of your knuckle over his cheek, and Joel is alive again.

“Tommy?”

His brother doesn't look at him, but Joel sees the brief shimmer of gunmetal hidden in his waistband.

He can feel the bruises blooming in a circle of fire around his throat. You’ll really be furious with him.

Joel watches his brother pull the handgun and feels the ropes cut into the tender skin of his wrists, helpless as he feels now. “What in the hell…”

“I’m sorry, brother,” says Tommy, turning the gun on Joel.

#fic: helen #kiwisbell's fics #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us #the last of us hbo #tlou fic #joel miller angst #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller au #john wick au

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