#first half: deep and pensive | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pedgito · 1 year

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summary | a story of how things began, where they ended up, and where they might go. a collection of patrols over the course of several months is forcing you closer to joel than you ever imagined, tense circumstances leading to hasty decisions and one bad choice after the next. [17k+]

pairing | joel miller x fem!reader

content warning | 18+ content, as always: no explicit use of y/n, set post s1 (but not specifically stated), lots of characters from the game (but not significant if you're unaware) grumpy!joel, friends (?) with benefits, sex under stress as a means for distraction (consensual), graphic depicition of an attack of raiders (it's brief, easy to skim over), a litany of sexual escapades (oral, unprotected, ect) semi-public sex (no one's around), orgasm denial, repressed emotions

author’s note | um, yeah. i had this idea back in february and had an outline that finally came to fruition over the past month. this was a serious labor of love and purely self-indulgence. if you make it through the entire thing, thank you! if this has typos please ignore. i proofread this like 4 times and i will cry

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Patrolling with Joel was always something. Miserable when Joel was having a bad day, mildly enjoyable on the days where he managed to have enough coffee that morning when you weren't on the rotation for the shitty patrols that took hours to trek through in this weather, the snow halfway up your shins nearly everywhere.

It’s been a few months now and Joel is still who you favor going with over anyone else—he’s thoughtful, methodical, always watching over his shoulder for danger. And Joel does warm up to you eventually, but the reluctance in his eyes is always there. He’s seasoned in the art of surviving, avoiding connection when at all possible. He doesn’t talk to you for the first month out of simple answers or orders, helping you get accustomed to a route you haven’t run before, but small talk? It’s nonexistent.

Maybe that was for the best.

Because the first time you find yourself pinned under his gaze, fingers clenched around your wrists in warning, the unseemly thoughts invade your brain.

He doesn’t sleep often during patrols, either. So, it’s a little intimidating when you find him curled up on top of his sleeping bag when he swore he was taking a quick break, resting the ache in his back that quickly melted into a deep slumber. You can’t dare to wake him up so soon after, seeing how peaceful he looked when he slept, almost at ease but still carrying that deep scowl, permanently on his features. It was a part of him.

Tommy and Jesse had arrived to rotate and relieve you guys back to Jackson, something that wasn’t out of the norm, but you find yourself battling with leaning over him, shaking him awake and disturbing his slumber. And on a dime, the moment your hand connects with his shoulder, Joel is awake—very awake and subduing you with little resistance, your leg forced hastily between his own, eyes dark and pensive from where he held himself above you.

“Joel, Joel—it’s just me,” You spit out in a panic, “Tommy and Jesse, they’re outside.”

You’re not sure what breaks his stupor, be it the panic in your voice or the terrified look on your face, he relents quickly, apologizing half-heartedly under his breath.

You release a tight breath when he finally lets go, rising up slowly as he does, grabbing your pack without a word, as does he, watching as he rolled up his sleeping bag, something you’ve seen him do a million times before, but he feels you watching him, almost hesitant to speak now.

“Did I hurt you?” He asks lowly, the thickness of sleep in his voice.

“No, um—“ You shake your head, rubbing the skin of your wrist absently, “I guess I should’ve been more careful, but you fell asleep and I figured you needed it.”

He looks even more apologetic, more so for his actions but for also leaving you up alone, not that it really mattered to you. It was an easy patrol spot in the watchtower— it never caused trouble, so falling asleep was the least of your worries.

You shrug when his eyes glance over your slightly hunched frame, shivering from the cold but an arm clutching around your middle. It’s defensive, a subconscious movement that Joel doesn’t even think you realize you’re doing.

He shouldn’t feel shitty about it, but he does. Still, he won’t admit that out loud.

“Next time I’ll keep six feet and poke you with a stick,” You joke, “kinda like waking a bear.”

You smile when Joel huffs reluctantly, a subtle motion of his chest as he chuckles. It’s faint, but you see the involuntary quirk at the corner of his mouth as he shoved his sleeping bag into his pack and rose to his feet.

“Hey, you’ve still got decent reflexes,” You shrug, passing him by with the soft scuffle of your feet, shoulders rubbing against each other awkwardly as you turn toward him over your left shoulder, his body too close for his own comfort, “for an old guy.”

He scoffs at the implication, though any maliciousness in his expression is void, “Old?”

He knows it’s the truth, he just hates the implication. He’s weaker, but not any less that man he was than that he is now. He watches your face scrunch up in amusement, a soft laugh slipping past your lips.

“Joel, I’m fucking with you,” You tell him, the tense in his brow relaxing slightly, “it’s gonna be a long ride back, isn’t it?”

“Ah, don’t know—think you can handle travelin’ with the old guy for a few hours?”

Joel doesn’t divert to humor often, but when he does, it’s a sweet sight, that rough exterior cracking under your gaze more often.

“Please,” You puff your lips out in a quick huff, yanking your back over your shoulder, “I can handle you just fine.”

Once you got to know him, it was actually quite easy.

Joel nods his chin forward silently, ignoring your teasing for the time being, a long ride ahead of you and not nearly enough patience on his end to deal with your antics.

And you try to ignore how intensely his touch lingered on your skin, rubbing the tender spot on your wrist during the long ride back to Jackson.

Joel keeps his distance behind you, but he sees it—the subtle look over your shoulder every now and then, your eyes lingering with him when he forces eye contact.

It’s only the start of what was to come, something neither of you were prepared for.

The rotation is adequately simple over the first few months, keeping the pairings fair by filtering them out evenly—Ellie is fun to be around, a lot more relaxed and less jaded by everything. She keeps things light, always bringing along her comics for extra entertainment or spending her time drawing you or whatever she could find, something to keep her busy when things get boring. And she talks, freely, to you—something Joel never did. Besides, Ellie kept up to date on the town drama, so in turn, so did you.

And Tommy is, well, Tommy. He’s efficient, likes to do his rounds, sign the patrol sheet, scope the area, then spend the rest of the night or day relaxing away when things aren't going awry. He talks about before—his job, how people lived in Austin, the summer cookouts in the neighborhoods that you were never privy to. Tommy’s nice, you’ve always liked him. It was Joel who proved to be the difficult one, something Tommy would wholeheartedly agree with.

Eventually you find yourself paired up with Joel more often than you’re used to, now Ellie would stick to patrols with Dina when she could, occasionally Jesse. She always complains when she has to ride with Joel, something about:

“We live together, but we’re not attached at the fuckin’ hip.”

Joel doesn’t complain, his hesitancy toward letting Ellie take more responsibility waning by the day when he realizes how well she holds her own.

You take the patrol further west, a lodge that he and Tommy cleared out some months prior when you were still new—you’ve only ran into infected there once, end of the summer, but Joel cleared them out no problem.

It seemed like an easy patrol. It was. Joel even seems a little more cheerful than usual, making comments to some of the information you were relaying to him that Ellie told you, some pointless gossip to fill the lull.

“It’s why I mind my business,” Joel speaks over the soft trollop as you ride alongside him, “nothin’ good comes from stickin’ your nose where you shouldn’t,” his head turns, eyes glancing over your frame briefly, shrugging his shoulders in an effort to loosen them, “it only breeds more problems.”

“I’m just the messenger,” You shrug, “I keep to myself—you know that.”

He does. He finds the shyness endearing in a way, a contrast from how exuberant Ellie could be when he spent patrols with her. It’s why things worked so well with you—you respected his space, he respected yours.

“Remind me to check that guitar place for those strings Ellie’s been buggin’ about,” Joel tells you, “I’ll hit it before we leave.”

“She’s improved a lot,” You compliment, a faint smile tugging at his lips, “props to her teacher, I suppose.”

Joel shakes his head, emitting a bit of fondness every time he talks about Ellie, “That kid is determined. I don’t think she would’ve needed my help either way.”

“You know,” Your tone bleeds something teasing, putting Joel on edge as he tilts his head your way, looking expectantly, “she said you’re a pretty good singer.”

Joel opens his mouth for a beat before snapping it shut, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to sing,” You promise, “but—I don’t know, just didn’t pin you as the type.”

“I’ve got a type about me?” Joel seems dully interested, a soft smirk on his face as he yields the reins to a stop, leading you to follow suit as you both guide the horses to the makeshift stable tucked away on the side of the building, gathering your things before you make your way inside.

You leave Joel in a curious silence until you’re able to relax, closing the doors behind you with a heavy shove once Joel has done his quick walk-through, the fireplace setting unlit in the middle of the room looking all too appealing right now.

“Look, I’ll just keep askin’,” Joel says, clapping his hands together deftly to grab your attention, throwing the lighter stuffed into your coat pocket at his waiting hands, cupped as he catches it with ease, setting up a fire that crackles to life instantly, “first I’m an old man, now you’re judgin’ me, doesn’t really seem fair now does it?”

It’s the most he’s talked to you before, suddenly invested in getting an answer out of you. It’s playful, his intention, and you can’t help but find it a little enjoyable to watch him squirm. You take a seat around the circular fire pit, feet propped up against the brick surrounding it, hands laying flat over you stomach, jacket unzipped but still snug on your body.

“You’re a big grump all the time,” You tell him honestly, his face morphing into something indecipherable, “—Ellie’s words, not mine.”

You hold a finger up, pointing in his direction.

“But, she’s not wrong.” It earns a subtle shrug, Joel’s arms stalling over the back of the couch that wrapped around the fire pit, a few feet away from you still. “I’m just saying, most of the people in town who enjoy that stuff—you know, music and all that. They’re loud about it, a little showboaty if you ask me.”

“What? I’m not loud enough for you?”

He was loud when he needed to be. Directive and strong, aggressive to anyone who may cause him harm or anyone he cares about—you’ve seen it a few times, but never on the side of it being just you and him. Part of you is thankful for that, but you can’t help the wanted to feel that type of fierce protection aimed toward you.

You snort softly, “Forget it, Joel. It’s a nice surprise, I bet you have a great voice.” It’s free of any teasing or ill-intent of riling him up. A true compliment, one that cracks Joel’s surface, just barely.

Joel hits you softly in the chest with a bag of jerky a while later, chewing on a piece quietly as he rests, neck hung against the back of the couch, eyes closed. The heat creeps in slowly, forcing you to strip down a few layers—jacket first, then your sweater, down to just your jeans and shirt, wiggling your feet out of your snow boots in hopes that they’ll dry by the fire quicker.

And truthfully, your bored out of your mind. It was hard to stay dormant like this, holed up in a place for an extended period of time with nothing to do but entertain yourself—and because Joel was about as entertaining as watching wet paint dry, you took the initiative into your own hands.

“Have you ever played pool?” Your voice slices through the thick silence, one of Joel’s eyes peeking open curiously, head still reclined back. “I’ve been dying to try this out since Tommy found those balls a few months ago.”

“It’s been years,” He mumbles lowly, tapping his fingers against the back of his right palm, “—what about you?”

“Not a chance, Joel,” You reply, voice oozing with a flippant vagrancy, “I was fifteen when the outbreak happened, I’ve never even stepped foot into a bar, let alone some place like this.”

Even now, twenty years into a world that had crumbled to the ground, the lodge still held up nice.

Normally you would expect Joel to make up some excuse, roll over on his side or lay down and pretend he was asleep or keep watch by the door, his demeanor never faltering for more than a second, clipped answers to your question. But, that was Joel wasn’t here now.

He’s warmed up to you, partially—but you could tell there was still a long way to go. He still keeps his distance, less of a chance to bump into your or accidentally brush shoulders. It makes you feel forlorn, like maybe you had scared him by how you reacted, eyes wide and terrified underneath him.

Truthfully, Joel doesn’t want to scare you again. He couldn’t handle it. Not with how reluctantly fond he’s grown of you, something he kept close to his chest and didn’t dare tell a soul. He’s got his own justifications for it.

“We can play a game,” Joel suggests, “it’ll kill some time, I guess.”

Joel didn’t need to know how easy it would be for you to play him under the table, having spent most of your time around the guys at the bar who like to hustle bets for pool. They never stood a chance. And Joel never frequented The Tipsy Bison outside of parties thrown for the community as a group (and that was still rare), always dragged along by Ellie or Tommy. They were insufferable to attend.

You could share the sentiment.

“Any bets?” You tease, stripping the pool cues off the wall and handing it to him as he approaches, strip down to a similar state as well, tanned skinned under a navy blue shirt, wearing the jeans he seemed to never take off and boots that were barely holding on.

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Joel decides, “I’ve got nothin’ in mind anyways.”

“God, you’re no fun,” You pout, pulling an eye roll from Joel, his eyes flicking toward the ground briefly as he reconsidered, “come on—anything.”

“Jesus—uh, I don’t know,” He chews on his bottom lip thoughtfully, “huh, how about the loser just owes the other a favor?”

You blow a raspberry with your tongue, “Lame,” You tease further, but his quick switch to defeat has his arm slumping at his side forcing you to reassess, “—fine, fine. A favor is fair, I’m running low on those anyways.”

It’s a small hint at your competitive nature, something Joel is clueless to pick up on, guiding you through the basics of the game with ease—you listen intently despite how badly you were going to destroy him, the stakes surprisingly high.

A favor. For anything.

The small crack of a smile on Joel’s face is enough of a reward as he watches you attempt to break the set, barely tapping the center as it rolls back slowly, your face scrunching up in annoyance.

“Oh, fuck you,” You scoff playfully, “you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Joel shakes his head in a blatant attempt at lying, heaving his cue up to show you his stance, “Keep your dominant hand on the end and your other near the type, you’ve just gotta guide it through with some force.”

You feign innocence, switching the cue to your dominant side, though still looking visibly uncomfortable and rigid.

Joel thinks it over in his hand, rehashing his decision making a million times over until he’s resting the pool cue aside and joining your side, hesitant as he brings his hands to your elbows from behind, keeping a careful distance.

“Keep your arm a little further back,” He pulls at your dominant arm, thick fingers wrapping around your bicep, his body leaned forward slightly to adjust the other when he can’t reach, spreading your fingers to wrap around the other end, tucking your thumb under the cue gently at wrapping your index over the top, “it’s almost like you’re holding a pencil, if that helps. Sort of.”

You nod slightly, his touch lingering lightly as he leaned over you, pointing toward the center of the table, “Just use that hand as a guide, don’t grip it too tight and let the cue follow through. Here, try it.”

He crowds you in slowly, aiding you in the force of your cue as he guides it back and through with a sharpness, hitting the ball dead center and the rest of them scattering as a result.

“Just like that.” He praises, a softness to him that wasn’t there before when speaks over your shoulder. You roll your shoulders insignificantly, nodding at his response.

He notes how unbothered you are this way, in this situation compared to the latter, his touch guiding and soft compared to rough, suffocating, the force he only used in situations where his opponent wasn’t going to make it out alive.

Joel parts without so much as a word, shifting into his typical stance, favoring his right leg as it bends slightly, using the cue for support as he leaned into it. “Got it?”

You nod silently, feeling warm all over, too warm. It’s your own fault, really—not a soul to blame but yourself. To be fair, you didn’t think Joel would bother to take the bait. But he did, almost too eagerly. It was enough to mentally knock you on your ass, leaving you to play the rest of the game with a cloudy mind filled with how warm his touch felt against your bare skin, craving a touch you haven’t felt in months. It’s pathetic, but you can’t help it.

Joel sinks the last ball with finality, slapping his hand against the felt table in triumph, a surprising show of emotion for someone so sullen as him. He was full of surprises you were quickly finding out.

“M’sorry, darlin’.” He tells you, sounding authentically apologetic, “I don’t expect you to owe me any favors.”

“Screw that,” You shake your head stubbornly, annoyed at how easily you let him get the better of you, “one more.”

“I’m not sure if that’s—“

“One. More.” You tell him adamantly, reracking the balls without an answer, nodding pointedly toward the table, “Pick a pocket.”

Joel’s eyebrow furrowed in confusion, “You want to play one-pocket? How the hell do you even know about—I thought you said you’ve never played.”

“Joel, pick a damn pocket.”

You don’t choke this time, letting him take the first hit, watch the ball sink, and the next one he misses.

You don’t miss, one turn after the other passing him up as you sink them in succession.

He stares at you with wide eyes, nose flared like he’s going to laugh, mouth spread into a subtle smile, his teeth peeking through.

“You’re a fuckin’ pool shark, aren’t you?” Joel questions, tossing the pool cue aside. “That was goddamn impressive, I’ll give you that.”

“How do you think I score the steak sandwiches for our routes over the tuna and cheese?” You ask redundantly, “I’ve played Tommy under the table enough times that he won’t even play for fun anymore.”

“Well,” Joel shrugs, “guess we both owe each other favors, don’t we?”

You could care less about the favors now, battling with the conflicting feelings as you stared at the man ahead of you, seeming like a completely different person to you now. He's acting nothing like the sulky man you walk by every day in Jackson.

“Shit—one more,” Joel insists, “no holdin’ back on each other. No bets, just braggin’ rights.”

Joel never hears the end of it that night, falling asleep to the faint giggle of victory.

Another few weeks later and things are even more different.

You spot Joel from a mile away, tucked against the corner of the bar with wistful eyes downturned toward his drink, the ice in the glass swashing alongside the dark whiskey. The squeal of a couple kids and their scattering feet as they ram into you and pull your attention away, guiding them away to safety and out of the crowd with a gentle hand, a pair of apologetic parents waiting off to the side.

He must’ve seen the interaction halfway through, smirking with amusement as you approach, though still eerily silent.

Your friendship since the pool game has blossomed slowly, he jokes with you more often, shares his food when he hears your stomach growl, no matter how much you refuse. He even talks about his hobbies, things he enjoys, and it feels like he’s less of an enigma now. Real, tangible, someone you can make a connection with.

He still keeps his distance, mostly—the pool game was a fluke, a split second decision he hadn’t thought through and fully regretted after the fact. He’s gone from tackling you to the ground in fear to feeling you up for a good shot and that just doesn’t sit right with him, but he never apologizes. He can’t find it in him to embarrass himself further, figuring that by getting his ass kicked at pool was already punishment enough.

But, it doesn’t help that he always finds himself in situations that end up with him closer than he intended—he can’t tell if you’re being intentional about it anymore, but tonight, it’s all you.

“Damn, who dragged you out of the house?” You ask, a huff of a laugh muffled by the glass that tips to his lips, your fingers drumming silently against the bar as you asked for a beer, smiling at a familiar face. “Wait, let me guess—Ellie?”

Joel shakes his head honestly.

“Shit—Tommy?”

“No.”

“Maria forced Tommy to force you to show up?” Joel actually has a laugh at that, the idea not that far-fetched, but it’s another wrong answer.

“Joel Miller—“ Your finger wags in his face, landing on the center of his chest as you sip from your own drink with your opposite hand, “did you actually wander out of your house on your own free will?”

Guilty as charged. Joel would never make decisions like this, but he knew you would be there—and goddamnit, he couldn’t help it. He’s dressed incredibly suave too, a clean, slick dress shirt that works well on him, a nice change from his usual thick coats and plaid button ups.

“Hey, brother,” Tommy claps a hand down on Joel’s shoulder warmly, flashing you his trademark grin, teeth and all, “ma’am.”

You grimace at the word, “God, Tommy—you gotta stop calling me that.”

“Sorry, habit.” He chuckles before glancing over at Joel briefly, eyes connecting with yours in question, “So, what are we thinkin’—hell finally freeze over?”

“Seems that way.”

You play along, teasing Joel with no reluctance, enjoying the pinched look on his face as he downs the whiskey.

“Well, sorry Joel, but I came to steal her away for a dance,” He informs Joel, jabbing his thumb in your direction, “it is tradition, after all.”

Joel didn’t know that, of course. How could he?

Tommy always takes a minute or two to dance with you, one of his favorite songs being played by the band of townspeople—Maria doesn’t enjoy dancing as much either, spending most of her time mingling and helping out where it was needed, it’s an easy compromise.

It’s an upbeat song, something country that you can’t be bothered to memorize the words of, but it’s all big twists and twirls, dancing with little precision and more for pure enjoyment than anything else.

Joel tries not to stare, he does. But, it’s nearly impossible. It starts at your face, lingering as he savored that huge smile plastered across it, arm flying above your head as Tommy spun you, squealing in joy. Eventually it travels elsewhere, lower and lower, until Joel can’t help but keep his gaze stuck on the curve of your jeans, the way the denim cups your ass perfectly.

And it feels wrong, almost demeaning, but you don’t seem to have a care in the world, turning on your heels and to Joel suddenly, who’s already straightened up by then and shoving his glass away, poised to make his excuse to leave until you’re bounding toward him, hand outstretched as Tommy watches from the side, hands settled on his hips. He’s got a shit-eating grin on his face, knowing exactly what was about to happen.

“Come on, Joel.” You try to persuade, using a grabby motion with your hands as you approach him closer, bordering on shoving yourself between the bar top and his legs, “Just one dance.”

“Darlin’ I don’t—“ His refusal is imminent, obvious in your eyes. But, you’ve got a trick up your sleeve that he’d never hear the end of if he denied you.

“My favor,” You play your cards, “I’m cashing’ in.”

You cock your head to the side, awaiting his answer with a pointed look, satisfied smile creeping onto your face as he sighs, letting you take his hand in reluctance as you pull him to your feet.

Joel’s at least thankful the tempo of the song is slower, but that leads to a minacious closeness he wasn’t prepared for, your delicate set of fingers resting over his shoulder, the other slack in his hand. He settles one against your waist, touching cautiously light and his other hand enveloping your own.

“This is a waste of a favor, you know.” Joel comments off-handedly, his eyes dragging toward the floor as he swayed to the gentleness of the music, dancing with an ease that still stuck with him, even after all these years.

“I don’t think so,” You shrug, “I get a dance, you’re no longer in debt to me, seems like a win win.”

Joel shakes his head with a fondness, eyes flicking up toward you briefly as he bows his head, his grip tightening ever so slightly as he seems to relax, realizing that the only eyes on him were you now, Tommy having gone off to search for Maria.

“All these other guys and you want to dance with the old man,” Joel starts, “how’d you come to that decision?”

“You’re never letting that go,” You roll your eyes half-heartedly, pulling him in closer on a whim, trading your current position for one where your arms rest of his shoulders, fingers interlocking behind his neck loosely, his own hands adjusting against your hip more casually, fingers dancing over the sliver of bare skin from where your shirt had started to rise, “can I tell you a secret, Joel?”

“It’s not a secret if you tell me,” He counters slyly, “besides, I’m terrible at keeping ‘em.”

And blame it on the lingering remnants of his second whiskey, but you can feel his fingers drag against your skin, finding home under the fabric of your shirt, his expression never changing—but it feels like a test, like he’s waiting for you to have a reaction. There’s not a word traded during the subtle interaction, ignoring his actions as you spoke.

“I’d choose you over any of those guys,” You say, a rawness that bleeds truth, Joel doesn’t have to second guess you, he sees it, “and Seth is way older than you and a prick, give yourself some fuckin’ credit, Joel.”

Joel settles quietly, shaking his head at your soft outburst. It shouldn’t surprise him, your shared devotion having grown over the past few weeks, small moments that made Joel second guess everything he’s taught himself to be.

Distant, hard, cold. But with you, it just wasn’t possible anymore. At least, not lately.

“And,” You sing, wiggling excitedly under his grip, “I may have saved your ass for patrol tomorrow.”

Joel looks at you expectantly, pulling you in closer when a quick pass of two rowdy kids has you stumbling forward.

You laugh at the sudden change in motion, hands slapping against his chest to keep you steady. He doesn’t try and move you away, which is surprising. But, you don’t try to move either, enjoying the slow guide of your chest against his as you sway to the music.

“Tommy’s takin’ coverage with Eugene,” You tell him, “I know how much you hate patrolling with him.”

Joel huffs out a laugh, “I don’t hate him, he’s just—“

“Talkative? A little too cheery for you?” You ask, leaning your head back an inch to examine his face fully, “Damn, I guess I’m not much of an improvement, either.”

“Now, I didn’t say that.” Joel responds defensively, though his face is still relaxed.

“Then?” You tease.

“Let me ask you,” Joel switches things around, “You’d rather patrol with Tommy over me?”

You shrug before thinking about it for a moment, actually thinking—and no, you wouldn’t. “No, guess not.”

“Why?” He questions, putting you on the spot.

“You’re prettier to look at,” You say with a nonchalance, “and Tommy really likes to reminisce, like…a lot.”

Joel snorts a quiet laugh at that.

“So, you see my issue with Eugene then.” Joel brings the conversation to a head, watching as a smirk appears on your face, realizing his mistake in real time.

“Hold on— that’s why you enjoy our patrols so much?” You turn your head into your shoulder to hide your laugh, quickly gathering yourself to tease him further, “Because, I’m prettier to look at and I keep my mouth shut?”

Joel shakes his head in amusement, ignoring your question. “You do realize where we’re going tomorrow, don’t you?”

“Of course, we’re stationed out at the dam.” You respond casually, “It’s not that bad, Joel.”

It’s the one place you and Joel haven’t had the opportunity to patrol together, always paired up with someone else—it’s a cramped spot, loud, and uncomfortably cold at this time of year no matter how many fires you set. Plus, it’s a lot of leg work to check the dam, making sure it’s still in good working condition. It’s what powered Jackson, without it, you wouldn’t be dancing with Joel right now, let alone even allowed the luxury of having a weekend to unwind and enjoy the party.

Joel looks hesitant.

“What?” You pry, “Don’t like the idea of being stuck in a tiny room with me for that long, one bed, nowhere to sulk off into a corner?”

If anyone else had approached him like this, it would’ve ended in a broken jaw—his own internalized anger getting the best of him. But, it’s you. And he knows you’re right.

You squeeze in closer, leaving barely any room between you now that the center of the hall was filled with other dancing bodies, shifting Joel’s hands down over your ass, the tips of his fingers adjusting over the curve and leaving little to imagination as he can feel every ridge and curve of your body, his solid chest against your own.

Your heart clenches at the idea that he might pull away, something akin to a bad sting and finally give up on his attempt at being sociable—he doesn’t move an inch.

Doesn’t say a word.

In fact, his gaze is even more intense now than it was before, edged with a look in his eyes that you’ve never seen before.

“I’ll sulk wherever I feel like it.” Joel retorts, falling into his usual scowl. “It’s probably about time we turn in for the night, don’t you think?”

You blink slowly, gaze never faltering. There’s a darkness behind his eyes, something still undiscovered. You nod blanky, but secretly acquiesce what he’s about to say.

“Long day tomorrow,” You agree, the shift in the air evident to the both of you, an innocent attempt at pulling some enjoyment out of Joel devolving into something dangerous and uncharted, “I’ll see you bright and early, yeah?”

“I’ll walk you back,” Joel insists, “maybe my sulkin’ will scare those boys who’ve been eyeing you all night.”

“I can handle myself, Joel.” He knows it—doesn’t make his offer any less tempting, though. He was a protector, you liked being protected. It was a devious offer that would find you in trouble soon, but you relent, accepting his help. He doesn’t make the first move, leaving you to take that step.

Joel doesn’t realize how badly he’s craved to touch you until he was, the second he laid his hands on you it was over for him—and he hates himself for letting you in, letting you wear him down. Joel’s close behind as you turn, navigating your way through the crowd quietly.

“Never said you couldn’t, sweetheart.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

There’s a hammering in your chest that doesn’t calm the entire way back toward your house, a small street near the edge of the town, a few houses away from the one he shared with Ellie.

You clear your throat awkwardly, a thickness there that crept up on you, watching as Joel shoved his hands into his front pockets, leaning on his better leg, always favoring the left.

“I can ask Tommy to switch things back if you’re really bothered,” You remind him gently, wondering if that was why he seemed so bothered now, his face brooding and flat, “I won’t get my feelings hurt, I promise.”

But inside Joel’s head, his mind is filtering through a thousand bad decisions to make, every one of them involving you.

“No,” He tells you surely, “You’re doing me a favor—shit, so I guess that means you don’t owe me anymore, actually.”

You shrug slightly, “Keep it, this one’s free.”

Joel has an inclination that you wouldn’t do that for just anyone, watching your face morph into a tired smile.

“Careful,” He teases, “you’re goin’ soft on me.”

You snort softly, ignoring the still burning tingle that lingered on your skin long after Joel’s touch disappeared. It was the same ache you felt the first time he touched you, tackled you to the ground and kept you pinned under his grip. He hasn’t gotten much better, still jerking awake in most situations, but you’ve learned to keep your distance.

“Sorry,” You slip your hands into your back pockets, your thick jumper pulling tight over your chest, “didn’t realize that was a bad thing.”

Joel shakes his head slightly, still lingering on your doorstep despite himself. Old Joel would hightail it home, old Joel wouldn’t have even offered to walk you back to begin with—but, here he was.

“I should turn in.” You tell him, his subtle nod in response.

“Yeah, sounds like a good idea.” Joel agrees, “long day ahead of us.”

The clipped responses are feeding a tension you don’t realize until you’re both still standing there, unmoving, swaying with the gentle breeze and somehow feeling warm all over while still surrounded by the bitter cold.

And there’s a quick flash that invades your mind, even while stone cold sober, that has you twitching under his gaze. He sees it, clocks it with his eyes.

There’s no indication that he’s attempting to get a reaction out of you, just lingering in wait, waiting for you.

You never make a move to open your door or walk inside and that’s what he’s waiting for, to see you home safe. It’s the whole reason he walked you back, wasn’t it?

Joel says your name quietly, a beckon to bring your attention back to the surface, drowning in your own thoughts but your gaze never faltering, stuck on him.

“Somethin’ on your mind?” He asks.

It’s a question that has too many answers. And it’s a test too, wondering if you’ll slip up and speak on what you’re trying so hard to hold back.

Too much—is what you should say.

You—is what you want to say.

But instead, you act. That itching feeling overflowing and forcing you to make haste decisions, tired of hearing his voice in the back of your mind, how easily it drove you crazy. The endearing twang that echoed in your head all day long, even when he was miles away.

And you find that Joel is almost expecting it, his hand cupping your face gently, warming the skin as you press in to kiss him cautiously, top lip slotting over his bottom and relaxing, your opposite hand mirroring his own.

It feels too tender, like suddenly Joel is just as breakable as you—it’s terrifying. You pull away suddenly, coming to your senses, wide eyes staring him down. He looks calm.

You hate it.

It feels embarrassing.

He expected it, or at least anticipated it. You can see it on his face.

“Goodnight.” He tells you tenderly, sounding upset with himself but avoiding the choice to make things weird and you’re forever grateful.

You release a soft breath, nodding absently.

“Goodnight, Joel.”

You turn on your heels and enter your house, finally. Maybe it wasn’t too late to change Tommy’s mind.

It was.

Joel was already waiting by the gates by the time you arrived, food and supplies secured in your bag for the road, two rifles slung securely over his shoulders as he held the reins to the horses, both of them neighing impatiently.

“All good?” Joel asks, avoiding the obvious air of unspoken instances surrounding you two.

You nod confidently, taking the reins away silently.

“All set,” You assure him, guiding your foot through the saddle and mounting the horse, settling yourself as he followed suit, “you?”

Joel echoes your response.

You sigh internally, a deep annoyance settling into your bones. Annoyed with yourself, annoyed with Joel. Just annoyed, wholly and plainly.

Joel didn’t need to admit that he hadn’t gotten any sleep the night prior—he already had enough trouble sleeping on a normal night, but you in his head? That didn’t help.

And it flooded into the morning, still, Joel watching your body sway and rock slowly from the motion of the horse, head tucked away slightly to counter the breeze that prickled your cheeks.

When you finally make it to the dam he breaks the silence, slipping the reins from your hand and nodding toward the front entrance, “I’ll tie ‘em up if you want to settle and sign us in, you can get a fire going?”

He’s asking, not telling. You nod, hopping down carefully and unhooking your bag from the saddle.

“I’ll scream if I need help.” It’s a joke in poor taste.

Joel doesn’t take it too lightly, scowling in response.

“Sorry,” You apologize lamely, “bad joke.”

“Be careful,” Joel stresses, face softening, “keep your gun out until you’ve done a once over of the place.”

It feels like fate is fucking with you, most days. Dangling your life in front of its prey and savoring the outcome, because even with your gun poised carefully at your hip, knife tucked into the strap at your thigh, it doesn’t prepare you for what’s waiting on the other side of that door.

There’s a split second where you think you can talk things down, buy you some time so Joel could get here and settle their nerves, but they’re already on high alert, as are you, and there’s no time to think.

Plus, they don’t seem to be keen on listening.

“Grab her,” The burly man says, blunt weapon held tight in his grip as he goes for your arm, the other man forcing you to the ground with a harsh gasp escaping your chest as your back hits the concrete floor, “just gut her—fuckin’ do it.”

Your brain shuts off, realizing that your strength isn’t nearly matched with theirs, your shrill scream cutting through the commotion.

“Joel!” You tell, hoping he’ll hear, dodging the hand that comes your way to muffle your yells, barking out an even more broken, “Jooooel!”

Your gun is long gone, tossed away in a corner with your hand pinned under someone’s knees, eyes squeezed shut as you struggle for the knife around your thigh blindly. They didn’t have the wits or common sense to strip you properly before they were attacking you, the younger one hesitating at the other’s words.

“I thought you said we were just tyin’ her up.” He responds, sounding panicked.

You grab the knife successfully and pierce it through the young one’s gut with a sickening squish, a garbled groan ripping from his throat—and a rush of a shadow overhead as Joel wrested the other down, coming in from the door on the opposite side of the room, fists connecting with the attackers face with a sickening crunch.

The rage overtakes quickly, adrenaline flooding your body as you shove the man away, pulling the knife out to sink back in once, twice, until the blood fills his mouth and spills over, lifeless eyes staring back.

Your chest heaves with a breath, adjusted your clothes from where they had been pushed aside in the tackle, tossing your knife aside and putting enough distance between your body and the one who’s your killed, watching as Joel sunk the tip of his own knife through the throat of the larger man, draining the life from him in an instant.

Joel has a ferocity in his eyes when they land on you, tossing his knife to the side momentarily as he rises, towering over the body beneath him. He can't be angry with you—he can't.

“Grab your gun,” He tells you, ignoring how easily the rage would have overtaken his body in most situations, buring it away for the moment when he sees how badly you’re shaken up (it wasn't fear, not even close—more like rage), moving around rigidly to grab your gun off the floor, “knife too—then sit down.”

“But the—the bodies, Joel,” Joel can hear the uncertainty in your voice, shaking his head insistently, “we’ve gotta go back—tell Tommy, let them know.”

Joel shakes out his muscles, adjusting his thick leather jacket around his frame and steps over the dead body, moving to stand in front of you, touching you for the first time since last night. It’s not soft or gentle, more leading in an effort to get your attention and pull you out of your gaze, his fingers cupping your jaw, chin falling in the curve where his thumb and pointer finger connect.

You wonder how many times he's done this before—how he'd come to learn to calm people down through his intense eye contact and grounding voice. He could mask his emotions for the sake of others, even when they were threatening to boil over.

“I’ve got it, I’ll take care of this—” His eyes never left yours, eyebrows raising in question as he awaited your acknowledgment, a small nod coming from you, “go wash the blood off and come straight back, okay?”

You nod again, deftly, eyes empty and void of emotion.

“Hey,” Joel calls out, pulling your attention back, “I need you with me—you with me?”

“Yeah—yes,” You mumble weakly, ignoring how tenderly his thumb rubbed the junction of your jaw at the admittance, something you’re sure he wasn’t even aware he was doing, “I’m with you.”

“Go.” He instructs, releasing his hold on you.

His face morphs into resentment as you leave.

He should've stuck by your side. But, then he thinks back to the joke you made in passing and it fuels the anger more.

Joel’s taken care of the bodies by the time you returned, shrugging off his own jacket as he yanked the door closed, barricading it closed with the vacant table stuff in the corner of the room, letting his own paranoia get the better of him. It wasn’t a crime to be too safe, not anymore.

“If they’ve got a group they’ll come here looking for ‘em,” Joel tells you, “but somethin’ tells me we won’t have to worry about that.”

“So, no fire then?”

Joel shakes his head, nodding toward the few camping lateens left haphazardly on a desk, “We’ll use those tonight, better to be safe.”

He would have to explain this to Tommy when he saw him, put the town back on high alert for a while and go to sleep every night worrying that someone was going to snatch his family away again—snatch Ellie away, snatch you away. It was another problem, another stressor, but none of that was new to him.

“I’m gonna do a walkthrough,” He tells you, cocking his gun loudly, a little unnecessarily in your opinion, but his anger is still there, radiating off of him, “keep your gun out and shoot at anything you see that isn’t me.”

He doesn’t want you letting your guard down, which is why his apprehension to relax is valid. You nod quietly, sinking in on yourself as you take a seat on the old, torn up couch.

He’s gone for an hour or two, the sun nearly nonexistent outside now, lamps scattered around the room and bathing you in a low light, gun still clutched in your hand on your lap, safety off.

Joel knocks on the door shortly after, startling you to near death. You hated being jumpy like this, nothing to calm your nerves. You’d always prided yourself for being able to handle yourself in situations like that and you couldn’t explain why you froze—but deep down, you knew.

It was Joel. Worry for him when he wasn’t there, what threat might be awaiting him if they could get the jump so easily on you. You stumble to your feet and pull the door open, eyebrows furrowing in confusion at the mattress in Joel’s grip.

“Tommy must’ve moved it last time—he doesn’t like sleepin’ when he’s on watch down here.”

You open the door wider, letting him inside and taking the opposite end to help with the weight, settling the mattress up against the edge of the couch and shifting the folded blankets down onto the surface, crouching down onto your knees with a soft sigh as you spread out the blankets.

You don’t realize Joel is watching you until you chance a glance up his way, wondering if this was the moment he’d let you have and berate you until he was blue in the face.

You’ve witnessed it once, with Jesse. He’d nearly risked Ellie’s life on a patrol that should’ve been easy—he still seems a little jumpy in Joel’s presence, rightfully so.

“Look at me,” Joel beckons, adding your name in a demand to grab your attention, “you with me?”

And it breaks you, what little patience you have left in your body.

“Yes, Joel. I am right fucking here.” You snip back at him, throwing the blankets down and standing to full height. You’re tired of his act, hidden behind his pathetic excuse of a kind guise, wanting him to say what he really felt. When he looked at you earlier, hovering over that man’s body, all you could see was contempt. He was upset with you—upset that you allowed yourself to be in danger, ignoring his lectures time and time again, that you weren’t mindful of your surroundings, upset with himself that he wasn’t there from the beginning.

Joel looks offended, like maybe you wounded his ego or something similar, his hand held up defensively.

“You’re the one over there shakin’ like a leaf,” Joel accuses, “I told you to keep your damn gun out, told you to be careful—don’t you try and take that anger out on me.”

“Jesus, Joel,” You cry out in desperation, “careful? Two against one and you’re telling me I wasn’t careful? Fuck you.”

You toss your gun and knife sheath aside for good measure, stripping out of your coat and extra winter layers, his hardened gaze stuck on you.

“I’ll take first watch.” You tell him flatly, reaching for the lantern on the table beside the door that led to the rest of the plant, a maze of halls and room. “I’ll wake you in a few hours.”

Joel knows that if he lets you leave, there is no repairing what little relationship you had—it would return to a tolerance rather than anything else. His hand wraps around your closed fist, forcing the latent back down as he moves to stand in front of you, head tilted your way.

“I’m sorry,” He apologizes, though it feels unsympathetic coming from him, and he’s blaming it on his tone, “okay?”

“It doesn’t matter, Joel.” You tell him adamantly. “You said it, it’s done. I’ll let Tommy know you don’t think I can handle myself anymore and you can keep running patrols without me. That’s what you want, right?”

Joel scoffs.

Say no, please say no.

“What are you getting at?” Joel challenges.

“The first time I make a mistake—one that almost kills me and all you can think to do is shift the blame on me? That somehow I’m responsible for not handling it myself?”

He shifts slightly, jaw clenching as he moves his outstretched hand to rest against the doorframe, blocking you from the exit.

“You never let me go alone,” You remind him, “why all the sudden today?”

Joel doesn’t answer. He knows why. He trusted you, trusted that you could handle it. Joel knows you’re not the one to blame, but he can’t battle with his internal guilt of putting you in that position, letting it come out in bursts of wrath.

You lean in slightly, his eyes mindful of your body language, shoving a finger into his chest roughly.

“Why isn’t it your fault, huh?” You ask, baiting a reaction out of him before you can’t stand the look on his face, mouth shut tight as he his eyes trace your movements, the soft brown irises now an encroaching darkness.

You scoff, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” It’s a snide comment that has you feeling a surge of confidence that you’ve finally rendered him speechless. “Don’t act like you haven’t been bothered being around me all day—if the kiss bothered you that much you should’ve just told Tommy to switch out. Now, move.”

Joel doesn’t budge.

Now your patience is wearing then, reaching to shove his forearm out of the way, but he’s as solid as steel and doesn’t take too lightly to your touch, gripping your wrist and pulling it back in a harsh grip, one that has your face grimacing in pain.

“Say that again.” Joel demands, his voice shaking you to your core, the sickeningly dark turn it’s taken.

You double down, “Move, Joel.” You say through clenched teeth, yanking your arm back to no avail.

You hadn’t realized how wound up you both were until now, the shared frustration and pique boiling over the edge.

You yank away again, forcing a quick change of position as Joel retaliates, shoving you against the table by the door, your legs buckling from the force of it as he towers over you.

“I apologized,” He glared at you through hooded eyes, chin tilting down slightly, “it’s your turn.”

You scoff softly, never making a move to push him away, his legs crowding between yours as they spread involuntarily, the only thing keeping you upright being the grip he had on your arm, leaving you hanging by a thread. If he let go, you’d surely collapse.

“Why don’t you tell me why you really switched patrols?” Joel suggests, tilting his head in interest. “Don’t lie to me—I’ll know.”

There was a side of you that couldn’t stand being around him, his proximity driving you crazy. But, there’s a bigger part that yearned to be around him, by his side—it was never like this at first, but you found yourself unable to escape him lately.

You want to blame him for letting you in, letting his guard down—but you can’t. It wasn’t just his fault. It wasn’t just yours.

You craved each other. Plain and simple.

“You tell me,” You counter, “I’m not the one keeping you from leaving.”

It snaps Joel—that feeling he’s been burying away all day. He’s nearly insatiable over it.

He trades his grip on your wrist for your face, too quick to counter before he’s gripping your chin again like earlier, but under completely different pretenses, your mouth lolling open at the force and pulling a soft grunt from your lips, eyes narrow in defiance.

“You are so goddamn stubborn,” He complains, eyes scanning over your face slowly, “—and you know exactly what you’re doing.”

You laugh bitterly, a choked gasp.

He's never touched you like this, but intensity is all too familiar.

His grip was tight, your mind flashing back to the first time he held you, though involuntarily. There was intention now, meaning—and you needed him to give in to it.

You blink once, slow, eyes staying shut for a moment longer than needed. There’s a soft sigh that leaves your nose, ghosts over Joel’s outstretched palm. When you open your eyes, there’s little left of the Joel you’ve become accustomed to.

“We’ve got all night, Joel.” His nostrils flare in warning, “Go on—do it.”

He won’t. Joel wouldn’t let himself. You’re waiting for the moment he lets you go, shuffles away and tucks himself into a corner for the rest of the night. But, it never comes.

Instead he’s surging forward, tilting your chin up roughly and forcing his lips against your own, nothing like the delicate kiss shared the night prior. There’s no gradual increase, no soft sighs and hesitant touches. He doesn’t want that and neither do you.

You open your mouth in an airy gasp of breath and Joel jumps on the opportunity to slip his tongue past your lips, into your mouth, pressing against your own until you finally, finally return his touch. He feels the heat, the weight of your hand where it rests against the seam of his jeans, fingers resting over his belt and your knuckles pressing into the firmness of his stomach, his breathing steady despite his eagerness to ravish you. He greedily pulls your bottom lip between his own, sucking lewdly until his teeth drag against the skin, pulling back with untamed eyes.

You narrow your eyes with intrigue, mouth quipping up into a smirk at his final break of self control, allowing himself what he wanted. There was no turning back now.

He grips your hands, yanking you upright and forcing you to turn until your hip bones are hitting the blunt edge of the table, his movements haste but pointed, his palms rubbing over the soft curve of your hips, pressing underneath the material of your shirt and squeezing the skin.

“Joel—“ You sing softly, your tone mocking.

“Keep quiet,” He warns, pulling you back suddenly and against his front, the heaviness of his cock pressing into your backside, strained through his jeans and craving a selfish need for release—it’s been too long for him and he’s bursting at the seams, “don’t wanna hear your smartass remarks.”

And you can hear the restraint in his voice, drowning in his thoughts—he wanted to ravish and pull you apart, not thinking about how he would put you back together and make you whole again. You shift back against him, a greedy rut of your ass against the stiff denim and he’s grunting under the weight of it.

“Get ‘em down,” He instructs, yanking at your jeans briefly before his touch is gone, hands working swiftly at his own.

The rustle of his belt is deafening, metal clanging against something solid, the quick shuffle of his zipper and the shifting off fabric. You rise without hesitation, unbuttoning your jeans and wiggling them far enough down your hips until they hit your knees, underwear following roughly as Joel shoved them down impatiently, bunching your shirt higher up your back as he rubs his fingers over your cunt sleazily.

He’s waiting a beat, eyes examining you from behind and looking for any sign that you didn’t want this—it never comes. In fact, the subtle push back into his fingers is enough, two thick digits sinking inside slowly.

You gasp ruggedly, feeling the immediate difference in fullness to your own, the touch of someone else that you haven’t felt in so long. Joel is desperate, but so are you.

You turn your face to the side, cheek pressed against the hard surface, fingers gripping either side of the table and you let yourself melt into his touch, his fingers working you over steadily, his other hand squeezing at the soft globes of your ass, following the insistent and impatient wiggle of your hips as you seek more friction, more fullness until Joel can’t stand it anymore, palm coming down in a rough slap to your backside to still you, a warning.

“You treat all the ladies like this?”

He should’ve known you wouldn’t give yourself over this easy, his stifled chuckle coming from behind, low and dark, until he’s quickly switching back to menacing, his fingers increasing with speed and intensity, dragging a third finger along your center and pressing it in smoothly, forcing a lewd moan from your lips as you grip the edges of the table harder, willing to strain your neck for a look his way, a glimpse at his face to see how this was affecting him. You could only imagine, his groans stifled behind heavy puffs of air forced through his nose when you forced yourself back against his cock, inadvertently rubbing yourself against the length of his shaft.

“Fine, keep acting like you hate me.”

The loss of fingers is sudden, fingers fisting into your hair with a sudden fierceness as he pulls you upright, your hands grasping for purchase. He tilts your head back, allowing you the smallest glimpse of his face as he looks forward, talking to you but never allowing you the eye contact you desperately craved.

“You’re playing a dangerous game here, sweetheart.”

You shake your head in disbelief, lifting your hand up to wind into his own overgrown hair, curling wildly. You pull taut, reveling in the grunt that slips past his lips.

“You don’t scare me, Joel.”

He never could. You’ve seen all sides of him, the good and the bad—there was nowhere left for him to hide.

But, he should, he thinks. You should be terrified.

“I don’t remember sayin’ I wanted to hear your voice,” Joel reprimands, “can’t fuckin’ listen today, can you?”

He turns his head toward you slightly, catching the playful glint in your eyes, the type that was asking to be pushed. Begging for it.

“Depends,” You smile, releasing the rough grip on his hair to slide between your bodies, cupping his cock from where he’s tucked it over his briefs, also pushed haphazardly down his hips, “are you going to fuck me, Joel?”

His name shouldn’t sound like that, falling from your lips in such a circumstance, but it drags a rabidness out of him he’s never felt before.

“Say it again.” Joel demands—and you already know.

“Joel,” Your voice is sultry, dangerous, adding a squeeze of your hand to his length, thumb rubbing over the head of his cock, smoothing the slick of precum over the slit, “you started this, too afraid to finish it?”

Joel smirks at that, a smug expression crossing his face as releases the grip on your hair, shoving your hand away and gripping himself at the base, removing his fingers from inside you and replacing them with a slow press of his cock, watching your expression fall lax, mouth hung open in a silent release of pleasure.

“You underestimate me,” He shakes his head in amusement, his own brow furrowing at your snug hold on him, walls clenching around him involuntarily, “Now, why don’t we teach you a lesson?”

You nod numbly, gasping loudly at the sudden change in pace, body shifting to lean forward and Joel’s hands slotting against your body, one secured firmly on your hip, the other guiding you back with a steady pressure against your shoulder, immediately blanking your mind, whatever rude quip you had poised was failing you.

“So — goddamn — stubborn,” He echoes from earlier, punctuating each word with a snap of his hips, no restraint, divulging in the pleasure both of you have been seeking for a while, “don’t fuckin’ listen, always testin’ me.”

You release a soft cry, reaching an arm behind you to squeeze at his side, tightening with every sharp thrust, the head of his cock nudging something deep inside of you, the feeling coiling in your gut despite yourself. It’s a dull ache, mewling desperately when he forgoes his hold on your hip to keep your arm stuck, thick fingers wrapping around your wrist to hold you steady, eyes shifting to watch you sink onto him with an unrestrained eagerness.

“Nothin’ to say now?” Joel pesters you, thumb rubbing the tender spot at the base of your neck, the start of your spine between your shoulder blades—your silence lingers, at least in words, your pathetic noises keeping you busy.

He feels like he’s finally got the upper hand with you, he just never realized this was what it would take.

“Fuck—fuck, Joel.” You say through a stuttered sigh.

Joel grimaces from behind you, that longing feeling of release creeping on him, too long without it and he feels pathetic for it, but you—the sounds, the view.

Oh, the view. It’s your neediness for it that sucks him in, how eager your cunt is to take hold, the wet squelch growing louder, your slick soaking the base of his cock.

“Why’d you kiss me, huh?” Joel questions firmly, trying to draw the truth out in the heat of the moment, your movements growing desperate as you orgasm creeped in, blunt nails digging into his skin. He hissed, pulling you in tight, trading the hand on your shoulder for a squeeze to your chest, palm the mound of your breast through your shirt—still enough contact to drive you insane.

“Wanted to—wanted to see how you would react.” You admit, but there was also that selfish need. You kissed him because you wanted to—and you knew he did too.

Joel huffs in response, not fully believing you.

“Try again,” Joel assesses the way your body tenses when his hand shifts down, pressing over his fingers over your clit and driving you over the edge in an instant, your body arching into his touch as you come, a broken moan falling from your lips, “why?”

“Doesn’t matter—you kissed me back,” You argue tiredly, “You wanted it just as much as I did. Clearly.”

And in a way, it’s all the confession he needs.

Joel growls lowly, pulling out abruptly to grip himself, squeezing himself at the head to delay his orgasm until it fades, face scrunching up tightly in anguish.

“What—what are you doing?”

Joel is already tucking himself back into his pants by the time you turn around, his expression stiff and avoiding your gaze.

There it was again, the avoidance.

You don’t know why it bothers you so much, but it does.

“I’ll take the first watch,” He says, shuffling backwards slightly, “get dressed.”

You stare back blanky, at a loss for words.

“Did you hear me?” He asks bluntly, brow now permanently furrowed in frustration.

“But—you didn’t—“

The silence lingers, your head tilting in question. Your expression softens suddenly, pulling weakly at your jeans to secure them back over your hips.

“Get some sleep, we’ll head out early tomorrow.”

You still had to send a bigger team to scout the place thoroughly, a distant memory now.

You’re so fucking confused. A few minutes prior he was lost in the moment, though still wound up and tense—but it was the biggest break in demeanor he’s ever given you, the most he’s allowed himself to touch you, be close to you.

Joel didn’t want to admit it, but he didn’t deserve it. He was trying to convince himself it was a mistake, that this was a fluke.

He clears his throat awkwardly, hesitating for a brief moment as his hand hovers over the doorknob before he’s leaving you alone. Again.

Joel handles himself later that night, long after you’ve gone asleep, a permanent frown on your face when he peeks his head in before he’s traveling down the hall to a separate room, cupping himself in his palm eagerly, groaning out your name as he comes.

Somehow, it makes him feel even worse.

The week that follows is tumultuous.

Tommy swears you and Joel off of patrol for a while, tells you that as soon as he has you two alone, gathering the full story of the attack, but somehow—Joel always weasels his way out.

He’s gone most of the daylight, leaving you to fill your days around Jackson, helping wherever it was needed. And when it wasn’t, you were stuck inside your home, watching the snow melt from the ground, only to be covered with a new blanket of it the next day.

Joel always comes home late, heavy feet scuffling down the sidewalk after dark and entering his house, Ellie having already turned in for the night. His bedroom light comes on a few minutes later and it never shuts off, his shadow crossing the window every now and then.

He can’t sleep, but neither can you.

At first you blamed it on the bodies—but none of that was new to you. You’ve killed before, animals, infected, raiders, even a few bystanders in a situation long ago, nothing they’ve done to end up the way they did.

You followed a bad group for too long, but eventually you found Jackson—things were different here. Joel’s told you about the horrible things he’s done to survive, assures you it wasn’t anything you could blame yourself for.

This world made people rabid. It made people afraid.

There were people, much like Joel, that used to terrify you. But this Joel, he was lost and worn down, weathered by the world and by age. He’s afraid to let himself indulge, enjoy—you saw it that night, his hesitancy to look at you afterwards.

And that ache that lingered for a few days, it made you realize that you were missing something you couldn’t have. It was clear on Joel’s face that he’d made a mistake. With you.

Joel looks bitter the week that follows, you having convinced Tommy to let you back out, assuring him that nothing was wrong. He’s hesitant, rightfully so, but you’re too convincing.

You even offer to run patrol with him, or Jesse—literally anyone but Joel, who seemed obviously disgruntled by your presence that morning.

Tommy clocks it immediately, swiping a finger between you both, “You know what—I’m sending you two out together.” It’s dreadful. “Take the lodge again,” and Tommy waits for everyone to part ways, except for Joel and you, before he’s eyeing you both down, “work out whatever argument you both have going—or you’re both coming off patrols until I feel like putting you back on.”

Joel grumbles at that, adjusting the thick gloves over his hand and shaking his head with a look down. Tommy seems slightly apologetic when you lock eyes, but it’s necessary. You were too scared to admit it to yourself, but it’s exactly what you needed.

You can’t be bothered to stay still, wandering around the lodge aimlessly, picking up some scattered trash, sifting through the small library that had accumulated over time, worn and slightly rained over books, the pages stiff and discolored.

Joel’s cheeks are still tinged pink from his last watch, arms crossed over his stomach as he glares at the small fire burning in the fire pit, crackling softly in the silence.

He’s being insistently stubborn, somehow managing to avoid any exchange of words in the past eight hours, not giving you his usual orders, whether delivered in a clipped tone or a kind one—it’s just nothing.

And considering how talkative he was last time you ran patrol with him, you found it to be bullshit.

You grab a random book, large and bulky and make your way toward him—he sees you coming but he ignores it, the book hitting solid against his chest as you force it there, making a snide comment to rattle him.

“To entertain yourself, since you’re so miserable,” Your eyes drag over his face, his eyes lilting up your way, the fire melting them into a warm, honey brown, “and you won’t even have to worry about finishing.”

He grabs your wrist suddenly, thinking that he might pull you toward him, but he tosses it away, throwing the book to the side too. You sigh through your nose, frustrated.

“What’s it gonna take, Joel?”

There’s an ire of defeat in your voice, a willingness to do just about anything to put this to rest.

“Do I need to leave Jackson, is that it?”

That gets his attention, his gaze narrowing fiercely.

“Don’t say that shit,” He bites, “you got a death wish or something?”

“Well, you clearly don’t want me around, so who cares?”

Joel bites at the inside of his cheek—he didn’t agree with that.

“Give me something, Joel. Anything.” You plead, hand accidentally brushing his thigh as you fall into the spot beside him, imitating the closeness he craved but couldn’t bring himself to ask for, not again.

He tenses under your touch, fist curling at his side, noticing how you pointedly keep your grip there.

“Sweetheart.” It’s a warning.

But, it’s the biggest sign he’s given you. There was still a fondness there, lingering behind wall after wall that he’s built up.

He doesn’t move your hand either, your fingers dragging up the inside of his thigh, along the seam and stopping where his jeans creased at his groin, palm settling over the curve of his thigh.

“So, do we work things out or not?” You ask, voice barely above a whisper, talking like you might scare him away.

And, yeah—Joel wasn’t big on hashing things out, confessing his thoughts or emotions and conveying them into words, that was never a surprise to you. But, you needed equal ground.

You weren’t looking for a confession or some dramatic change in pace with your relationship—whatever you could classify it as. A partnership, maybe?

You need something mutually beneficial, something that was give and take on both ends.

You squeeze at the junction of his thigh, taut muscle giving way as Joel shows little signs of being affected. His eyes follow though, acutely aware of your intention.

This was you returning the favor.

This was you cornering him, like he had you—if he didn’t want it he would’ve pushed you away ages ago, but he does want it. He needs it.

His jaw flexes under the weight of your grip, watching you move slowly to sink to the ground, thankful that this floor wasn’t nearly as dirty as most places. Joel shifts slightly to accommodate you, thighs spreading open to box you in, hands coming to rest down at his side, flat against the cushion.

You push at his coat lightly, forcing it away from his chest until he gets the idea, stripping himself the rest of the way, his unbuttoned flannel falling open.

You work quietly, eyes flicking up toward him occasionally to check in, make sure he was still with you. He’s mesmerized now, despite himself. Locked in.

He doesn’t stop your hands when they reach for the zipper of his jeans, unbuttoning and loosening them in one fluid motion, tugging at his jeans until, again, he catches on, forcing them down just enough.

It’s surprising how in tune he is with you despite how hard he tried to keep his distance, hoping that one big mistake would fade away—but frankly, it hadn’t left either of your minds since then.

“Touch yourself.” You command softly, an amused aspect to your voice.

Joel balks slightly, his bewilderment something to enjoy.

“What?” You ask innocently, “Is that too personal? Sorry–I should’ve considered that when I let you fuck me over a table.”

His nostrils flare in annoyance, but he listens. Thank god. He slips his fingers under the band of his underwear, palming himself lightly under the fabric, leaving you to lean back onto your heels, enjoying the lazy show he put on for you.

He had nothing to be ashamed of.

His fingers roll against the taut skin of his sack, drifting upwards over his shaft until he finally has the courage to shift his underwear to sit snug under his balls, watching your eyes drift from his cock to his face. Joel’s mouth parted briefly, rubbing his thumb over the head, glistening with a sheen of precum, your hands itching to touch him.

He knows it will lead to nothing but bad outcomes, but he’s indulging in it. Allowing it.

“Come here,” He’s using his free hand to beckon you forward, leaving his palm extending for you to lean into, resting your chin there gently, “open your mouth.”

You obliges, sweetening the deal by sticking your tongue out, earning a gruff laugh in response, softening your gaze on him. There were plenty of other ways to resolve things, but this was so much easier.

He slides the head over your tongue in a deft slap, slipping it past your lips slowly before he’s pulling back and repeating the process again, watching as you eagerly follow his movements until you’re bordering on impatience.

“Don’t think you have the upper hand here, sweetheart.” Joel says, eyebrow quirking up in amusement at your annoyed expression. “You want it?”

You tilt your head at him, eyes narrowing. “You want me to beg for it?”

Joel chuckles at the thought, shaking his head. “I didn’t pin you as the type.”

Cheeky Joel was something to admire, rolling your eyes and shoving his hands away, allowing yourself to take over fully and leaving him with nothing to do but watch, rolling your tongue around the head and through the slit, mouth enveloping the heady taste of him.

Joel was always good at keeping his composure, even now–but you were looking to break him down, nothing but a mumbling, begging mess of himself, even for a brief moment.

You take him in slowly, soft and parted lips pressing down the length of him, the heavy weight of his cock pressing against your tongue, cheeks, until he’s nudging the back of your throat and you swallow out of reflex.

His knuckles flex, turning white as he curls them inwards and digs into the cheap cushion, the stitching protesting under his grip.

There he is.

You make a small noise, a soft bubble of laughter out of pure enjoyment, pulling back with a showy drag of your tongue up his shaft until you’re sinking down again, burying your nose in the short, trimmed thatch of hair at the base of his cock, ignoring that telltale feeling to let up, breathing deep through your nose.

“Goddamnit,” He curses, the hand not gripping the cushion rising slightly before slamming back down in a fist, the material taking most of the blow, “you gotta ease up on me.”

He doesn’t add the please, but you can see it’s implied.

You smile sweetly when you pull away, a thin line of spit connecting your lips to the wet head of his cock, stroking him languidly to keep busy, running your thumb along the thick vein that traced along the underside.

“Don’t think so,” It’s sickening, tone laced in sugar and daring him—for what, you weren’t sure, “—more?”

Joel nods quickly, widening his stance as he sunk further into the couch, your hands bracing against his stomach as he filtered his fingers through your hair, framing it away from your face as you continued, driving him to near insanity with how easily you would take him down over and over again, stopping to tease your tongue over the head of his cock, realizing just how sensitive that part of him was.

He grunts on a particular rough pass, yanking your hair back and allowing a centimeter of reprice as your lips barely brush the aching tip, “You can stop, sweetheart. It’s alright.”

It feels like a punishment, not allowing himself to seek that relief—he sees it as a barrier, that by not allowing it, things won’t ever reach a point of no return. Not that this wasn’t already dangerous enough—it’s a ridiculous rule, but Joel follows it. He’d give you as much pleasure as you asked and then some, if that’s what you wanted.

And it clicks in your head slowly, his cock pulsing dully in your hands, begging for it.

No. He wasn’t doing that again.

“No,” You echo your thoughts, “Give me your hand.”

“Darlin’—“

“Joel, shut up.” You demand, gripping his open palm and replacing it with your own, “I want you to come in my mouth.”

Joel looks conflicted, eyebrow pinching in a mix of pleasure and regret, his mind blanking the moment you press a gentle kiss to the head, pressing your tongue flat again and moving his hand in tandem until he starts to give in, his breaths becoming shorter, more strangled.

“That’s it,” You mumble a praise through his haziness—he doesn’t know how to take it, the feeling so foreign to him, “take control, Joel.”

His eyes fall shut briefly, forcing focused breaths through his nose as his free hand grips your face, keeping you still as he strokes himself roughly, that last string of self control breaking under your gaze when he tilts his head down to look at you, soft gaze staring back at him and he’s coming over your tongue and into your mouth with a warm rush, the taste of him overwhelming your senses as he squeezes up to the tip, milking every last bit of himself into your mouth before he’s pulling away and gently guiding your mouth closed.

“Shit—“ He groans quietly, cupping himself tenderly as he pulls away, watching you swallow and tracing a trace of him at the corner of your lip back into your mouth with your thumb, staring him down intently, “you’re fuckin’ greedy, you know that?”

You shrug proudly, rising to your feet slowly, the ache from sitting crouched so long singing a protest from your joints.

“Add it to the list,” You snark at him, taking a casual seat beside him as he tucks himself away, your hands working carefully to roll up your jacket and tuck it under your head as you recline, laying down on your side, “right?”

Joel scoots away to accommodate you, looking perplexed at how quickly you’ve changed your demeanor, yawning until your eyes squeeze shut.

“Stop staring and get some sleep, Joel.” You gripe, reaching blindly to ball his coat up and toss it at his chest, “Problem solved, we’re even now.”

Joel puffs through his lips, ignoring that lingering feeling as you very quickly forced the distance between him and you—a payback to his own previous actions. It hurts, stings, and now he realizes what that meant and why that frown never left your face before, not even on the ride home or long thereafter.

He’s fucked.

To say things escalate is an understatement.

The two of you never actually talk, avoiding all aspects of emotional vulnerability in turn for your usual interactions—small conversations, jokes, driving each other up the wall with the constant close proximity due to your assigned jobs. But, now there’s more.

There's the Joel that wants and takes, stops holding back his desires and gives you just about every possible orgasm from then on. This Joel is insatiable if he allows himself to be. He’s downright filthy and terrifying when it mattered and he found that the more you seemed to give yourself over, the easier it was for him to stop worrying so much.

And he seems lighter nowadays, happier—though, it was still Joel. There was only so much to enjoy, his smiles few and far between. However, that smirk, laced in a smugness he carried with himself when he was alone with you—it had become a regular sight to see and something you craved when you’d finally get him alone.

It never starts off slow. Joel’s always itching by the time rotation leads you his way. You two keep it close to your chest like a secret–saving times like this strictly for patrols.

Joel doesn’t even wait sometimes, cornering you the moment the horses are tied up, bags set aside, crowding up behind you as he wrangles your jeans down, along with his, and presses himself inside you with a deep grunt, pressing you up against whatever hard surface was near–it didn’t matter, the ferocity of his thrusts clouding your mind.

It’s punishment for how well you tease him on the rides there, thighs spread wide over the saddle and always riding just a few inches ahead, leaning forward enough that you can stick out your ass, Joel’s eyes drawing toward you immediately.

It was easy.

“You like messin’ with me, don’t you?” He chastises, palming at the inside of your thigh in desperation, pulling you wider and wider for him until it aches and you have nothing to do but take it. “Fuckin’ with my head?”

You laugh breathily, head thrown back against his shoulder as you moan wantonly, thick fingers bearing down on your throat, keeping you tight against him. “It’s not my fault–fault you can’t control it.” You reply innocently, stumbling over your words when his fingers press against your core.

And it’s often like this. Fast, hurried, no care or soft, caressing touches involved. It’s simpler that way.

But, eventually, Joel breaks down–little by little.

A week or two passes by and Joel seems desperate.

“What did I just say?” He seethed, voice laced with annoyance, “Keep your eyes open.”

He’s right there, his hand, his fingers, buried deep inside your cunt. Joel’s on edge again, having ordered you to strip down naked while he remained completely clothed, the cold air prickling your skin like this, the lingering days of Winter coming to a close. It’s dark here, wet and mucky, the only barrier between you and the floor is an old blanket that Joel had stowed away in his saddle. He spent the last two weeks dealing with a copious amount of shit–killing more infected than they’re used to, dealing with mundane problems around Jackson that shouldn’t be his problems, but in being Tommy’s brother, he took a piece of the burden off of him.

You gasp sharply, feeling the force of Joel’s grip as he orders your eyes open, an impossible feat in the moment with how easily he’s able to bring you near the edge with just his fingers–something he found out fairly quickly.

“Joel–Joel, please,” You beg–it’s new for you, something you don’t do often, “let me–fuck–”

“Hmm, sweetheart?” Joel questions, igniting a fire in your belly that won’t go out. He likes you this way, clawing at him, nearly on the brink of tears over how bad you need him. “Spit it out.”

You’re hastily shoving him away, brow pinched in determination as you shove him down, working desperately at his buckle, his pants, working them down with little care or finesse, gripping the length of him and sinking down in one quick movement.

It punches a moan out of Joel’s chest that you’re not used to, his head slamming pack against his bag, the makeshift pillow he’s got stuffed behind his head as he grips your hips tight, eyes locked on the center where you’re both connected, grunting with the hurried bounce of your hips, losing what little patience you had left as you chase your orgasm, shoving his shirt up his chest to feel him–all soft, tanned skin under your fingertips as you brace yourself against him, using the surface for leverage.

He can’t stand to watch you this way, tits jostling with every hurried thrust, blunt nails clawing at his abdomen, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut, again. He likes you facing away because he can hide his own inflections, how well you drive him wild–you’ve never cared, especially not now.

Joel grunts raggedly, forcing out a hoarse whisper, “You’re fuckin’ killing me here.”

A soft laugh bubbles in your chest, head lolling forward and eyes opening to look at him.

“Mmm, eyes on me, Joel.” You beckon, his slow gaze trailing upwards, nodding in response to his wrecked state, hair sticking up wildly, teeth grazing his bottom lip gently. “God–it feels so good, doesn’t it?

Joel nods absently, his hands slipping from your hips to cup your ass, squeezing the flesh in his hands, aware of how your touch burns a trail up toward his face, coaxing his bottom lip to freedom, grazing your thumb over the soft tissue, soothing the ache.

You ignore how easily he takes the pad of it over his tongue and lets you press the digit beyond his lips, how willing he’s being to let you take what you want.

He pulls out before he comes, spilling into his hand to contain the mess, leaving you enraptured with his expression as his face pulls up in anguish, the same expression he has when he’s bothered or annoyed but edged with something more, his breath catching.

He rolls you back over soon after, replacing his hand with his mouth, hot tongue lapping into your folds and tasting, savoring, the mix of you two tangled together and he devours until you come, hand yanking hard at his hair.

April comes quickly—it means longer patrols, more problems out in the field with the infected less dormant, and Jackson coming alive more often at night, everyone enjoying the weather after a bitter winter.

You find yourself at Tommy’s doorstep one night.

Maria had been planning this dinner for a few weeks, something special for Tommy’s birthday, and somehow you got roped into going.

It was Ellie.

Joel was the least bit surprised when you showed up at the front door that night, dressed up nicer than he’s had the privilege to witness. You’re smiling, a flowy dress cutting off mid-thigh, forgoing the usual sweater with the air warming up, leaving your shoulders bare.

Joel nods in greeting when Ellie peeks around his shoulder, beaming at the sight out of you.

“Thank god,” She groans, “Those two are insufferable together,” Tommy and Joel, “—they’ve been arm wrestling each other in the backyard for the last hour.”

Your eyebrows raise, looking over at Joel. He’s got the hint of a smile on his face, looking down at Ellie before he’s shoving her away with a palm to the crown of her head, his arm flexing under the fitted cotton shirt he wore, muscle on full display.

It’s easy to forget how strong Joel is under all those layers, but it’s even more apparent now with how often you find him stripped down underneath you, behind you, watching him become more and more comfortable around you as the weeks pass, finally giving in to whatever it was that you two were indulging in.

It was mostly sex—a means for release and often a cure for boredom and neither of you minded it much, but there was something lingering in the shadows.

You were good at ignoring it, apparently so was Joel.

He leads you to the backyard with a silence you’ve become accustomed to, and spends most of the dinner laughing at Ellie’s terrible and poorly timed jokes. It’s such a sight, seeing how effortlessly Ellie can break that man down, and you realize just how deeply he cared for her, even if she wasn’t his daughter.

He glances at you frequently, a silent check-in.

You were fine—a little tired, maybe?

You excuse yourself to the bathroom with a flick of your hair behind your ear and a whine in protest from your chair as it scrapes the floor, leaving the rest of the party in the backyard while you traverse inside.

It isn’t long before there’s a knock behind the closed door and that unsettling creak, only to be met face to face with Joel. He looks relaxed, placated, his face falling into a natural smirk.

And based on the drink in his hand, slightly inebriated.

“Lost?” You tease, fixing yourself idly in the mirror, watching as Joel crossed the threshold and nudged the door close behind him. “Joel–”

“Don’t worry, darlin’.” Joel soothes, “Tommy thinks I’m using the one upstairs, everyone’s outside.”

You don’t need him to explain to know what he’s implying. But, for him to want you here–now? That was different. You hate how it made your heart skip, realizing how willing he was to risk this bond of secrecy because he just couldn’t get you out of his head.

His glass slides against the countertop, the soft scuff of his boots grazing the floor as he moves in behind you, causing you to pull away slightly as he raises a hand, brushing your strap down your shoulder and mouthing the skin there, “You’re drunk.” You muse, earning a subtle shake of his head.

“Not at all,” Joel denies, “can’t be in a good mood?”

You sigh at his touch, opposite hand grazing under your dress and over the skin of your stomach, pinky finger grazing the hem of your underwear.

“When are you ever?”

Joel ignores your snark, “Don’t act like you don’t want it, sweetheart.”

He can feel the heat radiating off your body, the wetness that coats his finger as he dips it under the fabric and down the center of your cunt, “Joel,” You stress, “there’s people outside, we can’t.”

“Don’t worry about that,” He says softly, “Ellie’s gone home, Tommy and Maria are busy with a neighbor–if you want me to stop, tell me. You don’t need to make excuses.”

Your silence is all the answer he needs.

“Been needin’ this all day,” He admits, cupping your mound roughly, shifting to press the hard line of his chest against your back, pulling you taut, his idle fingers playing with the soft material of your dress, “This is cute–it’s a nice dress.”

You roll your eyes, though fondly. He can’t see it, face buried into your neck as he mouths along the skin, slipping the straps of your dress down until your tits spring free, nipples pebbling under the cool air.

“Are we talking or fucking?” You ask impatiently, pointedly rubbing your ass back against his body, earning a dark chuckle in response.

“I never said anything about fucking,” Joel points out smugly, “but since you’re askin.”

It’s the impatiences that brings you to take matters into your own hands, sliding your dress up high enough that Joel can yank your underwear down, undoing his pants with one hand and freeing himself hastily, sliding into you roughly, forcing a strained gasp from your throat.

Joel shushes you, covering your mouth with his hand.

“Careful, these walls ain’t soundproof.” He warns, his forceful thrusts plunging you forward, eyes dragging toward the mirror image of you and him, a sight to see as he smirks from behind, admiring you openly. “Look at you.”

He grin’s devilishly, your senses overwhelmed, showing through your eyes as you squeezed them shut, only to be forced back open by Joel’s coaxing voice.

He clicks his tongue in warning, breath hot against your ear. “Open those eyes, sweetheart. Need you to see how good you’re takin’ my cock,” You whine into his hand, his brutal thrust driving you further into the countertop, ignoring the pain that spreads, overtaken by the insatiable need to come, “and how pretty you look when you come.”

Pretty. He’s never used that word before. It sends a flutter through your chest, down to your core.

It’s more intense this way, the subtle pull in Joel’s face when he drives deeper, his own orgasm on the horizon. His teeth grit hard, small peaks of it as he bares his lips back in a growl, squeezing at the soft planes of your body that he could reach, driving you over the edge with little warning, not that you needed the help.

Seeing him this way was enough. God, was it enough.

“Fuck, fuck—“ He curses a symphony, holding himself back as he gripped at the base of his shaft and you jump at the opportunity, turning to him in a haze and sinking to your knees despite the cold floor beneath you, urging him with a silent plea as you open your mouth to him, nodding subtly.

That’s all it takes for him, a few quick strokes of his cock and he’s spilling into your mouth, head hung back at how intensely it hits him, the skin of his neck straining over the muscle, his mouth open in a soundless grunt.

Luckily, Joel is the one that takes care of the goodbyes. You wouldn’t be able to face Tommy or Maria after such an instance, adjusting yourself back to a semi-presentable state in the bathroom, with some of Joel’s help as he sets your dress back over your shoulders.

It shouldn’t feel endearing, not in this context. But, it does.

“Wait for me out front,” He tells you, buckling his pants, eyes connecting with yours briefly, squinting curiously, he reaches a hand forward and wiping a mix of spit and what you can only assume is his come, away from your mouth and onto his jeans, “—you had a little…”

You both laugh at the unspoken, rubbing a tired hand over your face as you nod, shoving him away playfully.

Things are vastly different when you’re facing him on your doorstep now, his lingering presence a hint at what he didn’t have the courage to ask.

“Stay for a while?” You suggest softly, nodding toward your front door.

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.” Joel agrees.

You never realize how much Joel likes to talk about music until he’s finally found himself relaxed, your body reclined into his open, outstretched legs as he adjusts himself sideways. It doesn’t feel intimate, no—but it feels different. Joel rests a hand over your shoulder, massaging the tight muscle with a steady grip. His voice is nice, soothing.

You fall asleep like this, but Joel is already gone by morning.

By June, things are confusing. Good, but…confusing.

Joel and you have a routine by now—off days were usually spent at your house, occasionally Joel’s (but rarely) and only when Ellie wasn’t around, the days that were spent patrolling were fairly normal, aside from the insistent touching you both allowed yourself now, always leading to something neither of you could be bothered to stop.

Joel’s vocal about things now—what he likes, what he wants, but he’s also holding back. You can see it when things get a little too intense, hands grabbing at clothes, pulling each other in with a rabidness that neither of you could calm.

He doesn’t kiss you, not really. He likes to nip and bite and leave bruises where only he can see them, but he won’t allow his eyes to linger on your face for too long, your lips, too afraid things might be misconstrued.

Not that it mattered, Joel was already fucked beyond repair. He’s only ever felt this intensely once, before—his relationship with Sarah’s mom was a fling that turned into something more, but ultimately fizzled, crashed and burned. It gave him Sarah, but he never understood what heartbreak was until then, young and naive and wanting to make things work.

Clearly, they never did.

He feels that with you, though he’s smarter now. He can be cold and distant when he feels that pull in his chest, push away just enough that you won’t pry. But, you’re smart—you’re stubborn, so goddamn stubborn.

And he knows eventually, things are going to implode.

He just didn’t expect it to happen like this.

You were starting to hate the lodge, finding yourself lingering to the connecting shops down the road—a guitar store that Joel and Tommy picked through often, a small coffee shop further down the way that didn’t have much left for picking, but it helped when you felt cooped up, a nice change of scenery.

But even then, the lodge wasn't a luxury to patrol anymore. Summer is practically unbearable most days there, the building always too warm, too stuffy.

Joel had other ideas this time around, stripping you down slowly by the couch nestled against the large window that overlooked the rest of the small town surrounding it.

It was quiet here.

Joel presses you into the soft velvet cushion, his own body stripped bare, a combat to the heat, he says.

You didn’t mind. In fact, it was everything you wanted.

He’s never allowed such contact, all of you against him, the slow push of his hips inside of you has you gasping softly, fingers gripping his biceps. His place is slow, dreadful, and you both are already sweating, skin sticky and damp.

Joel doesn’t seem to mind.

He seems needier today, more willing to let the sounds slip from his mouth, his hands more curious, pulling your knee tight around his hip and gripping at the knee, head tilting up as he huffed through his nose, tense jaw, teeth clenched. He’s looking off distantly, not at you or your body, or anywhere in your vicinity really, but the torture on his face is all the same. He couldn’t hide it.

You moan softly, mumbling soft praises under your breath when he fucks into you hard enough it has you clawing at his chest, gripping tight at his shoulder, seeking whatever skin you could touch.

Eventually, your touch lingers near his face, palm spreading over his warm cheek, thumb running along the strong hook of his nose, forcing his attention down toward you. Your fingertips graze his lips gently, other hand mirror the action as you caress his face, his eyes closing under your touch.

The arm holding him upright nearly gives you, barely catching himself as his chest is pressed in tight against yours, changing the angle immensely.

That couldn't have been you’re doing—not a chance. But, you’re curious. You guide his face to your chest, his mouth sliding lazily against the skin as he pumps into you steadily. You meet his rough grunts with whispered praises, his breath becoming more frantic as time goes on until he’s finally chancing a look your way, eyes soft and pleading. He looks lost. You frown slightly, guiding his face toward yours and ghosting your own lips against his, never quite indulging, keeping the praises going with a soft whisper.

“God, you always fuck me so good,” You say in a breathy whisper against his lips, “so good, Joel.”

Joel squeezes you tighter, a sign of his impending orgasm. “Right there,” You sigh, “fuck—you feel that? Need this all the time, everyday.”

This. Him.

“Sweetheart—“ He warns, grunting into your open mouth, knees buckling as you slide your tongue against his teeth, grazing his top lip.

“Don’t—don't,” You panic, eyes connecting with him suddenly, “wanna feel you, all of you.”

It was something Joel could reflect on later, consider the consequences, because now was not that time—not with you looking at him so earnestly, pleading with him.

He slips a calculated hand between your joined bodies and has you both hanging over the edge in seconds, gasping into each other’s mouth in desperation as Joel does something completely selfish and unlike him.

He kisses you, no qualms or hesitation. It’s messy and wet but it’s him—his mouth soothes the ache as your orgasm overwhelms your body, his own chest rattling at the force, moaning pathetically against your mouth as he comes in hot, warm pulses inside of you, cunt clenching around him tight, like a glove.

Joel soon slumps against your body, all energy drained from him, your hands weaving through his hair gently, caressing the soft spot behind his ear.

He doesn’t complain, letting you hold him until his cock softens, pulling out of you with a disgruntled noise before he’s resting on the cushion beside you, back pressed tight against one side to make room for the both of you, tilting himself sideways and letting his fingers drift over your naked frame, indulging in every part of you.

“Should we talk about this?” You ask curiously, voice softened under his gaze, his fist pressed to his cheek.

There it was.

Joel looks down briefly, his touch stalling over the spot between your breasts, right over your heart.

“I’m not even sure what this is,” Joel admits, the most honest he’s ever been with anyone, “just that—I enjoy it.”

He's being honest, he's letting you in. Your heart soars.

Joel was tired of fighting it. He'd be ignorant to think you didn't see it just then or even before.

“I would classify it as fucking,” You joke lightly, “but that—that didn’t feel like fucking to me.”

Joel shakes his head, “No—it didn’t.” He agrees, grabbing for the blanket draped over the back of the couch, spreading it gently over your frame despite the heat, finger fingers grazing along the underside of your breasts, a teasing touch that has you giggling in response, his own laugh following.

It’s a beautiful sound.

“Or we don’t have to figure it out at all,” You suggest, realizing that trying to force something out of Joel was not the way to go, it never had been—he’d come to whatever conclusion he felt on his own, “that’s okay, too.”

“We can save it for another day,” Joel promises, his fingers tracing up toward your jaw, his palm resting to cup your cheek, a tender gesture that’s all new, “right now, I just wanna quiet that pretty little mouth of yours.”

He sees your eyes light up with intrigue, already tilting toward him eagerly.

“You want that?” He teases, earning an eager nod in response before he’s closing his mouth over yours again, kissing with a leisureliness he didn’t have before, “Answer me, sweetheart?”

“I’ll take whatever you give me, Joel.”

And it terrified Joel, because he’d give you anything.

Please consider a reblog if you enjoyed this fic! It’s makes a huge difference. ♡

#joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x reader #joel miller #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal #joel miller fanfic #my writing

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nouearth · 10 months

Text

safety.

pairing ; bruce wayne x m!reader. fandom: ; dc, batman. word count ; 866. genre; angst & comfort. rating ; pg-13. warnings ; comfort!fic, topic of death, descriptions of stitching wounds, kissing, crying. notes ; insp. by bruce wayne's scars. late night and half-asleep writing, sorry if nothing makes sense!

“you’re going to get yourself killed one day.” another sigh leaves your lips. you wish you could banter with him as you often do, but you mean it. you’re frustrated by bruce’s aversion to an assistant—a sidekick—when he’s fighting the streets of gotham. with a deft motion of your fingers, you begin your nightly routine of tending to your boyfriend’s wounds. small grunts of pain follow the pattern of your alcohol wipe, cleansing bruce’s bloody wounds with nimble fingers and concentration. you press a soft apologetic kiss to his scuffed cheek when his body jerks and continue when he returns one back, a solemn appreciation.

bruce often uses this time to catch up on his thoughts, mentally reflecting upon evidences he’d come across throughout the night, and you’re used to the silence of his pensive mood. he has his eyes closed, soothed by your care and most importantly of all, by your presence.

“i was thinking…” you quietly speak up, your glasses pushed up to your nose bridge as you concentrated on stitching his wound. in between the silence of patching him up, you’ve prepared yourself for his response. “maybe i could join you-“

“no.” bruce quells you with a forbidding look and your gaze maintains front, gloved hands as still as bruce’s ice cold stare on you while you thread his skin together.

“i can help-“

“you are helping.” his brows raise to the direction of your hands, alluding to the process of having his wounds sutured—a minor fix he’d call it.

“i can help you with more and…” you cut the loose thread before switching places to the other side to cleanse and redress old wounds. “you can teach me how to fight….”

“no, y/n.” his gaze follows you like a hawk, hoping the weight of his voice would make you look at him. you don’t. “you’re safe here and-“

“i’m talking about your safety, bruce. you’d be safe too, if i was with you,…” you surrender, failing to avoid bruce’s eyes because you knew you’d tear up if you did, and you do. the first ascent of worry brim in the corner of your eyes and you breathe slowly to sedate potential tears, quickly suffocating your sniffles into your shoulder to finish up on bruce’s wounds.

“i worry that one day, i would be waiting right here—in this very spot—like i usually and something would happen. you wouldn’t—can’t return.” your heart is heavy when you stare at bruce’s scars. to him, they’re healed with love and care, and he reminds you every day how appreciative he is of you. but to you, they’re reflections of his battle with death and how dangerously close he is to meeting it.

“…and i would keep waiting, and waiting, and waiting… hopeful that you’ll return. and in a sick way, hope that you’ll return close to the edge of death, with the most severe injuries because at least that way, there’s a chance for you to be saved.” by now, bruce has embraced you. he’s careless because he should be resting easy, but his hold around your body is strong, tight, and warm, and it’s the perfect comfort for you to cry into. “…for me to see you one last time before you die.”

bruce’s calloused thumbs caress your flushed cheeks, palms rested over your jaw to keep your head lifted. he knew you’d cower away, sensitive and hurting as you’re still sniffling teary-eyed, and so his grasp is gentle in the way he cradles you, kissing at your turned cheek until your lips meet his in the calmest approach.

“i’ve had nightmares about dying before.” his deep voice rumbles against your lips, murmurs bridging paired mouths while his arms naturally find themselves around your body and yours around his. “…dreamt of it even.”

like a lullaby to a newborn, you’re soothed by the sound of his voice. your head rested on his shoulder to listen, consoled by bruce’s commanding yet warm presence, and you shut your eyes to the calming strokes over your back.

“and no matter what—no matter how gruesome, anti-climatic, or predicted my deaths were…” he looks down on your with bittersweet eyes, gracing your lips with another soft kiss. “you were always there, right by my side, holding me until i exhale my very last breath.”

“it’s weird… i was never devastated when i died in my dreams, but instead…” bruce takes a long pause before chuckling. “i was happy.”

“bruce, what-“

“i died knowing that i fulfilled my purpose. i did my best, doing more than anybody could for this city—for my city.” his hand holds over yours and he guides them to his own cheek, shutting his eyes when your warmth contacts scuffed skin. “and best of all, i died knowing that i did this all with… you.”

“i already feel safe with you, y/n. as safe as i can be.”

one more kiss shushes you before you could speak again, and you let him do so because you never know if tomorrow could take him away from you.

as long as you’re by his side, it wouldn't.

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eoieopda · 1 year

Text

interlude: sunrise (myg)

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader | Darksided AU Type: “Morning After” Drabble // Fluff Word Count: .9K Summary: Two years after your first night with Min Yoongi, you wake up next to him in a Parisian hotel. CW: Brief acknowledgement of nudity; Yoongi’s morning voice; devils, tricks, and the prospect of crepes. A/N: Surprise 🥳 This is a drabble that takes place between the events of Foresight and Darksided! A lil snippet of their anniversary trip to Paris (2018,) which is referenced in Blindsided. Just because, you know, I missed these two terribly 🥲

You woke up in exactly the same condition in which you fell asleep: naked, with an exhausted Min Yoongi mumbling through sleep with his cheek smushed against your shoulder and his equally bare body radiating warmth.

His imitation was so spot-on that you had to do a double-take when you saw the sun — the real sun — making itself known through the glass door of the balcony. As it rose, it backlit the Eiffel Tower not far off, leaving a staggering shadow to stand between your hotel and the break of a new day.

With a contented sigh, you melted back into the mattress and wondered how much convincing it would take to keep Yoongi in that bed with you all day. You had grand plans to ingest every carbohydrate you encountered on the Champs-Élysées; but no mille-feuille could ever be sweeter than this. And though it certainly wasn’t home in a literal sense, it sure as hell felt like it, tangled up with your love in soft, white sheets.

Cutting through comfortable silence, Yoongi muttered something unintelligible and startled himself awake. He jolted, eyes still hazy with sleep as he blinked rapidly up at you. The second he registered your startled face so near to his, you felt the tension leave his body. Just as quickly, he melted back into a puddle, collecting near your collarbone.

“Early,” he mumbled through lips too tired for movement. Of course, he wasn’t wrong in his observation. It was early — offensively so — but your giddy heart was already running marathons at the heavy warmth of Yoongi’s morning drawl.

This was, perhaps, your favorite flavor of his voice; molasses slow and ocean deep. Dawn be damned, you were suddenly wide awake.

Whatever Yoongi said next in that perfect, husky tone was unintelligible. In fact, if you hadn’t felt the column of his throat vibrating against your shoulder, you might not have registered speech at all. Suddenly flustered and beyond fond, you tilted your head to glance down towards his face.

His delicate features were half-buried in your hair as it lay strewn about your pillow, but you still caught the crinkle forming above his closed eyes, between his brows. Pensive, he was concentrating deeply like it took all the effort in the world to repeat himself:

“Gonna be a blizzard.”

You pulled your heart eyes away long enough to look back outside. Finding pink dahlias thriving in the late-August air, you had to wonder if Yoongi was sleep-talking; or worse, sun-downing before it’d even had the chance to finish rising.

Umm…

Both theories went out the window when he shifted a little closer, moved the arm draped over your stomach a little further across, and ran the side of his thumb slowly back and forth along the curve of your waist.

So, you’re awake, but I might be dreaming.

That’s when it clicked. You pursed your lips for a moment to fight off a grin; you failed in an instant.

“Oh, that’s right,” you sighed, laying it on thick. You pressed the palm not hidden underneath his pillow to your forehead, “The weatherman did say to expect a half a meter of snow —”

“— and black ice,” Yoongi interjected. Then, he moved just enough to place a kiss at the side of your neck. He kept his lips there long after the tension in them faded out. You suspected that this was a choice and not simply sleepiness that left him motionless.

His breath tickled when he continued his mumbling, “Big wind, too. Just, like, so much wind.”

You were a second away from exploding into giggles, so you pinched your bottom lip between your teeth. You nodded solemnly in agreement, “The most wind. Far too dangerous to go outside today, I fear.”

“Too bad,” Yoongi offered, though he sounded far from displeased.

The tip of his nose chilled the underside of your jaw when he nudged it against your unsuspecting skin; and it, in turn, nudged a tiny peep out of your otherwise locked lips. When he kissed your neck again, his smile was palpable. You shivered when the hand massaging your side switched targets.

His palm was a whisper up your forearm, over your elbow, ghosting beyond your bicep. Yoongi put his weight onto his elbow just in time for his hand to cup your cheek. You followed his lead and turned your face inward as he sat further upright. Blissed, your eyes drifted shut as he leaned in to kiss you properly.

Perfectly, pillowy soft — so inviting that you had to swallow a petulant little whine when he pulled away too soon.

This time, it was your cheek on the receiving end of his thumb’s delicate brush; reflexively blushing cherry blossom pink when his twinkling, half-lidded eyes fixated on your face with all the love in the world.

“Jagi,” he started with a whisper.

With that thoughtful crease returning to the space between his eyebrows, your sprinting heart picked up its pace. If your pulse hammered any louder, the guests in the room next door might’ve called over to complain.

You swallowed, anticipated, “Yes, love?”

He paused before he spoke again as if whatever he said next required bravery he had to summon first. He inhaled deeply. You, on the other hand, were breathless. Time stopped and started over in every second that passed while you awaited his impending question.

“Do you think room service will respond this early?”

They may not have heard your heartbeat next door, but you’d venture a guess that every person in that hotel heard Yoongi’s surprised yelp when you uprooted yourself from underneath him. If they hadn’t, they certainly should’ve noted your growl when overtook him, slinging your leg over him until you had him pinned.

Head caged in between your arms, Yoongi blinked up at you with feigned innocence lighting up his irises, “What? You love crepes!”

“You’re so mean,” you whined, earning a smirk from the trickster beneath you. Your exaggerated pout was supported by every muscle in your face. “Devils like you don’t get crepes!”

His abdominal muscles tensed underneath the weight of your body when he sat up slightly just to kiss you again. As he did, he muttered against your lips, “They do, though —”

Then he kissed you again.

“— and the girl —”

And again.

“— all in due time.”

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mikashisus · 3 months

Text

Family Line

”suffering is a terrible fire; it either purifies or destroys.”

— oscar wilde

summary: Chief Justice Neuvillette doesn’t quite understand human emotions. His daughter is the complete opposite, a girl who feels a little too much all at once.

And suddenly, all of Fontaine is experiencing her pain.

pairing: (platonic) father!neuvillette & daughter!reader

content warnings: mentions of su!cide, su!cide attempts, character death

other disclaimers: neuvillette being a bad father but hes trying his best, egeria mentions, mc is fontaine’s it girl, furina trying to act like an older sister but failing, mc is a demigod, mc is half dragon

wc: 2.4k

author's notes: was listening to ‘dead mom’ from the beetlejuice soundtrack and immediately thought to write something based off of it. also based off of family line by conan gray.

trigger warning for su!cide mentions and death mentions. please stay safe!

cross-posted on ao3, written before the events of 4.2!!

All you knew about your mother was that she died in a freak accident 500 years ago. At that time, you were only ten years old.

Ten years too young in your father’s eyes and ten years too old in your mother’s.

Your mother would constantly tell you how honest and wise you were for your age, even going as far as to joke that you would become the new god of wisdom one day. Of course, those were all jokes, and your mother was all lies.

But… there was no denying that you missed her more than anything. She was your safe haven, your shelter, your rock.

As a child, you had a multitude of tantrums. Of course, tantrums were normal in children, but you were special. Your mood swings would decide the weather in Fontaine, which mostly consisted of a downpour followed by incredibly thick fog. Demigod children were not at all common, and your mother knew that. She also knew why the weather was decided by your mood.

She did her best to calm you, sing you a lullaby so that you’d fall asleep and forget about why you were upset. That’s why she was your rock. She stabilized you, knew how to keep your mood under wraps so that you would spare the Fontainian people from another day of pouring rain.

As for your father, he wasn’t in the picture much. Not until your mother passed, that is. You always knew that they weren’t the type to co-parent— that there weren’t really any deep feelings present between them.

Love was trivial to them. You always wondered why they had even gotten together in the first place if they didn’t feel any love towards each other. But you never asked… because, at the time, you were a child and you knew they wouldn’t answer because of that reason alone.

Now, you were old enough to hear the answer. Sadly, your mother was dead, so you couldn’t hear her answer. But your father was alive… and unfortunately for you, he wasn’t a talker. He preferred to leave you in the dark about most things, not seeing a reason to tell you about them if they did not concern you.

And that’s where the problem began.

Your father was emotionless. You often thought of him as a statue. Unfeeling, uncaring, still, and pensive. There was nothing behind those slitted eyes. No trace of sympathy, no trace of remorse. His voice was stern and commanding in the courtroom, and authoritative when it came to you.

Eventually, the rough sound of his voice had become a sound you loathed to hear.

You often wondered why your mother chose him of all people to have a child with. He wasn’t father material, and he definitely did not act like one towards you… but he did take care of the melusines. And that made you angry beyond repair.

You were his own flesh and blood. His only daughter, his pride and joy. Why did he pay you no mind, yet set all of his work aside to aid a melusine? Jealousy burned hot and red through your veins.

Your father was no father at all, and you refused to regard him as such. When a Fontainian you met in the streets would greet you, they’d immediately reduce you down to the “Chief Justice’s Daughter,” a title you loathed greatly. They wouldn’t call you by your name, and it made you all the more angry.

Eventually, you had enough of hearing that name, and refused to leave the Palais Mermonia. If the people would not respect you, then you would not come out to greet them. You stayed locked up in your room for decades, refusing to leave, and not even answering the door when Lady Furina herself came to visit you.

Soon, the people of Fontaine had forgotten what you looked like, but they still told your tale. The tale of a beautiful girl that looked to be in her early twenties, with hair that fell neatly along her shoulders and held the grace and elegance of a princess. A girl that dressed like a princess too, with big blue ballgowns and flowy gold dresses that sparkled in the sun. Jewelry on every wrist, the finest golden earrings, and authentic pearl necklaces. Plump lips laced with lipgloss and eyelashes naturally long and fluttery.

The people loved you… even if they did not see you as more than the Chief Justice’s daughter. You were not your own person. All the smiles you wore for the people were fake. All those dresses you wore were just for show. They didn’t know that you and your father did not speak regularly, and they did not know that your relationship with him was rocky like a raging sea.

It did not help that the two of you were polar opposites. He was a man of little words and even littler emotion. And you, his daughter, were the complete opposite. You felt a little too much all at once— as if a dam was being broken.

Now, you stood in his office, listening as he discussed cordial matters with Lady Furina— who just so happened to be your older sister… your older half sister. Your family was complicated.

Your sister with whom you did not mesh well with ended her meeting with a dramatic sentiment, something not so different from how she usually presented herself. As she passed you, her heterochromatic eyes met yours briefly, before the doors to the office slammed shut behind her.

Now it was only you and your father left in the room. The ticking of the clock on the opposite wall seemed to grow louder each second that the two of you sat in silence. Tension hung thickly in the air, and you were waiting quite impatiently for him to break it.

Finally, after about five minutes of a pen scratching on paper, your father looked up to meet your eyes. You instinctively shrank under his gaze; the piercing, slitted pupils made you uneasy whenever you stared at them for too long. He folded his gloved hands neatly on the table and let out a sigh before he spoke.

“Your mother’s death wasn’t just hard on you, (name).”

You rolled your eyes in annoyance. Not this talk again. You’ve had this talk with him many a times before, but all of those times, you refused to hear what he had to say. The subject was touchy for you, and he had known that… yet he continued to bring it up.

“It was hard to recover from—“

“You’re such a liar,” you couldn’t help but spit out, the words finally being said after centuries of you holding them back. “You never cared about mom. You never cared about me— you don’t care about me.” The accusation was harsh, you knew that, but you stood by what you said.

Neuvillette stared at you in shock and disbelief— the most emotion you’ve seen on him in your whole life. You were inclined to believe that maybe he had actually cared… but that thought was fleeting, just like his incredulous expression.

“You know very well that that isn’t true,” he spoke in a whisper, his tone defensive. “I cared deeply for your mother… I care deeply for you. You out of everyone should believe that—“

“How can I when you were never in my life until she passed?” you hissed, feeling the sting of tears at the corners of your eyes. Eyes that resembled his much too closely. You always hated your eyes because of that common similarity. It was why you couldn’t look in mirrors. “You didn’t even make an effort as a father. In fact, you’re hardly even a father at all.”

It seemed as if your words had struck a chord within him, as the look in Neuvillette’s eyes suddenly turned to one of hurt, with an underlying guilt present. He opened his mouth as if to defend himself, but closed it a moment later.

You were undoubtedly right. He hadn’t done a thing. He hadn’t acted like a father at all— hadn’t even tried. Instead, he tended to his duties as Chief Justice and left the parenting to your older sister, who tried her best to raise you, but you wanted nothing to do with her whatsoever.

“…I suppose you’re right.” He sounded defeated.

You held no remorse. You got up and began to leave, fed up with both this conversation, and his bullshit.

“(name)—”

You ignored him as you slammed the door to his office shut and rushed upstairs to your room, where you collapsed onto your bed and let the tears flow.

As you cried, a downpour began outside your window. It was raining again… courtesy of both you and your father’s collective sadness. You had known for a long time why it rained when he was feeling down, and why it happened to you as well.

The secret behind your father’s origins was well known to you. Your mother had told you the story when you were very young. Neuvillette was a dragon— a dragon sovereign to be specific. One of Teyvat’s original lifeforms.

And you, as his daughter, had the power of such a strong elemental lifeform coursing through your veins. As a result of such inherited power, it rained when you cried.

Lifting your head to gaze out the window at the sour weather, you caught a glimpse of the picture sitting on your nightstand. An old, old portrait drawn of you, your mother (Egeria), Focalors, and Neuvillette. The whole family.

Rage burned hot in your veins, and you shot up from your bed to retrieve the portrait. Without thinking, you threw it to the floor and stomped on it, letting your emotions get the better of you. The rain outside got worse, speeding up into a thunderstorm as you threw open the doors to your balcony.

The bloodcurdling, painful scream that erupted from the back of your throat went unheard amidst the downpour, and you couldn’t care less about your soaked gown. Grasping onto the railing, you hung your head.

“I miss you so much, mom… and father doesn’t care. I wish you were here— I wish I could speak to you…” you screwed your eyes shut, a few centuries’ worth of memories flooding through your mind.

Everything, all of it, made you so undeniably frustrated and upset. You missed your mother, you missed her soothing voice and comforting lullabies. You missed the way she’d tuck you in at night and tell you tales of creatures of the deep. You missed her cooking and the way she’d spoil you with sweet treats. You missed her kind heart and playful nature, the way she’d chase you down the hall and swoop you up into her arms and twirl you around. You missed the fancy balls she’d hold for your birthday, each one more impressive and extravagant than the last. You missed the way she treated her people with the utmost love and care, and how she always told you to treat humans with complete kindness and compassion.

And most importantly, you missed being her daughter.

You almost slipped as you climbed onto the railing, thoughts of your mother still running rampant in your mind.

“I want to join you, mother…”

Without thinking again, you took a step, and your body felt weightless… but only for a second. You felt a tug on your arm; something was stopping you from falling.

As you looked up and met eyes with your savior, you broke down into another fit of sobs. Focalors was holding onto you for dear life, her hands trembling and her eyes holding a terrified look. She opened her mouth to say something, but the words died on her tongue because of her fear.

Fear of losing you.

Another hand joined the fray, the blurry outline of Neuvillette appearing in your vision. You shook your head, attempting to pry your arm from their clutches. At your movement, Neuvillette rushed forward in one fast motion, grabbing onto you with both hands.

With a successful effort, the two of them pulled you back onto the balcony, with which you sat blankly for a few minutes. There was a deep ringing in your ears as your mind felt foggy. Had you really almost…

Focalors pounced onto you almost immediately, her heart pounding against her chest as she shook with tears of her own. Her hold on you was so tight, making it hard for you to breathe. It hadn’t registered in her mind just yet that she had almost just lost a sister.

Once it did, she hugged you tighter and cried into your shoulder.

Neuvillette stared down at the two of you, horror still laced in his slitted pupils as he gave you some space. As soon as you met his gaze, tears of his own began to flow down his cheeks.

You didn’t want to believe that the man you had known to show no emotion was currently crying, and so instead, you blamed it on the rain. Yes… it was just the rain falling down his face.

He leapt forward to capture you both in a tight hug, his soft sobs sounding like loud hammering in your ears.

“I’m sorry I failed you both,” he muttered in between cries, screwing his eyes shut. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to realize how badly I’ve treated you… I hope you will forgive me one day.”

He hugged you both tighter, and as you made eye contact with Focalors and heard the fast beating of your father’s heart against your ear, you broke down into another fit of sobs.

You clung onto him like a life vest, letting out 500 years worth of pent up sadness and anger. You’ve longed for the day your father would show you any type of affection. And now, you were finally receiving it.

“Forgive me, my daughters,” he muttered again, kissing your forehead and then Focalors’. “I will be better. I will make up for lost time… I promise.”

As he vowed to be a better father, you suddenly felt as if your mother’s arms were wrapping around you in a warm embrace again, and the downpour of rain suddenly felt comforting rather than stinging.

Your mother’s soft voice entered your ears, her words but a whisper among the hollering rain.

Everything will be okay.

author’s notes: i might go back and add more onto this another time, but i think this’ll do for now.

furina is the mc’s half sister, and therefore is not blood related to neuvillette, but he still considers her his daughter regardless.

pls lmk what u thought of this & if u’d like for me to make this into a multi-chapter fic with a better outline. i love receiving comments on my works!

masterlist!

#genshin #genshin impact #angst #neuvillette #furina #fontaine #hurt/comfort #focalors #platonic #genshin x reader

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tsumtsumrry · 11 months

Text

(based on an ask i got on my old acc)

thanks so much for the request <3 i hope i brought your idea to life. it’s bestfriendrry h <33

It wasn‘t supposed to happen. Harry didn’t mean to find the vibe in your room. He was just innocently looking for a sweatershirt he’s sure you snagged when he saw it just sitting there on the bed. It was pink and pretty and it felt like it was staring him down.

He’s always had a little innocent school-girl like crush on you. You were his best friend. You were gorgeous and had such an infectious personality, he just wanted to crawl up in a ball of your warmth and stay there every time you smiled at him, and this, thinking about you using this pink vibrator to make yourself feel as good as you always should, almost awakened something in him.

He inched closer to it, cautious but so fucking curious. He didn’t wanna be a creep, but it was like it was begging him to go near it. And he figured if you stole his clothes he could inspect your vibrator.

It’s when he picked it up and brought it up to take a closer look, that the scent hit him.

You’ve used this recently.

And god if his cock didn’t throb in his pants at the realization. Harry loves pussy, knows the scent well but there’s something different about yours, maybe it’s just because he’s so infatuated with you as a person but the way you smell is driving him insane, unlocking deep, carnal passions inside of him. He hums out, bringing his hand down to palm himself over his sweats. He thinks he could possibly get off by just your smell and the thought of you getting off, but the vibrator is right there. And he‘d be wasting a perfectly good opportunity not to use it.

He inspects it a little, twists it around in his hand trying to at least know what he’s getting into. Then he flips a switch. The vibrator buzzes to life, almost shaking his entire hand, he squeezes his eyes shut tightly when he imagines how good this must’ve felt for you.

It’s so powerful and he’s staring at it with wide curious eyes, wondering if he‘d even be able to handle putting this anywhere near any of his pleasure spots. He switches it off instantly, shaking his head in dismissal and pure and utter shock that he would even consider this and walks out of your room to make lunch. He’ll just ask for the sweatshirt when you get home.

Only one problem, though, he’s hard. Oh so very hard and he knows you’re coming home soon, he doesn’t really think he can come that fast no matter how hard he tries or how much he thinks of you sitting on his face, it’s just not how his body works. He’s trying his absolute best to think about dead puppies and soggy waffles (he fucking hates soggy waffles and childish anger is most of the time enough to make a stiffy go down) and hope for the best.

When he hears your voice call out for him when you get home, his cock twitches in his pants and he breathes out a curse. His mind is swirling with thoughts of you calling out his name using that pretty pink vibe that’s still sitting on your bed with his touch all over it and he thinks he‘s gonna lose his mind.

“You alright, H?” You ask when you see him sitting on the couch with a pensive look on his face.

“Yeah yeah m‘alright. How was your day?” he‘s picking at his lips as he talks and that should’ve been your first sign that something wasn’t right. But you let it go nonetheless.

It’s when it’s time for bed and you ask for a cuddle and he declines when you begin to get worried. Harry. Harry Edward Styles. Harry Love Language Is Touch Styles, just turned down cuddles. From you. Your heart drops and you frown. Is he upset with you? It’s like he can’t get to sleep fast enough and far enough from you.

Something to be known about you is that you’re such a sensitive person, and tears pool in your eyes when he gives you a quick, half-hearted “love you” as he says goodnight.

Harry’s confused when he wakes up, when you’re gone and you didn’t stir him awake to let him know you’re gonna be leaving with a quick kiss on his forehead, but he thinks maybe you were just rushing.

He’s typing away at his computer, sending emails when his mind drifts off to you. Your sweet smile and your soft voice, how kind you are, how beautiful you are (drop dead fucking gorgeous, he adds), how soft your lips are, how they would feel against his, how good you smell, and oh, now he’s thinking about the vibrator again and he’s hard again and this cannot happen again.

He realizes he‘s not going to get over this until he does something about it, so his cautiously walks into your room even though he has no reason to, and sits on the bed, he notices the vibrator isn’t on it anymore and has taken residence on a shelf of your computer desk. His stomach swirls, and it feels so good but it’s not enough.

It was a long day of work, you’re tired and you’re kind of annoyed. And you can‘t wait get back home to Harry. Quite literally the light of your life. He always manages to brighten your day, even when you can’t imagine it being brightened. But after last night you aren‘t even sure he wants to talk to you. The word overreaction comes to mind, but, you’re sensitive and you overthink. One wrong move threatens to send you into a downward spiral and you wish that wasn’t the way it was but it is. And you feel like the spiral is not that far ahead.

When you get home you open the door softly, not wanting to disturb Harry in case he’s working or writing but all thoughts of keeping things quiet are gone from your mind when you hear what sounds like a pleasured shout.

“Fucking—fuck—“ he drags out the last word, his voice sounding like it’s wavering and he’s trying his absolute hardest to keep it together.

You hear a curse followed by your name and you pause. He’s moaning? And saying your name? You inch closer to your bedroom when you start to hear a familiar steady buzz. Your mind automatically comes to the conclusion on its own and you try your best to hold back a gasp.

Harry, your best friend Harry, is in there with your vibrator using it to the thought of you.

You open the door only to see his eyes squeezed shut, he’s panting out heavy breaths and his face is scrunched up painfully. He looks so overwhelmed in the best way, god if you don’t wanna just kiss that pout away.

“Harry.” you simply say and he jumps. He starts apologizing profusely but you hold your hand up, immediately halting him and you almost hum and how fast he listened to your direction.

“S’okay, H. Just wanna help. Can I help?“

He nods, almost apprehensively cause he was expecting you to freak out but you don‘t and he doesn’t know how but it almost feels like he got harder.

You tsk at him, and he frowns. Your delicate hands pull the vibrator out of his, brushing his fingers in the process and he shivers.

“You weren’t using it quite right, pretty boy. If you thought that felt good you’re gonna feel so much better.”

You switch it back on, putting on a setting that’ll warm him up but also make him feel quite nice. You’re definitely gonna save the best for last.

You notice when you walked in he was using it on his ass, so you put right back there and he gasps while looking right into your eyes. The intense gaze is heating up your core and you almost moan at the sight off his eyes rolling back.

“This why you didn’t wanna cuddle me last night? This what you were thinking about? Proper hurt my feelings you know.”

He feels a twinge of pain in his chest. “I—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. P-Please.”

”Please what? What do you want? Hmm? Say it, Harry.“

“C-Can you please, put it…inside?” It‘s so hot to you the way he can’t even get his words out, that fact that he feels good enough to lose the ability to be coherent makes you feel like you’re gonna come right this second.

”Inside? Is that what you want? You want it inside?” you know you’re dragging this out, cruelly teasing him, but he’s too high on you and the pleasure to really notice what you’re playing at.

“Please, baby. I’m b-begging you. I need it inside. Please. God, please please.“ The innocence in his voice strikes you so fiercely. He’d do anything for you right now if you asked. Genuinely.

You reach up to stroke his cock while you lube him up and he‘s moaning so beautifully, you almost want to turn it into a song.

When you feel he’s slick enough, you swipe the tip of the vibrator on his hole and he pushes his hips down to try to make you go faster. He‘s caught on go the fact that you’re teasing. That you want to make him beg, that you like to hear it. And he truly meant that he’d do anything for you.

“Inside, inside. Please? Do anything, I‘ll—do anything.”

You finally push it inside of him and he fucking melts. His eyes roll closed and he slurs out “thank you, thank you, thank you“

It’s when you angle it to hit his prostate that he loses it. He‘s no stranger to stimulation on his prostate, but the foreign strong vibrations directly on it thats he’s never felt before is messing with his head.

“Oh my f-fuckin’ god. Right there, right there.“

“There? You like how that feels?“ you taunt, getting drunk on how much power over him you have.

“I do, I do. Love how you make me feel.“ You have an inkling he’s not just talking about how you’re fucking him with a vibrator and your heart warms.

You turn up the setting and he yelps quietly, keeping his eyes trained on you with so much desire swimming in them.

His hips start to shift, he thinks he might be getting close but that’s probably just the amount of pressure that he feels at the bottom of his tummy. It just feels so good, everything feels so good that he thinks good night not even be a good enough word.

He says your name and his voice cracks on the syllables. You look down at him to see his face, looking so fucked out with his eyes glassy and his lips parted. You know it feels good, but this good? There’s something else.

He’s just loves you so much and he trusts you so much and he‘d do anything for you and it’s only know that he’s realizing he’s slipping into subspace. It’s only happened to him once and it was the best thing he’s ever felt. He’s so glad he gets to experience it again with you.

He tries to warn you but his words slur together and he‘s quickly losing himself in it, his eyes rolling closed with a flutter.

You catch on though, and you’re determined to see him through it.

“S’okay baby. I’ve got you. You’re safe.” you tell him, leaning down to his ear knowing his hearing might be spotty. “Promise I’m gonna take such good care of you.“

“M’gonna cum. Can I? Please can I?“ his voice is nothing short of a whisper. Hoarse moans and whimpers still leaving his lips.

“Cum for me H.“ you tell him.

You don’t even have to touch his cock for him to burst. And it’s so much. So much cum and you can’t deny that you have a bit of a breeding kink. Thinking of all of that inside you just making you wetter than you already were.

“Harry?”

“So good to me. So good.“ he mumbles out, still swimming in subspace.

You manage to clean him up, his hands planted firmly on your waist, wanting as much contact with you as he can get.

He’s still mumbling incoherently, some words you catch and smile at them. You know sometimes in subspace it’s like you can still feel some of the pleasure. You wonder if thats what he’s feeling.

You hear your name coming from his lips and you figure it’s more of his babbles so you just thread your fingers into his hair and scratch his scalp gently.

He rasps your name again and you look down at him. He smiles up at you lazily and you return it.

”Hey pretty boy. Feeling okay?“

“Feel so good. Thank you.“ his voice raspy and hoarse from all the moaning he did. “I—um, I’m sorry about this whole—“

“Shh. You don’t have to apologize H. M’just glad you felt good. Sleep.“

And so he does, deciding he‘ll worry about figuring out what this all means tomorrow.

For now, your touch is enough to soothe him.

#harry styles smut #harry styles one shot #harry smut #harry styles x reader #sub!harry #subbry #old

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bahbahhh · 10 months

Text

begin again

a lot of change happens in between Breath of the Wild and Tears of the Kingdom. let’s fill in the gaps.

zelda pov | zelink | totk spoilers | rated T zelinkweek2023 | @zelinkcommunity [first] [ ao3 ]

Again, big shout out to my beta reader @zeldaelmo who is an amazing writer for the LoZ fandom and is posting for zelink week as well. I had the pleasure of returning the favor for this totk zelink oneshot and absolutely recommend it.

chapter 2

for the prompt “forbidden”

Link’s just publicly recommended they destroy the most valuable resources available for the restoration of Hyrule and Zelda has no idea how to save him.

Everyone just stares, and with the company they find themselves in, it may as well be the very eyes of Hyrule itself that are on him. Zelda can’t find her breath. She’s back in Blatchery Plain, drenched in rain and despair, surrounded by a swarm of corrupted guardians. Link faced a sea of eyes then, too. He stands with his back to her, just like he does now, and she watches his silhouette light up with constellations of crimson.

He’s about to be blown to pieces right in front of her.

She starts to raise her hand to protect him like she did that day, only to remember she hasn’t felt the hum of power, nevermind summoned the glow of golden light to her fingertips, since they destroyed the Calamity six months ago. She’s a star burnt out with nothing to show of her once formidable brilliance, but an ugly scar on her hand.

“All of it?” Impa asks, calmly.

Link nods.

“Even the Divine Beasts?”

“Especially those,” he asserts.

He has yet to make eye contact with Zelda again since the smile; that red herring of a smile that had her daydreaming while he nocked a kill shot. She gives up on trying to summon his gaze with her mind and glances desperately at Impa. The keeper of their histories, a guardian of lost tapestries and lessons of the past, a voice of reason in the hundred year storm—

But Zelda sees none of the women she thought she knew in the way Impa considers him. She’s got her head tilted pensively, like she might actually be contemplating what Link has said, which is impossible because he is suggesting they dismantle all the ancient relics of her people.

Impa rotates her gaze out to the crowd and extends her hands to welcome the discussion, looking like a statue of the Goddess herself. Zelda’s heart drops into the pit of her stomach with a splash. She wants to scream, at both of them, but the continued and calm silence of the crowd is starting to feel less like they are preparing to strike and more like Link’s found the hidden door they’ve all been searching for. An emotional outburst could compromise the cogendy of any argument she might make.

Goddess, she can still hear her father’s voice in her head after all these years.

“Where would it all go?” Reede finally asks.

Link crosses his arms over his chest, thinks about it for a half a second –1 like they are talking about something as simple as mending a pasture fence – and offers, “Sheikah Slate has a limitless inventory. Load it all into the Slate and then get rid of it.”

“How do you suppose we do that?”

“Smash it with a hammer?”

Purah gasps. “That would be such a waste, Linky! We still haven’t unlocked a quarter of the Slate’s potential.”

“You’ll build something better.”

“Like what?” Robbie says, visibly shaken and pale.

‘That’s your thing, isn’t it?’ Link signs.

“If I may, wouldn’t destroying the Sheikah Technology prolong restoration efforts?” says Hudson of Tarrey Town.

Link nods.

“Did you yourself not benefit from the technology during your travels?” Traysi asks in a strangely formal tone. She lifts a pen and paper out of her lap without looking away from Link.

He shrugs and Traysi’s expression sinks. She must be remembering he’s Hyrule’s worst interview subject. She rolls her shoulders back and tries again.

“Wasn’t it Sheikah Technology that saved you from death?”

An unbearable amount of guilt seethes out from wounds deep inside Zelda. Questions she’ll never feel brave enough to voice echo in the silence that follows Traysi’s: Did I make the right call? Is it what you wanted me to do? She can’t see his face, but she imagines it is unsettlingly neutral, as it always is in crucial moments of outrageous tension.

Do you resent me for what I did? She’s screaming inside her head, glaring at the back of his skull. Unbearable heat swirls in her chest like dragon’s breath. You must! Just say you do!

“It trapped his soul inside his body,” King Dorephan says.

Link’s body flinches. It’s microscopic. Zelda only catches it because she’s so focused on him, but she sees it, and pain blooms in the very center of her chest.

“Mipha’s soul was trapped inside Vah Ruta after all these years, too.” King Dorephan continues. He is a monolith of a presence and yet, when he speaks about his late daughter, somehow, he’s transformed into something smaller and broken. This is the price of a long life. The Rito who flew with Revali, the Gerudo who marched with Urbosa, the Gorons who laughed with Daruk; they have all since passed. If there is grief, it is distant and therefore, instinctively more bearable. Only the Sheikah can begin to relate and still, with the Champions, the Zora stand alone. Zelda’s here. The Sheikah’s Princess returned.

The title suddenly feels too heavy again.

“Father, her body was gone,” Prince Sidon says gently. He has tears in his eyes. Unapologetically emotional as ever, and instead of responding with rage or shame, the great King of the Zora places a hand on Sidon’s shoulders. His eyes, set beneath the mighty crown of his people, swim with tears as well.

Zelda wilts with envy.

“The Zora second Link’s motion to destroy all Sheikah Technology.”

“We-we would be forfeiting artifacts that have withstood the test of time and have proven immensely useful,” Robbie proclaims. For the first time, he looks his age. Shaking where he stands, shoulders crested with fatigue, his hands braced on the back of Purah’s chair.

“When they function properly,” Teba’s chimes in. He has the kind of call that booms across the Tabantha sky. A few Ritos whistle in consensus. “Vah Medoh terrorized our people for decades. Too many Rito warriors took their final dive after it claimed the sky for the Calamity.”

“It didn’t get you though, Dad,” Tulin says.

Teba grins, “Right. Thanks to Link. Kaneli?”

“The Rito soar with Link.” Kaneli flashes his massive wingspan. “Destroy it all.”

“Forget a hammer, the Gorons will take care of anything that needs smashing,” Bludo grunts.

Yubuno clenches his fists and blows out a sphere of molten light around him. “Yeah, goro! We got this!”

“We passed many guardians and shrines during the march here from the desert. They are a map of tremendous loss across Hyrule. The Gerudo cannot remember a time when this technology was useful. We only know its devastation. It is time to let the past go. Hyrule is ready to move forward.” Riju sets her hands on her hips and nods in Link’s direction.

“Our research…we would be throwing it all away!” Purah cries, and like Robbie, she’s looking her age. Six and completely devastated the grown ups are planning to take away her favorite toy.

“Correct me if I'm wrong, Purah, Robbie, but weren’t the shrines and the Slate originally created specifically for Link? For the chosen hero?” Impa asks.

“Yes, that is correct,” Robbie says.

“And we all believe Calamity Ganon is finally vanquished, yes?” Impa turns to look at the crowd.

“Mipha’s Grace.” One of the elder Zora crosses his fins at the same time Buliara and the other Gerudo soldiers raise their spears. Teba whistles and the Hylian’s offer the sign of the Goddess with their hands. It is a resounding and unanimous ‘good riddance’.

“So, with this in mind, have the shrines and the Slate not served their purpose?”

“Well, yes, I suppose that’s true,” Robbie says. Purah starts pouting. Zelda can see the defeat starting to take root around the Sheikah researchers. Feels it starting to wrap around her own ankles. She feathers a hand up to touch the spot where her voice is trapped in her throat. All those years resisting her father’s guidance and now, it’s the one thing keeping her from damning herself. To this group, so revitalized by new hope, united and rising from a hundred years of ruin, her proposal of clinging to their ashes might feel like poison.

Like malice.

“I know it feels like a waste, dear sister. Robbie. But I ask that you both consider the possibility this is not another squandering of our efforts.”

“It’s the fulfillment of them.” Paya’s voice is exceptionally steady. She folds her hands over Robbie’s and helps him peel back his fingers from the back of Purah’s chair.

“The Zora will continue to look to the Sheikah for guidance,” Sidon says.

“It would be foolish to ignore the knowledge of the Sheikah,” Kaneli agrees.

“Like Link said, this is our opportunity to build something new for Hyrule.” Yubono pumps his fist in the air.

“Something better,” Riju adds.

“We will all have a hand in rebuilding Hyrule. From the ground up this time.” Hudson rubs his hands together like he’s ready to get started.

Tulin lets out a cheer. His voice is youthful and hopeful and infectious. The perfect song for the future of Hyrule. A few out Rito echo him and then the Gerudo join in. Then the Gorons, and the Zora and the Hylians. Impa holds her arms out to Purah and both she and Robbie lunge forward to embrace her. Link claps a few times and then finally looks over his shoulder at Zelda. His eyes are brighter than luminous stones.

He has no idea what he’s done.

The smile was just a smile. A pathetically desperate misinterpretation on her part. He smiles because he’s polite, not because she’s something special or they are together in any of this.

Link died on the field that day. And with him–

The pages slip from her hands. Her proposal scatters across the grass at her feet.

She scurries to gather them up and Link immediately takes a knee to help her. Zelda snatches the pages back into her chest and recoils like the wounded animal she is. He blinks at her, a wordless question forming on his lips. The hand outstretched for the pages turns over slowly to offer his palm to her. He’s trying to help her up without any idea he’s the one who put her here.

“What says the Princess of new Hyrule?” It's Traysi’s voice. Probably ready with her pen, eager to draft a report and spit the plan for the restoration out to the Rumor Mill by sunset.

Her hands are shaking. Dozens of eyes on her, fire in her throat, nothing but a scar on her hand. She glances down at the mark, a nameless cluster of triangles. In stasis, she decided they represented the holy Springs. For a time, she held all three in her hand, but Courage and Power only flowed through her. For some reason, predetermined by fate that has proven nothing but cruel, she is the vessel for Wisdom.

And Wisdom tells Zelda her thoughts have no value. They never have. She looks around at the faces of her people. Unknowingly, they’ve not only stolen her newfound sense of purpose–they are making it forbidden.

And now they are asking for her blessing.

She swallows what feels like acid and looks back at Link. At some point in her reeling, she’s risen to her feet without realizing it. He remains on his knees, looking up at her with an innocent tilt of confusion, Master Sword strapped to his back. Her body blocks out the sun and casts a looming shadow over his face. The pasture falls away from her. She’s surrounded by cascades of water and trees twisted with age and swarms of fireflies. Beneath her feet, an altar with a space for a traveler’s gift lifts her even higher above him. Zelda tries to keep the horror from washing over her face, but the restraint necessary only makes her feel like she might turn into stone.

Is it a crown they want her to wear or a halo?

Zelda gathers herself and says the only thing she can summon from the depths of her panic, “May the Light of the Goddess shine upon you.”

—-

The Summit lasts four days. Link has all of the shrines, towers, and the majority of the remaining guardians already mapped out on the Slate, so it is only a matter of divvying up the work. Each group is responsible for their assigned regions and are free to do what they please with the guardian parts once the cores are removed. The Gerudo and the Zora verbalize their intent to destroy all the Sheikah tech in their territories, but the Gorons, Rito, and the Hylians (who stand the most to gain from recycled materials) plan to repurpose.

The plan is to harvest the ancient cores and store them in the Slate. Link will travel across Hyrule to load the cores into Slate, along with any unwanted materials it has the capacity to absorb. Once the guardians are taken care of and they figure out how to dismantle the shrines, they’ll destroy the Sheikah Slate, smother the ancient furnaces, and bury the Divine Beasts. They will reconvene as needed to collectively approve next steps. The Sheikah are tasked with what to do with the towers because everyone agrees there is value in preserving a modern mapping system as long as a new network is created.

It is Link’s task to figure out how to handle the shrines since he is the only one who can enter them. He disappears into the shrine near his house the first night only to emerge several hours later, circling it like a wolf. He eventually settles down and appears to just glare at the terminal until the sun rises. He does the same thing the following night and the night after that. Zelda knows this because she’s been watching him from Purah’s second floor window.

Seeing him struggle with it doesn’t make her feel better (okay, it helps a little), and it’s hard to stay upset when she sees how well-received his recommendation is; how necessary it feels for the rest of Hyrule to start planning their future. It’s just when this anger completely deflates, she knows she’ll be left to deal with what actually lies beneath it, as is often the case with her anger, and it’s a sorrow she’s afraid she will drown in.

“He’s still at it?” Zelda jumps back from the window at the sound of Purah’s voice.

“What? Link? I wasn’t–” Zelda sputters.

Purah waves her tiny hands and tip toes across the floor to a desk. “Don’t worry about it. He’s a fascinating subject.”

“Why are you up so late?” Zelda wraps her arms around herself. Purah gets a guilty look, but as Zelda draws closer, she hears a soft, excited hum coming from the researcher. Like Zelda’s presence alone lit some internal fuse and Purah is on the verge of bursting into sparkles.

“If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell anyone else?”

Zelda knows this is a dangerous game, Purah used to say the same thing a hundred years ago, right before she launched into an explanation as to why the western castle wall was damaged, again.

“Did you break something?”

“No!” Purah sets her fists in her hips, insulted.

“Are you going to?”

“Princess!”

Zelda lifts her eyebrows.

“Come on, do you want to see what I’m working on or not.” Purah stomps her feet very softly in an exaggerated manner, obviously trying to keep the noise level down.

“Okay, okay, I promise.”

“Pinky promise! I mean it, I need you to have my back like old times. You were the only reason my research didn’t get shut down back then.”

“It was threatened.” Zelda smiles at the avalanche of memory that befalls her. It didn’t feel funny at the time, – lying to her father, tempting his wrath – but it felt good to protect something she was equally as passionate about.

“I know.” Purah rolls her eyes.

“Multiple times.”

“I know! So, so, so?” Purah holds up her pinky and wiggles it at Zelda. Zelda rolls her shoulders back and sighs.

“Okay, pinky promise,” she says and loops her finger with Purah’s.

Purah flings open a wide drawer filled with blueprints. She throws the top half of pages to the floor with enthusiasm, mumbling about how Symin can pick them up later, and rummages around the rest with a hushed frenzy. Zelda spots a copy of the new Hyrule map from the Summit with the restoration territories outlined. Purah’s already marked all the Sheikah tower locations and made notes on possible spots for relocation.

Even she’s found a purpose in the path forward.

Purah fans out the papers hidden at the very bottom of the drawer out on her desk. “I’ve expedited my experiments with the Anti-Aging Rune. I just want to reverse this,” she gestures to herself extravagantly, “and then they can do whatever they want with the Sheikah Slate.”

“You’re going to return to your original state? You’ll be over a hundred and–”

“No. I just want to look old enough so people stop telling me I need to take a nap whenever I raise my voice.” A beat. “And I want to be able to reach the jar Symin hides the honey candies in.”

Zelda scans over Purah’s design, which calls for the Guidance Stone, the Sheikah Slate, and something called ‘cellular maturity milestone marker’ coding.

“Does Impa know you're working on this?”

“It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than seek permission, Princess. And besides, I’ve already got ideas for a better Slate with an even better name, so that should buy me a royal pardon if I need it, right?”

As if Zelda holds any authority in any of this.

Zelda backs away from Purah’s desk and the ugly feelings of jealousy starting to bubble up inside her. She ends up back at the window and turns her face to the cool night air. Link’s pacing in front of the Shrine again.

“Do you think he’ll figure it out?” Zelda asks.

“The shrines? Yes.”

“He’s always been good at puzzles.”

“Yeah, but so have you. Aren’t you going to help him?” Purah quips innocently. With the way her hushed voice carries in the night, it’s like she's speaking from Zelda’s shoulder.

—-

Zelda hasn’t spoken to him since the first day. If he’s noticed, he hasn’t made it known. He’ll occasionally catch her eye and smile, but she’s learned not to read into that anymore and hardens herself to any tenderness that attempts to sidetrack her thoughts.

Purah asks her to retrieve the Sheikah Slate from Link when he’s done with it so she can run a trial on the Anti-Aging Rune before Symin wakes up. If nothing else, it gives Zelda an excuse to wander down to the shrine while she’s still deciding if she wants to help him.

He’s sitting cross-legged on the terminal gate with his chin in his hand when she approaches. The Master Sword lays unsheathed beside him. Weathered and dull, unable to glimmer even in the moonlight. Like her, it hasn’t glowed since the final battle.

It takes a second for him to return from wherever his thoughts are, but she can tell he’s been aware of her somehow since she started climbing the hill up to the shrine. He paws his chin with his fingers and then flops backward in the grass at her feet with a frustrated sigh.

“Can’t figure it out?” She asks.

He puffs some hair into his bangs and signs, ‘Not yet.’

She sits down beside him. “Do you think there is a core inside?”

He crinkles his nose and shakes his head.

“You told me you think the Shrines, like Divine Beasts, run on some kind of spirit-based energy, right?”

He nods.

“But when you clear a Shrine, the spirit of the Sheikah Monk inside disappears?”

“Right.” Link sits up on his elbows and rolls his head around his shoulders.

“But the Shrine stays semi-active, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t that imply a power source remains?”

Link shrugs. Zelda follows the curls of cerulean along the walls of the shrine up to the peak where the Sheikah Eye glows. The symbol always brought her comfort. The presence of a friend, the company of like minds—a buffer of protection against the unbearable amount of pressure building on her shoulders since the day she turned seven. But the symbol feels different now, as most symbols tend to do with time. It doesn’t bring her much comfort. It’s just another thing from her past she has to let go of; the sign of something else evolving without her.

It stares unblinking and focused on some distance point she can’t see.

He taps her on the shoulder to pull her attention back to him. A tiny pulse of electricity moves from his fingers down into her belly when he seems to appraise her face before he signs.

‘Any ideas?’ He looks tired. Overdue for a visit. She can feel sleep reaching for her as well. Her attention drifts back to the Sheikah Eye and she imagines it closing shut. Resting like they both should. Like she could if she had a bed.

A home.

“You said you think the Shrines work like the Divine Beasts? So in theory, those stopped working because our friends—” Grief, unexpected and sudden, crackles in her voice. She clears her throat. Pivots. “You can’t use their gifts any longer, right?”

Link flexes his fingers slowly. Like he’s just missing something that keeps passing through his fingers. “I let them go.”

She thinks about what King Dorephan said about the Shrine of Resurrection and Link’s soul. How he had been unable to die because the Shrine kept his soul tethered to his body while the waters healed it. She thinks about eyes closing and Tulin’s cheering and the sadness that comes with at last fulfilling one’s purpose.

“Can I see the Slate?” She asks. Link unclips it from his belt and slides it over to her in the grass. Purah would slap him if she saw just how casually he handles it. Zelda wants to tell him to be careful, that Purah might be tall enough to reach his face soon, but she has a pinky promise to keep, and the Slate will be gone before too long, anyway. She weighs it with her hands a few times and then stands to approach the terminal.

“How do you activate the Shrine if there isn’t a slot?” She feels Link come up beside her. He leans over and mimics holding the Slate over the Sheikah symbol with an empty hand. The hair on her arm stands on end in his closeness. Will this feeling ever go away? Or will it always feel like she is about to be struck by lightning whenever he’s near?

“Have you ever tried to do it again once the Shrine is activated?”

“No.”

Zelda lifts the Slate up to the terminal. Nothing happens. The shrine glows calm and blue, the door stays shut, the Slate screen blank–as she suspects it would. She bites her cheek and hands the Slate back to him. “You try.”

The second he holds the Slate over the terminal, the light at the center of the Sheikah Eye blinks once, calling the Slate to life. He turns over and inspects the screen. The name of the Shrine, which Zelda assumes is the name of the Sheikah Monk whose soul powered it for thousands of years, has a check mark next to it. She assumes it is because Link completed the trial inside.

Below the name is a single, pulsing command:

> Rest? <

They snap their heads up to look at each other at the same time.

Link’s shoulders collapse. An irritated puff air escapes his nose.

Zelda leans over him, presses her thumb against the word, and watches it dissolve into the darkness of the screen. The steel shifts under her feet, and they immediately scramble off the back of the entryway because the Shrine has started disintegrating around them. Link wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her flush against him so his body breaks their fall when they hit the grass.

They watch the last bit of light in the Sheikah symbol disappear into nothing. In a matter of ten seconds, the only evidence the Shrine was ever there is a round footprint of dirt. There are no materials to sort through, no cavern to fill in. She shifts and sits between his bent legs, frantically turning on the Sheikah Slate where, on the digital map of Hyrule, the symbol marking where the Shrine was is completely gone.

“I…I can’t believe that actually worked!” She laughs, collects herself, holds the Slate out at another angle and laughs again.“You were right about the spirit energy,” she insists. Funeral pires, ashes in the wind, a deliberate letting go; one way or another, a soul needs to be put to rest. Otherwise, it just spins like a windmill blade even after the wind is gone.

“How did you know?”

“I’m just good at solving puzzles.” Purah deserves a honey candy for reminding her of that. “It will speed the restoration up significantly if that’s all you need to do…” Her voice trails off slowly. He’s got his head next to hers, eyes fixed on the Slate in front of them. It takes everything inside her not to fold back against him, so viciously desperate for touch – for his touch – her hands start to tremble with urgency. The last drop of anger left inside her vanished with the shrine. And as predicted, the misery left behind is deep and agonizing and it goes by another name:

Loneliness.

#totk spoilers #totk #totk fanfiction #totk fanfic #totk zelink #botw zelink #botw #breath of the wild #loz #legend of zelda #tears of the kingdom #loz totk #zelinkweek2023 #zelinkcommunity #bahbahhhart #bahbahhhwrites #begin again

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theferricfox · 11 months

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Here's a cute little drabble for Momma Kuchel's birthday. I don't even know how I managed to punch this out so fast considering I've had so much writer's block lately that I could build a damned house with it.

“Hey, Ma?”

“Yes, darling?” Kuchel responds from the small bathroom adjoining their room. She brushes out her long, dark hair with an old horse-hair brush – the handle crumbling into splinters.

Levi sits on the edge of the bed, his chubby little legs dangling over the edge. He rocks them back and forth, leaning back to balance himself on the flat of his palms. He looks pensive – so serious for so small a face that it’s laughably adorable – as he watches his mother sort out her tangles.

“When’s your birthday, Ma?” Levi asks.

Kuchel pauses and sets down her hairbrush. She turns and walks to her son, kneeling on the half-rotten floor so she can be near eye-level with him.

“Why do you ask, angel?” she cups his cheeks and playfully squeezes, making giggles erupt from his lips.

“Well, we celebwate my birfday,” Levi says through the squish she’s made in his face. “But we neveh celebwate yoahs.”

Kuchel smiles softly and stands, picking him up along the way. She sways, humming a song as she thinks. She remembers that she was born in spring, but days bleed together down here. She wouldn’t know when the first of the month was if she didn’t get harassed to pay her room fee.

“Well,” she sings with a smile. “I am pretty sure it’s today.”

“Today?!” Levi nearly jumps from her arms at the news. “We gotta get you a sweet!”

Levi wriggles in her grasp eagerly.

“Down! Down!” he calls out.

When she sets him down, Levi rushes to the door of their room, standing on the very tips of his toes to pull at the handle.

“Levi, where are you going?” Kuchel chuckles as she pulls open the door and watches him shoot down the hallway, his bare feet slapping against the wood of the hallway.

“I’m gonna get you a sweet!” he calls back, halfway down the hall.

“Not without your shoes, mister man!” she calls back.

When Levi turns, she bends down to pick his shoes up and dangle them in front of her. He rushes back, twisting his feet into the tattered shoes as she slips her own on and stuffs a small wad of bills into her bra. The pair ready to go, Levi tugs on his mother’s dress.

“C’mon c’mon!”

Kuchel lets Levi lead her out and into the street, and although he clambers clumsily over the deep wheel tracks in the dirt roads, he resists being picked up and carried, wanting instead to guide her to the market. She has to gently remind him of the next turn a time or two, and when they arrive at the market street, he darts forward, his destination apparently firmly in mind.

She follows him to a small bakery stall where they usually buy their bread.

“Miss Caroleeeene!” Levi shouts, holding onto the table of the stall. His mop of black hair barely peeks over the edge, despite him standing on the tips of his toes.

“Caroline, darlin’,” Kuchel corrects gently as she approaches.

“Miss Caroleene,” Levi says, ignoring his mother. “I need a sweet please!”

Caroline, with bright golden hair and brilliant green eyes, leans over to smile at Levi.

“Well, hello, Levi dear. You need a sweet you say?”

“Yeah! It’s Ma’s birthday! I need a sweet to surprise her with!” Levi says eagerly, seemingly heedless of the meaning of a surprise.

“Well, that is a cause for celebration!” Caroline says warmly. “I just so happen to have this little cake that I think has your Momma’s name on it!”

Caroline leans over the counter to Kuchel and says, “I couldn’t get any milk, but I did get some eggs. Sugar’s kind of scarce right now too, so it’s not very sweet, hun.”

Kuchel waves her off and smiles.

“It’s no problem.”

“Ma!” Levi shouts. Kuchel sees him holding up one tiny hand, palm up. “Can I borrow some money real quick?”

Kuchel laughs and pulls a few bills out and hands them to Levi. He spins around and hands the bills to Caroline. The baker adds a few rolls of bread to the bag with the cake, takes the money and gives most of it back to Levi.

“That’s your change, darlin,” Caroline says. When Kuchel looks up at her with questioning look, she winks and says, “Happy birthday, Kuchel.”

Kuchel can’t help the small tears that come to the edges of her eyes as Levi spins around, money in hands and says, “That’s your change, Ma!” She whispers a quiet thank you to Caroline as Levi takes the bag and starts back to their room.

“What’s in the bag, honey?” Kuchel asks, playing along with Levi’s game from the stall.

“It’s a secret surprise!” Levi declares, hugging the bag close.

“Okay, then,” she says with a laugh.

She watches as Levi navigates them most of the way back to their room by himself, needing a gentle push in the right direction only once. Once back indoors, he scuttles down the hallway, calling behind him excitedly.

“Ma! Ma come quick I have a secret surprise for you!”

“I’m coming, angel!” she calls back. She tries to ignore sounds of moans, cries, and creaking beds from the other rooms as she passes by them on the way to her own.

Once back in their room and their shoes off, Levi urges Kuchel to sit on the floor with him, where he has already pulled out the small crate they use as a table, the bag sitting next to it. She does, a smile pasted onto her lips.

“Happy birthday, Ma! Happy happy birthday Ma!” Levi sings. He digs into the bag and places the small cake – the appearance of which resembles a large cracker more than a cake, onto the small cloth that serves as a plate. “Ta-da! Surprise I got you a sweet!”

Kuchel reaches over and pulls Levi into her lap, showering his face in kisses.

“Oh, thank you, my darling. What a wonderful birthday surprise you’ve given me.” She holds him close, tears in her eyes. “I have the very best son in the world.”

Levi squirms in her arms, reaches down and picks a piece off the cake and holds it against her lips.

“You gotta make a wish when you eat it okay?” Levi says, suddenly very serious. “And you gotta wish really hard or it won’t come true.”

Kuchel makes a show of closing her eyes and scrunching her face up, thinking of a wish before she opens her mouth wide and grabs Levi’s whole hand in a big, playful bite. The act makes him squeal in surprise and they fall into a fit of giggles as they finish off the cake together.

“What did you wish for, Ma?” Levi asks as he licks crumbs from his fingers.

“Now, that’s a secret just for me,” Kuchel whispers into another hug.

I wish for my boy to live long and in the light.

#kuchel ackerman #levi ackerman #ferricfox writes

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thetempleofthemasaigoddess · 4 months

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Hunted by a sunless city that never sleeps (part 1)

Dracule Mihawk x reader

Werewolf!AU for the short series that began with Built a haven for your love (until I let you fall apart). Can be read as a standalone.

This is part one of five. This fic is dedicated to @alphaash99.

Title taken by another song by Beast in Black -Moonlight Rendezvous- since it's not part of the main continuity. Kuraigana Island is Mihawk's home in the manga/anime.

Shanks being in a relationship with his crew's doctor is an allusion to this headcanon list and then to this fic, even though they take place in a different continuity.

*****

One day Mihawk, soon after waking up, searches for you in his bed and doesn't find you.

The discovery shouldn't be too surprising, since you are not living with him, and you never did; thus, your absence is the norm, nor the exception, and surely nothing to wonder or get alarmed about.

On the other hand, it is true than ever since he moved to Kuraigana Island you have been the sole regular visitor, and the only one who he actually invited; indeed, excluding occasional sailors or pirates who inadvertently stumble upon his home and are strongly encouraged to leave as soon as they can, you are the only person he has been in the company of while he remains in the solitary islet he had made his home. If there is someone he could expect to see in his castle, it is undoubtedly you.

Still, what he feels as he turns, barely half-awake and vaguely groggy after a night of deep sleep, and sees the other half of the bed empty, is not simply confusion, followed by the realization you haven't visited in weeks; it is disappointment, and the reason for that is much more private and difficult to describe...

Mihawk had first met you in his (and your) youth, and ever since your paths have kept crossing regularly, a series of coincidences only partially attributable to the fact that you were both allied with the World Government, he as one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea and you as a mercenary, and had therefore to regularly visit the Marines HQ. It was as if destiny kept pushing the two of you together, he more than once reflected as he sat in front of you to enjoy a glass of red wine and an intelligent conversation, for some inscrutable reason, but in the privacy of his heart he was actually glad of it, since you were one of the very few people whose company he genuinely enjoyed. In time, your relationship had developed, and you had become part of him, someone who was almost constantly in his thoughts and who made him genuinely happy with your mere presence.

At first, as he became aware of his feelings, it had been unsettling, almost terrifying, to realize there was a person who had that sort of influence on him; in time, those emotions were replaced with relief, and gratitude, because he now knows you feel the same for him.

He has always been an early riser, quickly leaving his bed after waking up instead of wasting time lounging (unless, of course, you are there with him) but today Mihawk lingers for a while, a pensive expression on his face as he contemplates the other half of the bed, empty and unslept in, before finally rising and beginning his day.

As usual, he spends the morning training, first with Yoru and then with a smaller blade, one of the last three remaining works of a deceased swordmaker that you had found and gifted him; it is an excellent weapon, deadly and of exquisite workmanship, but that is only one of the reasons why he is so fond of it. He prefers to practice outside, having furnished a clearing behind the castle as a suitable training ground, but the day is rainy, the blue of the sky completely covered by thunderous clouds as a veritable deluge falls on the island, and thus he decides to retreat to the armory, a large hall in the east wing that is still as serviceable as it had been centuries ago, for the lords and the soldiers who once inhabited the castle. As he wields his sword, practicing lunges, parries and figures he could repeat in his sleep but still repeats over and over again, either against the leather and straw dummies or an invisible opponent, he is almost inhumanly focused, no thought or emotion distracting him from his life mission, the title he conquered more than twenty years ago and has since then defended against countless opponents. Mihawk is not the sort of man who, fulfilled his ambition, loses interest in what he does and lets complacency weaken him; conversely, ever since he has become the world's strongest swordsman he has been training twice as hard as before, pushing his body and his mind to their limits and beyond.

One day, perhaps after old age has weakened him, someone stronger than him will come, or he will die, making way for another swordsman to claim the prize he had aspired to since he was old enough to hold a wooden sword; but that day is still far in the future, and the world will know the name of Dracule Mihawk for many years to come.

The sun has barely begun its descend in the sky when Mihawk stops, wipes perspiration from his face and gives himself permission to stop, and eat. Returning to the set of rooms he has claimed as his own when he moved to the island (not the largest apartment of the castle, nor the most grandiose, probably belonging to a less important member of the royal family or a minister; still, it's perfect for him, and Mihawk feels no discomfort whatsoever in inhabiting alone a castle once populated by dozens of people), he glances out one of the large windows along the main corridor. The sky is still grey, but the violent downpur of that morning has decreased to a light drizzle, the murmuring of the drops hitting the ground reaching him through the glass.

His transponder snail is resting on a table close to the door of the banquet hall, where Mihawk regularly has his meals. He reaches it, quickly dialing a number he has long known by heart.

When the call is picked up, the voice that answers is not yours, rather that of a man - which does not surprise, or anger, Mihawk.

"Lady (name)'s line. How can I help you?"

"It is Dracule Mihawk." he explains, and he doesn't need to say more; after all, even when a secretary is entrusted with your transponder snail while you are otherwise occupied, he is the only person, together with your mother, whose calls you always accept, even if it's not an urgent matter and you are busy.

"Just a minute, sir; I will call her immediately." the secretary answers, as expected, and less than two minutes pass before he can hear your voice through the receiver, which in turn is enough to make him smile - at least when he is alone.

"Hi." you murmur, your tone low and intimate. Mihawk leans against the wall, his legs crossed at the ankles, enjoying the moment.

"Hello. Am I disturbing you?"

"Not at all; I had a meeting with the treasurer, but we finished earlier than expected. And you know you never disturb, I'm so glad to hear from you."

There is no mistaking the sincerity and affection in your voice, and Mihawk sighs; suddenly the prospect of waking up alone tomorrow as well is unbearable.

"Are you all right?"

"I am. It is raining today; it made me think about that day."

"Did it?" you ask in a more playful tone; you don't need to ask which day, which pleases Mihawk more than he would feel comfortable with admitting "I had no idea you were such a romantic."

"It was a good day." he softly points out, before moving on to the main reason for his call "Can you come over?"

A brief pause; Mihawk can't see you, but he knows you are smiling as well, savouring the unexpressed reason behind that request, which is also why you unnecessarily ask:"When?"

Now. "As soon as you can."

"I think I can be there the day after tomorrow in the morning; it is my mother's birthday today, but from tomorrow on I can clear my schedule for a few days."

You quickly arrange to meet at the harbour as usual; you usually keep your conversations brief, which is perhaps surprising for two people in a long-distance relationship, preferring to exchange letters, and Mihawk is about to say goodbye when he hears you speak again.

"Just one thing."

"Yes?"

"The full moon is seven days from now." you cautiously mention, and Mihawk, who had hoped he could convince you to stay for a little longer, sighs; he is not going to insist, or to reproach you, both because he doesn't want to be that sort of partner and he knows how important it is for you to take part in the ceremony, but he has to admit it: the whole affair is starting to annoy him.

"All right." he answers in the end with a sigh.

"I'm sorry, I... I could wait for it to be over and come later..."

That would work, the swordsman reasons; you would have more time to clear your schedule, as well as to spend with him. Still, that would mean having to wait more than a week before your next meeting...

"There's no need. I... I want to see you. As soon as possible."

Mihawk hesitates; the ease with which that confession leaves his lips is almost scary, even though he knows you are the only person in the world he could talk like that to, and you will always keep his secrets... as he would keep yours.

"This morning..."

"Yes?"

"This morning I woke up and you weren't there."

For a few moments silence falls on the two of you; when he finally hears your voice, it sounds strangely strained, as if your emotions prevented you from talking.

"I'll be there tomorrow night."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. I'll leave as soon as my mother goes to bed tonight, she won't mind and we'll save an evening at least."

Mihawk is now openly smiling. "All right. I'll be waiting for you."

"You do it, Hawk Eyes."

You say goodbye, and close the call. Mihawk is happy no one can see him in that moment; he looks out of the window in front of him, and sees a timid sun emerging among the clouds.

*****

In the years, a quiet, apparently distant but firm friendship had blossomed between you, a somewhat surprising rapport for a solitary man like him that Mihawk nonetheless hoped would resist the test of time. He respected you, trusted you and genuinely enjoyed your company, as he did with very few people in the world; he did think you were an attractive woman, but there was also much more in you that he appreciated.

He never thought your relationship could change; he knew you occasionally took lovers, mainly during your travels since the island where you lived was so small it would have been impossible to avoid your old flames, while he had been alone for a few years and was perfectly content with that state of affairs...

... until one day he saw you admiring the raging sea under a stormy sky, the crescent moon hidden by iron-grey clouds, from a pier not far from the inn you were staying at. A large umbrella was open above your head, but that had not been enough to protect you from the deluge, coupled with the strong wind blowing from the sea: your boots, your dress, above which you wore the holster of your favourite gun hanging from your waist, and even your face, were drenched, as you remained still as a statue, your gaze embracing the huge combers raising from the sea's surface.

It was such a peculiar scene, Mihawk approached you under his own umbrella, wanting to know why in the world you were not hurrying towards the inn or even just a shop to take shelter from the rain. "(name), is everything all right? You'll catch pnneumonia if you remain here..."

He realized a moment later than he should have that he was talking to you as if he were your father, and you a child too young to know better, but when you looked at him, it was with your usual friendly smile, not a frown.

"I know; I just... love the rain; it makes me feel alive." you explained "Sometimes I just like to look at it. It reminds me of when I was young, and I would go out and play when it poured. My poor mother who had to go outside and drag me in..."

You had to be cold, but you were smiling, your eyes lost behind some distant memory. The spectacle of the stormy sea was striking, Mihawk privately admitted; it could remind any pirate, no matter how experienced they were or how large their ship, that its power was still overwhelming, and the danger of drowning and shipwreck unwise to forget.

"My father used to say rain is good, because it nourishes the earth and washes blood away; when I let it wash over me, sometims I feel as if it could clean me from pain and bad memories."

"I wish that were so easy." Mihawk mused; his coat, not to mention the part of his chest left bare by it, was starting to get wet as well, but he suddenly felt much less desirous to find shelter than a minute before.

"Yes, me too."

You smiled at him, perfectly aware and unconcerned about the bizarre show you were offering, and something in the quiet beauty of your form, soaking wet but so at ease surrounded by the fury of the storm, fascinated him. Obeying a sudden, irresistible impulse, Mihawk kissed you, a kiss you happily returned, your still warm body pressed against his, one of your hands caressing his hair as his held you by the waist; he felt you shiver, but the rain could take no credit for it. It was the most unexpected, sweetest kiss of his life, one he wished would last for hours and that at the same time was not enough to quench the desire suddenly burning in his belly; and when your eyes met, there was no need for words to make him realize you wanted the same.

You returned to the inn together, him holding the umbrella above both of your heads, and left your rain-drenched clothes on the floor (but, you had carefully placed the holster of your gun on a chest of drawers, and he had propped Yoru against the nearby wall) as you made love on the bed. Your friendship had ended that night; and something even more precious had taken its place, something that on the next morning, as he contemplated the now clear sky out of the room's window and you still slept, curled up against his side, he realized he wanted to be more than an one-off occurrence.

Thanks all the Gods, you had been of one mind on that as well.

You have been lovers for three years now, a relationship you are both fully committed to, and to each other. You have never spoken much about it, not feeling the need to give a name to what you share, aware that wherever you are, while he takes care of his duties as a Warlord and you travel the world in search of your next quarry, you both carry each other in your heart. One day, he supposes, the two of you will have to think about the future: after all, you will have an island to govern once your mother passes, which means you will also have much less time to devout to impromptu vacations with your lover; also, he hopes sooner or later you will tell him about the plenilune ceremony, and your flask, and the reason why you have never invited him to your island.

It will all go well; he trusts you, and what you share, enough to be sure. And until then he will respect your secrets, and simply wish you didn't have to part so soon.

#One Piece #One Piece Live Action #OPLA #Dracule Mihawk #Mihawk #Dracule Mihawk x reader #Mihawk x reader #Steven John Ward #Bellona's stuff

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myfandomprompts · 8 months

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𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐑𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐭 | 𝐓𝐨𝐦 𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐭 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝟕)

Summary: Close to the line, you have to find a way on the other side. The time where you and Tom will have to part approaches.

Previous Part - Masterlist

Warnings: none.

French spoken -> italics

Tom clutched his jacket around his shoulders, forced to notice that summer nights in France were as unforgiving as they were in England; the humidity falling on their skins sending chills through his spine.

The jacket still smelled like whatever bleach they used at the hospital back in Paris, and the packets inside his pockets only had a few cigarettes left. He had been keeping count, its number diminishing as they approached the crossing line, and the only one he didn’t regret losing was the one he had given you.

“You look like a ghost,” he remarked, eyes on your pale face emphasised by the white light of the moon that shone on the dirt track they were currently walking on. Your eyes were aimlessly looking at the ground and the shawl around your shoulder gave you a mystical aura that had him fascinated.

But regardless how spellbound he was, Tom was genuinely still worried about you.

“Hum… Thank you?” you answered, tilting your head in his direction, making him smile internally.

Oh, don’t worry, love, you still look bloody beautiful.

“Have you had some water?” Henriette asked at your side as she extended her gourd to you.

You contemplated the object before taking it. “Damn, I would kill for some hot tea right now,” you muttered before taking several sips of the freezing liquid before wiping your lips with the back of your hand. They were a lovely shade of pink and Tom noticed that it contrasted with the paleness of your face beautifully.

“I heard German tea’s not that bad,” he said after a moment, putting his hands in his pockets with a teasing smile.

Both women looked at him and scowled, making him grin wider. “I’m joking…They got good beer, though.”

Henriette shook her head in exasperation while you met his eyes, a small smile on your lips as you watched him with a glint of forbidden amusement. Yep, breathtaking.

Albert and Giulia walked in front of them, deep in conversation that had been going on since they left the factory and when the first lights of the morning pierced the sky, Tom barely noticed Albert slow down to walk at his pace while you walked further ahead. “So, you… in Dunkerque?”

Tom lifted his head in surprise, wondering how the conversation would go with both of them not exactly speaking each other’s language. The only French Tom had picked up from his time in this country were the words for water, car, bread and German.

Nothing that would help him with your brother at the moment. “Yeah. Evacuated and all, a mess.”

Albert seemed to understand. “Tiré… You shot?” he continued, flattening his fist over his own shoulder before pointing at Tom’s.

“Yeah, shot by a bloody chaser. Stuka,” he clarified when he saw Albert frown in incomprehension.

The latter only nodded at the known word before lowering his hand over his thigh. “Me too, shot. But less… courageux. I ran from German when come here, they shot us. Bullet hit a little,” he added as he tapped the fabric of his trousers pensively. “One friend… didn’t survive.”

They fell in a respectful silence, Albert’s expression turning melancholic while they reminisced about what they had lost. Tom saw images of a hand extended to him amidst flashing red lights, followed by a face, half burned, lying on the deck, dead. The face that belonged to the hand he didn’t take. A strong feeling of guilt burned his tongue, the memory of Vic rendering his throat sour.

Once they’re gone, they’re gone, you should make it right when you can.

“You have sister, brother?”

“A sister, Lois,” Tom answered a little more brightly as the dreadful images disappeared, replaced by his sister’s big blue eyes warming his chest. “Hell of a singer.”

Albert paused for a moment to understand the last word before nodding again. “So you understand. What it is, to be… protective of sister.”

Tom’s head snapped up, meeting Albert’s stern gaze. “Uh… Yeah, I don’t know. She never really needed anything of me… Older sister and all, I guess.”

Your brother feigned to understand before keeping on, pointing at you walking in front of them. “Y/N, little sister to me. Protect her,” he assured as he witnessed Tom’s growing confusion. “Once, a boy, he, uh… broke Y/N heart,” he trailed, looking for the English words with difficulty. “You know what I did?”

Tom shook his head slowly, replacing confusion for complete nervousness as he waited for your brother to answer his own question, body tense in expectation.

Only Albert did not utter a word, instead drawing his lips into a thin line and coming to apply a slight pressure on Tom’s valid shoulder, resting there for an uncomfortable amount of time. He watched him intensely, conveying what he wanted to say through the light taps on his shoulder and Tom felt his body freeze, feeling the weight of his meaning.

Then he felt the pressure disappear and Albert walked away, returning to his place next to Guilia, leaving a stunned Tom behind.

“What is it again…”

Several hours later, you had reached a crossing, people trampling around in the shade of the trees under the morning sun, disarray radiating from them. Cars were passing by, going in the opposite direction with their engines roaring and you had to dodge two of them in order to let them pass. You all stopped, unwilling to merge with the disorganised crowd.

“Excuse me,” Giulia called out to a slowing black car, approaching the driver. “What is happening?”

“If you’re asking about why people are stopping, it’s because there’s a German post ahead. They have the bridge under their control, alright. I guess all those folks don’t know what to do about it, can’t cross with the river.”

Henriette swore under her breath, rising to look above the heads before her, as if hoping to see the Germans in the distance.

“Where are you coming from?” Giulia continued, looking at the luggage on the back seat of the car.

“Châteauroux, going back home… Turns out, I had a flat tyre and they helped me change it when I went through them,” the driver said, tapping his car door.

“... the German helped you change your tyre?” Albert asked, sceptical.

“They did, indeed,” he answered before driving away, leaving your group behind disconcerted.

“What do we do?” you asked after explaining the situation to Tom.

“I…”

“How are we going to cross the line? I’m not passing through them,” spat Henriette.

“You and Y/N could pass on your own, you’re just going home, right? You have nothing to hide,” remarked Albert. “Even Tom here would pass for a lost lad, just look at him.”

“I’m not leaving you,” you interject, taking your brother’s arm and glancing at Tom with concern.

“It doesn’t work like that… The Germans must be on edge, they’ll be suspicious of anything, without mentioning that he is supposed to be dead,” trailed Giulia deep in thought, looking around like the grapevine fields held the answer she was looking for.

“So what do we do?”

Giulia let Henriette’s question linger in the air for a while before pursing her lips, looking west. “We find a passage point of our own. They can’t be everywhere yet."

And here you were walking again, fatigue starting to seriously eat at your core and the sole of your shoes was starting to wear out, making you regret not bringing a second pair. You passed a nearby village bordering the Cher river that prevented you from going further, a herd of cows half immersed in the water in order to escape the heat. Aside from dogs barking in the distance, all was quiet as you walked up the street, not a soul present outside as if the stony houses and green gardens were deserted. This is why you felt uneasy when you were made self-conscious of the only pair of eyes staring at your group like a hawk, standing in her yard behind a wooden fence with a distrustful icy glare that silently followed your progress. The said woman looked old, cutting out wild branches out of a bush with sharp shears in her hands and stopping when you finally noticed her.

“I’m going to ask her.”

“This is a bad idea, Henriette…” you whispered to your friend, not liking the dark expression the woman bore one bit.

But she didn’t have to ask anything, the harsh voice of the woman suddenly filling the air. “What you lot doing here? You’re not from here.”

You thought it bizarre for someone so close to the line to be surprised by a group of strangers weeks after the first waves of exodus, but you didn’t think too much about it, rather waiting for someone else to speak. Albert was the one who approached her. “No we’re not, we live further south, madame. We just want… We’re looking to cross the river.”

Giulia had her hand over your brother’s arm in a previous attempt to stop him from speaking but now she looked interested in whatever answer the woman would give. The latter froze momentarily before taking a deep annoyed breath, suspicion still adorning her features. When she spoke again, her tone had softened, however. “Hmpf. You’ll want the last house on the right at the end of the road.”

You all looked at each other in puzzlement while Tom eyed the woman curiously. “Merci beaucoup,” bowed your brother in thanks and took Giulia by the arm to lead her in the right direction while you did the same with Tom, thanking the woman silently in turn.

“And not a word!” she called after you roughly with a loud whisper. You looked back at her frightened before resuming your walk.

“She sounds like a lovely lady. Wouldn’t like venturing close to those shears of hers, though,” Tom said as he glanced at her over his shoulder with a mild smirk, your hands curled around his elbow as you led him away. “Care about my limbs too much for that."

“Of course you do,” you said playfully and you sensed his gaze on you again.

“What? You don’t think it would be a loss if I… missed some parts?”

You rolled your eyes as you tried not to blush, but your cheeks turned hot despite your better efforts, the smile on your lips reaching your eyes and Tom let out a soft laugh that made Albert turn with a raised brow. You lowered your gaze to the ground, struggling to keep the sinful thoughts at bay.

The house at the end of the road was more of a farm, two barns at each side of the entrance and as many dogs to welcome you loudly as you passed the gates. At the sound of the agitation, a man who you presumed to be the owner came out of the main building at the opposite side of the yard to call after them, whistling them to heel.

“Who are you? What do you want?” he barked when he reached your group taking great steps, his dogs circling him excitedly. He was mid-aged, strong looking with a bushy beard that hid his neck and you were reminded of the shepherds in your childhood stories.

“We… were directed to this house. We need to cross the river. Sir,” spoke Giulia when she saw the man’s eyes turn into slits. He scrutinised each and every one of you, lingering to observe Albert from head to toe before losing his wary expression as fast as it had come. “Come on, quick.”

You all crossed the courtyard and followed him inside the main building obediently, the dogs behind you now happily sniffing your legs with breathy huffs. Once in a large room with a low ceiling that made Tom duck a little as he entered, the man turned to you all, standing awkwardly and taking in your surroundings with bashful stares.

“Quite the group you have there,” he announced, taking several glasses out of a cupboard and laying them down on the table. “Fruit brandy? Blackberry, homemade.”

You eyed the brown bottle he was agitating in his hand with narrowed eyes before Henriette answered for you, nodding in agreement and the man proceeded to pour a little amount in each glass before beckoning you all to sit around the large table. Only Tom and Giulia stayed up, unwilling to sit on the empty chairs next to the man.

You winced when the thick liquid hit the inside of your throat, burning; but it felt good after the night you had, your head still throbbing a little from your fall. Henriette wore the same mixed expression as you while Tom observed his glass unconvinced before drinking, shaking his head in reaction when he put the glass back down on the table with a thud.

The man then took out cigarettes from his jacket and extended it towards you with raised eyebrows. You refused with a grateful smile while Albert and Tom gladly took one.

“So here’s what’s going to happen," he started as he took a ciggy of his own. "We can’t make you cross in daylight because they’re surveilling the river, so you’re stuck here until nightfall. If a problem comes along, anything at all, you hide in there,” he pointed to an open door on the side, large enough to contain three brooms and a bucket. “You stay quiet, and all will be well. They already searched the house two days ago, so they shouldn’t be back until a while.”

“Merci, Monsieur,” voiced Henriette as she took another sip of her glass while you explained the plan to Tom. “May we know your name?”

“No,” he answered as he flicked a match. “The less you know about me, the better. Remember, do not- ever, talk about the people that help you, it’s too dangerous.”

Giulia nodded in agreement, a rule she already knew while Tom looked at the wooden door with an incredulous look. “We can’t all go in there.”

The man looked up at him with surprise, taking a minute to comprehend that Tom spoke another language altogether. “What did he say?”

“He said that we all won’t fit,” you translated, agreeing with him on that point.

The man stared at Tom for a moment before getting up slowly, walking around the table and coming to stand inches from Tom’s face who didn’t flinch one bit. “Maybe it’s because there is a basement behind that panel, wiseass.”

Tom titled his head back slightly, an unimpressed smile dancing on his lips as he looked back at you. “What was that?”

“Nothing, he just says there is a basement we can hide in beneath it,” you explained standing up instantly in order to softly drag Tom away by the arm, giving a reassuring nod to your host as the others shifted uncomfortably. It seems to suffice because the man regained his chair while Tom took a drag out of his cigarette, looking aloof and wearing a self-sufficient expression.

“Is there a place where we could rest, sir? We… didn’t have much sleep last night.”

He crushed his bud before leading you to your ‘accommodation’ with a waving hand, you and Henriette taking an old looking sofa in an adjacent room while the others are left to sleep comfortably in the barn with blankets. “I warn you, it gets hot in the afternoon,” he announced before leaving them there.

As you close your eyes, trying to find sleep, anxiety claws at your chest at the idea that tonight, you would cross the river with a real risk looming over your group for the first time since you left.

You wake up in the evening, feeling drowsy but a little bit better and only your stressful state from what you will do tonight remains. Outside, the light has started to dim and you can hear frogs croaking in unison in the distance as you move through the house, all of you converging to the dining room where you are offered ham and bread along with some fruit. You eat in apprehensive silence, only broken by curt questions asked by your host like ‘Where are you from’ or ‘What happened in that factory’.

You don’t really participate, lulled by the outside sounds and the soft ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece, nightfall arriving at a slow pace. In front of you, Tom doesn’t speak either, his fingers drumming on the wooden table at times, wearing a plain expression as you glance at him through your eyelashes. He looks relaxed, but you know better, know him better; he is as anxious as you are, and you can’t even reach for him to make him feel less alone.

You linger in the kitchen to wash the plates with the help of Henriette while your brother and Giulia disappear somewhere in the house to talk over the plan, the bearded man soon announcing that he has some preparation to make and exits in turn. You haven’t noticed Tom slip out of the room at all in your focused state, so when you are done with the dishes, you wipe your hands on your towel and step outside in order to look for him, not liking him alone.

The dogs are playing in the yard joyfully, unbeknownst to your nerves on edge and you stop to briefly pet them; the licks they give you lifting your spirit a little before going straight for the smaller barn, the door slightly ajar.

He is there, sitting on a haystack with his legs stretched out, a cigarette hanging from his lips as his gaze is fixed on some chickens trotting around, looking for leftovers on the ground. You approach, coming to sit beside him and he acknowledges your presence with what you think is a fleeting satisfied expression before resuming his quiet observation.

“Find anything interesting about farm life, sailor?” you try, examining his profile, the bruises taking a yellow shade there as he puffs out a cloud of smoke.

“I’m wondering how good a fried chicken would taste right now,” he answers solemnly with a nod towards the winged creatures shuffling around. “I bet the old man wouldn’t even notice a missing bird.”

You watch in turn, agreeing with him, but you’re only reminded of how cunning Tom can be, smiling yo yourself. “Old habits die hard, I see.”

He turns his head to you, a glint of amusement playing in his eyes. “You really think I settled to steal birds back home? Didn’t know you had such a low opinion of me.”

“Can’t tell, I never knew what you were up to, really,” you shrug as you grab the smoke between his fingers to bring it to your lips. "And I know for a fact that you love birds."

He watches the movement, endeared by it and how your rosy lips enclose his own cigarette, right there by his side. “Where are the others?”

You take another drag before handing it back to him, pursing your lips. “Henriette is helping out in the kitchen and-”

“Let me guess,” he interrupts, a smirk stretching at the corner of his mouth as his face brightens. “Your brother and my lovely guide are alone together somewhere, discussing like they’re thick as thieves.”

You part your lips in mild surprise, unsettled by his confidence. “How do you know?”

“C’mon,” he hints, making you frown. “I may not speak French, but I have eyes.”

You get lost in your thoughts for a few seconds, reminiscing about the last few days and Tom's words slowly start to make sense in your mind. All of the time he spent with her, his ease when she is near.

“Well… Good for him,” you conclude as a chicken starts rummaging close to your foot.

Tom leans back against the wall again with a musing sound, eyes not leaving you and enjoying how unsettled he had made you. But then a question comes into his mind and he flicks some ashes away, swallowing nervously. “Say… Your brother he… Never got into a fight, did he?”

You glance back at him, a smile gradually tugs at the corner of your lips as you lean backwards, mimicking him. “Whatever he told you, I guarantee he exaggerated,” you laugh softly. “Albert is a kind soul, never got carried away.”

“So he never… beat up someone? Not once? Can happen to everybody.”

You look at the ceiling as you shake your memory, humming in the process. “He may have had some scraps when we were younger, but apart from that… Why do you ask?”

He hesitates, playing with the tip of his fag. “Just… something about you being heartbroken?”

You turn your head to look up at him, brushing his shoulder in the process, his scent like pine trees reaching your senses. His eyes are trained on you, serious now, and you feel something thrum in your chest before you answer. “Ah… That. Albert wanted to do something about it but he only ended up giving him a good scolding. I was young, I thought it was the end of the world but looking back, it was absolutely meaningless,” you comment, turning one of the rings on your finger distractedly. "I don’t think I’ve ever been heartbroken, you know?”

You hear his soft exhale next to your ear as smoke escapes his lips, glimpsing the slight nod of his head from the corner of your eye. Over the silence you search his face, his eyes are transfixed ahead of him and the desire to be able to read his thoughts passes over you. “...Have you?”

His eyes snap at you at that, their soft blue glow making you pause as he answers contemplatively. “No, I don’t think so… Not yet, at least.”

You turn your tongue in your mouth, stopping words from leaving it as you stare back at the chickens, his gaze hot on the side of your face. You’re tempted to look back, to acknowledge what you chose to ignore obstinately, instead conjuring a memory from your childhood home and recounting it to Tom. All of that to brush away the inevitable future, because you knew it would hurt, you just had to make it less painful, some way or another.

He listens to you, speaking about him in turn without complaint and you talk for what seems like hours, reminiscing stories of your childhood you never got to tell each other while in Manchester.

When you come to the subject of Tom’s first serious infraction the chickens are long gone, having run back in their respective coop for the night. Eventually, the conversation fades down, less enthusiastic as dark falls completely outside, a single lamp hanging over an oaken beam your sole source of light. You feel so comfortable next to him, your knees brushing his in the need to compensate for the cool air settling down over your skin with the warmth radiating from his body. But at the sight of the night finally taking over, anguish comes back to nag at you and you still shiver.

“How far is it?” Tom asks softly after a while, no smile discernable in his voice. “Where you’re going?”

“About… 150 km,” you answer with a strained voice, conjuring a mental map. “Maybe two days of walk, give or take…”

“So not very far, then…” he murmurs pensively, and you can’t help but look at him with saddening eyes. He looks so… exhausted.

“We still have time,” you assure, turning fully to him as you feel his anguish reach you, the one you refused to acknowledge earlier. “We have to cross the river, and then-”

“Doesn’t change the fact that in a matter of days we might never see each other again.”

He meets your eyes for a fleeting moment, his blue eyes piercing yours, sombre before they’re gone again, as if looking at you pained him greatly. You feel your breath hitch in your throat, your heart constricting in your chest. You don't want him looking at you like this.

You see the subtle clenching of his jaw and your fingers reach for it, softly bringing his face to look back at you, your chin almost touching his shoulder with the proximity. “Don’t say that. There will be an after, we just have to wait for the better days to come. For the war to be over."

His eyes shut briefly at your touch, and you can feel the way he imperceptibly leans into it. “We might never get there. The Nazis won't stop, England won't surrender in a million years, and somewhere along the way I'll be fighting for the other side, left to hope that you're alright."

Your eyelids feel heavy, fluttering slowly, wondering if the weight of his words have something to do with it. "Nothing will happen to me as nothing will happen to you. You just have to make it to Spain, then start from there."

"You won't even know if I made it, if I ever do, anyway."

“Giulia will get you there, I trust she will. Then we'll both be home, we'll know we're safe. We'll be with our families, with our loved one."

A weak smile cracks over his lips, one of his hands coming to reach over yours resting at the side of his face, your fingers trailing the edge of his jaw, unkempt by days of travel. You get lost in the gesture there, at the feel of it while he rubs his thumb on the inside of your wrist, soft circles of soothing affection.

“Don’t you feel that it won’t be enough?”

His question grazes your skin, uttered so closely and making your eyes shift to his, their blue piercing through your soul like hot coals and you shiver. But inside, you feel warm, a bright glow filling your chest and you are sure its light can reach him, like you’re sharing the same hammering hearts, the same thoughts, meaningful words hanging in the air between you but unable to unhook. It’s almost painful, the ache that wants you closer to him, and when you lower your eyes to his lips there is suddenly no distance anymore, the caress over your inner wrist stopping to grip it softly.

The kiss is full of longing, lips entrapped against each other with carefulness, tender skin against tender skin and it’s overwhelming, right. You’re not sure about what you’re doing but you need it, Tom responding with the gentlest touch he has ever given you and a veil falls over your mind, the necessity to forget about the cold truth of the days to come filling every cell of your body, replaced by this instant. You wonder if he feels the same as you get lost in his, the pain you wanted to avoid out of reach. His tongue dances with yours at a slow pace, wishing time would go as leisurely, his pressure on your wrist binding you both in soft adoration.

“Y/N? Y/N, are you there? Oh-”

You shift instantly at the voice of your brother, his head appearing within the frame of the door just in time for Tom to back away from you in a fluid movement, distancing himself like you’d burned him. Albert wears a gobsmacked expression, glancing between you and Tom while the latter only stares at the ground with his head down. You, for your part, look at him unabashedly, waiting for him to speak, a frustrating feeling of loss coursing through your body.

“It’s time, we need to go,” Albert announces after an uncomfortable silence, and then he is gone, leaving you to look back at Tom still looking downwards, teeth digging into his bottom lip, looking like a teenager caught in the act.

When he meets your gaze, you cannot help the wide smile that spreads across your face. “Don't.”

“I didn’t say anything!” you laugh at Tom’s flustered expression, the shade of his cheeks adorable as you wonder if yours wears the same colour, feeling blissfully happy.

But when you both get up and go for the main house, stress gradually regains your nerves for what is to come.

Part 8

A/N: Thank you @babyblue711 & @enchantingcupcakecollectionfan as always, I won't be able to do much without you.

@chainsawsangel@mischiefmanaged71@depressedperson88@enchantingcupcakecollectionfan@yentroucnagol@tssf-imagines @nightdiamond8663 @lauraneedstochill @unleashthelion @helaenaluvr @omgkatherine01 @launotfound @r0segard3n

#tom bennett #tom bennet x reader #wof #world on fire #tom bennet imagine #smut #tom bennett fanfiction #ewan mitchell #angst #fluff #world on fire 1x01 #gone with regret #usermyfandomprompts

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baiabay · 8 months

Text

No Role Modelz (ATSV Black Cat Variant! Reader Insert)

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3: Current Chapter

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

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^^links 2 chapters!! this story is also on ao3, wattpad, and quotev under the same name :)

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Chapter 3: Out Of Touch (with reality hoes)

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“Miles!”

Hovering over Miles, surrounded by a sea of colour and light, was Gwen Stacy. That Gwen Stacy. How many months has it been since he’d last seen her? That didn’t matter; she was here now, in his room…opening his collective figures. Miles wanted nothing more but to leave. To jump out his window and swing freely with Gwen. Like old times. There was only one problem though…

“I’m… grounded.”

Miles winced. A pregnant pause, until he couldn’t stop the wince on his face from transforming into a grin after he’d heard the teens' response.

“Bummer - is Spiderman grounded?”

———————————————-

“So you’re telling me there’s an elite society with all the best spider-people in it?”

Miles swung behind Gwen, an expression of bewilderment behind his mask as his companion rambled about the society.

“-And Hobie,”

“Who’s Hobie?”

“- he lets me crash in his dimension sometimes,”

“L-like you stay the night?”

At the mention of the name a pang of jealousy flashed through Miles. He never knew she was-all of them were-seeing eachother all this time. While he spent it…alone.

“-Oh and there’s this Lady- Jessica Drew, she rides motorcycles, oh my gosh, I’m leaning so much from her-“

“Oh yeah? I-I’ve learned a lot of new stuff too, I leveled up my whole thing, see?”

Half showing off(and half to rid himself of the growing feeling of envy in his chest), Miles mimicked the graceful flipping style of Gwen Stacy, weaving through narrow gaps in traffic and hanging himself by the ankle. Now behind him, he heard a slight giggle.

“Look at you!”

There it was. That feeling he was so jealous of earlier. From Gwen, from the Spider-society, from The Black Cat. It pooled in his stomach and filled his chest, bursting out his seams in the form of an uncontrollable toothy grin and a giggle back. He felt it. Freedom.

“Look at me!”

—————————————

You were sat atop the roof of your apartment complex, chin resting on your knees. Purring was heard faintly as one of your cats rubbed its side against you, pulling you out of your deep state of pensiveness you had dug yourself into moments prior. You smiled softly as you scratched at the cat. Your smile faded however, as you replayed for the umpteenth time that evening, your conversation with Spider-man.

“Sometimes I just wish things were different, yknow?”

“Different how?”

“Different like, for me.”

“There’s a first time for everything, right?”

You scoffed before sighing deeply. He just didn’t get it, did he? Guess you can’t blame him too much though, if he knew why you did what you did it would practically be the same as ripping off your mask and turning yourself in. Huffing once more, you pushed yourself to stand on the roof. The sun was setting now, the sky blue with tints of pink, orange, and yellow. It was at this moment you realized how long it had been since you took the time to really look at the sunset. It was calm, it was serene, it was-

buzz

A text. Your landlord. Again. Rent was coming up, and you were short last week-pushing all missed fees to this week. Great.

It was at this moment you realized exactly why it had been so long since you took the time to really look at the sunset. Turning away from the painted sky, you collected your feline companions and trudged your way down to your room.

Rummaging through your closet you made it to a makeshift safe designed for the keeping of any valuable items you had seized. Cracking it open with eyes closed and fingers crossed-

It was empty. Great.

You let out a lengthy groan, shifting your weight back to lay on your floor. You hadn’t gone out heist-ing since the incident with Spot. Rolling over on your side, you were met with two bright, wide, yellow eyes, and a large tuft of black fur in your face. As if on cue, the large tuft of fur nuzzled your face before dropping a black leather mask before you. Your black leather mask.

A silent beat passed as you stared at the mask on the ground. Sighing once more, you picked up the mask, your words to Spider-man ringing behind your ears.

“The Cat and The Spider. We can’t truly change who or where we are. No matter…how much we want to.”

Now fully suited, you headed your way towards your window, looking back at your fluffy black friend.

“Thanks, kitty”

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun was setting now, the sky blue with tints of pink, orange, and yellow. It was at this moment Gwen realized how long it had been since she took the time to really look at the sunset. Miles smiles, a lighthearted feeling in his chest. Sitting on the underside of this secluded ledge, Miles relished in the serene feeling that enveloped the two of them. In this moment, looking out into the city, the two young heroes felt like they were the only ones in the entire universe. They were alone, together. It was nice.

“ In every other universe, Gwen Stacy falls for Spider-Man.”

At the sound of Gwen’s voice, Miles turned his head. As she finished her sentence, his lips curved into a soft smile, and he found himself subconsciously leaning into her. Looking up at her, he blinked as he noticed how Gwen returned the smile, but held a tensed, tight-lipped expression behind it. Before he could comment, she parted her lips to speak.

“… And in every other universe, it doesn’t… end well.”

Miles flinched as he processed Gwen's words, opting to shift his body away from her. All of a sudden, his mind was swarmed with memories from his earlier interaction with his feline counterpart. Looking once again into Gwen‘s eyes, Miles took note that The Cat held the same pained expression she displayed now. Before he can even begin to think of a response, Miles' mouth began to move.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything, right?”

Miles’ chest was beating wildly now. He had expected Gwen to run away – to block him out like The Black Cat had done moments prior. But the warm pressure he felt pressing against his shoulder spoke differently. Like he did with the thief, Miles sighed deeply. This time, with a content smile across his face.

———————————————————-

It was night time now, and you were on the prowl – grappling around for the perfect opportunity to strike, when you stumbled across the most peculiar thing.

You assumed it was an abandoned building, but you’ve seen a handful of those, this one was different. It had been almost turned inside out, pieces of itself sticking out of… itself? And –

“Is that…glitching?”

Whatever what was going on, one thing for sure, this whole situation felt eerily familiar to you. Every fiber of your being screamed that this was all Spots doing.

Shit.

No way was he about to steal another gig from you.

On tipped-toes, you made your way into the wrecked building, when suddenly you were tugged by an invisible force. Literally.

“GH-“

Before you could continue screaming, the invisible force held you close and slapped its hand across your mouth.

“What are you doing?” The voice whisper-shouted.

Spider-Man. Invisibility, huh? Cool.

Squirming free from his grip, he tried your best to glare in the direction of the voice.

“Um, what are you doing?” You whisper-shouted back.

“Cat!”

“I couldn’t help myself! I was curious…”

“Yeah, I hear that’s bad for cats-”

“No nononononononononoNO!”

The two of you flinch to the sound of this new, distressed voice. While Miles remained invisible, you quickly ducked behind a support beam, squinting at the source of the sound.

In front of you holding an extremely panicked expression behind their mask, was another… another Spider-person?

Just when your curiosity couldn’t have been piqued any further, this new Spider-person, from what looked like to be a watch(a super bad-ass watch, you might add), began to play a projection of-you called it, The Spot.

Rambling erratically about some sciencey-shit you’d maybe understand if you paid more attention in physics, you watched as the hologram of the spotted man stumbled over himself, as well as practically every possible item in the room. You inched closer in an attempt to gauge more about this whole situation, albeit, you still didn’t catch that much, only managing to cling onto words like ‘holes’ or ‘collider’.

“Shoot…”

The hologram played out, and the new Spider’s panic grew.

“shootshootshootshoot-“

The Spots’ hologram began to mumble angrily- was that your name you heard in there? And Spiders? A lot of Spiders’ name, actually. You had no idea he’d had a run-in with him too. Soon enough, the panic began to rub off on your Spider-Man, as you heard him start to mirror the words of the stranger.

“Shoot.”

“UGH, no! Gwen Gwengwengwengwe-“

“Gwen! Hi~”

A…pregnant… Spider-woman appeared before the three of you. You truly seen it all now.

“Spider?”

Calling out to him, you tried your best to remember where his invisible form last was. No response. You whipped your head around wildly until you felt a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Do you…know what’s going on?”

Miles kept his eyes trained on Gwen, as she explained to the Spider-woman about her detour with him.

“I have an idea.”

“Do you know who they are? Are they… other Spider-Men?”

“… never see him again, all right?”

The new spider person(whom you collected her name to be Gwen), spoke. Her shoulders dropped, and her head hung low as the holographic form of the pregnant hero disappeared. You watched in silence as she reached a hand before her mask and tugged it off. The hand on your shoulder squeezed before slipping away. Turning in your direction, a maskless Gwen stared past you - into the night. Upon seeing her face, you flinched. Ready to run off had she noticed your presence. But she didn’t. With glazed eyes, she stared right past you. You blinked, and for a moment, your jaw fell. She was young, looked around your age with neck-length blonde hair, half shaved. Her brows furrowed in a way that felt familiar to you, in a way that said, ‘I wish things were different’. She remained staring for a few moments, you and Miles stared back. It was quickly broken by a flash of bright light, spiralling in patterns and colours you’ve never seen before, And pulling her mask on, Gwen stepped in.

You didn’t anticipate your Spider-Man to be standing upside down when he came out of his invisible state, yet there he was. Facing away from you, towards the orange and red amalgamation of light Gwen stepped into moments prior.

“Sp-“

“I’m going in.”

“Wai-no. What do you mean you’re going in-”

“I mean, Cat, I'm going in there.”

His voice was raised now, shoulders tensed. He jumped down from the ceiling, stepping towards the portal. Realizing he was unmasked, you took in the dark curls that framed his face. You felt a strong urge to pull your own face covering off.

You did.

“Then… I’m coming with you.”

“You can’t-”

Spider turned around to face you. Brows furrowed and mouth open to send a negative retort toward your way, until his breath hitched as he became aware of the bareness of both of your faces. You stood, arms crossed, staring into the eyes of the boy. He had gentle features, warm brown eyes. He looked familiar, but you couldn’t put your finger on exactly where you’ve seen him. School, maybe? He must’ve recognized you, seeing as he stared back with a bewildered look on his face. He closed his mouth, form un-tensing. You took the silence to speak once more.

“I said, I’m coming with you.”

You stepped towards the portal, reaching to pull your mask back on.

“I said I wanted things to be different, right? Well, I – I feel like this is a chance to change things up…what is it you said again? That ‘there’s a first time for everything’? Well, what if you were right, Spider, th-”

“Miles.”

You looked at, with a soft smile on the young heroes face

“Miles, my name.”

“… Miles.”

You tested out his name before speaking yours, one he must’ve recognized, as he responded with a flinch.

“You said your last names’ Hardy? Like Walter Hardy? The noto-

“ Notorious Black Cat burglar? Yeah no shit, Sherlock.“

Your mouth stretched into a wide smile as the serious air between the two of you dissipated. The portal crackled, before beginning to shrink in size. Miles spoke,

“So you’re… you sure you want to do this?“

There was a part of you that screamed at you to stay. That worried about everything you were leaving-by leaving. Guilt seeped into the back of your mind and you turned away from Miles to face the dark city skyline.

You reflected on your conversation earlier. Did you really want to be The Cat forever? Become like your father and die doing this job?

Did you really?

“I’m sure.”

You and Miles both now reached to tug your masks back on. The two of you sent one last look back out onto the city before nodding at eachother, and diving in.

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

#miles morales x reader #atsv x you #atsv #reader insert #atsv x reader #atsv reader insert #spider-man: across the spider-verse #across the spiderverse #across the spiderverse x reader #black cat! reader #hobie brown x reader #gwen stacy x reader #pavitr prabhakar x reader #miguel ohara

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starfinss · 10 months

Text

ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ɴɪɢʜᴛꜰᴀʟʟ — ʟᴇᴠɪᴀᴛʜᴀɴ 🍋

𝘍𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘮: Obey Me!

𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: Leviathan + Reader

𝘙𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨: NSFW

𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 7,290

𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: You could only see half of his face, lit warmly in the dim glow. His eyes caught in the light like deep, polished bronze, from an angle that highlighted little flecks of gold in his irises. He looked pensive; deep in thought, his lower lip caught between his teeth.

You wanted to kiss him.

A simple good night kiss leads to much more than you bargained for. Not that you’re complaining.

The day had been long, but you’d had an unexpected amount of fun. The food had been delicious, as food always seems to be when one prepares it themselves. Levi had gotten to actually socialize for once, and you’d gotten him out of his shell a little. You’d adored seeing his face light up the way it had, and you made a mental note to watch the anime he’d been going on about all day when you returned to the Devildom, even though an after school fishing anime wasn’t really something you considered to be up your alley.

It had been the first time he’d had a s’more. The look of utter wonder on his face was something you wished you’d taken a picture of. It endeared you almost to tears.

Sleep tugged at your eyelids, and you yawned. Your body felt well-worked, leaving that pleasant, exercised soreness in your muscles. Your hair was damp from the rinse you’d taken at the campground showers, soothingly cool on your neck. The inflatable mat beneath your body was surprisingly comfortable, and the soft blankets that cocooned your body surrounded you in a bubble of warmth.

You happily reflected on the day, letting imaginary scenarios play in your head until they devolved into nonsense as your consciousness began to slip away.

“I can’t fall asleep.”

Startled from the dregs of your half slumber by Leviathan’s voice, you shifted your body before turning over to face him.

In the dim light, you could see his silhouette, lavender hair backlit by the single bonfire burning a ways away at the neighboring campsite. His skin looked almost ghost white, eyes the color of deep liquid gold. It took you a second of staring and letting your eyesight adjust to the light that you realized he was looking at you, studying your expression. A demon thing, you supposed. Unlike you, he was probably able to see perfectly in the dark.

You met his eyes, unable to read what was in them in the dark. You shifted closer, watching as his shoulders tensed, undoubtedly nervous by your sudden increased proximity. Sighing, you flopped down on your pillow again, letting your eyes fall closed.

“‘M sleepy,” you said, and Leviathan let out a breath.

“That’s not fair. I wish I could get sleepy, too.”

A smile made your mouth curve up. “You will. Just close your eyes, Levi.”

But you heard no movement, and when you pried open your eyes again, he was still the same as he had been, with his head propped up on his hand. You yawned again, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your hands, then letting them fall closed. You weren’t surprised he wasn’t tired, he was well known for staying up until dawn playing games and watching anime. His sleep schedule was probably virtually nonexistent, if demons even had sleep schedules.

Though, with sleeping being one of the only things Belphie did, you imagined they had something similar.

“Is there anything you like to do to make yourself sleepy when you can’t sleep?” You asked, pulling the blankets up higher. The fall of night had brought a chill along with it.

“I usually play a game until I feel tired,” Levi said, “but I didn’t bring anything to do that with.”

You hummed in thought, shuffling closer again, opening your eyes once more to look at him.

You could only see half of his face, lit warmly in the dim glow. His eyes caught in the light like deep, polished bronze, from an angle that highlighted little flecks of gold in his irises. He looked pensive; deep in thought, his lower lip caught between his teeth.

You wanted to kiss him.

The thought made you jump internally, but grew stronger as you watched his mouth. You supposed you shouldn’t be too surprised at yourself, you’d known that Levi would give you trouble from the second you met him. The way he looked at you made your stomach swarm with butterflies, and his genuine passion for his interests endeared you very deeply. It didn’t help that he was prettier than anyone had any right to be.

You really wanted to kiss him. A good night kiss, you could call it. Leave them wanting more, Asmodeus always said. A quick, chaste kiss, a giggle, and that would be it. You’d leave him flustered and stuttering, an adorable blush on his pale cheeks. Your hands folded together under the blankets as you mulled the idea over in your head, and Levi didn’t see you looking.

He moved to lay on his side, his head landing on his pillow. You shuffled closer once more. A good night kiss. You’d seen him looking at your lips before, when he thought you weren’t paying attention. You’d seen him doing it earlier that day, when you were eating s’mores by the fire. He’d told you that you had chocolate on your lip, and when you licked it away, his gaze lingered far longer than anyone with platonic feelings for a person would look. You’d wanted to kiss him then, too.

This was probably a bad idea. You probably misread the situation. But nonetheless, you never know unless you try. It was better to find out instead of shoving your feelings down. Late night chat sessions with Asmo seemed to have some useful bits of advice, it seemed.

Slowly, you moved closer once more, and in a smooth motion, your mouth pressed to his. It lingered for just a few seconds before you were pulling away, your nerves strung so tight you thought they might break.

But as you were beginning to roll over to bury your face in the pillow, his hand shot out, catching your wrist, and freezing you in your tracks.

“I— I didn’t know you were awake,” he said, voice hushed, almost awed, “you startled me. Was that— a good night kiss?”

You nodded. “It was. I’m sorry, I—”

“That’s not fair,” Levi said, “how do you expect me to get tired now?”

Spurred on by his words, you kissed him again. He made a soft noise of surprise before his hands were gingerly cupping your cheeks, and he was kissing you back with a tenderness that made your heart feel like it was doing backflips in your chest. His lips were surprisingly soft, and his skin was feverishly warm against yours, sending heat bone deep as you pressed closer.

Your arms slid up and around his neck, fingers threading into his hair, and you felt his breath hitch against your mouth as you did. It was his turn to move closer, closing the gap between your bodies so you were flush against him.

He pulled back, just a little, and when you tried to close the gap again, he met you with a chaste kiss before speaking.

“That isn’t helping,” he grumbled, “more kisses aren’t going to help me sleep, they’ll just rile me up more.”

You blinked at him, innocently. “Do you want to stop?”

“No!” He said, a little too quickly, “I mean— no, I don’t. That made me really happy. I want to keep kissing you. I’ve wanted to kiss you forever. But why would you want to kiss me? I’m just a worthless—”

You kissed him again, cutting him off. You refused to hear him put himself down, not when you were here. He held you fast, his fingers bunching into the fabric of your sleep shirt so tight you were slightly afraid he would tear it. His mouth tasted like the marshmallows you’d been eating before tucking into bed, and you were sure your own was the same.

“Don’t call yourself that,” you said against his mouth, and his hands moved down to the bend of your waist, pulling you closer.

You pulled back, just a little, just to look at him, to make sure he heard you well.

“I want to kiss you because it’s you, Levi. Don’t call yourself worthless,” you said, “you deserve this.”

He was suddenly kissing you like he was afraid you’d disappear, one of his hands sliding up your body to tangle into your hair, his opposite arm winding around your waist. His kisses were feverish and all-consuming, desperate, like he was drowning and you were the oxygen he so badly needed.

His tongue brushed against the seam of your lips, and you parted them to allow him to slide his tongue against yours. He was unexpectedly good at kissing for someone who spent so much time shut in his room, but you were enjoying it far too much to wonder where he got the practice from. He was a couple thousand years old, after all. You expected that probably brought experience of all sorts.

Your fingers raked through his hair, making his breath shudder and his grip tighten. He was almost melting into your touch, and you felt your head growing foggier and foggier as his nails scraped against your scalp. He was kissing you like this was the last chance he’d ever get, like you were disappearing, and you held him tight to let him know you weren’t going anywhere.

He broke away, his eyes wild, desperate, and you stared back at him, disoriented and bleary, questioning.

“Tell me you don’t want this, I’m waiting for it,” he hissed, his tone as brittle as a dry leaf and full of self-deprecating venom, “push me away, tell me to stop.”

“No,” you said, trying to look as sure as you could, “I won’t say that. I want this. Please don’t stop.”

He was suddenly above you, eyes glowing, smoldering, like bronze embers in the dark, and you could feel the air around you heat up. A thrilling shot of adrenaline ejected itself into your bloodstream as you stared up at the demon above you, and you raised your hands to cup his face. He shuddered, leaning into the touch, like it was salve to a burn.

“Levi,” you said, “what do you want?”

Without hesitation, he answered.

“You.”

You smiled. “I’m already yours.”

Another shudder, his restraint wavering. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re being unfair, messing with me like this. It isn’t fair.”

“Leviathan,” you said, “kiss me. I want you to kiss me. I’m telling you, right now, what I want. I kissed you because I wanted it. I want you.”

He surged forward to crush his mouth to yours, and when your hands rose to his hair once more, you could feel that his horns had manifested themselves in the heat of it all. Desperate, desirous feelings were undoubtedly coursing through the Avatar of Envy at your admission, and the kisses he was giving you were all-consuming, like he was trying to join himself to you, overlapping as one. His hands were on your waist, wavering, and you could feel him hesitating before you grabbed his hands and placed them on your hips, making it clear to him that all of this was so much more than okay.

He snarled against your mouth, an inhumanly low, possessive sound produced from deep in his chest, sending forks of lightning down your spine. He was losing control, and strangely, not one part of you wanted him to stop. Any of that hesitance he always seemed to carry with him had all but drained away, replaced with raw desperation as his fangs nipped your lower lip, breaking from your mouth to graze along the your jaw, the tendons in your throat, the sharp points scraping against the vulnerable skin. A gasp slipped past your lips, prompting him to look up at you.

“Did that hurt? Do you want me to stop?”

Before he could react, you flipped him over so you were on top of him, straddling his waist. His eyes looked like burning cinders in the dark, their pupils blown wide as he gazed up at you. He looked like a predator, yet the demon beneath you was completely at your mercy.

“Leviathan,” you said, voice soft, “for once in your life, I am giving you permission to be greedy. You have nothing to be envious of, because I am yours. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be. Tell me, what do you want? What do you want to do?”

Again, you were beneath him, his mouth on yours, lips fever hot. He kissed you, frenzied, for a few moments, before he pulled back, his mouth dragging along the shell of your ear.

”You want to know what I really want? Hm?” He rumbled, his voice low, husky, “I want to make you mine. I want to make it so nobody else can have you, only me. That’s what I want. You better choose your next words carefully, human, because I don’t know how much more of your pushing I can take. Do you want to take that risk, is that it?”

You felt a delighted shiver pass through your body, the hot singe of danger thrilling you beyond words. All you’d wanted to do was give him a good night kiss, and maybe hold him close until you were both asleep. You had hardly expected him to react like this, but really, you weren’t complaining. You’d thought about this before, about him, fantasized about it, when you were alone, late at night in your room.

“What risk is that?” You finally managed, your nerves tangled in an excited, frenzied ball in the pit of your stomach.

“That risk,” Leviathan said, “is something you already know. You’re tempting me, human, and if you keep going, I can’t promise I won’t give in.”

You yanked him forward, holding his face, forcing him to look at you.

“Who says I don’t want that, Levi? I’m laying myself out for you— I’m inviting you in. I wouldn’t do that if I didn’t want you, completely.”

Another tug, your lips at his ear. “I’m telling you to do whatever you want to me.”

The glow of his irises seemed to brighten as he shuddered, a dangerous hunger setting itself to a rolling boil before he was on you, everywhere, his mouth colliding with yours as his hands rucked up your shirt, and you gasped at the feel of his palms on your bare skin.

He broke away to mouth at your neck, fangs pricking at your clavicle, the collar of your sleep shirt, and you moved to shrug the garment over your head, causing him to pause, wide eyed, as he stared at your chest. His staring made you somewhat self conscious, but you still felt a jolt of pride at the way his famished gaze roved over your body.

“Can I touch you?” He said, voice lower than you’d ever heard it before, causing heat to pool between your thighs.

“Yes,” you said, voice barely there, but he heard you well enough.

The feel of his hands on your skin made you bite your lip to keep from crying out, and when he rolled a nipple between his fingers, your back arched. Fuck, you were going to have trouble staying silent, especially when he was nudging his knee between your thighs, his mouth burning hot as it traveled down the column of your throat. With your remaining focus, you gathered your energy and muttered a quick incantation, a charm that kept sound from escaping the area affected— in this case, the tent. The pulse of magic didn’t go unnoticed by Levi, who paused for a millisecond as you cast the spell, but was otherwise undeterred.

It seemed he didn’t want to be interrupted or overheard, either. The implication of your shared desire only excited you further.

Plush lips dragged across the top of your breast, and your head fell back as his mouth encircled your nipple, rolling it under his tongue. Fuck, he was so warm. Everything about him was burning with suffocating heat, and you remembered vaguely that Lucifer once told you that demons had higher body temperatures than humans did. Right then, that worked out well in your favor, and you squirmed as his touch left trails of flame in its wake.

His fangs dragged against your nipple, making you shiver, and when he soothed it with the flat of his tongue, you rewarded him with a moan. You pushed at his shirt, and he moved back, just for a second, to yank the fabric above his head before resuming his ministrations on your body in earnest. You whined at the feel of his skin touching yours, and he met the sound with a groan of his own. Fuck, you wanted to hear more of those sounds, which were far too angelic to be coming from a demon’s lips.

Warm hands gripped at the waistband of your sleep shorts, and you lifted your hips to let him slide them off, leaving you in your panties.

“I wanna make you scream for me,” he breathed, mouth dragging down your sternum, “I don’t want you to think about anyone else, just me.”

Your breath trembled, words lost as you basked in the attention he was giving you with his mouth, and he groaned, punch drunk on the taste of your skin.

“I can have you,” he snarled, “all of you. You’re all mine.”

Through the possessive, jealous haze, it almost sounded like he was trying to convince himself. In response, and the only reassurance you could manage, you let out a breathy whine as his mouth reached your stomach, devolving into a moan when his lips brushed against your hipbone.

“You want more, human?” He asked, gaze sultry, “that what it is?”

Your stomach twisted, hot arousal making you squirm in his hold, and when his his thumbs dipped beneath the waistband of your panties, grazing the sensitive flesh, you felt that arousal grow almost unbearable.

“Levi, please,” you keened, “please— ah!”

He cut you off as he moved between your thighs, mouth pressing a hot kiss against your clothed cunt, and the heat of his breath sent your thoughts spinning into outer space. His tongue passed over the fabric, and you felt desperation coil inside of you, because it wasn’t enough, not without direct contact. You had a feeling he knew that very well when you felt his lips curl into a smile against your thigh.

When his tongue passed over you again, your back arched, and his hand flattened across your lower stomach, holding you in place as he teased you with another brush of his tongue, his breath, his lips, and when he finally used his knuckle to move the fabric aside, exposing you to him, you almost choked on air.

His nose bumped against your entrance before his tongue was dragging up and along your cunt, slow as he pleased, in lazy, indulgent licks that made your head feel like it was stuffed full of cotton balls and all other sorts of fluff and emptiness. He groaned into your flesh, dragging his tongue up again, and again, and again before he was pulling your panties the rest of the way off, then hiking your thighs up and over his broad shoulders, holding you in place with an unshakable grip.

Your head fell back against the pillow as you let your world shrink down to what Levi was doing between your thighs, the way he was savoring you like a man starved, and when you moaned, it was a breathy, desperate sound that you hardly recognized as your own. His name left your lips in something akin to a prayer, or maybe it was malediction, because the creature between your legs was anything but holy. Your hands drifted to his hair, bumping against his horns before wrapping around the base of them, and he was groaning into your cunt, his lazy pace picking up.

His tongue found your clit, drawing easy circles around it and making your hips jerk against him, prompting him to tighten his grip, blazing eyes meeting yours. You saw insatiable, burning hunger in those eyes, possessive and captivating enough to make you whimper.

“Hold still,” he snarled, voice positively beastly, sending dizzying arousal into your bloodstream like you’d taken a hit of a drug.

This was about possession as well as passion, showing you exactly who you belonged to, and who could make you feel this way, like you were burning from the inside out. You could feel him, mouthing at your flesh with uncontained need, drinking in your cries of ecstasy. Your fingers tightened to a white-knuckled grip on his horns, eyes screwing shut, and you felt him groan against you, long and low, sending shockwaves up your spine.

You could feel his fingers, pressing at your entrance, as his mouth engulfed your clit, tongue rolling over it. You tried to move, to buck your hips, anything to have something inside of you, but he snarled, keeping you still as he teased you. Long, thick digits slipped just past your entrance before withdrawing, making you squirm, the sharp point of one of his horns biting into your palm as you held on for deal life.

“Please,” you choked, “fuck, please.”

Another growl, low and self-satisfied, and you whimpered when he slipped a finger inside of you, too slowly for your linking. He was making you desperate, and you sobbed in frustration and pleasure, toes curling tight as he rolled your clit under his tongue in slow, broad licks. It felt so good you could hardly think, and when he was suddenly, finally pushing his fingers inside of you, it made you see stars.

“Oh, fuck— Levi—”

His fingers curled up, bumping against a spot that made those stars explode across your vision, and you gave a breathless cry as he withdrew, only to fill you once more. You could feel that familiar coil forming in your belly, the type of addictive sensation that makes you desperate for more as sinful pleasure thrummed through your veins, under your skin, and his mouth felt like it was burning you as he pressed open mouthed kisses along your sensitive inner thighs before latching back onto your clit.

His tongue flicked against you, before pressing harder, and you squirmed helplessly beneath him, fingernails dragging along his horns and making him growl. His fingers curled again, knuckle deep, and fuck, how could you ever use your own hands again when his reached spots you didn’t even know existed? It was agonizingly blissful, but you couldn’t get enough.

Your climax was drawing closer and closer, and you could do little to quiet yourself as he didn’t show any signs of slowing down, not that you even needed to. Your hips jerked, and you gasped, allowing him to hear you sob his name, begging for more, for anything that would bring you to your high, because where the hell did he learn do to this?

His pace was picking up speed, his tongue pressing down hard as he lapped at your clit, flicking it against the sensitive skin, fingers curling, and you could hardly stop yourself from letting the stricken mewl slip from between your lips, a high-pitched, almost pathetically desperate sound that made him growl against you. You were so fucking close, but he was doing nothing to stop you from tumbling towards that edge, and when you tried to warn him, the only sound that came out of your mouth was a trembling moan.

Your orgasm hit you with the force of a tidal wave, and he was the riptide, holding you against him with an iron grasp, working you through your climax and into the realm of overstimulation, into that realm of delicious, overwhelming pleasure. You moaned, deep in your throat, back bowing, and he made a low, desperate sound into your skin. You were throbbing, pulsing around his fingers, and they continued to pump in and out of you until you were dropping your hands from his hair to knot into the blankets, fingers pressing almost painfully against your palms through the fabric.

“Too sensitive, too sensitive— Leviathan, please—”

Fuck, fuck, he wasn’t stopping. Your mouth fell open, eyes rolling back into your head, your toes curling tight, a strangled, sobbing whine rising in your throat. You felt tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, and you tossed your head back, so helplessly entangled in blissful rapture. You felt yourself getting close again, coiling so tight you felt like you might shatter into pieces. Little, helpless pleas were slipping from your lips, and you weren’t even sure what you were saying, just that it made him growl against you, the vibrations of the sound sending you over the edge once more with an unrestrained wail of his name.

You saw white as he continued to move, giving a whine of his own against your cunt, and you yanked a hand up to cover your mouth, teeth sinking into the side of your palm, thrashing in his hold as you convulsed. You were helpless and needy and so sensitive that all you could do was lay there and take everything he gave you.

Finally, mercifully, he moved back, and you allowed yourself to go boneless against the surface beneath your body, chest heaving as you fought to catch your breath. You whimpered as he withdrew his fingers from inside of you, and you watched as he licked the digits clean before he was propping himself up on his knees.

You forced yourself to sit up, moving towards him to rest your forehead against his chest. He wrapped his arms around your body, nose pressing into your hair.

“Can you handle more?” He asked, and you felt your heart skip several beats.

“Yeah,” you said, “I can. But let me rest for a second, okay?”

You scooted closer, tugging him down to lay beside you, and joining your lips together with his. He kissed you languidly, deeply, and you hooked a leg around his waist, moving your hips to press against his, making him give a stricken hiss. One of his hands gripped at your waist, holding you in place as he ground himself against you, reveling in the feel of his clothed cock against your bare cunt. He was so hard, and when you palmed him through his sweatpants, he groaned into your mouth.

It couldn’t be comfortable to be confined in fabric like that, and when your fingers toyed with the hem of the garment, you felt the muscles in his stomach twitch, tensing, anticipating. You flattened your opposite hand against his stomach, the firm expanse of his abs, and fuck how did he get such an awesome body when all he did was sit around all day? You supposed perks came with being a high level demon, and fast metabolism was one of them. That, and all the swimming he did.

“Touch me,” he rumbled, breath hot against your lips, and who were you to deny him?

You pressed harder on the front of his sweats, making him gasp, and he moved back away from your mouth to look down at what you were doing to him as you slowly pushed his waistband down.

Oh, fuck.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting, but it wasn’t the size in front of you. Levi wasn’t a small person, none of his brothers were, so he was no exception. He was so thick, and long enough to make you dizzy. And he was pretty. Pale, flushed gently pink at the tip, glistening with precum. You slowly reached down, letting your fingertips graze against the side, making him gasp, and when you wrapped your hand around him, he twitched against your palm, a stricken hiss escaping through his teeth.

Shit, your fingers just barely met. You squirmed, arousal burning between your thighs, and you felt him twitch again, breath heavy and expression afflicted. Slowly, you pulled your hand back, your thumb finding his tip, and you rubbed circles against it, making him moan. You repeated the action, just to hear it again.

“Fuck,” he hissed, “fuck, that’s good.”

You moved your hand to encircle his girth, smearing the precum against his skin, aiding you as you gave him a slow, easy stroke, an action that made him groan deeply, eyes fluttering closed.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice hot, “I wanna fuck you so bad.”

You felt your breath stutter, your own lust thrumming in your veins at his admission. You kissed him hard in response, stroking him faster, just to hear him whine against your mouth. His hips bucked with your hand, and you could feel his fingertips dig into your waist, so tight they’d probably leave bruises, but not one part of you cared, not when he was making such perfectly erotic sounds. You adored the way his breath shook when you rubbed circles against his tip, how he groaned, low in his throat, when you squeezed him, rubbing your fingers along the underside.

Finally, gently, he caught your wrist, breaking away from the kiss, and when he looked at you, his eyes were darkened to the color of rust with desire, and your lips met his neck, making him shudder.

“I’m yours,” you whispered, “please, make me yours.”

He pushed you onto your back, crawling overtop of you, fingers skating across your soaked entrance before sinking them inside of you, pumping once, then twice before pulling out, and you felt your heartbeat pause when he pressed the tip of his cock against you. You’re propped yourself up on your elbows, watching as he slowly began to press forward, and fuck, even just the tip felt like a stretch. You tossed your head back, teeth gritted, and he kissed up your neck, easing himself forward just a bit more.

“Levi, you’re so big,” you blurted, and you watched color shade his pale cheeks, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

He pressed forward again, and you whined at the stretch, bordering on pain. Your eyes squeezed shut, breath thin.

“Hnnn, shit,” he hissed, voice taught with rapidly fraying restraint, “y-you’ve gotta relax, you’re too tight.”

You took a breath, fingers scrambling for purchase and finally curling into the blankets beneath you, trying to breathe as he sank deeper, and as he finally bottomed out, your breath stuttered in your lungs. It didn’t hurt, not really, but it was foreign and strange, and you weren’t used to taking something like this. You felt so full, stuffed to the brim, and you watched Leviathan’s face as he took in the abundance of new sensations.

“Oh fuck,” you heard him gasp, eyes drifting closed, and he spoke between gritted teeth, “fuck, fuck— so tight.”

His tail swung in a wide arc behind him before curling on the bed beside you, and you absently reached out to wrap your fingers around it, running your palm up and along the cool scales.

You didn’t expect the short, stricken gasp that action elicited. You also didn’t expect the way that prompted him to draw his hips back, only to press back inside, stuffing you full, and ejecting any coherent thought from your mind. Your grip on his tail tightened reflexively as you cried out, and he gave a harder, deeper thrust in response. His movements were slow, measured, restrained. Like he didn’t want to break you. You knew Levi was stronger than you, much stronger than any human, and that he could easily overpower you in an instant. For some reason, that sent sparks of arousal shooting through you. You wanted him to lose control, like he so badly wanted to. You could see it in his face, as his eyes clamped shut, a muscle tensing in his jaw as you squeezed around him.

Each thrust was slow and even, every drag of his thick cock inside of you sending stars into your vision. You stroked along his tail again, and he hissed between his teeth, twitching inside of you. His hands, curled into the blankets beside your body, went white knuckled in their grip. A low, low groan slipped through his teeth, needy and desperate as he thrust again, slow and deep.

“Levi,” you whimpered, dizzy from the way he was stretching you, “faster, please. Gimme more.”

A strong thrust, and he shifted to support himself on his elbows, forehead resting against yours.

“That what you want?” He rasped, “harder, faster?”

You lifted your legs, linking them around his waist, pulling him closer, and he groaned lowly as he sank deeper inside of you.

“Don’t hold back,” you said, “make me yours, Leviathan.”

That did it. His eyes glinted dangerously, and he was moving back, pulling your hips flush against his, hands on your waist as he pushed himself as deep as he could go, only to pull out and slam forward once more. The impact of the thrust made you cry out loudly, prompting him to repeat the motion, again, and again, and again, and oh fuck, you could barely even think straight with him fucking you like that. The way he was hitting all the right spots, the base of his cock grinding so perfectly against your clit, making you grip the blankets tightly for any sort of anchor at all.

A growl from deep in his chest sent delicious chills down your spine, rising in volume as he fucked you deep, grinding his hips against you whenever he was fully pressed inside of you. You yanked him down, meeting his mouth in a messy kiss, and he moaned into your mouth, a filthy, desperate sound, and you found yourself moving your hips to meet him.

“Fuckfuck— it’s so good.”

You felt yourself shudder, arms winding around his neck.

“You feel good?”

A moan, low and rough. “‘S perfect— please, more, lemme have more—”

“Take it all,” you keened, “wanna make you cum.”

His grip on your body tightened, and his hips pushed forward, filling you completely, grinding deep circles against you. His mouth skated along the column of your throat, reaching your ear, and you squirmed in his iron grip.

“Nobody else can have you,” he snarled, “only me. Only I get to fuck you like this. I hate that anyone has ever even thought of you like this before. You’re mine.”

You smoothed your hand along the back of his head, soothing, loving, and you pulled him into a deep kiss, holding him tight before releasing him, cupping his face.

“Nobody else can have me,” you said, “I’m yours, and you’re mine.”

One of his hands was suddenly pinning your wrists above your head, his opposite one between your bodies, thumb finding your clit and making your hips jerk against him, a shrill whine escaping your mouth. You squirmed in his hold, head tossing back, hair pooling on the pillow, and when you moaned, high and breathy, something in him, the last thread of his restraint, all but disintegrated.

You felt something cool and scaled slithering around your waist, and it took you a moment to figure out that it was his tail through the rose-colored haze of your arousal. It coiled around you, gripping you tight, and you realized he was using it to hold you in place as he fucked you, using it to move you, impaling you on his cock over and over again as he met each tug with deep ruts of his hips, using you like a doll. You squirmed in his hold helplessly, and he released your wrists to brace himself on his elbow, his fingers knotting into the blankets.

The pressure on your clit combined with the drag of his cock inside of you was making your head feel light and fuzzy, helpless from the intense, earthshaking pleasure. He was groaning at the feeling, mixed with low, rough swears and gasps of your name. He was just as affected as you were, if not more, and that aroused you more than words. His thumb pressed down harder, rubbing in circles, and you let out a breathless whine of ecstasy, back arching as much as it could in his grip, hands finding his horns and holding tight as he attached his mouth to your throat.

Sharp fangs sank into your flesh, and he laved over the spot with his tongue, sucking marks into your skin, biting at the tender flesh. His mouth trailed down to your breasts, his lips dragging over a nipple before reattaching to your neck, then your mouth, joining in a feverish kiss. Your head felt empty, deliriously drunk on pleasure, and from the way he was moaning, he was no different. His touches were desperate, needy, and you felt his tail tighten around you, just a little, as he picked up the pace.

The small space was filled with the sound of skin on skin and the smell of sex, making you glad you’d had the forethought to cast that charm, but any thoughts of that were ejected from your mind as he angled his hips just right, hitting the spot that made blurry stars dance across your vision. It felt so fucking good, feeling every inch of him sliding into you, to hear him growl in your ear, to hear him swear and cry out your name like scripture, sacrilegious and sinful from a demon’s lips, but as beautiful as a hymn.

That pressure inside you was drawing tighter, that desperate, feverish feeling that precedes a climax, and you tried to warn him, but all you could do was sob his name as he fucked you deep and hard, his pace borderline punishing and doing absolutely fuck all to help with how sensitive you already were from the two climaxes he’d pulled from you earlier.

You came hard and with a wail of his name, the sensation of you squeezing around him making him snarl into your skin, cock twitching inside of you, teeth sinking into your skin once more. And he wasn’t slowing down, not even as you writhed in his hold, mindless from sensitivity, completely and utterly drunk on him, on what he was doing to you, on his cock. You wrapped your legs tight around his waist, fingers fanning out across his back before flexing, nails digging into the skin, dragging up, making him groan deeply, the sound only making you wind even tighter.

Tears stuck to your cheeks, jewels in your eyelashes, and Leviathan kissed them away, but he didn’t let up, pressing on your clit, making you buck and scream against him, sobbing his name, his praises, anything. Your head was filled with nothing but him, just how he’d wanted it. You came again with a silent cry, head tipped back and mouth wide open, and it was only after that that he moved his thumb away, but his cock was still grinding against your abused clit, winding you up again, and you could do no more than whimper as he chased after his own climax, thrusts growing more and more uneven as he began to reach his limit.

He was chanting your name, voice low and rough, and you squeezed your legs around his body, the least you could do as he continued to use his tail to move you, using it to meet each of his thrusts. He was close, you guessed, from the way his low groans were getting higher in pitch as the sensitivity mounted, both his hands knotting in the blankets beside your head, moaning into your skin.

“Take it,” he snarled, “take it, take it—”

He thrust deep, and you whined weakly, tears spilling past your lashes from the sensitivity as he gushed inside of you, stuffing you full of his cum. You whined his name, and he bucked his hips, chasing the aftershocks of his climax, fucking his cum into you with each motion. He was cumming a lot, enough that it was leaking out of you, but he used his thumb to press it back inside of you, making you hiss at the feel of the digit inside of you, just briefly.

And then, he was collapsing, boneless against you, breath leaving him in heavy pants. His tail unwound itself from your waist, and he was kissing your throat, your face, and finally, your lips. It was a slow, languid kiss, full of affection and gratitude, for letting him do that to you. You kissed him back, wrapping exhausted arms around his neck, running your fingers through his messy hair.

“I love you,” he muttered, voice muffled against your mouth, and you held him tighter, emotion surging through your body.

“I love you, too, Levi.”

He broke away from you, pulling out and flopping beside you. He was breathing heavily, and you were no different. As he caught his breath, he found a package of wet wipes from his bag, which he used to wipe your legs clean, depositing them in the small trash bag you had set up in the corner. He pulled the blankets up around your bodies, gathering you close to him.

“I lost control,” he said, “are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You smiled. “No, Levi, you didn’t hurt me. It was really hot, actually.”

Levi made a sound like he was being strangled. “I— what? I see.”

There was the Leviathan you knew. You snuggled into his chest, sleepy and satisfied.

“I’m on birth control,” you said, “‘s okay.”

He chuckled, relieved. “That’s… good to know. You’re sure I didn’t hurt you?”

You shook your head. “‘M fine. Sleepy. That was really good.”

His breath shuddered. “You’re mine now, right? I can be with you?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, “yours.”

He lifted your chin to meet your mouth in a kiss. You smiled against his lips.

“Sleepy,” you repeated, utterly exhausted.

“Mm,” Leviathan said, “sleepy.”

He snuggled you close, nose buried in your hair, and you could practically feel the happiness radiating off of him. You lazily linked your arms around his body, enjoying the feel of his skin against yours, the way his heat enveloped you like a second blanket.

“Love you,” you muttered, but you got no response. You looked up, only to find him asleep, face serene. It was okay, though. You smiled, curling close to him. You knew he loved you too.

That was your last thought before you fell asleep.

BONUS:

”It wasn’t a dream.”

You woke when he spoke, groggy and sore as all hell. You groaned, snuggling closer to him, pulling the blanket up and over your head. The air was cool and fresh, smelling of dew and early morning. Leviathan’s body was warm, and you didn’t particularly feel like separating yourself from him, not now.

“Hmm?” You hummed, and Levi lifted the blanket to look at you, making you squint up at him. His face was vibrantly red, eyes wide, awed.

“It wasn’t a dream,” he repeated, “last night was real.”

You yawned, pressing your face into the crook of his neck.

“No dream,” you said, “I don’t know how well I’ll be able to walk after that.”

A moment of silence, and he wrapped his arms more tightly around you.

“You told me you loved me,” he said.

“Mhm,” you said, “and I meant it. What time is it?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “can we stay here? I want to lay with you a while longer.”

You smiled. “I’m okay with that.”

You lifted your head to press a kiss against his mouth, warm and loving and sleepy. He melted against you, and when you pulled back, he tucked you closer against his body.

The two of you lay like that for quite a while before you were able to pry yourselves apart. And it was perfect.

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