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roses-for-rosalyn · 2 months

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Cowboys

Ellie x reader (for now)

Part 2

summary: A stranger comes to your door- it turns out it's not one of your usual encounters cw: guns, cowboy lingo, fem! reader, cowboy crossdresser Ellie, eventual smut, blood, injuries, your average confusing lesbianism, eventual smut, no use of y/n wc: 3.6k

for those who prefer ao3 <3 gotchu minors DNI (I will steal all you pillowcases)

LINKS TO HELP PALESTINE l DAILY CLICK

Nothing could beat the beauty of the sunset in the desert. Purples, blues, oranges, and yellows swirled together to paint a new masterpiece every night. And every night you would sit on your small, wooden porch with a cup of tea and watch as the sun slowly sinks into the horizon. Tonight was no exception.

The sky becomes darker and darker until the moon and the stars come out, bathing the desert in a silver light. You struggle with the stubborn, old front door for a moment before you step into your little ranch house.

A chill runs through you as the temperature outside rapidly declines. You kneel in front of the fireplace and use the little kindling you have for a fire. It was enough to keep you warm for a few hours while you read yourself to sleep. Sometimes you felt lucky that it was a small enough house that the small fire would warm up the whole place. Your bed was just a few paces away from the mantle.

You stand up and dust off your hands before starting to undress for bed. As you begin to unbutton your bodice a knock sounds from the front door.

You scramble for your rifle by your bedside and check to make sure it’s loaded. You peek through one of your front windows to catch a glimpse of the mysterious stranger. At this hour and on the edge of town, your visitors weren’t usually friendly.

It seems a cowboy has paid you a visit this evening. Haven’t seen one of those in a damn long time. A gun is proudly holstered on his hip next to a lasso, and his black large-brimmed hat keeps his face dark enough that you can’t quite make it out.

He knocks again, louder. You creep up to the front door and slowly open it. Before he can process who opened the door you aim your rifle right at his chest.

“Hands up.” You demand, your voice is surprisingly steady.

“Woah there, I just stopped to ask for some directions.” A deep, yet feminine voice replies. It sounds like she was all too sure you weren’t going to be using that weapon on her, she didn’t even bother to move. You cock the gun, trying like hell to keep your expression blank, unphased while your entire body fills with adrenaline. She takes a step back and puts her hands up. Her hat still covers her face in shadow, it’s like confronting a ghost.

“You should have stopped somewhere else.” You take a step towards her, closing the door behind you while keeping your vision trained on the woman.

“You’re much different than the other women I’ve run into out here.” She looks up slightly, the moonlight illuminating pink, slightly chapped lips forming a smug smirk. “Where’s your husband, miss?”

“I swear if you don’t get back on your goddamn horse I’ll put a hole right through your chest.” she steps towards you, the muzzle of the gun pokes right under her collarbone.

She finally looks at you, silver light exposes a sharp, feminine face dotted with freckles darkened by days in the sun. The sight of her face catches you off guard for just enough time, allowing her to grab the barrel of the rifle and pull it right out of your hands. She drops the gun and it clatters loudly to the ground, echoing through the empty desert landscape. She grabs your wrists before you can start fighting back and pins them above your head against the door with one hand.

“There,” she grunts as you struggle against her grip, she’s surprisingly strong, “now we can have a conversation.”

“Go to Hell.” You say, seething with rage and frustration because she was able to overpower you so easily. She shakes her head and laughs for a moment, saying something under her breath like all this trouble.

You were just about to spit in her face when she said, “Where’s the nearest hotel darlin’?” Your eyes widen at the innocent question, slightly embarrassed. This was a first, she really just needed directions. She uses your stunned silence to talk some more, “I’ve been savin’ up so I could have a bed for the night. And I could really really use a bed tonight, miss.” You stop struggling against her grip and she lets go. She still has that stupid smirk on her face. “So if you could point me in the right direction it would be much appreciated.”

“Head southwest, you’ll hit a trail that will lead you right into town.” You dust off your dress and straighten it out.

“Much appreciated, darlin’.” She tips her hat and walks off toward her horse. You watch in shock as she mounts her horse and before riding away she says just loud enough, “I’ll be seein’ you.” And with a nod, she was off.

You slowly bend down to pick up the Winchester, cradling it against your chest as you watch the stranger disappear into the night. As you head inside you wonder if you ever will see that strange woman again, and fall asleep debating whether or not you would want to.

** **

The next morning you head to the school house. The steady feeling and sound of your horse trotting along the dirt path always forced your mind to wander elsewhere. Right now you couldn’t stop thinking about the woman from last night. The schoolhouse was right in the middle of town, would you see her again? Would she even recognize you? If she did, would she even try to talk to you?

The interaction was a bit embarrassing for you, but to be fair you had your fair share of vile men looking for trouble and hostile groups of Apache knocking on your front door. Your father had taught you how to use his Winchester rifle, the very same rifle you use now, and you mentally thanked him for it every night. You had only used it to kill one man, he wouldn’t take no for an answer and you gave him plenty of warnings. He didn’t believe your threats so now he was buried about 500 feet from the house in an unmarked grave, you were sure no one would miss a man like that. Most of the time the Apache would just come to ask questions about men passing through the area, they never tried to attack you, thankfully, but they would always come at the most ungodly hours and were quite impatient.

Last night was a first, you had never had a cowboy knock at your door, and then she ended up being a woman. The idea of her was so intriguing and you couldn’t figure out why. For some reason, she shook you more than anyone else had since you lived out here. And you’d seen quite a lot.

Your thoughts are interrupted as you reach town, the sound of rickety carriages, hooves against the packed dirt road, and the chatter of men in front of the Sheriff’s Office make it hard to focus.

“Hello there, sunshine!” you hear a male voice call out. You turn towards the voice to see Jesse making his way past you on horseback, lugging today's newspapers to the apothecary. He made the trip from Sante Fe every morning. He was nice enough, you liked talking to him, but not as much as you felt like you should. The ladies at the apothecary, Dina, and Maria, would always encourage you to talk to him. They desperately wanted you to move on from your husband. He was long gone and you knew that, you were even thankful for it, which is why you were nervous to start again. You didn’t want to have to go through anything like that again.

You wave back and smile, “Hi there, Jesse.” You decide to be polite, “Hear anything good today?” He tightens the reins of his horse and stops right next to you.

“They struck gold in Elizabethtown, and there’s gonna be a shortage of tobacco ‘round these parts within the week because of a dust storm over in Tennessee.”

“Well, I’m sure they’ll have a panic on their hands pretty soon then. I don’t know a man here who can live without their cigars.” You smile and Jesse laughs politely at your attempt at a joke.

“Alright, don’t want the kids to show up before I do, I'd best be headin’ to the school.” You yearned to leave this awkward conversation through any means possible. Today was not the day for small talk.

“Ok, I’ll see you tomorrow then, miss.” Your head snaps towards Jesse. You’re suddenly transported to last night and listening to the way the cowboy’s words would drip from her lips, smooth as honey “Miss”. Calm and sure even with a gun pointed right to her heart.

You quickly snap out of it and nod politely at Jesse as you begin to part ways. You head to the schoolhouse in a hurry, the kids gave you hell if you were late.

** **

You’re beginning to lock up the schoolhouse when you hear footsteps approaching. “Well hello there, miss.” You recognize the voice all too quickly, you don’t even need to turn around. “Was really hopin’ I’d find you here.”

As you fish into your pocket for the key you respond, “And how exactly did you find me here?” you turn around and begin to walk past her toward your horse. She follows you. From a brief glance at her, you can see she wears a bandana to cover her face, you could only see her eyes. “You don’t even know my name.”

“I just asked those nice ladies at the apothecary if they knew the women who lived just outside of town, they were more than happy a “nice gentleman” took interest in you. They told me just about everything they knew, your name, some snippets of gossip. I’m sure if I stayed they would’ve told me your life story” You finally turn to face her, your expression unamused. She took her hat off at some point when she was talking to you, her eyes are green, radiant in the unrelenting desert sunlight. You were almost jealous. She wore a dark blue button-down that sat surprisingly flat against her chest and suspenders. She could pass for a man if she wanted to. “So, I take it you don’t have a husband then?”

“What’s it to you?” you cross your arms, defensively.

“I was just curious, I asked last night, but you weren’t exactly in a talking mood.” You swear you can make out her smirk under the bandana.

“No, I haven’t had a husband for quite a while. Is that what you came all the way here to ask me?” She lowers her bandana and steps towards you, backing you into your horse.

“No, I came to ask a favor.” She hesitates for a moment, “No one here can know that I’m, um, well you know..”

“A woman?” pretty easy to piece together after seeing the bandana.

“Yea,” She backs away from you a little. Seems like someone is embarrassed to ask a favor. “It’s just easier for me to get things this way and it’s lookin’ like I’ll be staying later than I planned so..”

“Alright, I won’t say anything.” She opens her mouth to begin to thank you, but you weren’t about to let an opportunity like this pass you by. “But, you owe me a favor then.”

Her excited expression disappeared as quickly as it came, if you weren’t looking you could have missed it, “Um, alright, what do ya need?”

“You know your little visit last night?” You had been cooking this proposition up all day, hoping she would run into you again.

“Yes.”

“Well, that happens to me about every other day. I don’t want a husband, but I do need a guard dog of some kind.” You didn’t want a man in your home, but you did want the protection of one, this was the perfect opportunity, almost too perfect.

“A guard dog?” She seems mildly offended by you comparing her to a dog.

“I’m tired of not being able to sleep because of surprise visitors. And I’ll pay you in two square meals a day, tea, and my homemade moonshine.” She does not look amused. “And I won’t tell anyone you’re a lady.”

“I don’t know-”

“I know you’re almost out of money, I’m sure Tommy is bleeding you dry as an outside visitor. I won’t charge you anything.” Something in her loosens, you can see it.

“So do I sleep on your floor?”

“Or outside if you’d like, makes no difference to me. There’s a fire pit out there for ya” You turn around and mount your horse, eager to get home. “We got a deal?” You reach your hand down towards her. She hesitates before shaking it.

“I’m Ellie by the way.” You nod

“Alright Ellie, I’ll see you at my house then. I trust you’re familiar with the address” She just nods, slightly shocked. You smile and then head off, the comforting sound of hoofbeats clearing the thoughts in your head. On the way home you tend to just listen to the sounds of the desert. After a day of loud, squealing children it was healing. You’re sure you’d go crazy if you lived in town.

** **

You had just finished making your evening tea when you heard a knock on your door. For the first time in a long time, you don’t go into fight or flight mode. You open the door with a smile, part of you is surprised she even showed up. Your proposition was a little ridiculous, but that truly shows how desperate you are.

“Hello there stranger.” You are really pushing it with this attitude, you can tell, but something in you likes it when she gets annoyed.

“Hi.” She takes off her hat and lowers her bandana, something you’ve observed as a habit of hers, one of respect possibly. “So am I sleepin’ with the rattlesnakes or on your floor?”

“You get bit by a rattlesnake come to me and I’ll suck the venom out myself. Until then you best set up camp before dark darlin’.” You smile at her sweetly.

“Figured as much.” She smirks and walks away to set up camp.

“Dinner’ll be ready in 20 minutes. I hope ya like stew.” You call out to her. “Oh, and there’s a spring out back if you need any water!”

** **

The stew finally thickens up to the way you like it, you pour it into two bowls and quickly slurp up your serving. Didn’t taste amazing, but it was food.

You open your front door to bring Ellie her food and see that she’s already started a fire, she’s sipping from a silver flask just staring at the flames.

You approach and wordlessly hand her a bowl of stew and a spoon. She looks up at you “You gonna eat?”

“No, I- uh already ate.” More like inhaled but she didn’t need to know that. You point at her flask. “What’s in there?”

“You’re tellin’ me you don’t know what’s in here?” She raises her eyebrows.

“I know it’s liquor, Ellie, I’m just askin’ what kind.” Her confused expression drops.

“Whiskey.” She looks at the flask in her hand, then at you. “Want some?” She clearly did not want to offer it to you. But you sit down next to her and reach your hand out for it.

“Hand it over.” She hands you the flask. The metal was cool to the touch, almost shocking after the desert heat all day. You take a sip and the liquor burns its way down your throat, and your face scrunches a little. You were used to shooting whiskey, but this was particularly terrible, even worse than your moonshine. “Wow, that’s pretty awful.”

Ellie laughs between bites of stew, “You’re stew isn’t the greatest thing I’ve tasted either.”

“Hey!” You lightly punch her shoulder. She giggles even more. “You’re welcome for the food by the way.” You take another swig of whiskey and then hand the flask back to the cowgirl.

“Thank you,” she takes the flask, “for the meal.” she hands you her empty bowl. “And a place to stay, even if it’s outside.”

“We’ll see, maybe you’ll earn your way inside.” You take her bowl and turn to head inside.

“Is that a challenge?” She calls after you.

“Maybe.” You call back.

You step inside and immediately undress for bed, the whiskey making your eyes droop closed. You can barely get your buttons undone before you fall into bed, for the first time in a while, not having to worry about dangerous strangers knocking down your door.

** **

You wake up to a hasty knock coming from the front door. It’s still dark outside. You weren’t supposed to have to deal with this anymore. You grab your rifle and don’t even bother checking who is at the door simply out of annoyance. Would have bit you in the ass later if it was a surprise visitor. You open the door and cock the rifle. To your astonishment, you open the door to Ellie, holding her side. There’s a dark stain forming under her hands, her face is bloody and bruised. And yet she’s got a smug yet pained smile on her face. “This how you’re always gonna greet me?”

“Jesus Ellie,” you usher her inside quickly. “What happened?”

“You got some visitors, a group of Apache men.” She sits down in one of your wooden dining room chairs. You rush over to grab the small medical kit you had managed to fashion over the years. “They wanted to see you in particular, when I told them you weren’t accepting visitors they sort of attacked me. It was one versus six”

“They don’t trust many people.” You undo Ellie’s suspenders and begin unbuttoning her shirt without even thinking. “Most folks round here shoot first and ask questions later, they don’t have any respect or patience for a stubborn cowboy.” You walk over, grab a candle and some matches, and light it so you can see. “Can’t say I blame them. I am sorry though I’d thought they’d see your gun and back off”

“That is real optimistic of ya.” You remove her right arm from the sleeve of her shirt. She is wearing some sort of binding around her chest- so that’s how she’s managed to pass for a man.

“Wow, that’s a big word for you.” You smirk at her as you clean your hands with some moonshine.

“Really? I’m bleedin’ out and you’re making fun of me?” You press gauze to her wound, she hisses through her teeth.

“Please, you’re not bleeding out. Shouldn’t even need stitches, just some cleaning and dressing.” You look up at her, you’re not quite sure, but even in the dim candlelight, you could swear she was blushing. You wouldn’t dare mention it when she’s already made herself so vulnerable.

“Now for the hard part.” You take out a small bottle of vinegar.

“Alright.” Ellie leans back in the chair, ready for the sting of the vinegar.

“Here.” You take her left hand and place it on your shoulder. “Squeeze if you need to.” She nods and you take that as your cue to begin. You pour the vinegar on the wound and you watch as her abs contract, her hand squeezes your shoulder, pretty hard, but you know she was trying not to hurt you, even in pain.

You stand up and gently wrap a few layers of gauze around her mid-section, just in case it starts bleeding again during the night. You were so, so close to her, you could feel the heat radiating from her skin. “You always wear that?”

“Wear what?”

“The-the bandages, round your chest.” She looks down at them like she almost forgot they were there. Suddenly you realize how personal that question must be. “Sorry, I shouldn’t said anything. You don’t have to answer”

“No, It’s alright. I don’t mind. Yes, I’ve worn this for a while now, easier to get around when you look like a man.” You nod and finish wrapping the gauze around her and pin it in place. You put a bit of vinegar on a piece of gauze and begin cleaning the cuts on her face. “Oh, you don’t need to do that, miss.”

“Please just let me clean off your face. Were you planning on walkin’ around town tomorrow with dried blood on your cheeks?” She opens her mouth to say something but closes it. She’s quiet as you gently clean her face, you can see every freckle, every scar, her eyes shining in the candlelight. It was odd being this close to her. You had never felt comfortable being this physically close to someone. Her warmth almost invited you in, made you want to press your nose to her neck, run your hands across her skin, feeling along all the freckles and scars, memorizing the spot of each one. you wanted to know her in a way you have never wanted to know anybody else.

“Hey,” a gentle voice grounds you back into reality. “I think my face is clean.” She smiles softly. She was right, at some point, you had gotten her face completely clean, you’re not sure how long she let you drag the cloth across her freckled cheeks before she said something.

“Yeah, sorry.” You back away and put the blood-soaked gauze in the burn pile. “You should sleep in here. Don’t think anyone else will be coming tonight. I’ll go get your bedroll.” Ellie just nods and you go out to grab her things.

You hurry back and set up her bedroll on the floor right next to your bed. She makes her way to it and sits down on the floor with a thud, careful to not contort her body in a way that could re-open the wound. She collapses onto the wool blankets. When you’re sure she’s settled you place your rifle back next to your bed and fall into your mattress, knowing you’ll be exhausted tomorrow.

lmk what you think! Likes, comments and reblogs always appreciated!

LINKS TO HELP PALESTINE l DAILY CLICK

Part 2 >>

#ellie williams #ellie x reader #ellie williams x reader #ellie the last of us #ellie x fem reader #ellie tlou #tlou 2 ellie #tlou2 #cowboy!au #western! au #cowboy!Ellie #cleaning wounds trope hehe

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nexusnyx · 1 year

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keep close | part III

Joel Miller x F!Reader [8.3k] summary: Joel was never a man of religion—thinking about the enormity of everything was not for him, but he understood the concept. Devotion. An other-worldly comfort in something, or a place. Joel had never, on the other hand, experienced religion. As he lifts his touch from your hands to explore the rest of your body, Joel is blessed, and this is holy. The air around him sizzles with everything existing between you two. 📝 This is the final part of this little story, and I hope it meets the expectations. If you enjoy it, reblogs and comments make all the difference. warnings⚠️ mature content—explicit depictions of sex, so minors dni. | 🏷️ soft!joel (he is, deep, deep inside, okay?), bathing together, slow undressing, deep talks, first time, dirty talk, begging, fingering, guided orgasm (yes, Joel Miller does walk you through it), penetration (p in v).

← part two | masterlist

Joel wished he felt comfortable in his skin.

He remembers there was a time when he did. He used to have a lighter step, lighter touch, lighter eyes.

All his edges feel sharp now, even to him—silver like steel, or the hair that glinted at him from every reflection as a reminder of why, and up until some time ago, he'd kept up a good shell. An exoskeleton of great thickness that kept him going with minimum blows to the skin.

Until a while ago, he had no reason to try being anything other than this.

Being this kept him alive, but—it would also keep him away. From Ellie. From you.

He wanted to be close to you. Closer than he admitted to himself for a long time.

As close as physics would allow, and even then, it wouldn't be enough.

He thinks about all that as he puts Ellie to bed.

Not that he calls it that. Or, god forbid, you did.

Ellie claims to be grown enough to live all on her own if it came to be, and yet, she somehow always ended up 'awakening' sometime in the night. Joel lost count of how many late-night conversations with you had been interrupted by that sight: her short, teenage frame being outlined in the darkness standing stiff and awkward, right before she blurted, "I keep hearing... you know."

Their noises.

Ellie's nightmares were about their noises. One day, you simply got up, took a deep breath, and said, "C'mon, let's go back to bed, I think you need just need some company. We can talk, if you want. Or not.."

No one — not you, not Joel — called it 'putting her to bed' because Ellie was grown, and 'far from a kid' already, as she'd put it. She didn't need some grown person talking to her until she falls asleep. It's just nice, she said. It's just soothing, because according to Ellie, they — the grown-ups — have a tendency of forgetting the 'younger folk need some stimulating conversation too, man'.

How could someone not love this kid?

Joel watches her sleeping body for a few moments. He places and tucks the blankets around her to keep her warm, and closes the door on his way out.

He hated to admit how magnetic she was at the start. It was so difficult to accept the sharp wit and horrible jokes were simply her. A part of her, born embedded in her genes just like a lack of patience, or straight hair.

When Joel opens the door to the bathroom, he's greeted by steam.

The whole place is still covered in it despite the hour of dinner.

He sees you sitting in front of the bathtub, and proudly announces. "Miss I don't need a lullaby today asked me to tell her a story," his eyes feel yours on him as he takes off his jacket.

He hears the scoff. "She's been asking me that all week," you answer with a tone that says you're behind, old man, "And she even threw the 'make them good stories, too—I don't want any boring, pg-13 rated shit.'"

"The army teaches shitty manners," he takes off the flannel jacket too and starts unlacing his boots. "She woke me up with a wet finger in my ear once. D'you know how long it's fuckin' been since someone did that? Decades. It's been literal decades."

"I think you meant to say the army doesn't teach them any manners," you say. "And hey—at least that's kind. You, on the other hand—"

"Oh, here we go," he laughs.

"—you decide to wake people by saying their name. Announcing their name, in that deep, Odin-inspired vibrato that already gives them a heart attack, and then you just," you blow raspberries in the air. "Fuck off."

He laughs. Tries his best to keep the volume low because he knows better, but laughing and kicking off his boots feels amazing.

None of you have showered since the attack.

A week was a gross amount of time to spend without a washing rag and hot water rubbing every inch of your skin, but the poor unfortunate truth of living in an apocalyptical world remained almost natural now—it was not weird to happen. Just gross.

Cleaning yourselves to the best of your lonesome abilities when there are bruises littering almost every member of your body is also a challenging task.

He's done poorly in his, and he wished bashfulness still existed somewhere in his bones for him to feel sorry about it. Instead, Joel let his body fall back with only a layer or two of clothes left in him and laid on his back on the floor.

He says, "I can't believe I'm gonna shower," fully expecting some witty remark back.

A joke. A jab. Anything other than— "Joel."

A soft, single whisper. Joel's head whips in your direction, and he almost gets up in an electric shock—your curled-up position awakens his instincts of 'cradle, cover, protect'.

Scared. Had he made a mistake? Had he jumped the gun and done something too fast? Something wrong?

Before he can jump to any conclusions, you add. "I'm gonna say this in a single breath 'cause I'm feeling oddly stupid about it and the rational, intelligent parts of my brain that know this means absolutely nothing can't find a single argument back for the question then why the hell do I still feel like every inch of my skin is a part of my insides..." you breathe in deep, and lift your head, tilting your chin high. Your eyes make sure to meet his. "I—," you choke on it once, and Joel witnesses as the blush rises from your neck, painting like watercolor its way up your skin. "I never... did anything. Nothing that went beyond sad, pathetic displays of.. what I can only call 'making out'," you laugh, humorless. "God, I feel like a fucking idiot."

"You're not," he affirms. He might be failing faintish, and his body may be running hotter than the insides of a volcano, but he'll be fine. "You tell me anythin' you wanna tell me, and I'll listen. And if you want to—"

"Don't," you interrupt him. "Don't take it back," your eyes shine at him. Don't take back your offer because it would hurt. It would kill me. "Please."

Joel would do anything you asked. "I won't."

You smile. "Thank you," you say softly. After another deep breath, you go on. "I wanted to tell because... It's only fair you know. Considering—" you swallow visibly around the word, and his body mimics the action as if you and he are your own hive of two, "I've thought about this. A lot, Joel."

A lot, Joel.

"Jesus Christ," he exhales, feeling the air punched out of his chest. He looks away from the earnestness on your face.

"And whether it's because a first impression always stays or not, I don't know, but I'm gonna remember."

And so would he.

Joel gets up from the form, his body now released from the imaginary chains that kept him bound to his place as you said your peace, and makes his way up the step to where the bathtub is and you're sitting on the floor.

It hits him that he's kissed you, and you've kissed back, and Joel's free to do it again.

The thought is what makes him sit right back you, pulling you in direction of his chest. You go easily, and it melts him more than the prospect of hot water on his body sometime soon.

"I thought you'd be happy I opened my mouth instead of stewing on stuff and keepin' it to myself and, y'know," he saw above your shoulders the way your hands did movements all over the place, and he laughed on your neck. "Didn't think you'd be this cuddly, though."

Joel rubs the bottom of his face on your skin just for that comment, enjoying feeling you squirm. "You opening your mouth is never a problem," he bites back with amusement.

"Callin' me blabbermouth?"

"Callin' you straight spoken," he corrects. "Precise."

"Awn, shucks—thanks, man," the sarcasm in your voice makes him groan. He's surrounded by smartasses, and it pains him. The laughter is nice, though; Joel guesses there are worst things than spending winter locked in a mountain cabin with someone who makes him laugh at the end of the world.

Sure, he is bruised and so many things are not right with humankind, but—not here.

He won't think about that now.

It's not his weight, just for these moments.

When you're done laughing, your body sags inside his hold, melting like snow under the Sun. He drinks it all in. "I'm aware this will be good for wounds 'n all, but I hate that I know it's gonna hurt so much the first couple of minutes that it makes me want to postpone it. What's another week without a proper shower, right?"

"Hell."

"Yeah, but so will be submersing our bodies in this," you point at the tub.

"At least it's together?" Joel offers.

Your head resting on his chest tilts up until you can look at him properly, and he's always thankful for the opportunity of seeing you smile. "That was cheesy," you whisper.

Once more, Joel sighs. He's smiling, but—it sounded so damn cute. Cheesy, accused between the lips that formed that teasing smirk, that mouth that—

Joel hates missing things.

He writes down in his mind that he will never miss your mouth; he'll always have it. If he wants it, he'll take it, and so he does.

Your face is angled, waiting for a hand of his to cup it and guide it toward his lips.

Kissing you is better than most things Joel's mind still clung to as the ones worth living for.

His personal favorite, the sun hitting skin for the first time after a long winter—it felt like that, but better.

He felt a tingle in his spine when you melted on him, prompting him to kiss harder—Joel starts moving his lips on yours and is granted with you following his lead like in the kitchen; you open up so well for him. You follow the rhythm of his tongue, and it makes it feel easy when he knows that's far from the truth.

When he pulls back, Joel thinks about what you said.

I never did anything.

Joel has to take deep breaths. You open your eyes after another heartbeat, and he's burdened with the silly need to kiss your entire face, so he does.

First the lips again. Then the cheeks, and the nose next, and you start giggling when he moves to your forehead, whispering, "tickles, Joel," but he doesn't care. There are the temples, and finally the chin, and—he exhales, smiling content at himself.

He looks ahead to the tub. It's a soaking type, made of dark wood he's almost sure comes from the forest surrounding them right now. "You think we'll fit in there?" he asks.

He feels your head moving to look, too. "It's made to fit two adults, I think."

"Ellie said it was the best bath she's had since she left the school," he shares.

Your hum of approval makes him realize just how hard this task is going to be—pun not intended but well applied. "She really needed one."

"We all do," he scoffs. Reluctantly, Joel lets go of your body to get up and finish undressing. He sees the two wood buckets you used to heat up water for Ellie's bath are full again, so he asks. "You heated up more water? Why?"

You pierce him with a are you kidding me, look. "Joel."

"Yes?"

"We need a wash, rinse, and repeat. I don't know about you, but I feel gross. Disgusting. Crusty—"

"Okay, okay," he interrupts, bursting into laughter. "I got you. You can stop tryna seduce me," he says while standing up.

Even though there's steam, he knows your blush is from him. For him. "Wasn't trying to," you argue with no heat. Smiling.

Joel is so fucked. "Really? All that sweet-talking about how much you stink had no goal?"

Your response is only a roll of the eyes, and Joel starts unbuttoning his shirt. "Hmm. Could've sworn it got me here showering with ya."

"You offered," you laugh, and then—your gaze lifts, sees what Joel is doing, and lowers, twice more bashful than before. "There was no seducing involved."

He groans in response. "Nope. 'm pretty sure your mouth was on mine. That's seducing," he states. "Hey," he calls. Your eyes find his. "You can look, 'yknow? 's nothing you won't be seein' in a second." Joel would say 'it's nothing special' but he knows you well enough. You'd hate hearing it, you'd fight him on it, so he thinks on his words. "If you want to," he adds, because fucking hell.

You do look up.

The second he feels your gaze on him, Joel's lifetime insecurities reappear from the shadows, birthing all over again like a flair under his skin.

He's okay. 5"11' of scars covering inner demons always on a battlefield, veins of whiskey, and a chest that he swore up and down would die empty.

It feels hot now. Occupied.

The shirt comes off, then the white tank top that's more a rag than a piece of clothing by now, and he only musters enough courage to look at you again as he unbuckles his belt.

The permission didn't prepare him to see you staring.

Gazing, checking him out with eyes as thirsty and obvious as a starving person being presented with a plate of their favorite food.

Joel swallows thickly around the knot that forms in his throat.

He wants to say something, but instead, he just undresses.

He wouldn't know what to say.

Joel didn't want things for two decades. He wants so much now that he feels like his body could vibrate at a frequency that would break glass.

His pants fall on the floor, and Joel stands there only in his underwear.

You swallow visibly, too. Then you look up into his eyes and say, "Permission to share a weird thought?"

That got his curiosity. You two loved sharing weird thoughts — no judgment, that was the rule — and he sees you nodding.

You start undoing your clothes as well. "You know that feeling of being so comfortable around a person 'cause they make you feel like you can be yourself?"

"Yeah."

"I always had that with you," you say. Joel removes his underwear with a single motion and tries to push down the feeling of hotness climbing up his chest. "And... I don't know if it's post-apocalyptical shit or not, but, d'you feel like you have a hunger that could never be fulfilled, ever again?"

Joel sits back down while he waits. "I do," he answers. "About everything, right?"

"Yes!" your exclamation is earnest. You get it. "I'll never satisfy any of it," you conclude. "That same feeling—that despair that a decadent world creates in you... it made me look at you and think 'I wanna bury myself in him' because—it brought me comfort? I hope that's not a too weird thought, I don't wanna freak you out or anything, but..." you shrug. He sees you trying to gather the words, and waits. "I just always had this.... feeling, this thing where I looked at you, and you're so broad, and tall, and strong," you shiver, and Joel feels his body twitching in response, "I wanted to get under your skin. Just... make myself all cozy inside you. That's probably some weird, mother-issue kind of thing, but."

It makes him laugh.

Joel looks down at himself for a second because taking in what you said and watching more of your skin become visible made his throat dry and his hands itch. "Trust me," he says. "You're under my skin."

Despite already being naked, Joel feels he peeled off another layer just with those words.

"You ready to go in?" He doesn't check for how you took the confession. He'd never said anything close to it that if he thought about it too long or too hard, something inside him would burst. "It's gonna hurt."

It takes a second for you to answer, and he's already up and dipping his legs inside when you do. "Good to know."

Nothing more than a soft whisper, and it heats up his insides better than the water.

Joel hisses in pain as his body submerges. While he alone occupies a good portion of the tub, you'll fit. A tight fit. Another knot forms in his throat.

There's the faint sound of clothing pieces hitting the floor and when he looks to the side, you're like he is—naked.

Vulnerable.

Just like him, you do it in one go, submerging your body despite the pain of the still-throbbing wounds. Your face scrunches in pain, which is the only reason he can focus on something else other than your legs touching his underwater.

The rag used for bathing is hung on the tub—clean, dry, washed.

He picks it up as you throw some water on your shoulders, and thinks about how much of you he'd like to know still.

So he asks. "Can I start?" He'd never be able to focus on something else with your hands on his body—washcloth separating the touch or not.

"You—you're actually gonna—uhm. Bathe me?"

"That's the idea, yeah. Unless you don't want me—"

"I do!" you interrupt. "I just—I thought you were only gonna clean my wounds."

There's not much space to move around now that you two are sitting, but he can move.

"No," Joel dips the cloth in the water and grabs the soap bar outside the tub. "Can you turn around for me?" He needs to find his guts first. If you're facing him, Joel will just gaze. Desire. Distract himself. "Wanna start with your back."

"'kay."

When you turn, Joel's mind goes blank.

Here he is, sharing a tub with the one person who's made him feel more human than anything else, and all he can do is long for.

His worries as he walked to the bathroom involved discomfort or tension. There's none to be found, even in the silence.

Joel sees your hair all tied up and wished he was the one to do it. "Aren't you gonna wash your hair?" he asks, and his hands start to work.

"One thing at a time, don't you think?" you chuckle. "If I was gonna do that I'd have to heat up another bath."

"Just for the hair?"

"Just for the hair. Ask El, doing this shit nowadays is a nuisance."

"I'll take your word for it," he's careful with his hands. There aren't many open wounds on your body, only splashes of purple, green, yellow, and blue. A Monet painting. "Please tell me if I hurt you."

There's a moment of silence before you answer, "You couldn't." It's the softest he's ever heard your voice, and he hears the confidence and truth in it. You don't believe he could hurt you. You're a hundred percent right, of course, but hearing it still soothes him. "But I will," you add, turning your face around to give him a smile.

Instead of returning it, Joel leans forward and kisses the lips that continue to do it—every time you confess thoughts and feelings buried in you, Joel feels something stirring inside. Being born, maybe. Growing.

You lean back to the kiss, and suddenly, your back is touching his chest. Joel makes sure to keep his hips propped against the bathtub so this is about what he said more than what he wants, but this is now his favorite position.

When you pull back, Joel feels himself smiling.

Opening his eyes, he finds you staring.

"It'll hurt when I wash that knife wound," he remembers.

Your eyebrows pierce together, recalling the gash you have on your left side. "It'd hurt more if it were days ago?"

It's offered like leverage. He takes it. "Brave one," he states. So much braver and smarter than he'll ever be—someone who still has the courage to feel what she feels and say it.

Joel hopes it'll rub off on him.

"You're the brave one," you counter. "You know... I think you never told me about what you did before all this."

He frowns. "No?"

You shake your head. Joel adds more soap to the cloth and starts washing your arms, "I used to work construction."

"Did you like it?" your body is loose in his hold. Joel holds up one of your hands and washes it slowly, back and forth, like he'll do to every part of you.

"I did. I think there's something to be said about building a home. About building good structures, y'know?"

As he cleans your body and wounds, the questions keep on coming, and he keeps on delivering answers.

For your arms, you ask about his work, and who he worked with. Joel takes note of every scar you have on your body, curious as to whether they came before or after the outbreak.

When he moves to your back and chest, you ask him about what he used to enjoy. He talks about it—trips with his brother, barbecues with friends and family, a nice and peaceful week at a distant country somewhere where he barely speaks the language, but he can get to know different cultures and people.

Joel stops when he sees the tattoo of a date under your right boob, trying his hardest to ignore the desire to squeeze what's in front of him.

Not the time. Bathe first, feel it later.

"Whose birthday is it?" he asks, putting the tip of his finger on it.

You stay silent, so he keeps on moving. He slides his hand underwater to your leg, and palming its way down your thigh and calf, he grabs hold of your foot; he's analyzing for any wounds but finds none, so he starts washing your legs.

When the answer comes, Joel's hand stops for a moment.

"It was—," your choked-up voice pulls his eyes to your face, and the sorrow he finds there makes him ache. "Oh, god."

A choked-up laughter. No humor to it, and a thousand ghosts on your face tell him he's about to hear something that'll change him again.

"You don't have to—" he starts, but you raise a hand asking for silence, for give me a second, and he stops. As long as you want to.

"We never talked about the 26th," you state. He goes back to washing your legs, shaking his head. "Can I?"

"Yeah."

"I was—" you breathe in deep, and look at him again searching for something. "I never told this to anyone."

Joel nods. "I never talk about it, too."

"It doesn't help, does it?" Your eyes are red-rimmed, and Joel notices there's much about you he never figured out. You're younger than him by a lot, but you were there.

"No." Sirens, flares of green light, and the cracking cacophony of screams and shots still wake him up almost daily. "No, it doesn't."

"I miss talking about him," you whisper to him. A tear slides down your face, and it cuts him.

Who does she miss? "Who do you miss?"

He's moved onto the other leg when you answer. "I was at my best friend's house on the twenty-sixth. She was working double shifts at the hospital to pay for—," you stop.

Joel can only take so much. He pulls you close until your face is resting on his shoulder, and he feels his eyes stinging.

He gets that. Sometimes saying a name was too much.

It took months before you heard of Sarah, and her name was all you got until now.

"Take your time," he says.

"Caio needed new glasses." Your arms wrap around Joel's middle, and he knows you'll be staying in his arms until the tale's over.

"Caio," he repeats. Recalling the roman numbers, he adds. "January twenty-five."

"Yeah. He—Caio broke his on his solo mission to find fossils in my backyard—well, technically my dog Diana was responsible, but he always said 'don't blame her, Gumma, she only wants to kiss me', so we said it was his fault."

"Gumma? Who's Gumma?"

"I am," you laugh. "He couldn't say 'godmother when he was born, so he shortened it. He told everybody I was Gumma, his s-second mommy."

Joel tightens his hold on you, suddenly very aware that he's shaking.

"He was sick," you go on. "So no school for him that day. Which means I was there. I could work from home, so Milla always called me."

"Was it just her?"

You nod on his shoulder. Joel starts rubbing his hand all over your back and he could never tell if it was for your comfort or his.

Both, probably.

"We raised him, basically," you sniffle. "Milla and I lived on the same street. She was basically disowned for her teenage pregnancy, so I told her parents they were always shitty at their job, and that unlike them, I knew what family meant, and that we didn't need them. If she wouldn't, I might as well."

Joel smiles at that. "Sounds like you."

"We moved, worked shitty jobs, and lived together for the most part. My parents helped us with bills for the most part of the first years. When—when Caio turned eleven, my parents paid for the coolest party. And—I'll never forget it, 'cause it was the last one he had, so..."

Eleven.

Joel buries his face and tears on the curve of your neck.

"So on the twenty-sixth, I was at home with him all day. Fucking hell, how unfair is that? That I got all those hours with him and—" the way you burrow your face on his throat makes Joel wish he could make you live under his skin. Protected from everything. Even memories. "When everything started going wrong, Milla was still at the hospital. She called twenty-three minutes before all signals went out to tell me that something was wrong, very wrong and that she felt we needed to go somewhere safe. She said 'babe, I want you to think of nothing else but getting to safety, d'you hear me? Go to Mr. Nunqua's house, he has a safety bunker there—go, and take Caio. I'll find you there."

Joel listens to the rest of the tale with his heart in his hands.

You got there, but Mr. Nunqua was already infected.

He was the first person you killed. His wife was the second.

You managed to get both you and Caio to the bunker, safe and sound, but it wasn't enough.

It never is.

Caio being Infected was a crueler end than anything Joel's mind came up with.

"He realized it, Joel. He noticed something was wrong, and—"

It takes a few more moments before you can finish what he already expected. "He asked me to make the pain stop before he could hurt me. He said 'please don't let me hurt you, Gumma'."

Milla found you cradling his body in your arms hours later, and that was the last you two saw of each other.

He lets you take your time to feel better before he pulls your face back to look at it.

The pink cheeks and eyes hurt him, but when he kisses your face, your lips, all he can think is how proud he is of you.

"Can I do you now?" you ask, pulling your hand out of the water in a request for the cloth.

He hands it to you, and watches as you do the same routine as he did.

In return, he asks you all types of questions.

He thought it would be hard to concentrate with your hands on him, but they're so dainty and careful that Joel feels transcendental.

No one ever took care of him like this.

Even the lovers that he once showered with, it was never this intimate.

In the bruises where he hisses in pain, you kiss somewhere else in a soothing manner. His shoulder, the nape of his neck, his outreached arm.

When the question comes, Joel is waiting for it, but he's not ready.

You answer the question about the places you've been and he replies with, "Oh, Sarah always wanted to go there. India."

"Did she?"

It's such a simple answer.

It locks him up the same. His muscles become tense, and his head shakes almost on its own.

I can't do it. He wished to be strong like you but talking about her hurts. "It hurts to talk about her. I don't—I can't."

He expects a nod, or a change of subject.

What he gets instead is you cupping his face in his hands and looking at every inch of his face.

"I know it hurts," you state. Joel, for the first time, believes someone. We raised him. You know how it feels, you do. Which is why what comes next blindsides him. "But Joel—she's already gone. I never thought I was gonna be able to speak about him with someone who understood, but—here you are. We cant—are you going to let her be forgotten, too?"

Bullets hurt less.

His body reacts for him—the inhale is shaky, almost frail. Your words hit harder than shots, but that's okay, because your inquisitive mind and sharp tongue were a couple of the reasons why he went back for you.

It was needed.

"I—" you start. Stop. Joel looks up at you, breathing out the air stuck inside his lungs, and wills himself to breathe. "You know..." your voice is quiet. "I think higher... beings or whatever—that does exist, 'cause—" your laugh is humorless. "I would totally be dead because of my stupid mouth if my path had crossed with anyone else but you."

Now he gets the lack of humor—a sad statement, but never untrue. Not even a hyperbole. Joel nods, "I'd say it's because you say things that you shouldn't, but it's the opposite. And most people don't like that."

I'm not most people, he thinks.

Thank you for saying what you did, is left unsaid. He sees in your eyes that you heard it loud and clear.

"What I'm saying is... you don't have to be ready now, but—" when you lean, his eyes close on instinct, but the kiss lands on his cheek. Sweet. Saccharine. "Please know that you can. When you want to."

He nods.

After a deep breath, you look at all of him. "I think we're clean. Next round?"

The tub is emptied, filled up again, and Joel thinks about how right you are, and how often.

The second shower will be perfect. He's clean now, but when he sits back down on clean water, it feels different.

He groans, and you laugh in response. "I know, right?"

Joel liked it better when you were fitting your bodies against each other.

The water in the tub seems to carry the tension of what you two have been waiting for. Conducting the electricity in each other's thoughts.

"What now?" you ask.

Joel knows what now. "C'mere," he pats his chest.

Like a well-oiled machine, you spin around and fit yourself against him in a second.

This time, Joel pulls you close until you're basically on his lap.

"Now this," he answers. To feel. "I think I had a dream like this once when we were camping."

"What?!"

He likes how shock always makes you look at him, even if it means craning your neck in the worst positions. He laughs. "Yeah. It was a river instead of a cool tub in a forest cabin, though."

"There's no way you—" words are cut sharp, and your eyes widen. "You did! Oh my god, you actually did. You avoided looking at my face all day for two days after that, I thought I'd done something wrong!"

He takes the hit you land on his shoulder with a smile. "You did. You sunk a knife in the middle of an Infected's head and kept me from dying."

What else could he say?

Joel shrugs. "It was hot."

He likes how you can look shy even sitting on his lap, feeling all of his body. "You're crazy," you laugh, looking down.

"Mmm. And don't you forget it," he kisses your shoulder, and that's it—that's all both of you needed to wish for more.

Your hand comes to cover both of his, and Joel is giddy with excitement when you guide his hands from your middle to your breasts.

It's silent permission. An invite.

It's all he needs.

"Can I make you feel good?" he kisses right under your ear and nuzzles his nose right there, goosebumps rising on his skin in response to your full-body shiver.

The next touches are bathed in silence.

The only sounds in the room come from the water moving with each move of both your bodies, and the soft exhale that escapes your lips.

Joel doesn't think about how long it's been since—everything feels like a first time.

A rekindle of sorts.

The hands you guided to your boobs stay there for a few moments, getting a feel of their size, their softness, how perfect they feel in his hands.

Your head drops to his shoulder, chin tilted upwards, eyes closed.

Joel thinks he's dreaming.

The faint pain in some places of his body is the only indication he has of reality.

Nothing else matters when you say, "Joel," so softly, so pleading.

"I'm here," he kisses the words on your skin. Your cheeks, temples, your shoulders that are right there. "I'm here, darlin'."

In the soft moans you let out, Joel plants a flag to signal his way home now every time he's lost in darkness.

The moans are so earnest and shaky that Joel starts trembling when you do. His hands move to explore your belly, and he pins the wound on your side as a reminder for later—it'll scar. He wants to kiss it better. Will kiss it until he's satisfied.

When his hands reach your waist, he imagines you feel his heart racing faster.

He takes his time with it, not only because you deserve it, but because it feels good.

Playing with the hair on your pussy feels good because it makes you whimper. Touching the folds with the tip of his fingers gets your legs to open a little wider until they're spread apart. Joel moans at the gesture and is gifted with another shiver. "Like this?" he asks, doing it again.

Tracing his fingertips up and down the folds.

"Joel," you grind against him, reminding him that he's here, and he's aching, too.

When you do it, your ass finds his cock hard as a rock, and it snuggles to grind on him, giving him the first feel of friction.

With another moan, Joel's lips are sucking on your earlobe. "Tell me what I do that feels good," he states.

Then he dips his fingers inside.

"No one's touched you here before?" his middle finger dips right into the core, applying pressure but not touching.

Your moans vibrate on his chest. "N-no one but me."

"Yeah?" the mental image makes him even harder. Joel thought that wasn't even possible anymore. "Did you finger yourself a lot?"

You nod frantically, pushing your hips forward, seeking more of his touch.

"Did it feel this good?" he moves his middle and ring finger up until they find your clitoris, and he starts rubbing circles on it; he pinches it, measures it with his knuckles, plays with it.

Maybe that's why you don't answer.

He'll take your moans as a good sign. Your chest is panting, and Joel feels a little drunk. He hasn't been drunk in years—no whiskey available for regular people will do that anymore; too diluted, too fake.

Your heavy breathing and nails sinking on his forearms get his mind hazy.

Joel kisses, licks, then sucks on your neck. "Talk to me, darlin'. I wanna know. I need to know."

"Joel," you say, but too loud. He uses his other hand to pinch your nipple, and the whimper you let out makes him twitch against your back.

"No screaming." Not this time. "I'm waitin' on your answer."

"I don't remember the question," you whine.

"Did it feel this good?" he pushes only one finger inside, and your mouth opens wide. Joel might not make it—it's so fucking tight and all he can think about is burying himself in it. All of him.

"Nonononono, it didn't, it didn't," you mumble.

It's a slow process, opening you up.

All the time, Joel talks in your ear about how good you're doing. "Taking my fingers so well, look at ya," he sounds drunk if he pays close attention. Two fingers fit in too tight, so Joel takes his time until he feels you opening up.

There's the grinding that never stops—the more Joel pushes his fingers in and out of you, the more you move in sync with his hand, grinding back up against him with every push inside.

It's torture. He loves every second of it.

"I want more," you whine at some point.

Joel was so lost appreciating the view of your chest painted red that he missed when you whispered his name the first couple of times.

He checks it—buries his fingers up until his knuckles, massages the spots inside of you that make you curl your toes and pull your knees up higher.

"Please," you beg.

He likes the sound of it, but he'll leave that for later.

The third finger is easier than the second—Joel feels how slick you are. He knows water bodies are not the best places for penetration, but he values your comfort more than anything right now, and in here you're both warm. At ease.

When his name starts falling from your lips like a song, Joel knows it's coming.

His other hand keeps traveling through your body—grabbing at your neck, pinching the hardened nipples of your gorgeous tits, palming through your stomach.

If his lips left your skin for longer than a minute, Joel thinks it's too much. "Yeah, yeah, I know, darlin', it's climbing up, isn't it?" he thinks addiction can be so easy. Your whines are necessary now for him, no matter what. "I wanna see it so badly." His voice had never been this low. Hoarse like sandpaper, and so filled with lust. "You're all ready for me now, d'you feel it?"

All three fingers are buried until the knuckles. Scissoring them open, pumping them against your walls in search of that spot inside you that makes you shake—Joel can barely breathe.

"D'you want more than this? Hm? 'Cause I'm in heaven, darlin'," he tells you. "All I need is to see you let go now. I can't believe I'll be the lucky fucker that gets to see you fall apart."

"Joel, I want more—want all of it, please, please—"

"I'll give it to you, I will." He'd give you anything. "You can have anything you ask me, anythin'."

"Harder—please, please, please—oh! Fuck, like that, like that, Joel."

"You sound so good moaning my name I'm gonna fuckin' lose my mind," he growls. "Do it. Cum on my fingers. Cum for me."

Joel marveled with every shake of your body. He closed his eyes and kissed the part of yours that was the closest. Your legs clamped shut around his hand, thighs shaking. At least this time, you remembered to muffle your sounds on him.

In his neck, you bit down the whispers of his name. Whimpers. Ohs,

He waited for the impossible grip to ease before he thumbed a grazing touch over your clit—just to check; to feel.

"Want more," you kissed his neck, and there was no need for all that honey in your voice, really.

Joel drank it, anyway. Licked it clean from your lips, and drowned in the way you and the water seemed to wrap him in.

"We gotta get outta the water, baby," says Joel. "'s not a good idea we do it in here."

You stopped kissing his neck, your hips stopped their motion and the little look around you at the room makes Joel's stomach feel funny. He feels almost suffocated with this need to kiss all over the red on your face.

"Uhm—are we... here?"

Joel never thought he'd live to see the day you would avoid the word 'fuck', but he smiled at it. "No, darlin', we should get dry. Put our clothes on. We can finish this in the room, right?"

You lick your lips, and then his. You bite his bottom lip, sucking it into yours, and Joel is fucked.

He melts, too. All over you, on your fingertips caressing his cheeks, on your chest pressing against his, and on the depths of your eyes as you stare deeply into his.

"'kay," you whisper. "Let's go."

Joel helps you out and loves to watch the way you gravitate toward him. When you whisper, "Do we have to put on our clothes?"

He wraps you in the towel instead of answering, and pulls you to his chest again. "Body warmth, remember?" Just for good measure, he puts the other one around him, collects all the clean clothes you had bought, and then looks at you.

"Hop on," he nudges your waist with his hands, and you get exactly what he means; your legs wrap around his middle and your arms stay firm around his neck. Joel holds you with a satisfied grunt, "atta girl."

The warmth of all of this has a price.

Joel knows it as he walks you to the room you two share, as he closes the door behind you both, as he lays your bodies on the joined mattresses, and pulls the winter blanket over your bodies.

It'd be more than a steep price.

Something on the figures of what he signed off when he took the job from Marlene—when he took Ellie out of her fingers.

Those dotted lines he signed with a blind eye. Unaware of what he was agreeing to until he Ellie's life faced danger and all the moments of every single awful joke she told, her smart jabs and the braveness in her bones to risk her life for him came back like a slap to the face, and Joel was crushed under the enormous weight of it all.

He accepted it, even if he still couldn't say it.

With you, it was almost the same.

He signed the dotted lines when he came back for you.

He couldn't know, wouldn't dream of knowing what he had signed up for until the time he ordered you to keep close and you answered with: "Always. El, you know it—between us."

Seven words, and Joel thought of nothing else for days.

Always.

For months, you never left his side.

Abided by his temper, shortness, curt words.

Spoke through his darkness and whiskey, reaching out to him the same way you did with Ellie—pulling from deep within the part of him that was still alive. Truly human.

When Joel touches all of you covered under a blanket, he wills his eyes to stay shut because if he opens them, they'll sting.

He feels too much, and it's never enough. The taste of your skin is sewn along with lines of fear, the acidic and familiar taste of I can't do it. I can't lose this. I can't lose you.

He kisses every inch.

Joel licks his name out off your lips every time they come out.

He nuzzles his face like an animal trying to imprint scent all over—from your neck all the way down to the inside of your thighs you'll have beard burns and it's okay, because you ask for them.

In the quiet, you two say so much.

Joel asked you, "you gotta keep quiet, baby, we can't be loud," and you listened, because you're so good. He says it, too. "So good, baby... you're so good," and listens to you reply with,

"You're so good, Joel. So good."

He soaks it all up until it's all mixed in his veins.

The price of hearing your sinful whisper in his ear is high. "Need you inside me," you brand in his skin. "Please, Joel?"

Joel would close his eyes and see those words—he wants to burn them behind his eyelids since they're so loud they erase everything else from his brain for a while.

He fingers you some more to double-check if you're ready and he has to talk, because, "You're so fuckin' wet, darlin', my god," he whispers in your ear, and your nails clawing at his back, digging into his skin tell him to hurry. "All this for me?"

"Please stop torturin' me," you whisper back, sounding like you're about to cry.

It's torture for both of you, so Joel lines up. He teases you with his cock, gliding his shaft between your lips, coating it in the slick that's dripping down your legs, and whispers, "You want it?"

"Joel," you growl at him.

Joel pushes in with a smile on his face and has his face scrunched in a silent smile when he slips inside. It's a tight fit at first, and Joel has to stop midway. He has to breathe.

"'m gonna go slow, 'kay?" He does. He pulls almost all the way out, and slowly pushes in again, feeling you tense around him, "Breathe, baby, you gotta breathe for me."

"Joel," you whisper. Around his cock, your cunt pulses, and he curses under his breath. You bury your whole face in his face and moan. "s big," you moan. "Feels so good."

He's only a man, you see—Joel's hands are supporting his weight on each side of your face, and they tremble.

He has to drop to his forearms and elbows, caging your body underneath his. "Breathe really deep for me, baby," he whispers, and you do it. "Close your eyes now, and relax."

The price of having you all to himself is one Joel never could afford, but one he'll spend each day of his life doing everything in his possession to pay.

His whole body shakes as you open up for him. It's a blossoming—Joel feels it around his cock the moment your body relaxes and you feel it.

Your legs wrap around him tighter.

"Move," you whisper.

So he does.

He's deeply in debt.

Joel gets lost in the feeling of how warm and tight you are around his cock, and it makes him drunk. It makes him feel like you're wrapped all around him, and Joel never fucked like this.

He could've gone a century without sex and he would remember;

Nothing felt like this.

No desire or lust or bodies aligning ever made him move this slowly, with this much pace; Joel's back must become a mural of claws being sharpened by the time you beg him to go faster, to push harder.

"'m not gonna break Joel, for fuck's sake, please," you beg as he kisses your lips and fucks you leisurely, and it registers.

Through the thick fog of everything that this is, he listens to it, and he gives it to you.

Joel has no idea how he lasts this long.

When you cum for him, it's not even because he's fucking you. He's more like imprinting the memory of your velvety touch all around him, pushing deep and hard as he caresses the sweat off your face, and he's telling you all that his lust-drunken mind is thinking off.

"Didn't think—could feel this good, darlin'." His pauses are his thrusts, and he wonders if you're listening to any of it, or is just lost on the sound of his voice. He knows you like it. "You like—the sound of my voice—don't you, baby? I know you do." Thurst—and deep, and fuck, "I'm—so fuckin' lucky—look at you—look at how good—god, you're gonna kill me, baby—"

He dies a little death when he feels you start shaking.

All you.

His name spills from your lips and your nails dig in deeper than ever before, and that's what does it, what drops the pin and makes the ball of knotted tension that kept him high burst—Joel has only the notion to pull out before he cums, but he cums so hard that he loses sense of everything for a moment or two.

Your hands are soothing his face when he comes back to it.

Joel feels like a whole person for just those hours with you in the dark.

With you, he realized something—while Joel's skin may offer him little comfort, yours does.

The soothing peace that comes with feeling that again, comfort, makes Joel breathe out and close his eyes without his chest tied in one big knot for the first time since... it. He is alive. However that came to be, or why, he'll never know, but your words are a mantle of truth that can start bringing peace to his inner war of two continuous decades now—he can either keep living and burying everything: Existence, hopes, feelings, love, memories, her, her—Sarah;

or... he can live.

Joel wants to live. With Ellie, with you. He pulls you closer, and focuses one last second to hear the certain sound of Ellie's pencil furiously creating something on paper across the thin wall, and he sleeps.

📝 So. I gave the old man some love and some peace (that he deserves) because I watched him lose yet another person this Sunday and I was hurt. What did you guys think? :)

#usernexusnyx #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller fluff #joel miller hurt comfort #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #joel miller x female character #joel miller imagine #the last of us fic #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic

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hells-plaid-angel · 3 months

Text

Dean had the lung capacity of a deep-sea diver. After years of holding his breath as he drove through tunnels, he'd honed the skill, only gasping for breath when the Impala's windshield broke through the darkness and into the light. The habit had formed as a child but lingered into adulthood as most childhood fantasies did.

As a boy, his father raised him on superstition. If you made a wish when the world was swallowed by blackness and you could hold your breath until the end of a tunnel, that wish would come true. Over the years he'd wished for a hundred stupid things. He'd wished his mother was still alive, that he lived a normal life or that a pretty girl would look his way. He'd wished his father had been the one who'd died in the fire. He wished he didn't feel that way.

Once Dean had blacked out in the backseat of the Impala when driving the I-90 through Boston. He'd come to with Sammy squealing like a stuck pig and John Winchester cursing like a sailor. For the next year, being in Massachusetts made him feel light-headed.

Kids and old men are similar in their love of rituals. Dean was no longer a child, but he wasn't ready to call himself an old man. The ritual had changed over the years, but at its heart, it was always the same.

Dean found his new ritual each night he woke from a nightmare. That night, he found himself in the bunker. The image of his hands covered in blood lingered in the darkness of the room. He held his breath wishing for the dream not to be true. He only breathed when he switched on the lights and found his hands clean. In his dreams, Cas was always dying.

The nightmares weren't helped by the fact that the angel had died, numerous times. His sleep-addled mind took time to sort fact from fiction. Had Cas come back this time?

Dean Winchester knew better than anybody that death didn't always stick. Dean Winchester knew better than anybody that the universe liked to make him suffer. Both statements were equally true.

In the nightmare, Cas had died in his arms. He'd awoken, held his breath, switched on the lights and choked out a breath, which sounded suspiciously like a sob. When the drowning feeling reseeded he found himself exiting his bedroom, searching for the object of his nightmares as a drowning man searches for land.

Dean would never admit to himself he was looking for Cas, but the knowledge was there. There were many things Dean knew but wasn't ready to admit.

Dean found the angel in the library of the bunker, absentmindedly flicking through ancient texts and Sam's collection of trashy fitness and lifestyle magazines indiscriminately. A heavy weight on his chest dissipated. Cas looked up at Dean's sharp inhale. He could breathe again.

"Hello, Dean," the angel greeted, as though he were late to some prearranged meeting.

"Morning, Cas," Dean spoke, for lack of a better topic of conversation. He collapsed into the seat beside Cas.

"It's currently 3:15 a.m. and the sun isn't scheduled to rise until 5:25."

"Thanks for the weather report, buddy," Dean griped. His tone lacked the usual exasperated edge he used when Cas said something that struck him as particularly alien, which was often.

"How are you, Dean? You seem... unmoored."

People in the twenty-first century didn't use words like 'unmoored'. Dean knew exactly what Cas wasn't saying. Dean seemed upset. If there was one thing Dean didn't cope well with, it was being anything less than 'fine'. They were experts in each other's pathology, which would always feel strange. Dean wasn't used to being known.

"Can we talk about something else?" Dean had been working on the concept of denial. However, avoidance was fair game.

"If I'm going to be staying here long term, I want to buy better magazines," Cas stated, tossing the magazine haphazardly. He'd been staying for longer than usual. Dean kept feeling like he was holding his breath, waiting for the angel to disappear.

"We can drive into town come morning. Need to clear my head anyway."

"You haven't been sleeping well," Cas observed, his eyes shifting their attention to Dean. The blue-grey eyes said more than his words. His eyes were an ocean to an inexperienced swimmer. Not everyone could read them. Dean could. There was something more to them. A strong rip beneath steady water. There was a storm raging beneath the surface.

"It's creepy that you've noticed that," Dean remarked.

"You haven't been very quiet."

Dean wondered how much Cas heard. Did he talk in his sleep? Did he call out Cas' name in the night? Had the angel heard the moments of weakness where Dean had let himself muffle sobs behind his hand?

"This isn't changing the subject."

"I've been changing the subject all week. Evidently, it's not working," Cas' voice was resolute.

He and Dean shared their stubbornness, which always led to unproductive stalemates. They were two bucks with their antlers interlocked, starving and trapped in their own idiocy.

"The thing about being human, Cas, is that things don't magically just get fixed because you want them to." Dean rebuked.

"I'm aware, but have you actually tried to fix it?"

They were fighting. Why were they fighting?

"Talking never really solved much in my line of work. You know that."

"Is this about work?" Cas questioned.

They hadn't had any difficult hunts in weeks. Cas knew it wasn't about the job. He wanted Dean to know he knew.

"It doesn't matter what it's about. That's not the point. You don't get it." Dean felt the truth pushing its way up to the surface.

"Then help me understand."

"The problem —." Dean began before he felt anger or frustration choke the words from him.

"The problem is you keep dying."

He'd expected Cas to baulk at the confession. Dean wasn't one for sharing fears or feelings. What he hadn't expected was the look of horror that settled on the angel's face.

Dean scowled and scrubbed at his cheek, quietly cursing himself when his palm pulled back wet. Over the years, he'd gotten good at crying quietly. He hated that he was able to hide it from himself. Men didn't cry. Dean didn't cry. It was a lie, not so much a superstition, but a fable. A story he told himself.

"Dean I — I didn't realise my death... affected you so much. I apologise for the oversight," Cas spoke slowly, as though deliberately choosing each word with care.

How the hell could Cas not know his death, every goddamn one, hurt Dean? Cas was family.

"Yeah, well, I pegged you for a lot of things, Cas. Stupid wasn't one of 'em. So just... Be careful. I'm going to bed," Dean mumbled, praying for a quick exit.

Cas grabbed Dean's arm as he passed, stilling him. Dean felt the restriction return to his throat. He held his breath. He wished Cas knew what he meant without having to say it out loud.

Neither man spoke. The silence stretched long and loud between them. Cas clung to Dean's arm like a dying man to a life raft. For his part, Dean was just trying to stay afloat. Slowly, almost imperceptibly so, Cas' palm slid down to hold Dean's hand. Dean let him, which was as good as a confession.

There would be no confessions. A confession implied guilt, something that Dean had in droves, but not about Cas. It wasn't a lie so much as it was a fable. If a story was told long enough it became history.

He and Cas were still in the dark, biding time between apocalypses. He wished that when they finally found themselves in brighter times, there would be no need for confessions.

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myfavoritesstuff · 2 months

Text

Crimson Hearts Part 2

Paring: Matt Sturniolo x Reader

Prompt: Meeting the Sturniolo’s gang wasn’t as bad as you thought. It almost made you forget why you were brought here in the first place. Almost.

Warning(s): Gore, Shooting, Profanity, Mafia type stuff, poorly written fight scene, not proofread

Note: I made some of the YouTubers from their most recent collaboration be a part of the gang. And yes, I have soft Matt. He along with some of the other members will show more of their bad, gangster side in future chapters. I also kind of rushed it, so I apologize. I will go back and fit it later.

Word count: 3,047 (I will make all my others chapters not as long as this for those who don’t want that many words in a chapter)

Part 1

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. You stirred, the memories of last night's encounter with the Sturniolo triplets creeping into your consciousness like a persistent fog. The images were vivid: the cold sweat on your father's brow, the imposing figures of Nick, Matt, and Chris, their presence commanding.

With a deep breath, you pushed the covers aside and rose from the bed, your mind racing with the possibilities of what the day might hold. The air was crisp, a stark contrast to the heated atmosphere of the party. You dressed quickly, the weight of the impending meeting settling in your stomach like a stone.

Stepping outside, the world seemed oblivious to the turmoil that churned beneath its surface. The neighborhood was peaceful, the only sounds were the distant laughter of children and the soft rustling of leaves. But the tranquility did nothing to ease your nerves.

The sleek black limousine was impossible to miss, idling at the curb like a silent predator. The door opened, and you were greeted by the sight of the Sturniolo triplets, their expressions unreadable. Nick's nod was curt, an unspoken invitation to enter their world. Matt's eyes flickered with a hint of curiosity, while Chris offered a reassuring grin, the edge of danger still lingering in his smile.

You took a seat, the leather cool against your skin. The interior of the limo was luxurious, a stark contrast to the ruthless reputation of its occupants. The triplets watched you, their gazes sharp and assessing. You swallowed hard, searching for words that wouldn't betray your anxiety.

"So," you began, your voice steadier than you felt, "I hear the city never sleeps because of you three."

Nick's lips twitched into a semblance of a smile, and Matt's posture relaxed ever so slightly. Chris chuckled, the sound rich and surprisingly warm.

"We do keep things... interesting," Nick replied, his voice smooth like aged whiskey. “The city has many stories. Some are bedtime tales for the innocent; others are wake-up calls for the brave.”

Matt’s gaze was unreadable, yet you could tell that he was reading your expression, almost like he was deciphering the thoughts racing through your mind. “Marriage is a strategic move,” he mused, the words hanging in the air like a challenge. “It’s not about love, it’s about power and alliances.”

Chris leaned forward, light catching the edge of his grin. “But don’t worry,” he chimed in, his tone light but laced with seriousness. “We’re not monsters. We’re humans too. We’re businessmen, and in our world, we value a good partnership.”

You took a moment to gather your thoughts, the reality of the situation settling in. This wasn’t just a marriage proposal; it was something much more. You thought of what you could say and the next words could potentially have consequences that would be yours to bear.

“I understand the stakes”, you replied, your voice trying to remain steady. “But I’m not just a pawn to be moved at will. Like you said, we’re all human here.”

The brothers exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them. It was clear that this was a new development, a wrinkle in their plan they hadn’t anticipated. But it was also clear that they respected strength, and perhaps, in that moment, they saw a glimpse of their own resolve reflected in you.

The conversation flowed more easily after that, small talk bridging the gap between your two worlds. You spoke of inconsequential things—the weather, the city's nightlife, the latest technology. And for a moment, just a fleeting moment, you could almost forget who they were and the dangerous game you were all playing. Almost.

The limousine glided to a stop in front of an imposing mansion, its facade a testament to the power and wealth of the Sturniolo gang. As you stepped out, the grandeur of the residence struck you, a stark reminder of the world you were about to enter.

Inside, the atmosphere was charged, a mix of opulence and danger. The triplets led you through the halls, their steps echoing on the marble floors. You were introduced to the other members of the gang, each one a vital piece of the Sturniolo empire.

Nick gestured to a man with an intense gaze, "That's Colby Brock. He's our eyes and ears on the street. Nothing happens in this city without Colby knowing about it."

Matt nodded towards a figure leaning against the wall, "And there's Sam Golbach. He's the tech wizard. If it's digital and it's secure, Sam's the one who can crack it. He also works great with all kinds of weapons. If a weapon was created, he knows about it and will find out everything about it.

Chris's grin widened as he pointed out a man with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, "Meet Jake Webber. He's the charmer, the face for our... less official dealings."

You followed their gazes as they introduced the rest. "That's Johnnie Guilbert," Nick said, "He handles our finances, making sure the money flows where it needs to."

“Tara Yummy," Matt added, "is our negotiator. She's got a way with words that can turn any deal in our favor."

"And last but not least," Chris chimed in, "is Larray. He's the life of the party, but don't let that fool you. He's as sharp as they come, especially when it comes to information gathering."

As you took in each face, a complex web of roles and responsibilities began to form in your mind. These were the people who ran the underworld, each with their own story, their own skills, and now, they were all looking at you.

The triplets watched you carefully, gauging your reaction. "Welcome to the family," they said in unison, their voices a blend of warmth and warning. It was clear that this was more than a mere introduction; it was an initiation into a world from which there was no easy escape.

After the introductions, you were led down a corridor lined with portraits of stern-looking individuals, their eyes following your every move. The triplets stopped in front of a heavy oak door, its surface carved with intricate designs that spoke of a long, storied history.

"This will be your room," Nick said, pushing the door open with a gentle nudge.

The room that greeted you was a study in contrasts. The walls were painted a deep, velvety maroon, accented with black trim that gave the space an air of sophistication and power. Heavy drapes in dark shades framed the windows, allowing slivers of light to pierce the room's natural dimness.

Despite the dark colors, the room was undeniably beautiful. A large, four-poster bed dominated the center, its ebony wood polished to a high shine and adorned with plush bedding in shades of crimson and gold. The furniture was of the same dark wood, each piece exquisitely crafted and perfectly placed to create a sense of balance and comfort.

On one wall, a fireplace crackled softly, the flames casting dancing shadows that played across the room. Above it, a painting of the city at night hung, its lights twinkling like stars in a dark sky, a constant reminder of the world that lay just beyond these walls.

The room was a sanctuary, a place of quiet strength and luxury. It was clear that every detail had been carefully considered, from the soft, thick carpet that cushioned your steps to the subtle scent of sandalwood that lingered in the air.

As you took it all in, you couldn't help but feel a sense of awe. This was a room that belonged to someone of importance, someone who wielded power with a quiet confidence. It was a room that spoke of the Sturniolo legacy, and now, it was yours.

The soft knock at the door pulled you from your reverie, the room's grandeur momentarily forgotten. You crossed the plush carpet and opened the door to find Matt standing there, his expression serious.

"May I come in?" he asked, and without waiting for an answer, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The room seemed to shrink with his presence, the air charged with a new intensity.

"There are rules," he began, his voice low and steady. "Rules that are non-negotiable if you're to stay here."

You nodded, a silent signal for him to continue.

"First," he said, holding up a finger, "loyalty is paramount. You do not betray the family, not by action or word. Second, discretion is expected. What happens within these walls stays within these walls. And third," he paused, his gaze locking with yours, "you must contribute. Everyone here has a role, a purpose. You'll need to find yours."

The rules were clear, each one a pillar that upheld the Sturniolo empire. They were not just guidelines; they were the very foundation of the life you were stepping into.

"Understand this," Matt added, "we protect our own, but we also demand respect and obedience. Step out of line, and there will be consequences."

The weight of his words settled over you, a tangible reminder of the reality of your new existence. This was no longer the world of lost cats and late newspaper deliveries. This was a world where power and survival were intertwined, where every choice could mean the difference between life and death.

"Are you willing to accept these terms?" Matt asked, his eyes searching yours for any hint of hesitation.

You took a deep breath, the gravity of the decision before you not lost. "Yes," you replied, your voice a whisper of resolve. "I understand."

Matt nodded once, a silent acknowledgment of your acceptance. "Welcome to the Sturniolo family," he said, and with those words, the next chapter of your life began.

Led by Matt, you returned to the main lounge, the heart of the mansion where the gang congregated. The room buzzed with conversation and the clinking of glasses, a stark contrast to the solemnity of the corridors. You hesitated at the threshold, the weight of countless eyes upon you.

The lounge was expansive, the ceilings high and the furnishings a blend of luxury and comfort. Plush sofas and armchairs were arranged in inviting clusters, encouraging close-knit discussions. The walls were adorned with art that hinted at the gang's reach and influence, each piece telling a story of power and conquest.

At first, you lingered on the periphery, a silent observer to the camaraderie and dynamics that played out before you. The members of the gang moved with an ease that spoke of long-established bonds, their laughter and gestures, a language you had yet to learn.

But as the minutes passed, you found yourself drawn into the fold. Colby shared a street-smart joke that eased the tension in your shoulders. Sam's tech and weapon talk was surprisingly accessible, his enthusiasm infectious. Jake's charm was disarming, and soon you were sharing stories of your own, laughter spilling from your lips more freely than you'd have expected.

Johnnie discussed business with a sharp acumen that piqued your interest, while Tara's negotiation tales were both harrowing and exhilarating. Larray's vivacity was a bright spark in the room, his humor a welcome relief from the gravity of the situation.

From the corner of your eye, you could see the triplets. They stood apart, a silent, watchful presence. Their expressions were unreadable, but there was no mistaking the intent focus with which they observed your integration into the group. It wasn't surveillance, but rather an assessment, a measure of your ability to adapt and belong.

Nick's gaze met yours across the room, a silent nod of approval. Matt's lips quirked up in what might have been a smile, and Chris raised his glass to you, a silent toast. In that moment, you felt a flicker of something like acceptance, a sense that perhaps you could find your place here after all.

The evening wore on, and the initial awkwardness faded into a sense of belonging. You were still an outsider, but now you were an outsider with a foot in the door, and the path ahead seemed a little less daunting.

The morning sun streamed through the kitchen windows, casting a warm, golden hue over the faces of the assembled gang members. You entered quietly, still adjusting to the rhythms of this new life. The chatter ceased momentarily as all eyes turned to you, but a nod from Nick and a smile from Chris were all it took for the conversations to resume.

The breakfast table was a lively scene, plates piled high with food, and the air filled with the rich aromas of coffee and cooked meals. You took your place, feeling the last remnants of sleep fade away as the energy of the room enveloped you.

After the meal, as the others dispersed to their various tasks, Matt's hand on your arm stopped you. He led you to a quiet corner of the room, his expression earnest.

"There's something I need to discuss with you," he said, his voice low. "The wedding is going to happen soon. It's in a month."

The words hit you like a wave, unexpected and overwhelming. A wedding? The concept seemed out of place in the dangerous world you'd been thrust into, yet here it was, being presented as a matter of fact.

Your heart raced, a mix of shock and an emotion you hesitated to name.

"I... I understand," you managed to say, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "I won't disagree."

You looked into Matt's eyes, searching for answers, for reassurance. And there, in the depths of his gaze, you saw something. It was a look that conveyed a hint of respect for the role you were about to take on.

Days had passed since your conversation with Matt and you were starting to like your new living situation. You grew close with each member in your own way, and you were starting to see what was beneath all their hardened exteriors. Tara, with her sharp wit and silver tongue, had especially grown a liking to you. She had taken you under her wing as an older sister type figure.

One afternoon, Tara decided it was time for a break and claimed that “you look like you could use some fresh air. A little shopping might do us good.” You agreed, welcoming the chance to step away from your new environment.

The streets were alive with the hustle and bustle of daily life. As you and Tara made your way through the crowds, you two laughed as she was telling you about some of the gang member’s weaknesses.

“Seriously?! Matt is afraid of ketchup?! Like he has never really tried it?” A smile formed on your face as you giggled at the news. Tara nodded while recounting the memory.

“Yeah, he seems terrified of it, and in fact–” She suddenly stopped. A serious expression taking over her features.

“What is it?” You were greatly confused but soon you saw why she had so abruptly stopped. A group of figures emerged from the shadows, their intentions clear from the malice in their eyes. Now that you realize it, you two were the only ones in the area and you started to get surrounded by the men.

Without hesitation, Tara pulled out a black and pink gun from her belt and fired it straight up in the air. A pink smoke materialized.

“Oh you think your tough shit huh? Calling the rest of the gang to come help you?” One of the men called.

“No, I just want the rest of my gang to see me beat your ass.” Tara replied with an attitude. The men did not seem to appreciate that as they all soon started charging in your direction. Tara unfazed called out to you.

“Y/n! Get down, now!” Without a moment's hesitation, you crouched down just as Tara pulled out another gun, this time black with gold designs. She fired, aiming it towards the man closest to you. The sound made you jump as you shut your eyes tightly, not wanting to see the bloody scene in front of you. Tara kept firing and all you could hear was the sound of the bullets. At one point she seemed to curse, making your eyes open. You immediately felt nauseous for all you could see was blood, dead bodies, and men still trying to put up a fight.

It seemed as though Tara ran out of bullets, but that didn’t stop her in the slightest. She put her fists up and started striking at the men around you. She was a whirlwind, her strikes precise and lethal. You would have tried to help but you didn’t know the first thing about defense or attacking someone. You assumed that if you tried to interfere, you would just get in her way.

And then, as quickly as it began, it was over. The surviving attackers retreated once they started hearing the sounds of running footsteps headed in your direction. As you thought, it was the rest of the gang. You saw Matt, Chris, and Nick leading the way.

Jake and Johnnie went to go check up on Tara while Matt, Chris and Nick made their way over to you. Colby, Sam, and Larray stayed on guard and watched for any other potential threats.

“Are you okay?” Matt questioned, worry hinted in his eyes. Chris and Nick stayed silent as they seemed to watch the interaction in front of them.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just a little shaken.” Nick then suddenly signaled to Matt.

“I don’t mean to rush this, but we should probably go. We caused too much attention” Chris intervenes. With that, you all head out to the limousine and make your way back to the mansion.

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smuttyassholes · 1 month

Text

To See is to Want 🔞

by Asshole #6

~voyeurism, supernatural, dark, dangerous Jimin, human partner, self- insert, lustful ogling, will eventually be NSFW.~

The moon is full and high in the sky, the sea waves lapping at the shore. There is the slight breeze of September signaling that the summer may be over but it still lingers in the not yet freezing touch of the air. Normally, I would enjoy the beach at night but tonight was not an ordinary night. Tonight I was essentially a stalker. It wasn't my fault not really. But after that one time he had implied that he enjoyed skinny dipping, curiosity burned in my mind. What did he look like under the moon, emerging from the waves, only the dark shape of him visible? And this was the night to find out. There was a bonfire for all the guys at our dorm in the middle of the beach. Everyone had already cleared out at least an hour ago, the sand only littered with a few beach towels some had forgotten.I WAS supposed to be on my way back with my best friend Jen but I waved her off, instead hiding behind some rocks. Waiting. Would he actually be tempted and take a swim now that everyone was gone?

Jimin was sitting by the rapidly decreasing flame, smoking a cigarette. It seemed like forever, waiting, when he stubbed it out rising and towing off his Converse. He pulled his t-shirt off then bent to strip off his jeans.Like he knew he was being watched, he peeled them off achingly slow along with his boxers. I choked on my breath as the long hard lines of his body were revealed, accented by the glow of the dying bon fire, a tattoo barely visible along his spine.Were those the phases of the moon? His ass was even more perfect than I dared imagine, now no longer hidden by the jeans he usually wore on campus. His steps were quick as he walked to the edge of the shore, walking into the dark water, letting it cover all that glorious skin I wasn't even done admiring. I stepped closer, by the bonfire, still able to see him submerge himself completely. I thought he would drown, he was under so long but he rose, silver ringed hands running through his inky dark hair.

Jimin made his way deeper into the ocean, swimming fast and efficiently, enjoying the caress of water on his skin. He dove more than once, his speed increasing. I was curled down on the sand by the fire, mesmerized by him. I knew I shouldn't be watching him like this but he commanded my gaze. My mind. I had wondered over weeks what lay under those clothes and the reality didn't disappoint. I was so deep in my own thoughts of admiration and emerging lust that I missed the man himself emerging from the depths. Except….was he larger? Bulkier? I frowned, trying to understand what I was seeing. As he approached, long fingers with longer nails ran through his black hair, his face more visible. He grinned, full plump lips parting to reveal sharp….fangs? Glinting in the moonlight. Was I hallucinating?

I should get up, I shouldn't be here. I should run. Why couldn't I? His voice, when it came, was a rough hiss, totally unlike the Jimin I had met. I was arrested by the sight of his wet body, the ink adorning his rib cage, the line of his throat when that voice commanded my attention. "It is rude to stare you know." I crawled back just as he knelt bare on the discarded towel by my feet. My voice was a croak as I muttered "I…I wasn't..'' "What, lingering waiting to see me naked? Come on sweetheart. Don't you think I have seen you look at me?" He leaned closer and I could really see those fangs, long and sharp but also his eyes. All black, no pupil. I was terrified and yet still couldn't move. He smelled like the ocean, his wet hair dripping on my shoulder and collarbone. Could he hear my heart hammering? His breath was hot as he whispered in my ear. "Don't you think I can tell…how badly you want a taste? Aren't you afraid?" I couldn't utter a word. Instead, my mouth open and shut a few times, just as he pulled back, my tongue darting out to lick my dry lips. His gaze was fastened to my mouth as I finally shook my head and said "No…" and I heard that same unnatural chuckle that this time made something low in my belly clench in heat.

I cleared my throat, forcing myself to look at him. Really look. He looked unnatural, dark, something that belonged in the depths of the ocean he had just emerged from. Something that hunts and captures. And devours. Before I realized I had spoken, my voice came.

"I want…a taste. Of you.''

Jimin slowly crawled closer, his mouth inches from mine, his breath hot. The closer he got, the more intense the smell of salt water was to me. I was rooted to the sand, my breathing ragged, my eyes glued to his, occasionally drifting to that full mouth. Had I fantasized about feeling that mouth on mine? Yes. Numerous times in class, alone in my bed. But never in my wildest dreams had I imagined this. That the Jimin that was about to kiss me was…this. I licked my lips just as he stopped, what he said next taking me by surprise "are you sure?" I blinked. "what?" He continued, his voice lower but still the same unnatural timbre as before: monstrous but not really. A hint of my dorm mate still there beneath the surface. "Are you sure it's me you want to kiss? Or that boy you see every day at campus?"

It was as if the fog lifted from my mind as I took my second proper look at him that night. His black hair the only thing that remained exactly the same as before. The rest was completely different. His eyes were still flat black, no pupil, his skin was pale and his hands… his hands had long black talons which was all I could see. Before, I wouldn't have known the answer. But now, as his question drifted between us, it took everything in me to look him solidly in the eyes, holding his gaze and whisper as clear as I could "It's you. Here. Now. Unless…" A perfect eyebrow rose in question as he replied "Unless what?" I flush as I reply "Unless you are just toying with me."

That made him laugh aloud, the sound ringing off the rocks, carried away by the currents and breeze. He reached out, those taloned fingers tucking a lock of hair behind my ear, the touch gentle in spite of his tone earlier. "You'll know if I'm toying with you pet. Trust me." To prove his point, he leaned in his lips finally capturing mine. My eyes closed, immobile, my lips frozen until finally his coaxed them to move. The rhythm I find is something I didn't need to figure out. It comes naturally, my lips parting to let the taste and feel of him flood my senses. My own hands, itching for so long to bury themselves in dark inky hair came to his neck then threaded in the inky strands just as his tongue stroked along mine. I groaned, the taste of the sea somehow stronger, his hands suddenly at my waist almost tentative in their grip, feather-light, a stark contrast to the way his tongue and lips worked me. The heat low in my belly was stoked as Jimin seemed to make up his mind, his fingers tightening on my waist pulling me flush against his chest.

His wet skin seemed to sear mine right through my shirt and bathing suit beneath it, my nipples hardening immediately, embarrassingly so. He growled, his hands suddenly moving snake like down to my thighs pulling me flush on his lap. He must have sensed me stiffen because his mouth drifted to map along my jaw, up to my ear, his voice more rough than before, his breath coming shorter as he whispered "stop?" I immediately shook my head as my fingers did what they had been wanting for all the months I spent ogling Jimin: they burrowed deeper in his wet hair and tugged. The growl that erupted from him was less human and more feral than anything I had elicited from him so far. His fingers hardened, talons almost digging in my flesh as I felt my full weight settle on his lap. I don't know what prompted me to say what I did next but I did anyway. "how about you kiss me like you really want to instead of treating me like I'll break?"

TBC

#bts smut #asshole 6 #asshole 6 writes #jimin smut

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velvetburnt · 22 days

Text

in which whitney hates flying

characters: m!whitney + gen!pc summary: bullying hubby whitney on the airplane :-) [public handjobs, edging, exhibitionism] warnings: none word count: 2387

These days, with his hefty salary as a neurosurgeon, Whitney acted as if spoiling you was his life's main goal. Sure, he'd never admit it outright, but to make up for your shitty starts at adulthood, broke and struggling to survive day to day, he worked hard to make damn sure the both of you got to live comfortably now. You had earned a peaceful epilogue.

Well, mostly peaceful. You were married to Whitney, after all. Married or not, you were his slut.

The two of you had gotten up and left your shitty excuse of a town the moment a solid enough chance had presented itself. But now, even as you lived in a much better, safer city, you quickly discovered you still enjoyed exploring. Your husband was more than happy to indulge you, so naturally, frequent trips and vacations were a given. Besides, he still liked visiting his uncle. On occasion, his uncle even came along on the vacations, like this one. It served as a.. bonding experience.

Whitney hefted the two heavy bags over his shoulder and snatched up the drink bottle leaning against his chair. A quick glance to his left and right confirmed his suspicions. His uncle was seated nearby, but you were nowhere to be seen. "Hey, slut--"

"Yeah?" Your head appeared from behind Whitney’s seat, smug grin adorning your features.

"Fuck! Every time! I should-" He jumped, running a hand through his hair to conceal his surprise before heaving out a sigh. Despite the years you'd been together, he never got used to the way you could move about so quietly.

And you, on the other hand, were always thoroughly pleased with yourself whenever you caught him unawares, in situations where he couldn't immediately punish you for it. It wouldn't do for him to end up in jail for public indecency now, after all.

"Time to go?"

"Yeah, yeah. Ready?"

You nodded.

.̩₊̣.̩✧*̣̩˚̣̣⁺̣‧.₊̣̇.‧⁺̣˚̣̣*̣̩⋆·̩̩.̩̥·̩̩⋆*̣̩˚̣̣⁺̣‧.₊̣̇.‧⁺̣˚̣̣*̣̩✧·.̩₊̣.̩

He really wasn’t a fan of the glint in your eyes at the moment. After all, he was intimately acquainted with the fact that a sly slut never boded well for him.

"So, I was thinking.." you began.

Whitney wasn't too fond of the drop in your tone, either.

"Do you want to play a game?"

You skimmed your fingers along Whitney's thigh, inching dangerously close to his crotch. He gave you a strained grin.

"You're on thin ice, slut." Whitney side-eyed the two old ladies seated directly to his right. They were immersed in a deep conversation with his uncle about something he really didn't care about. "...You're on."

Your smile was downright wicked.

"The game goes like this." You continued, kneading the inside of Whitney's upper thigh. “And you... sit... still... until I'm done."

Whitney grit his teeth. Ask him literally any other time, and he'd be all up for it. He would've even initiated something like this himself. But in this situation, if his uncle noticed... He really, really didn't need another hour long lecture from his relative about keeping things in the bedroom. He was on strike two already.

A brush against his crotch had Whitney tearing open the plastic-wrapped blanket as fast as he could and rushing to cover his lap up with it, although shoving your hand away would've been the sane thing to do. He wasn't a quitter though, hell no.

The older lady to his right glanced over at him. "You okay, sweetie?" She asked, concern creasing her brow. "It really is chilly in here, isn't it?"

Whitney coughed awkwardly into his hand and you noticed that it was far too forced to seem natural to anyone. The lady didn't seem to notice though.

"My friend and I," the woman next to her gave him a friendly smile and waved, "are visiting the states for the holidays. What about you? Business or pleasure?" She ended with a lighthearted giggle.

"Pleassssure-" Whitney hissed, directing a sharp glare at your expressionless face. You even had a large book open on your lap and were flipping through the pages with your left hand. Your right hand was busy with something entirely different. "We're here on pleasure." He reiterated. Well, maybe one of you was.

The woman's eyes widened in surprise, hand rising to cover her mouth. "Oh goodness!" She exclaimed. "I'm so sorry. I didn't notice you there!"

You looked up with a tilt of your head and smiled innocently at her in return, glancing at Whitney. "I get that a lot. It's okay." You could hear his uncle cackling.

Whitney was going to kill you. You, the bastard who had now managed to unzip his fly. The feathery light strokes across his clothed cock shouldn't have done anything for him. But the fact that he was stuck in his seat, conversing with four people with only a bunched up blanket between him turned him on beyond belief.

If only his uncle wasn't part of the conversation, he would've gladly taken a fine for public indecency for the sake of burying himself into your warm hole for the rest of the flight.

Your arm wasn't moving but your fingers sure as hell were. They alternated between light touches straight down the length of his cock to rougher presses along his base. It was proving enough of a distraction that Whitney completely missed the woman's next words in favor of clenching the armrest next to you in a death grip so he wouldn't end up hauling you on top of him to do it properly. Fucking hell. So you opted to answer for him.

“A neurosurgeon. My husband here likes to treat his family, see." Followed up with a lick of the lips that Whitney most definitely noticed as he unconsciously mimicked the gesture.

"Oh?" The woman questioned, intrigued now. Probably perked up at the mention of Whitney's career.

Whitney glanced up from his intense perusal of where he knew your hand was and noticed the slight frown marring the woman's face before her friend piped up.

"Have you guys seen…" The rest of her words fell on deaf ears as Whitney dragged up every ounce of willpower he possessed in order to keep his mouth shut. You had slipped your warm fingers inside his briefs that he had begrudgingly worn. You, his soon to be ex-spouse worked at fingering the tip, gathering precum and smearing it along the underside of his cock in slow, languid strokes. He caught bits of pieces of what you were saying, but the majority of it translated to complete gibberish in his ears.

“…ok?”

Whitney squinted at the woman, mentally cursing both her and you for his current predicament. At least his uncle seemed to not be involved in the conversation anymore. "Yes?" He ground out.

She frowned at him again. "Oh, I was asking if you were all right. You look a little… off, dear."

Whitney smiled--grimaced--when you began massaging the tip of his dick. Just the way he fucking liked. He choked, and prayed to the heavens that it hadn't sounded like a desperate sob instead. But by the slow smile inching across your face, he knew that you had noticed. Whitney vowed to never fly with you ever again.

“'m fine. Just not used to… flying.” He congratulated himself on being able to string anything coherent together with the way you were relentlessly squeezing the base of his cock as it twitched near nonstop now.

You leaned closer towards Whitney while Whitney pressed himself as far back into his seat as humanly possible. Breath held in his lungs as you pointed to a place marked in red on a book you'd precariously dropped on top of Whitney's lap. Fucker. Bastard.

"We wanted to visit this place and…" Finger skimming over to a crinkled corner of the book, you rubbed the edge between thumb and index finger before turning the page. Whitney was caught between wanting to break open the emergency door and tossing his (ex) spouse out into the ocean below, or saying fuck all to his uncle and his three strikes and getting up to drag you into the plane bathroom and brutally fucking you into next tuesday.

Yet, he could do neither of those things as the woman to his right bent over his armrest and pointed to a spot next to your finger. Oh, come the fuck on.

"This place is pretty good for sightseeing." She offered, completely oblivious to the inner turmoil Whitney was suffering through at the hands of your too-clever fingers.

You hummed in approval and squeezed just under the head of Whitney's cock. The action jolted him forwards, almost knocking the book off his lap but you pushed it back just in time.

"Are... Are you sure he doesn't need a glass of water or food or anything?” She asked you, because apparently he was incapable of answering for himself now. Truthfully, he probably was.

You met his dark gaze. "Hungry?" You simply asked him, stroking with just your thumb. "Thirsty?" You questioned, index finger rubbing over the slit.

"Hungry." Whitney snapped, immediately regretting it when that devious smile lit up your face again, and... Fuck. Fuck you for being you, and fuck him for loving every bit of it. He watched you open your mouth, pink tongue wetting dry lips to suggest (he prayed) that the two of you sprint to bathroom and be done with this torturous game, when a voice to his right snagged everyone's attention.

"Here you go, sir." The flight attendant beamed, holding out a tray, laden with food for him to take. With his hands. Currently grasping the armrest in a vice-like grip. He could do little but stare.

"Uh.." Smile painfully forced now, obviously uncomfortable with the fact that she was holding out a tray that Whitney was obviously not accepting, because you had chosen that exact moment to speed up the maddening strokes along his cock, and he seriously doubted the steadiness of his hands at that moment as his eyes squeezed shut.

The flight attendant cleared her throat and glanced at the women. “Did one of you order…?” They both shook their heads.

"I did." You spoke up at last, leaning forwards so the attendant could see you past Whitney's stiff form.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! I apologize. I didn't notice you there!" She offered the tray to you with an apologetic laugh.

The two older ladies laughed as well, saying that they'd made that exact same mistake only moments ago to ease the woman's flustered state of mind.

"Whitney." You began, and Whitney did not like the tone of your voice. You unlatched the tray from the back of the chair before you spoke. "Can you get the food please? I can't reach it from here."

Whitney shifted forwards when your fingers tightened their grip and he almost started openly fucking into your first on instinct. He nearly whined.

"It'll get cold, babe."

Fucking slut. Why did he love you again?

He released his hold on the armrest and was legitimately surprised that there was no indent from how hard he'd been gripping the thing. The woman held out the tray for him and he practically ripped it from her fingers to drop onto your tray with a loud clatter. He ignored the disapproving look from the attendant in favor of glowering downright murderously at your blank-faced stare.

"Thank you, honey. So…" And the torture was back again. Too slow to actually get off, but fast enough that he held himself as rigidly as possible, not daring to move for fear of losing all traces of his dwindling composure. He'd need to put you in your place, and soon.

Sweat was beading along his forehead. Frustration as clear as day in his posture, fingers twitching with the need to strangle somebody, preferably you, as you fisted his cock with newfound fervor. His mood was dark enough that the chattering old women seemed to notice something was off with him when they hurriedly excused themselves to focus on his uncle instead and Whitney wasted no time in twisting his fingers through your hair and wrenching his head back so he could smother you in rough bites and kisses.

"You absolute fucking…” He desperately bites at your lips, rewarded with a breathless gasp and a harsh tug on his swollen cock, wet with precum. He shudders as he humps your fist, gritting his teeth to prevent himself from outright whimpering into your mouth. “Gonna gag you with my cock, gonna- shit!” Guilty laughter tickles his ears as you press your kiss-swollen lips against his cheek.

"Love you too, Whit," was whispered so softly, Whitney was sure he'd imagined it. He swore and cursed the dumb armrest for getting in his way before meeting your gaze, eyes hooded and glazed over with unbridled lust.

"You either finish me off here or get in the fucking bathroom with me, slut. I'm not stopping." He growled against your parted lips. His uncle and those strikes be damned. You seemed to be in total agreement when you pulled your hand out of Whitney's pants so he could straighten up.

Whitney twisted around and stood up, the blanket held loosely over his open fly.

"Bathroom break?"

It took a second for the words to register in his lust-addled brain, but one they did, he froze, eyes narrowed at the source of the voice.

Despite having tapped out of the conversation earlier, his uncle was now staring knowingly at Whitney as he waited for an answer. The older woman next to him blinked in acknowledgement and shuffled out into the aisle so Whitney could leave. Whitney glanced over to you, now staring out of the window, right hand out of sight and blatantly ignoring everyone. You motherfucker.

“Y-yeah. Yeah. Sure…” He repeated, stupidly, side-stepping past the old woman and waddling over to the bathroom, uncaring of what he must look like at the moment. As he moved, he decided he would make sure that you'd be in need of a vacation after this vacation.

He didn't spend five minutes perched on top of the toilet seat, blank-faced and staring down at his stiff, sad cock, wondering why the gods hated him so and why you weren't sitting on it right now.

Whitney hated flying. So much.

#sheddingvelvet.txt #hgegfdhjgdfh WHATEVER im posting it #not very happy with this ill be so exponentially real but i Need to throw it out now or ill keep editing it forever #i am not confident with writing whitney yet so i apologize if i didnt do him sufficient justice jsdgjdfh #debated for a while if i wanted to even post this orz but HEY #chalk up the potential ooc-ness to the domesticity softening him a bit ok? ok<3 hes whipped ur honor #originally wrote this with a specific pc of mine in mind but #i think this works with a generally skulduggerous bastard pc too #anyway lalala #degrees of lewdity #dol #whitney the bully #dol whitney #whitney x pc #my writing

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saradika · 10 months

Text

— WASTELAND, BABY

v. you are unbreaking, though quaking

[masterlist] | [part iv]

boba fett x f!reader

rated E - 4.2k

tags: fallout au, post-apocalyptic, canon-typical themes, mentions of violence & wounds, guns & weapon training, flirting during said training, mild body horror (descriptions of Fennec’s injury and modifications)

The meeting of a new friend, a very interesting lesson, and an afternoon spent lending a hand.

It's not long before you're taking Boba up on his offer.

A chance meeting in the marketplace - a dip of your head from across an aisle as you pass by. He's deep in conversation with a shop owner, a glint from the sun catching on the dark visor as his head tilts in your direction.

All it takes is two beckoning fingers for you to abandon your plans, veering off the path to wait quizzically next to him. Wondering if he had some task for you, something you needed to run to the Mandalorian, or Fennec.

"I was going to see her." He tells you, cryptically - as the conversation quickly wraps up, "I was hoping to run into you. Would you like to come?"

Your brain trips helplessly over his words - a little jolt as you remember, “Oh! Yes, please.”

With a nod, you're following after him. Back through the streets, though you circle around the tall set of stairs to an entrance in the back.

Entering the Palace at the ground level - winding your way inside an refurbished underground parking garage, until you're arriving at a set of metal double-doors, tightly bolted shut.

Boba pauses then, as you hover at his shoulder.

Removing his helmet to clip it to his belt, his gaze shifting your way. Thinking for a moment, before he retrieves a bundle of cloth from the bag that hangs from a shoulder - passing it to you.

You frown, as it unfolds. A soft and worn black shirt - long sleeves and fraying at the edges.

"Put this on. I thought perhaps, if your smell was familiar, she might be more comfortable." He explains.

Understanding dawns, and you resist the urge to bring the shirt - his shirt - to your nose and inhale.

"Of course." You murmur - slipping it over your head, pushing the sleeves up your arms.

"You ready?" He asks, and you just miss the slow sweep of his eyes as you tuck the edge of the shirt into the waistband of your trousers.

The nerves are still rattling around in your chest, but you nod, "Yes."

He unlocks the doors with a key from one of his pouches, a press of a bare thumb to the pad bolted on the wall. The doors are thick - grinding and loud as they open inwards, gradually letting in light.

Walking in confidently, as you trail just behind. Shoulders hunched, your heartbeat skyrocketing as you see the swish of something large and shadowed. A skittering of stones and sand shifting with the weight of a heavy foot.

One step, and then another. The arc of light from the opened door spilling out, slowly revealing the creature as she moves closer. A rumble of a deep growl that has your chest pressing into his arm, the sound of a nose snuffling.

The growl pitches up, and then it's moving. Covering the ground faster than you thought possible, as your fingers dig into the canvas covering his bicep.

Your breath catches in your throat as it lopes forward on four legs. Thrusting itself into that light - and all you can see is the snarl of sharp teeth, curling horns, it's gray, leathery skin.

You can't help it - your head presses into his shoulder as your eyes shut. Reading about them wasn't the same as seeing. Even though time has passed in the now, there were just some things your mind hasn't managed to wrap around.

Like 9-foot tall beasts that could almost swallow you whole.

Hot breath washes over you, an inhale as she sniffs both you and Boba. He coos at her, his body shifting as his other arm raises, stroking the bridge of her nose.

Your eyes peek open, then. Seeing the way her eyes shut, the low rumble as she pushes into his touch. They way he smiles like a proud father has your grip loosing, and then he's curling an arm around your waist, pulling you close to him.

"Muchi, I've brought a friend today." His voice is low and soothing, "She wanted to meet you."

His head tilts towards you, taking on a quieter tone, "Are you doing alright?"

Heat rises in your neck, curling up to your cheeks as you squeak, "Just fine."

He laughs, that grip around you tightening. The touch on her nose changes to a scratching at her jaw, as she rumbles again.

"You’re a good girl. Aren't you?"

You never thought you'd be jealous of a deathclaw, but his praise does something to you. Suddenly aware of how he's holding you, how your hand splays across the armor covering his chest.

It takes all your strength to drag your eyes away from him. Up to her, to actually take her in under the flickering bulb above.

She's fascinating, something like awe settling over you now - like the time you had seen the life-like model of a tyrannosaurus rex at the museum. Marveling over her size, even as she crouches to lower her head to his level.

A shift of her feet brings you down to her claws - each one long, deadly sharp.

Still an apex predator, even here.

"Would you like to touch her?" He asks, and your eyes are widening.

"Do you think she will let me?"

"She will." His head cocks to the side, "Do you trust me?"

You do. You nod.

Boba's hand takes yours, mapping your fingers. Carefully and slowly bring it up to her muzzle, patting your fingers against her cheek - just under a bright, golden eye.

Muchi makes another noise at that. It sounds almost happy, and you find yourself smiling. Fingers gently petting the rough skin, her eyes shutting in what you think is contentedness.

Your opinion of her swift rises.

"She's beautiful." You breathe, your smile widening, "Is she... is she happy, here?"

The room extends into darkness. Transformed from a storage space for machinery into something akin to outside. Large boulders, a scattering of small shrubs.

When you look at him, he's always watching you. A flicker of his expression as he masks the hint of tenderness, but it still lingers with his smile.

"She is. They prefer darkness and quiet for their nests." He explains, "Sometimes at night I take her out to roam. She takes direction well enough."

The arm stays carefully wrapped around you. Keeping you close, selfishly, protectively. Only stepping away from when she becomes restless, a swishing of her tail as she noses at his bag - smelling the food tucked inside.

Chasing after the pieces he throws, as his rumbling laugh brightens the space.

Yours, soon joining.

Time ticks away - and when you finally leave, you don't think to offer to give his shirt back.

And he doesn't ask, either.

Your days in Mos Espa continue to pass - each one bleeding into the next. You have been feeling a little more grounded each day, getting used to the routines.

More familiar faces, acquaintances that inch into something more.

You learn the Mandalorian's name. Din. It's gifted to you close to two months after that first walk around the city. Fennec's odd jobs often included ones for him - collecting and pieces that he could use on his own Power Armor set. Trading for fusion cores to power it.

Part of you wondered whether he just grew tired of you calling him Mando all the time, thought he was called that often enough. But eventually, you decided that maybe - just maybe, you were friends.

Perhaps because you bring him snacks, or because you ask him about his foundling. He's opened up a little, since the beginning - sentences growing longer. You can recognize the tilt of his helmet to mean one thing, now. The cock of his hip as he leans, as another.

You pick up things about Fennec, as well.

Right now, you're tying not to look at her hands too often, where they drift to press against her abdomen. The way she seems distracted, her answers coming a little more slowly.

Lingering, after you had dropped off what she had asked for - a small crate of copper, from Goodneighbor - to repair the generators that went down during the last big storm. The first of the shipments exchanged with the new supply line, their courier meeting you just outside Mos Espa.

It had been strange to step outside, through the line of barbed wire and tall, stone walls. Not that you couldn't see it from the windows of the Palace, but just the vastness sprawling in front of you - a reminder that you don't know what the world looks like, anymore.

Eventually, you can't help but ask.

"Are you alright?"

Her face is a swirl of emotions - the briefest flicker of appreciation. Quickly covered with annoyance, not wanting to be fussed over.

Not her style.

"I will be, later." She brushes the question off, but it's half-hearted. A glance outside, checking the angle of the sun for time, as she hands you a stained slip of paper, "I have one last thing. Can you give this to Din? He has something for me, and you're supposed to start training with him."

"Training?" You frown.

"Yes, training." Her smile is small, the slightest curve of your lips, "We all know you don't know how to use that."

The toe of her boot extends, to the holster around your waist. Where the gun from the farmhouse remains, never removed.

You don't even know if it's loaded - you just know that the safety is on, and it's stayed that way. More to blend in, than anything else.

"I think I've been managing okay," You hedge, resisting the urge to fidget with the brass buckle at your waist.

"Mm, well this comes from the boss," Her grin turns sharp, "So you'll have to take it up with him."

Your stomach flips at the reference. It had been hard not to think about him - the night he came to your room. His questions, something about them feeling more pointed than just merely "checking in".

Daydreaming about that stolen moment of time, tucked against him when you had met Muchi. Your brain twisting the moment late at night - making you unsure whether that touch - his shirt - had just been his attempt at comfort and safety, or whether it had something more.

The occasional run-ins after had left you feeling the same. Leaving you wondering if his gaze really did seem more intense, lately. If he had been closing the polite gap that most people held, standing a little closer than you remember he did before.

Each time, you decide that it's just your imagination.

Wishful thinking.

Fennec mistakes your silence for sullenness, her tone softening.

"I think it would be good for you. To know you can defend yourself, if you ever need to."

She's right - you still have dreams about the farmhouse. Waking up with a gasp, brow dotted with sweat. So different than the old dreams - those slow loops you had been stuck in, day after day.

Year after year, more like.

So, you find yourself agreeing - trotting off to the edge of town. Where the group of houses break apart and then fade, where the cobblestone turns to dirt roads. Off to find Din, or so you've been told.

You find him, the sun glinting off the shining silver of his armor. A row of crates lines up to make a barrier, a handful of younglings in the mid to late teens taking turns at the makeshift range, under closer supervision.

A wash of emotions come over you - a sadness that those at such a young an age are learning this. Unable to help the small smile at the way they turn their heads for approval as they hit a target - looking for Din. His soft "good job, kid" that leaves them beaming.

A curl of embarrassment - at having to practice with them, worrying you'll make a fool of yourself.

He sees you coming, a tilt to his head and his hip as he keeps watch. Taking the paper, reading it quickly before tucking it into his bags.

"Was wondering when you'd be sent my way." Din greets you, helmet tilting down as his gloves ghost over the guns resting on the makeshift table. Halting on a long rifle, before passing it over to you.

It's heavy and solid in your arms, as he walks you to the end. Fishing a few bullets out the pouches at his waist, carefully conserved. Scarce in the Wasteland - a reminder to take this seriously.

"This is uh-, a lot bigger than I was expecting," You trail behind him, as he guides you down to the end of the range.

Showing you the basics - where the safety is, how to hold it in your arms, nudging your feet into position.

Your first shot going so far wide that it disappears into the Wasteland. Fingers fumbling as you copy how he ejected the old casing, replacing it with a new one.

Wanting desperately to do well, but it’s hard with him standing at your shoulder. Silent as a statute, but it doesn’t make you feel any less pathetic.

The next round goes just as poorly.

“I’m making you nervous.” He observes, stepping back. Placing a few more bullets on the barrier, “Take some time, get comfortable with the weight, and try again.”

You can breathe again, when he leaves. Hoisting it back into place, peering down the sights.

Barely grazing the upper right corner of the target, but at least you’re hitting something now.

When you look up again, there’s no glint of silver. Replaced with a swatch of green instead, your eyes drawn so easily to it as Boba moves down the line, as Din had.

The younglings settle, with their new teacher. The idle teasing and chatter disappearing as they begin to concentrate.

Rewarded with solemn nods of his head, that they eagerly soak up. Advice taken with wide eyes, their attention transfixed as he crouches - pointing down at the targets.

A clap on the shoulder as their stance is adjusted, something murmured that makes them beam.

When he finally reaches you, you’re realizing you’re been staring this whole time - the rifle dipping down towards the ground, brushing against the grass.

There’s the quirk of his lips as his eyes meet yours, as you smile at him in greeting. But then he’s gesturing with two fingers that point towards you, then flick towards the target.

“Show me.”

Your smile fades, already anticipating missing. Taking your time to line everything up like you did the last time.

The careful pull of a finger, followed by the loud bang - a wince as the stock kicks back against your shoulder.

A mark appears, a clean hole showing just outside the largest red ring.

Your grin appearing again, as his head tilts.

“Not bad,” He says, as he steps closer, “A lucky shot, but you made it.”

Your eyebrows raise, “Lucky?”

“I could see you flinch from here,” His arms cross, as he leans on the barrier. “You closed your eyes, anticipating the recoil.”

You hadn’t even realized you had. Firing was part you disliked the most - the rumble in your hands, the thud of pressure against your shoulder.

“And you’re twisting too much. Here.”

His hands are at your elbows, as he steps behind you. Tucking them closer to you, then gently adjusting your fingers.

So close that it’s hard to concentrate fully, your attention split as his armor presses against your back. Wanting him to stay like that - mourning when he takes a step back to give you room.

“Again.”

You fire. This time it’s lower, closer. The impact not as harsh - and he’s there again, stepping into your space as you both look down to see you’ve hit the third ring from the center.

“I hit it!” You exclaim - missing his smile, as you point excitedly.

“You did.” He nods with approval, “Good girl.”

And god, it’s so different when it’s directed at you.

Before, it had felt like a little jolt to your brain, as silly as that was. Now, goosebumps threaten to prickle down your arms, in spite of the heat. A little hitch of your breath as your heart pounds.

There’s a tug, as he takes the rifle from you. A ghost of his fingers against your hip, the thigh. The sound of a button snapping as he works your pistol from holster, pressing it into your hands, instead.

“Now, this one.”

You look down at it as the flutters in your belly start to wane - your companion from the beginning. One that you know nothing about.

“This one?” You echo.

It’s so much lighter. Stocky, a short barrel and a thick handle - heavy in your hand.

“This is what you’re carrying. You should learn to know it.” He advises, as you look down.

“I don’t even know if it works.” You admit, “I just took it, like you told me to.”

Before you can blink he’s plucking it from your open palm. A quick inspection before his arm extends - the briefest moment before he’s putting a hole through the dead center.

It sends a different kind of thrill through you. Something breathless as you remember just how skilled he is, how this is nothing.

Your eyes are wide as he presses it back into your hands. Fingers lingering, his chest so close to yours as he leans - as all you’re able to do is blink dumbly up at him.

Din appears at his shoulder then, and your eyes drop - stepping back, as you nudge the safety on. Cheeks warming at getting caught, though you remind yourself that there was nothing to catch - he was just helping you.

He passes a small, golden cylinder to Boba, "Just came in, had to go pick it up. Thank you for keeping an eye on things."

"Think nothing of it," The cell is turned around in his hands, checking either side for wear or damage, "She's not happy, we've cut it too close."

There's a sigh, Din folding his arms as you reholster your pistol.

His voice low, not wanting to be overheard, "My contact said there's some Gunners making trouble. Out towards that settlement to the east. They didn't want to move the product until I sent an armed escort.”

A look passes between them, before Boba turns his attention to you, "Do me a favor, sen’ika. Take this to Fennec, she’s in her quarters."

You take the cell from him automatically, a quick look thrown his way for confirmation. Never once have you been in Fennec’s room - she was too private of a person.

But he’s already turned back to Din, and by now you’re used to such a dismissal. Not taking offense - actually appreciating the interruption because it meant that you could breath again.

Trying not to think too much about how his arms fit around you - the “good girl” he had murmured. Curling sweetly on his tongue and making something in your lower belly ache.

The door is shut when you arrive, as you knock on the wooden door. Her room was on the second floor, down the wing from where you’ve heard Boba’s is.

Trying not to think about that, as well - as you wait for her answer. Her voice sounding weaker than usual, as you enter - having to use your shoulder to nudge the heavy door open.

“Was hoping he’d send you,” Fennec grimaces, half-slumped on a couch, tucked off to the side.

The small gun in her hand clattering to the table as you cross the room quickly, lowering to your knees in front of her.

“Stars, are you okay?” The worry is back in full force, catching the sweat on her brow, her pinched expression.

“Yes,” She huffs, her grin grim, “Well, fine enough.”

Growing serious for a moment, “I need you to help me with something, bluebird.”

“Anything.”

There’s a twitch to her lips, at how quickly and genuinely you answer, “Usually Boba does this. But I think you’ll be better suited.”

Her eyes drop to your hands, where they press into the worn fabric of the couch.

Another long moment, and for some reason - you think she might be nervous. Which is laughable, considering everything you know about the assassin.

Never seeming afraid or ruffled by anything.

It makes you want to comfort her. Your voice going low and soothing, like it had years ago - helping your family with their scrapes and bruises, “What can I do?”

“Easier to show you, I think.”

Her eyes flick up to yours, before she pushes herself up to a seated position. Fingers hovering at the dark, thick band at her waist - before she’s tugging it back.

You’re unable to help the small gasp.

Where soft skin should be, there’s a cavern. Filled with bundles of wires and tubes, metal replacing flesh.

“Who did this to you?” You breathe, looking up at her.

Where’s she’s watching, the apprehension more evident. But at your question it eases - a small, rueful smile replacing it.

“Boba did.”

Your heart plummets, fingers curling into fists.

“Easy, bluebird.” She soothes - though you still can’t draw your eyes away, “He saved me.”

That catches your attention, gaze finally lifting to yours.

“I was shot and left to die.” Fennec tells you - her words automatic, practiced. Softening, just a bit, “Boba found me in the Wastelands, and fixed me. Some things had to be replaced, but it was a while ago.”

A pause, as she reiterates, “I’m fine.”

You settle then, the fear and distress easing. Risking another quick glance down, and then away - not wanting to stare.

Realizing your tight grip on the fusion cell, holding it out to her.

“Does this… go in there?” You ask meekly, not sure how else to word it.

She laughs at that - a sigh, as if she’s been holding her breath, “Smart girl.”

Taking it from you, angling some wires out of the way - to where to can see another cell fitted against the metal side.

“The one I have is low. Almost out. It powers a lot of the pieces in here. If it runs out, it will be very painful.” She lets the words hang.

You’re sure it would be more than that. She’s been moving slowly all day, the discomfort evident in her typically-easy tone. One last question works it’s way into your mind.

“Will it hurt you?”

Her jaw grits, “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” You shift on your knees, focusing on the fitted cell - holding out your hand for the new one.

It’s cool in your grip. You can do this - you’ve gotten good at tinkering since you’ve woken up. Just don’t think about this cell powering the stomach of your boss and friend.

A moment, as you take a breath.

“You can do this.” She tells you.

You nod, “You can, too.”

Trying not to think too deeply about it - about fucking it up - as you reach in. Fingers brushing the curved edge of the cell before they wrap around, gently tugging.

There's sharp hiss of breath through clenched teeth, her body tensing as you tug it free. As the small green bulb attached to the casing dims down to nothing.

Quickly and carefully, you fit the new piece in, nudging it until it clicks back into place.

Both of you taking a breath then, relieved. The cover fitting back into place, as you move to sit on the other edge of the couch instead.

"Fuck, that’s better." She sighs, rubbing at her abdomen. Some of the color coming back into her cheeks, her expression less pained.

But there's something that settles in your heart after - a small ache.

"Fennec." You ask, as her head turns your way, "Were you worried to tell me? About your-"

You search for the words, "…cybernetics?"

She sighs then, easing back against the couch a little more, "Yes, and no. It's not easy, being part synth. There's a lot of distrust in the world, now. Especially if you are... different."

You nod slowly, an edge to your words, "Unfortunately, that sort of thinking isn’t new."

"Then I'm sure you can understand where I was coming from." Fennec answers grimly.

Another silence settling for a moment. Giving you a moment to take in her room - the table just off to the side. The wide bed, set in the middle of the connection room.

Bits of her collections scattered throughout the rooms, her rifle sitting on a long worktable next to the tall windows.

You've come a long way, since you first arrived.

"Well, anytime you need help - you're welcome to my nimble fingers," You smile, holding them up, wiggling them towards her.

She scoffs, hiding the bit of smile. Pushing up then, as you follow. Taking her lead, knowing that if you were in her place, you'd want to rest.

Her voice, halting your steps in the doorway.

"Glad you stuck around, kid."

It's kind, genuine. The unspoken understood - and not just for this. A small offering, something that is not extended often.

The gesture tugs at you.

Making you think about your time here. About Din - his gruff kindness - slowly coaxed out his shell.

The way Boba had looked at you, those weeks before - eyes intense, as if trying to read your mind. The almost vulnerable way he had asked if you were going to leave.

How you hadn't wanted to. Not at all.

You smile.

"I am, too."

sen'ika - little bird

ahh more 👀 feelings 👀 this week (with more to come!) thank you for reading 💚 part v will be out thursday, the 6th! and if you’d like to get tagged, please fill out the series taglist here!

(0-pressure tags 💕: @spaceydragons, @luladoll, @obiknights, @wingofshadow, @bobathirstaccount, @reluctant-mandalore, @ohheyitsokay, @floral-force, @valentine-tx, @ri-a-rose, @dreamlandcreations, @vellichormybeloved, @writeforfandoms, @winchestershiresauce, @monada43, @rescuethewretched, @thegalaxys-edge, @honeydjarin, @ray-rook, @dumfanting, @bedky, @thirsty-boba-fett-posts, @dukeoftheblackstar)

#please mind the tags!#boba fett x reader #boba fett x f!reader #boba Fett x you #boba fett x female reader #fallout au #boba fett imagine

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sarahscribbles · 2 years

Text

Kinktober Day Fourteen || Humiliation and Exhibitionism

Word count: 2.4k

Pairing: Loki x f!reader

Please REBLOG if you read.

Kinktober Masterlist

Main Loki Masterlist

“I know you enjoyed that, darling. Don’t attempt to feign insult with me,” Loki’s smug voice purred behind you, smooth as silk and brimming with confidence that he was right.

His large, lazy strides easily kept pace behind you, heavy boots echoing rhythmically off the stones floor as you marched towards your chambers in a flurry of velvet skirts. You barely noticed how they twisted around your ankles to display how your shoes didn’t quite match your gown, or how you were stalking through the palace corridors in a fashion that would have your mother blush with shame. All you cared about was the large oak doors of your chambers growing before you, so much so that you didn’t even break stride when the two Einherjar posted outside uncrossed their staffs, giving them a brief nod before you disappeared within.

You heard the deep rumble of his voice greeting the two soldiers - likely also apologising for your brusque entry - and used his temporary distraction to try and calm the thundering of your heart in your ribcage. It was a searing surge of hot adrenaline through your blood born of the simple, enraging fact that Loki was right.

You had enjoyed it.

You had enjoyed his fingers slipping between the folds of your gown at dinner and ran tantalisingly close to the thin lace that you wore beneath. The conversation flowing freely from your lips had stuttured, your breathing had hitched as cool fingers had slipped beneath the material to skillfully tease your clit.

You had enjoyed it.

You had enjoyed how he had brought you to climax surrounded by your friends, had enjoyed Fandral’s eyes locking with yours across the table as Loki had tipped you over the edge, the knowing glint dancing in blue irises assuring you that he knew exactly what Loki was doing beneath the table.

Rightfully, you should have been angry at him. You should have been incensed at how he had humiliated you so openly in front of everyone you held dear.

Yet, you weren’t.

It wasn’t white hot anger or shame coursing through your blood when your skirts whispered still against the chamber floor, it was arousal. It was arousal that pooled and pulsed in your core and left a faint stirring lingering between still slick thighs.

You had enjoyed it.

You turned swiftly to face him, attempting to pin him to the sandstone wall with only a feigned steely look in your eyes. “You humiliated me!” you half shouted, praying to Valhalla that he took your burning cheeks and the catch in your voice as distress.

Sharp, green eyes flickered over you, betraying the briefest nanosecond of guilt before it melted into the familiar glint that sparkled in his gaze when he knew he was right. “And didn’t you enjoy it?” he replied smoothly, beginning to stalk slowly toward you, his footsteps muted by the thick emerald rug that covered most of the floor.

Something in your stomach twisted and had you press your thighs together beneath the folds of your gown. He couldn’t know how badly you wanted him to do it again, perhaps this time on the throne in front of the entire Royal Council…

“No,” you replied, attempting to put some force behind the word, though it sounded weak and unconvincing to even your own ears.

Loki smirked at your answer, closing the remaining distance between you both in four steps. You jumped when your back hit the cool stone of the chamber wall, though you didn’t remember having backed away.

“How odd,” he purred. “I don’t recall hearing your safe word.” He placed two large hands on the wall just slightly above your shoulders, caging you in like a startled fawn and standing so close that you were sure he could hear the thundering of your traitorous heart.

The breath you took was long and deep. A last attempt to keep your face neutral and mask the arousal and desire you knew were swirling in your eyes. It was a futile attempt, of course. This was Loki. He knew you better than you knew yourself.

From the corner of your eye, you saw one hand drift from the wall to dip easily between the folds of your gown and tug aside the thin lace of your underwear. You inhaled sharply when his fingers ran lightly through your cunt, almost subconsciously tilting your hips into his touch.

“I can see right through your lies, darling. You’re still soaked,” he murmured, his lips brushing lightly against your temple. An appreciative hum vibrated on your lips when he settled on just the right place and, shamelessly, you tried to roll your hips against his fingers for friction. He pulled back only slightly, making a pitiful whine bubble in your throat, but his lips remained by your ear. “Close your eyes and do not open them until I say so,” he instructed firmly.

As ever, you obeyed him without even the breath of a question, letting your eyes fall closed and your world slip into darkness. A small tug told you that he was working the fastenings at the front of your gown, and cool fingers soon hit your skin when he gently eased it over your shoulders so you were standing before him in only your underthings. You shivered at the sudden coolness and at the pressure of Loki’s strong hands on your waist while his warm lips pressed to your forehead. Deft, nimble fingers freed you from the scraps of remaining clothing and you were soon bare in front of him.

Loki remained fully clothed. A thought alone that sent a fresh surge of arousal shooting through every vein and had your eyelids begin to flicker with the need to see him.

“Keep them closed, darling,” Loki warned softly, twisting a nipple with two long fingers. His hands returned to your waist and guided you off the stone wall, moving you only slightly so that he stood behind you while you faced the empty living area of your chambers. “Open,” he then whispered in your ear.

The room and its emerald green furnishings instantly came into focus, and when it did a startled gasp mingled with a sharp scream left your lungs. Desperately, you tried to shield yourself from view, but Loki’s hands easily pinned yours to your sides.

“Ah, ah, darling. Let them see you. Let them see all of you,” he murmured wickedly in your ear.

Spread at random throughout the room were not only Fandral, Volstagg, and Sif, but each of your personal ladies, your closest friends, and some of Frigga’s ladies whom you had formed a close relationship with, as well as a number of Loki’s own personal servants. All of them had their eyes resting on your naked form clasped in Loki’s grip, some of the ladies with raised brows while a few of the men ran their eyes over you with hunger and appreciation glimmering in their gaze.

Your cheeks were searing with shame, but your core was dripping and clenching with raw arousal.

“They’re going to watch me ruin you,” Loki continued, his hands folding yours behind your back to push your breasts out further. “They’re going to hear every little thing you beg me to do to you.”

His words had your knees go weak and your head lolled back against his shoulder. These were people who you saw close to every day. You ate with them, you drank and celebrated with them, yet here they were gathered in your chambers to watch Loki fuck you. His fingers dipped back between your thighs, playing with your soaked cunt until tiny ripples of pleasure were washing pleasantly over you. Your teeth sank sharply into your lower lip, fighting to contain the moan that was rising threateningly in your throat like a new dawn, but just as quickly as he had started, his fingers pulled away. When he presented them in front of you they were coated in your own arousal.

“Open,” he said simply. You hesitated briefly when two of his servants exchanged smirks, but obediently parted your lips to clean the tangy taste of yourself from his fingers. “Mmm good girl, though I do prefer having that mouth wrapped around my cock,” he said, loud enough that a few of your ladies covered their mouths with their hands.

Your cunt throbbed.

The rough leather of his clothing pressed firmly into your back when he pushed you further into the room, and you saw Fandral give an appreciative glance over your exposed body, his eyes pausing briefly on your breasts and glinting like sapphires in the moonlight when they met yours. You were torn between wanting to squeeze your eyes shut and wanting to meet the gaze of every person in the room as Loki ruined you.

“Beg me to fuck you,” he whispered low in your ear. His warm breath fanned over your skin, only adding to the slickness dripping down your bare thighs.

You were naked in a room full of everyone you knew and minutes away from having them watch you being fucked by your fully clothed husband.

The excitement almost had you dizzy.

You swallowed thickly. “Please fuck me, Loki,” your voice was strained and barely louder than a whisper, but it quickly grew into a yelp when his hand roughly struck your ass.

“Louder. Our guests can’t hear you.”

A whimper tumbled from your parted lips, and Loki teasingly pressed his stiff erection into the flesh of your ass. “Please fuck me, Loki!” you tried again, your raised voice bouncing off the chamber walls.

In the corner to your right, you heard a whisper of a gasp from where your ladies stood and a quiet “what a harlot!” drift from one of them.

“Better,” his voice rumbled in your ear. “But where would you like me to fuck you, pet?” he taunted, and a quiet curse escaped you.

One large hand left your wrists to snake over your shoulder and grab your chin, angling your head so that your gaze fell upon the writing desk to your left.

“Fuck,” you cursed again, the single word followed by a shuddering breath.

“Yes, pet?” Loki prompted, tilting your chin lower as if the silent command hadn’t been clear enough.

You inhaled deeply. “Over the desk. Please!”

His thumb and forefinger tightened around your chin in warning. “You can do better than that,” he all but growled in your ear.

Behind your back, your hands balled into fists. “I want you to fuck me over the desk, Loki! Please!”

“You want me to fuck you like a whore?” he asked, beginning to guide you the short distance to your left.

“Yes! Please, Loki! Fuck me like a whore!” The smooth edge of the wood hit your stomach at the same time one of Loki’s servants turned to his left and said, loud enough for you to hear, “now we know why he married her!”

“I think she’s his whore rather than his wife,” the other returned just as Loki bent you roughly over the cool surface, the ridges and grooves of the wood pressing into your breasts.

“Do you hear what they think of you, pet? That you’re nothing but my whore? My toy to play with?” he taunted while freeing himself and you soon felt the tip of his cock pushing against you. There was no need for him to warm you up; you were already soaked.

One hand still pinned yours securely against your back, and so you turned your head to the side in a vain attempt to hide your burning face, something Loki would not allow.

His free hand twisted into your hair, pulling your head back so you were forced to look at the small crowd gathered in front of you while he thrust into you. “None of that,” he chastised you. “Let them see how you take my cock like a common whore.” He emphasised the last word with a brutal thrust that had you keen.

With his hand restraining your head in a nearly vice-like grip, you were forced to see every expression before you. Your chamber was a sea of open disgust, plain appreciation, raw hunger, and a primal desire to be in Loki’s place. When Helga, one of your most trusted ladies, looked pointedly away from your ruin, you clenched hard around Loki’s cock.

He was thrusting into you relentlessly, his own groans of pleasure falling like spring rain to your ears, but it wasn’t enough. You needed more. “Please, Loki, harder,” you begged him, feeling his fingers tighten around your wrists almost instantly.

“Oooh, darling. You dared to tell me I was wrong?” he teased quietly. “Why don’t you beg me again? And remember our guests.”

You clenched around him again and he hissed. “I need you to fuck me harder, Loki! Please! Harder!” you begged, not missing how two of his manservants exchanged knowing smirks.

Loki didn’t answer, but his thrusts became increasingly merciless as he drove you toward release. Speech was lost to you as the beginnings of your orgasm began to lick through you, turning you mute while you held the gaze of one of your ladies, your face a contorted “o” of impending pleasure.

You felt your husband give another tug of your hair, pulling your head back that tiny bit further. “Look at them while you come, pet. Let them see how good I make you feel.”

His words were all it took for you to tip over. Your orgasm ripped through every sense and pore while your eyes flickered between your friends, your ladies, and Loki’s servants. Their expressions of shock, lust, and longing making every nerve ending feel like it was aflame and making your release so blindingly powerful that for a second your vision was nothing but stars.

Your release seemed neverending, each wave crashing ceaselessly into the next and turning your whole body numb, but when you finally came down from the high and opened your eyes - though you didn’t remember closing them - the chamber before you was empty and the air tingled with the remnants of Loki’s magic.

In the wake of his own release, he pulled himself from you gently, and you squirmed with the sudden emptiness. Easily, he gathered you in his arms, summoning a jade green blanket to wrap around you, and fell back into the wingback armchair where he pulled you onto his lap.

“Alright?” he murmured against your temple, and you felt the ghost of his kiss against your skin.

You nodded mutely and pulled your head back from his lips, turning to meet his gaze with eager eyes. “Again? Please?” you whispered, even though your heart was still racing in your chest.

He rewarded you with a mischievous smirk and tucked a stray curl behind your ear.. “As my love commands.”

Tags: @cake-writes @sineads-art @thedistractedagglomeration @joyful-enchantress @amethyst-dow @sailorholly @hyperfixating-on-loki @vickie5446 @el-zef @all-envy-suyu @123forgottherest

#loki #loki smut #loki x reader #kinktober

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evolvingchaoswitch · 7 months

Text

Rocketober: Day 6 Bounty Hunter

Rocket was expecting the bounty that he had taken to be an easy job, finding the person named on the paper and hauling their ass over alive to where they needed to go. Some jackass on Contraxia was paying a hundred credits to have this person returned to them, something about a huge debt owed, Rocket didn’t care he just needed some quick funds to secure a better ship to fly. He found her at the edge of Kree space on the planet Lamentis hiding out in a shack just outside of one of the bustling marketplace, Rocket's scanner was able to verify using biometrics that he had the right person; Opaline.

The sage green hood had kept most of her features covered but after Rocket had used his blaster set to stun to knock her out he was able to get a good look at her. Long strands of curly blonde hair curtained the fragile features that made up the girl's face, long lashes and full lips Rocket could only assume what happened to her on Contraxia. Rocket made sure to keep his bounty securely bound to the seat next to him as this tiny ship didn’t have a holding bay for prisoners, so this was going to have to do. His prisoner was silent so silently in fact that Rocket didn’t notice when she woke up and turned to be trapped in a set of brilliant vermillion eyes but Opaline didn’t say so much as a peep.

At first it didn’t bother Rocket, it was nice not to hear his bounty beg for their freedom but once the second day hit, knowing that there were still four days left in travel time, Rocket was beginning to crave some form of conversation. It took an impromptu fight with a bunch of space pirates (not Ravangers) who also tried to take his bounty before he heard Opaline speak in a voice more delicate than crystal.

“I appreciate you” Before something tumbled out of her mouth and onto the floor below as Rocket picked it up he could see that it was a pile of three units and when locking eyes with Opaline who looked terrified.

“Explain” Rocket’s voice was gruff, leaving no room for argument; he wanted to know what the krutracking flark was going on here!

“Every woman in the maternal family will have twins, always girls and the oldest set of twins gets what is referred to as a blessing. Each will end up having a set of words associated that when said cause certain effects?”

Rocket thought this sounded like bullshit but he still asked “Effects?”

Opaline took a moment to compose herself before continuing “We don’t know the words that are special till we say them, one twin will spit fortune the other food usually in the form of amphibians oddly enough”

Opaline looked over at Rocket, getting the immediate sense that he was seeing is believing type “La Peine” a medium sized moonstone tumbled from out her lips and onto the floor before Rocket.

“So you spit fortune then?” The head bobbed up and down quickly “I need time to think that over, get in the ship” Opaline complied she didn’t really have a choice otherwise.

A few hours after Rocket asked for more of her story, and why Contraxia wanted her back so badly it wasn’t a hard leap in logic they wanted their literal money maker back. Rocket’s face pinched into a deep scowl when he listened as Opaline described how much some of the glittering treasures hurt to pass, her voice was so soft after years of having her vocal cords ripped by sharp gems, and he audibly snarled when the implications of wanting to see how far Opalines biology could be shared to have the effects replicated.

Rocket hated losing out on the credits but even a piece of shit like himself couldn’t hand over a treasure like Opaline to those assholes.

The two fell into a comfortable rhythm of him picking up a few jobs here and there while Opaline worked her skills keeping the living spaces usable as well as making sure he ate. The problem was the amount of interested parties in Opaline's existence, she was well known as the galaxy's golden goose as the Terrans would say. Rocket neverminded the conflict but he could see as it began to wear on Opaline, guilt illuminating in those glittering eyes more each day. Rocket couldn’t explain the warm feelings that stirred within his gut when she looked at him, sometimes he found himself rambling to her just to hear her delicate laugh fill the dark corners of the ship.

It made complete sense to Rocket that they both kissed after sharing a bottle of Liquid Gold as they were forced to wait out an ion field storm before they could safely fly again. Rocket was curious to see how many jewels he could find exploring Opaline's body.

Eyes flushed so bright they glittered like twin Topazes.

Skin flushed pale pink like Calcite.

Lips that he kissed Ruby.

And a cunt flushed as brightly as Coral.

The greatest feeling of fortune was felt in her arms afterward as Rocket fell into a restful sleep but to his surprise when he awoke Opaline was nowhere to be found neither was his escape pod. Livid he pulled on his pants moving towards the Captains seat to start tracking her down when he saw a note.

Dear Rocket,

I can’t bear the thought of you getting hurt because of me. I’m too well known and they are never going to stop. It’s selfish and I’m so sorry that this is going to destroy you but please don’t close yourself off to the next person they might be everything I can’t be. I hope the gift I left you helps to soothe the wound a bit though I know that it won’t I wanted to try.

I care about you Rocket, you make me rethink the concept of my line ending with me but I know that’s what I need.

Goodbye <3 Opaline

Under the note was a pile that amounted to one hundred credits and one large azure blue stone that was the size of his fist and it looked like she had captured the sky for him; he wondered what word she used.

He wondered how she could be so stupid to think that he wouldn’t look for her.

Her mistake.

(Inspired by the French tale Diamonds and Toads) @raccoonfallsharder @glow-autumz @funkydancingdinosaur @rebel-21 @honeypleasesugar

#rocket raccoon #gotg rocket #Rocketober2023 #Fairytale #implied sa

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ikeromantic · 1 year

Note

Can I request a hurt/comfort Mitsuhide fic? I can provide a scenario if needed.

Thanks

A little sweetness and a little angst with Mitsuhide and his little mouse. Approx. 1200 words of hurting and comfort. TW for implied depression

Mitsuhide found her in a narrow alley. His little mouse, her cheeks tear stained. Sorrow darkened her gaze as she looked up at him.

“Go away.” Her voice was thick and low. She wiped a hand across her face, smearing dirt into the tracks of the tears.

He stopped where he stood, rooted to the spot. “Little one -”

“Go! I don’t want - want-” Her voice cracked and she struggled not to cry, her breath coming in gasps.

It physically hurt him not to touch her, to offer what comfort he could. He looked aside, letting his eyes travel along the plain length of the wall. “When you disappeared from camp, I didn’t expect to find you wandering in town.” He kept his voice conversational, his tone light.

She took a sharp breath, then the tears came back anew. Choked, muffled sounds as she buried her face in her sleeve.

Mitsuhide edged a little closer, still not looking at her. “I thought you might have gone to visit the river. The villagers say it is beautiful at sunset.”

More sniffling and ragged breath.

“I can’t imagine what brought you here, though. My little mouse.” A little closer now. If he reached out an arm, Mitsuhide thought, he might brush the edge of her kimono.

“I-I wanted to be alone . . .” She tried to stop her tears again, wiping furiously at her face, her breath coming in short, panting gasps. “I - I thought - I thought if I could just . . . I don’t know. Cry it out here. Then I could - s-smile for you.” She covered her face with her hands. “It’s so s-stupid! I d-don’t even know why I feel so - so -”

He nodded, understanding coming all at once. It was no wonder, then, that she didn’t want his presence. Despite all they went through together, there were still parts of her heart that she kept well hidden, as if to admit to them would somehow cheapen the life they now shared. This sadness she held, an exhaustion that haunted her sometimes, was one of those things. “You don’t have to always smile for me, little one.”

The chatelaine hugged herself tightly. “I didn’t want you to - to see me like this.” She took a deep, trembling breath.

Mitsuhide’s chest tightened to see her like this. Her pain was his own, her sorrow hurt his heart. Though she’d rejected him once already, he held his arms open to her. “Little mouse.”

This time she didn’t refuse his comfort. She fell against him and buried her face against his chest.

He held her, stroking her back as she quietly cried. Mitsuhide did not offer her useless platitudes. No advice to cheer up, no comparisons to how much worse others might have it, no vague reassurance that everything would be alright. The only thing he could offer was himself, and he wanted her to know that she had him - whatever she needed, as long as she needed. His love would not waver nor fade.

“I - I know I don’t have anything to cry about,” she mumbled after a bit. She nestled against his shoulder, peering up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “It’s stupid. I’m stupid.”

Mitsuhide gently brushed her hair away from her face, studying her expression. “You are anything but, my little mouse. I find you clever, intelligent, and kind.”

She scowled, chewing at her lower lip. “You don’t have to say nice things about me. I know I’m not very . . . useful. I don’t know how to do things. I’m weak. Uneducated. I’m not even pretty. N-not compared to real princesses.” She crossed her arms.

He smiled and gently poked her forehead. “Is it alright if I like you, even when you don’t like yourself? Because I know you like me, despite what I think about myself.”

“What? But . . . you’re - you - it’s different! You’re THE Mitsuhide Akechi. A warlord. Literally a legend. I’m nothing. I wouldn’t even get an honorable mention.”

“And you are THE woman Mitsuhide Akechi loves above all else. Who cares what people remember of us 500 years from now?” He tilted his head.

The chatelaine gave a slight shrug. “I - I don’t know. I don’t have the energy to argue with you. You’ll win anyway. You always do.”

This despair that took her sometimes frightened him. He saw in her gaze an emptiness that spoke of endings. Of loss and hopelessness. Mitsuhide did not know how to bring that spark back. Only that each time she fell into this morass, he feared she would not come back to him from it. It was a sickness of the heart and he did not know how to heal it.

She pushed away from him, though he did not let her go. “You should get back to camp. You have important things to do. And look -” The chatelaine gave him a ghastly smile so patently false that it hurt him. “I’m not crying now see? All better.”

He traced a line across her cheek with a fingertip. “I would rather see your tears than this false cheer. Didn’t we promise to be honest with each other?”

Her lip trembled.

“I love you, little one. I love you through your sadness and your tears as much as through your smiles. There is nothing more important to me than you. So unless you tell me honestly that you do not want me, I am going nowhere without you.”

The chatelaine crumbled. Her smile fell away as if it had never been. She collapsed into him again, not crying this time, only clinging to him like a drowning man to a life line.

Mitsuhide pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Tell me, next time. Tell me when you don’t feel pretty and I will kiss you until you feel as beautiful as you are to me. Tell me when you feel useless and I will sing your praises until you believe in them too -”

“Don’t,” she sighed. “I don’t deserve that from you.”

He wanted to tell her that it was he that didn’t deserve her. With his bloodstained hands and his hardened heart. The death and suffering he caused in service to his ideals, the things he knew he would do if needed . . . a man such as he never should have found a love as precious as hers. But his throat closed over the words and a tear escaped his fluttering lashes to spill down his cheek.

Her eyes widened. “I - I didn’t mean to make you cry too!” She wiped the tear from his face and the ones that followed it. A sad little half smile turned up the corners of her lips. “Maybe we do deserve each other. One hot mess to another.”

“I could never deserve you, little one. But I will never let you go. Not even to your own sorrows. Please. Don’t ask me to.”

She pulled his face closer to hers and brushed a kiss as gentle and sweet as spring across his lips. “I promise.”

“Good.” Mitsuhide kissed her once, twice, the warmth of her lips a reassurance.

They did not return to camp that night, but found a room at the inn beside the alleyway. A quiet place to hold each other, reminding one another that love was not a thing deserved or earned, but a gift freely given.

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen mitsuhide #mitsuhide akechi #otome guys #otome #fanfiction #fanfic #hurt comfort #angst #depression

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greatgigintheskiess · 1 year

Text

With Me

Chapter 1: Trust

CW: Broken Bones, (Implied) Child Abuse, Lab Whump

Word Count: 2.4 k

He felt warmth, when he was blinking his eyes open, waking up from a deep doze. As he stirred slowly, the boy felt a soft blanket nestling tenderly around his injured body. Usually, when he woke up, he was feeling only cold solid metal on his back; a filthy disgusting operation table, often covered in dried blood of other 'subjects'. But now, for the first time ever, it wasn't something cold and unpleasant on which the boy lay, on the contrary, it was a soft mattress, a bed. The child had shifted his shoulders once more before he was fully awake and moved on his back, tilting his head to the side. Where even was he? He was staring at a night stand, which was only a few inches away from him. Soon, he began to recognize his surroundings. A wooden dresser stood beside a window, shutters down, so that only a bit of daylight fell through them and illuminated the room in a warm pleasant light. On the dresser the boy saw a radio, next to it some cassettes alongside with deodorant and other everyday stuff like creams and handkerchiefs. Beside the door, a dark green hunting jacket hang over a chair. The boy wondered. It didn't appear to be some kind of medical room. No plain white tiles on the walls, no medical devices, no IV sticking to his arm, no appliance to check his vitals, if his body had overcome the last experiment, no surgical lighthead blending his eyes. He also wasn't tied so tightly to a metal table, that he couldn't move or struggle, if some doctors came in to inspect whether their experiment was successful or had failed.

But there was still pain. As the child moved his right leg, he felt a stitch and right after such an unbearable pain in his ankle and above it, that he had to prevent himself from letting out an agonizing cry, like he so often had to do in the past. Instead, he whimpered quietly and hoped that nobody heard him. If he had cried or screamed back there, it meant more pain, more torture. Once it had come to the point, that one of the scientists was so mad and annoyed by the boy's weeping, he threatened the child by telling him, he'd sew his mouth together if he wouldn't shut up. That threat had burned into his mind since, no matter how awful and painful the latest experiment was, the boy didn't even dare to make a noise.

The child startled and flinched as suddenly someone opened the door and stepped inside. Please, no more pain, the boy pleaded in his mind, peering at the man, who came to the bed.

"Hey, kid. You're awake. Did you sleep well?" The man asked with a slight smile and sat down on the bed's edge.

In an instant, the boy moved further away from him as he was still terrified the guy would hurt him. He didn't dare to respond to the question, so he remained silent and stared right into the man's light blue eyes. One could see his brown hair had already started to become grey, same for the beard on his chin and above the lips. He didn't wear a white smock, like all the other scientists, so that the child began to wonder why he hurt him then. He remembered last stepping into something very sharp and painful as he stumbled through the forest last night- everything after was blurred. He only remembered having a conversation with the guy, that he wanted to bring him back to the hospital he had just escaped from. He believed that the man had even told him his name but, by god, he couldn't recall that one.

And it was strange, usually the boy woke up in pain, all alone; it used to be cold and dark. Never did he lay in a bed, never was he wrapped in a warm blanket and never did someone ask him how he had slept. So the whole situation was completely new to him- yet, he was still afraid of what would happen next.

There had to be a threat somewhere.

"In case you're wonderin' where you are, this is my house." The guy explained, interrupting the boy's intrusive thoughts. "I got you out of my jeep last night, it was hella uncomfortable sleeping in there."

Still no reaction.

The man's face turned into a frown, as he was running out of words to keep up the conversation. Well, one could call this merely a conversation as he was the only one speaking and the boy just stared at him, like a deer in the headlights. He already wasn't that socially gifted and the kid sure didn't make things easier for him.

So Don stood up from the bed and grabbed a few things from the dresser, standing across the room. As he was holding a bottle of disinfectant and few cotton pads in his hands, coming back with them to the bed, the boy recoiled instantly, recognizing these things from there. He knew it hurt. It burned. Pulling the blanket closer to his upper body as a shield, the child knew exactly what would happen.

There it is, the threat.

Noticing the boy's strange reaction, Don hesitated for a moment. Right, medical stuff, he concluded and sighed in his mind. In his head, he thought how to deal with this situation. He believed he had gained the child's trust yesterday, and in the end, the boy even told him his name. Now all this trust seemed to be gone, only because Don held this bottle in his hand. But this again showed him, how much the kid has been traumatized that he would be scared of such a simple object.

Don tried to ease the whole situation by sitting next to the startled boy on the bed again, putting the bottle of disinfectant out of the kid's sight.

"Hey, everything is fine. There's no need to be scared." He said to the child and lay one hand on his leg, which was still covered by the blanket.

First, the boy winced by the sudden touch, but eventually pressed his first words of today out of his mouth.

"Please, no more pain..."

Finally, the kid replied something, Don thought, but right after became aware of what he had actually said. Also the child had lowered his gaze, when speaking out these few but bitter words, as if he was ashamed of even saying them. Don shook his head in disbelief. The kid still thinks I'm the bad guy.

"Boy, your name was Six, right?" Don tilted his chin until he met the kid's eyes. The boy nodded without looking up. "Six, listen, I need to disinfect that wound on your foot or else it will hurt even more. And both you and I don't want that. Would you let me do it then?"

Silence.

Don pursed his lips, still looking down on the child's lowered head.

"Six?" He asked once again, came a bit closer and hesitantly lay one hand on the boy's head, touching his blonde curly hair as gently as possible.

Six didn't recoil, instead stared into the vastness, not fully understanding what was happening right now. No one has ever touched him like that. They had always dragged him, pushed him, grabbed his arms so roughly that it left bruises for days. Whenever any of them had touched him, they also hurt him. Always. But now it was different. The hand just lay there on his head. It didn't grab him by his hair, the man didn't beat him - nothing, just a slight touch.

Don realized how that little touch seemed to overwhelm the boy. When he slowly raised his head, Don believed to see some kind of affirmation in the kid's eyes, telling him it's alright what he is doing. And that only gaze met a whole lot to Don. It showed him that he didn't completely fuck up with the kid, that there maybe is some way to gain his trust and it isn't hopeless. Don never had any children of his own. His girlfriend left him 18 years ago, since then he dedicated his life completely to hunting. There wasn't a single day where he didn't drive out in the woods and only came back in the middle of the night. It was some kind of meditation to him or else he would just drink his problems away and wait for the day when he finally would die. Hunting gave him a purpose, something that was worth living for. So how could he tell if he was doing it right? How should he know if he was doing the right thing with the boy?

Don had eyed the kid for a while and his lips curved into a smile.

"There we go. Now I want you to be brave, okay?" He said with his hand still resting on the child's head, thinking to himself in the meantime, as if you weren't that already after all the pain you experienced, kid…

Six nodded slightly in response and the man took away his hand to get the bottle again. He shoved away the blanket from the boy's injured leg, revealing the terrible wound on his ankle. When he had to unwind the bandage, Don saw how the wound was already starting to get infected. Sure, leaving it like it was for a whole night wasn't good, but Don didn't know what else to do, after the boy had refused to get any kind of medical help. He only hoped that it wasn't too infected. The ankle bone, however, was broken. Don didn't need to be a medic to see that. A bear trap was fucking dangerous, especially for humans- not to mention children.

Don pressed a pad of cotton on the bottle's opening and slightly shook it, so that the ethanol spread all over the fabric and flooded it, making it usable for disinfection. He had done that already a few times after he accidentally cut himself in the hand while slicing up his hunted prey. It was a nasty process that really sucked. And Don could only imagine how the boy felt now when he had to do that to him. The child's face contorted at the sight of Don's hand reaching for his ankle. He winced when the man's fingers wrapped around his leg, grabbing it gently, while, in the other hand, he was holding the cotton pad only a few inches above the wound. Six gave him a fearful glance, his jaw tightened and he drew his lower lip between his teeth. Don hesitated briefly, when he saw the kid was fighting back tears. He really would've renounced doing that but there wasn't any other way. Or else the boy will suffer only more.

So the man sighed and started carefully padding the wound around the destroyed bone where the trap's jaws had dug deeply into. At first Six only felt the cold liquid on his ankle, cooling it pleasantly as it was throbbing and heated. But shortly after, a severe sting set in, spreading everywhere in the ankle, biting. Pain overtook the boy's face, he gritted his teeth, clenched his jaw in agony. Suddenly, he felt like his mind was playing tricks on him. He heard voices, beeping devices, echoing in his head. Hold it still. Prevent it from moving.

He was there again.

The sound of latex medical gloves being snapped on, echoes in his ringing ears, muted and dulled. All awhile he's writhing in agony, begging for it to stop.

Please. Make it stop. Screaming, as his throat hurt, feeling like he was losing his voice by every second.

"Stop it! Please!" The boy pleaded in pain as he was thrown back into reality, his eyes flooded with tears.

Don heard a sob leaving the kid's throat while he tried to hold him still. On one hand, he tried to focus on disinfecting the wound, which- of course- would be much easier for him, if the boy would stop moving that much, on the other, he felt so very sorry for hurting the child, not only because of the bear trap, but also for what he was doing right now. So he ended the process as fast as he could to not torment the boy even more.

"It's fine, Six. You're good." Don told him in a soft tone. "See, it's over already."

He took another fresh bandage and wrapped it around the boy's ankle as gently as possible, sensing that the child now stopped squirming as he stopped disinfecting. As he finished the bandage, Don sighed and laid his hand on the boy's leg, rubbing it slightly with his thumb. His forehead creased and his gaze fell back on the boy, who was still sobbing under his breath, his little face still screwed up, turned crimson.

I'm sorry, little one. Sorry for all that pain.

Don peered at the sobbing child with concern and only hoped that the pain would go away soon. The kid batted his lashes and opened his eyelids, as tears shimmered in his light green eyes, when he saw Don's face right in front of him. Awe transformed the boy's face when he looked into the man's worried eyes and he just couldn't understand why that was the case. Why did he look like that? Usually none of the doctors or scientists had such a look on their faces, no one there had cared about him. About him being in pain, crying, pleading - not at all.

This one was different however. This one seemed to be concerned, he seemed to care.

After a while Don interrupted the silence in the room.

"You can rest now, boy." He said and covered the kid's leg with the blanket again.

The man stood up and walked out of the room without any further words, as the child looked after him, following each of his steps and wondered.

Taglist: @i-eat-worlds

#lab whump #hospital whump #whump #whumpee #caretaker #recovery whump #original story #original writing #whump community #whump writing #found family #hurt/comfort #ocs #medical whump #parental caretaker

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jinkieswouldyoulookatthis · 7 months

Text

Helping Hand - Chapter 1

When I posted A Different Conversation, a ficlet from Bobby's pov about him figuring out that there's more to Sam and Dean's relationship, I knew that at some point I wanted to go back and fill in with additional stories from Sam and Dean's perspectives. This is the first of those additional stories. This covers what happened the night that Bobby heard them and knew a line had been crossed and then the events of the following day. Chapter 1 is from Sam's pov, and I'm about 95% certain that Chapter 2 will be from Dean's pov (but I haven't written Chapter 2 yet, so we'll see.

Relationship: Sam/Dean, Wincest

Warnings: Underage (although the age of consent in South Dakota, where Bobby lives in Sioux Falls, is 16, but generally the age of consent is assumed to be 18), sibling incest, and it looks very much like dub-con based on this chapter.

Summary: Although the line had never been particularly clear to them, the first time they crossed it was at Bobby's house. It was summer, Sam was sixteen, Dean was twenty. Offering your brother a hand job when he was too hurt to take care of business himself wasn't normal, but normal just wasn't in the cards for them.

Words: 5,534

“It’s not that bad.” Dean said as he eased himself down onto the side of the bed.

“Dean! You’re bleeding, still. And you’ve been holding your left arm against your side since you came in. Why?”

“It looks worse than it is, I’m okay.” To Sam’s raised eyebrows he added, “ I’m gonna be okay.”

“Let me see.”

“Sam…”

Sam pulled Dean’s arm away from his ribs so he could lift his shirt. HIs eyes went wide. The lump of worry he’d been carrying since his dad and brother had left on this latest hunt fell from where it had been lodged in his throat, right through his stomach, and embedded itself somewhere deep in his guts. Dean’s entire left side, from his bicep, over his shoulder, and down to his hip, was a deep, angry, purplish blue-black. Just one giant, mottled bruise.

“What the hell happened?”

“Ah, there was a fight.” Dean said and tried to shrug, but between the bruise and the other shoulder, which was what was bleeding, it ended up just sort of a grimace.

“No shit, Sherlock. But I thought you were up against witches, not the Incredible Hulk.”

“Hey, witches are fucking nasty… and dangerous.”

“So what happened? Is anything broken?” he gently pressed at Dean’s ribs and abdomen, “Do I need to be worried about internal bleeding? Because I’m honestly worrying about internal bleeding right now. Let’s get this off.”

Dean sighed and cooperated as Sam removed his shirt so he could figure out the extent of the damage.

“This looks like claw marks.”

“Nah, I think it was a nail or something that did that. Got hit by some sort of spell that grabbed me and tossed me through a wall that had a fucking stud in it. Nothing’s broken though and I don’t think anything crucial got ruptured.”

Dean sucked in a sharp, shallow breath when Sam prodded around the edges of the wound.

“Hurts like a bitch though, not gonna lie, that shoulder hurts worse than the other one. Must have nicked a nerve or something.”

Sam’s face fell, Dean could see the anger that seemed to flow just beneath his surface all the time lately bubbling up again.

“Hey, I’m okay. Takes more’n a few witches and a dumbass wall to stop your big brother, alright?” He leaned into Sam’s field of vision, made him look at him and smiled, only wincing a little in the process. “Help stitch me up?”

Sam sighed, shaking his head as he pulled the first aid kit across the bed and got everything set up.

“It’s fucking bullshit that I even know how to do this.”

“Well, I’m glad you do, because you do it better than dad does.”

“Which is even more fucked up, Dean!”

“Hey, shhh, keep your voice down.”

“Why? So he doesn’t hear me? Let him fucking hear me. He coulda gotten you killed.” But he got quieter until that last word stuck in his throat, barely said. He took some steading breaths and started cleaning out the wound. “One of these times… One of these times one of you isn’t gonna come back. Or neither… What am I supposed to do without you?”

“I’m always going to come back, Sam. You can’t get rid of me that easy.”

Sam was quiet as he went to work stitching up his brother.

When John had come through the door, not even 30 minutes ago, with Dean not quite on his heels, relief had flooded through Sam. He hated when they were both gone, but especially Dean. Dean who had always been there for Sam, who always watched out for him, watched over him, even when Sam didn’t want the attention and gave him a hard time, yeah. He worried about his dad, but John was like a force of nature, unstoppable, unavoidable, unrelenting. But he felt sick when Dean was gone too long. They’d been gone for too long this time. Off hunting down a pair of witches that’d been causing havoc and mayhem, anyone and everyone who’d gotten in their way dropping dead of highly suspicious causes.

Sam tried his best to play it cool, not let Bobby see how anxious he was getting with each passing day, but Bobby was observant as hell for a man who was probably at least a little drunk most of the time, so he’d picked up on the damn near radioactive waves of worry that Sam must have been throwing off. Worry that just up and evaporated as soon as Dean was looking back at him from around John’s shoulder, a wane, but honest smile pulling up the corners of his otherwise exhausted face. But nothing ever really just disappears, and it took all of a second and a half for all that evaporated worry to condense into a thundercloud of anger, anger that sparked and zapped out at his dad.

“What the hell happened?”

“Watch your tone, son.” As if Sam was no more than a bothersome fly, John shifted his attention from him to Bobby. “Yeah so those two witches? Weren’t two. They had a full coven behind them. Got all but one of them. He’s on the run, but I think I know where he’s headed. Gonna go after him, finish the job.”

“You’re leaving again?” Sam, itching to get around his dad to get a better look at Dean, didn’t even try to watch his tone. John slowly turned and stared at his youngest, deadly calm, which should have scared Sam, it scared most full grown men, but Sam wasn’t feeling anything but incredulous rage.

John turned his head and spoke to Dean instead. “Go on upstairs and get cleaned up.”

Dean nodded, eyes downcast, looking for all the world like a dog that’d just been kicked, and grabbed the handrail with a shaking hand, steadying himself as he began to climb the stairs. Sam slipped around their dad in a flash, ducked under and pulled Dean’s outstretched arm across his shoulders to help him, before Dean could even get his foot up on the first step.

John and Bobby walked off into the kitchen, John filling Bobby in on what exactly had happened.

And now here they were, up in the room they shared when they stayed at Bobby’s, the room Sam had been sleeping in for the last few weeks, waiting (always waiting) for them to come back or for that phone call to finally come, the one that would tell him that, at just sixteen, he was truly as alone in the world as he felt.

He focused on his breathing, forcing his mind and body to calm. Flying off into a bitch fit (as Dean called it) would only make everything harder, make his hands shake and his eyes refuse to focus, and then he wouldn’t be able to stitch Dean up. Or he’d do a bad job and the wound would get infected or just heal into an unsightly scar, not the cool kind that Dean swore chicks thought were mysterious and sexy.

Dean’s scars, of which he had way too many already, were a conundrum to Sam, but increasingly so was Dean in general.

Sometimes Sam was indifferent to how stupidly perfect his brother was, or he used to be. It was just how Dean was, he couldn’t help it that he took after their mom (if the few photos of her they had were anything to go by) and was prettier than he had any right to be. More and more often, though, he found it wasn’t something he could ignore or tune out.

Dean hated it when Sam called him pretty, usually because he delivered it in a mocking, sing-song tone intended to rile his brother up. Dean said that manly men weren’t pretty, they were handsome or rugged. Girls and flowers and rainbows and shit were pretty, which was awesome and all, but he was a hunter, a slayer of monsters, badass with a shotgun, and there wasn’t anything pretty about that. Sam had gotten shoved, pushed down, pinned down, and received many, many smacks to the back of his head for even implying that Dean fell in the same category as girls, rainbows, and flowers. None of that ever changed the fact that he was, inarguably, pretty by anyone’s standards.

It was also just a fact that Dean was naturally good at hunting. He was a better shot than even their dad, with anything that anyone handed him, from crossbows to his treasured Colt M1911A1 that dad had bought for him on his eighteenth birthday. And if that didn’t say everything anyone needed to know about their broken little family, the fact that when Dean gravitated to that particular gun, John had just beamed fondly at his oldest and said, “it fits you,” well…

In a less fucked up family, Dean’s scars may have been a source of dismay, the perfect oldest son marred by permanent signs of violence, like scuffs or dents on a Ferrari 308 GTS Quattrovalvole (the car that Magnum P.I. drove and that Dean always practically orgasmed over).

But somehow, Dean’s scars just made him more attractive and it drove Sam nuts. The last thing his brother needed was to somehow become more attractive. As it was, the asshole could pull any girl in a tristate area with an ease that made Sam’s stomach cramp up in jealousy. So he’d learned to stitch carefully.

Sam told himself that it was self preservation, after all, how was he ever going to compete for anyone’s attention when Dean was right there looking like… well, like that. But the idea of Dean’s face getting scarred up had actually been the subject of a nightmare Sam’d had a few times. More frequently though, were the nightmares where Dean died just out of Sam’s reach, already cold and rotting before Sam could get to him.

“He’s going to get you killed,” he said, applying a generous glob of antibiotic ointment to the finished stitches.

“Dad knows what he’s doing.” There was a warning tone to Dean’s voice that was so commonplace that Sam barely even noticed it anymore.

“You know that makes it worse, right?” Dean blinked at him and started to shake his head but Sam continued. “He knows you could get killed and he’s okay with that.”

“Hey, he’s not… he’s careful, Sam. I’m careful. But witches and monsters and stuff are dangerous. If we don’t do something about them, if we don’t stop them then someone else dies, sometimes a lot of people. At least we know what we’re up against and have a chance of walking away. Better us than…”

“No!” Sam slammed the first aid kit closed and threw it down into Dean’s open duffle on the floor.

The sudden outburst made Dean flinch, just a bit, nothing he would ever admit to, but instead of finishing that thought he just sat there and stared at Sam. Sam, who felt like he was going to shake out of his skin, was so angry. He had no idea how long they sat like that, might’ve only been a few seconds, could have been an hour, but it wasn’t until Dean nudged his knee with the back of his hand that he was able to pull himself out of the spiraling dread in his mind and look up.

“Hey, I came back. I’m here. Lived to fight another day, again.”

Sam shook his head slowly, his mouth pressed into a still angry thin line. Dean had switched into need-to-cheer-up-my-stupid-brother mode though and was grinning at him.

“Did I mention that one of the witches was naked?” He grinned wider, perfect teeth gleaming as his eyebrows bounced up and down. “And she was stacked?” He held his hands out in front of his chest like he was holding up massive boobs. “Like Dolly Parton?”

Sam just glared at him, although he could feel his anger downshifting into annoyance. “You’re an idiot.”

“Tits were bouncing, Sammy! Oof! I tell ya what, witches are fucking gross but ya gotta respect their embrace of nekkidness.”

“Ew, dude, gross.”

“Hey, a beautiful naked woman with really big knockers, is still a lovely sight to behold, even if she is trying to kill you. There are worse ways to go.”

Sam shook his head. His brother was disgusting sometimes, well, oftentimes, but there was a charm to his idiotic simplicity that could not be denied.

“Dammit.” Dean said quietly, shifting on the bed awkwardly before standing up and walking around Sam towards the door. “Dibs on the bathroom.”

Dean was in there for a while, so long, in fact, that Sam actually knocked on the door at one point. “You didn’t pass out in there or anything, did you?”

A frustrated noise came from the other side of the door.

“Dean?” Sam waited and listened. He could hear movement, but no audible intelligible response from his brother. “Hey? Seriously, you okay?”

When thirty seconds passed with still no answer, Sam turned the doorknob, it wasn’t locked.

“I’m coming in. You better not be jerking off.” He pushed the door slowly open. “Or taking a dump.”

Before the door was open enough to see into the small room, Dean pulled it out of Sam’s hand and pushed past him into the hall.

“Sorry, my arms fucking hurt, I can’t get a good grip on my,” Dean grimaced as he moved his arms, “toothbrush. It’s all yours.”

He shuffled down the hall and into their room.

By the time Sam peed and brushed his teeth, Dean was in bed and the light was off. Sam shut the door behind him, closing out the quiet sounds of John and Bobby that were drifting up the stairs. They sounded like they were settled in the kitchen, talking quietly, probably working out a plan to gank that last witch. He couldn’t even hear them as he settled into bed next to Dean who was laying on his back with his legs bent, knees sticking up.

“You alright?”

“Peachy.”

“You don’t sound peachy. Did you take a pain pill?”

“Yeah, waiting for it to kick in.” There was a pause as Sam shifted around messing with his pillow. “I’ll be fine, Sam, just go to sleep.”

“Okay. ‘Night.”

“Goodnight, Sam.”

Sam tried to settle down and go to sleep, he really did, but he was still a big knot of anxious energy and he just couldn’t seem to get comfortable. Normally, he would have just curled up against Dean, who would have grumbled about them being too old to cuddle, but thenwould’ve still wrapped an arm around him anyway. And Sam would have fallen right off to sleep. But with Dean all banged up and hurting, there was no way that was going to work. So he tried every trick he knew. Measured breathing, reciting latin verbs and multiplication tables, he even tried counting sheep, although he never really understood how that was supposed to help you fall asleep. It was a good visualization exercise if nothing else. An hour later he was breathing calmly and shallowly, barely moving, but still very much awake.

For the first time since he’d laid down, Sam felt Dean move. He wasn’t getting up, just shifting his hips, probably because he wasn’t used to lying on his back all night. Sam realized that Dean still had his legs bent, which seemed like a weird position to try and sleep in.

Dean grunted really quietly, just a little discomfited noise, but it seemed loud in the quiet room. He shifted his arms, hands up on his belly, rubbing up and down a couple of times, first one hand then the other. The small movements were stiff and his breath caught each time.

Sam wasn’t even close to being asleep before, but now he was wide awake. And if he wasn’t mistaken, Dean was jerking off. Or he was trying to, at least. The way he kept switching hands was weird though.

It wasn’t that he’d watched his brother jerk off, not on purpose anyway, or, well, not entirely on purpose. They had spent a lot of time together in pretty small shared spaces and, as Dean had explained once, oh so eloquently, sometimes a guy just wanted to jerk it in the comfort of a bed, instead of in the bathroom. And, well, what was Sam supposed to do? Usually saying something only made the whole situation weirder, so Sam had sort of mastered the art of pretending to be asleep. For what it was worth, he was fairly certain that Dean did the same thing for him.

The studying of technique and preferences, well, Sam chalked that up to a lifetime spent learning everything by watching his brother do it first. And the fact that after surreptitiously watching his brother masterbate, he’d have to then wait for Dean to fall asleep so he could gdo something about his resulting boner, well, he figured that was just one more reason that he was a complete freak.

But this, here, now, watching Dean struggle when he’d said his arms both hurt so bad he could barely brush his teeth… wait a minute.

“That’s what was taking you so long in the bathroom, wasn’t it?”

“Jesus, Sam.” Dean sort of whisper-shouted, startled.

“You tried to rub one out but your arms hurt too much? The meds haven’t kicked in?”

“I didn’t take any.” Dean was irritated, which made sense, not that it stopped Sam.

“What? Why not?”

“I’m fine. My arms only hurt when I move certain ways, it’ll be a lot better in the morning.”

Sam pushed himself up on one elbow. “Dad didn’t give you any.”

Dean was quiet, then, “It’s cool. Seriously. Go to sleep, Sam.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake. Do you want me to go get you a pain pill? Bobby’s got some in the medicine cabinet. I can tell him in the morning, he won’t mind.”

As soon as Dean sighed, Sam was up, out of the room, and quietly padding down the hall. He was back in no time with a little paper cup of water and a pill. When he shut the bedroom door again, he said, “Got the good stuff, Vicodin. Here…” He handed Dean the pill and helped him sit up enough to swallow it with a mouth of water. He eased him back down and sat on the bed.

“How are you even horny if you're in that much pain?”

Dean opened his mouth, but Sam could see the disingenuous smirk forming before he started talking.

“And don’t tell me it’s because of some psycho witch’s tits, that’s all bullshit.”

Dean’s mouth snapped shut. After a moment he let out a sigh that sounded both defeated and frustrated. “I dunno, a guy’s got needs.”

Sam nodded, “Oh I know.”

He sounded calm, chill even, very dude-like, but inside his heart was racing. A completely insane idea had occurred to him, the kind of idea that only seemed reasonable in the middle of the night, in a dark room, laying wide awake with another person who couldn’t sleep.

“I could help you out, if you wanted.” He said it before he thought about it fully, the words just slipping out into the dark.

If Dean hadn’t been in too much pain to even jerk off, Sam would have been bracing to get hit, hard, but he figured that this was the safest he was ever going to be from that sort of response. It wasn’t exactly a level playing field. He knew that the meds wouldn’t start to kick in for another 15-20 minutes, so at least that removed one layer of perviness from his proposition.

The moment stretched on, Dean didn’t say anything and Sam wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a very bad thing.

It was getting awkward.

Deciding that he had to do something, he lay back down and made a show of getting comfortable again. “It’s cool if you’d rather just sleep it off.” He rolled onto his other side, so his back was to Dean. “Goodnight.”

He didn’t close his eyes, just lay there staring at the dark wall, hoping that the furious pounding of his heart was only that loud inside his own head.

What fuck did he just do? Did he really just offer to give his brother a handjob?

It’s not like he’d never thought of Dean like that. He just kept popping into his head while he was taking care of his own business, randomly, in between picturing Tina Martin from biology class three schools ago, and those little short, short skirts she always wore and somehow never got in trouble for, and Anna Watts putting on lipgloss before math class, and every other attractive girl he’d seen in his life. But then sometimes, just sometimes, Dean would slip into the rotation. Usually making out or even fucking whichever girl he’d been thinking about. And then it was more like imaging watching live porn, really, which wasn’t that weird. It was fine, probably normal…ish, right? But sometimes… It’s just that he saw Dean more than anyone else in his entire life, and Dean was, well, he was Dean.

But Sam couldn’t back peddle now or it would only end up worse. He had to keep it a casual, sincere-seeming offer to just lend a helping hand.

Dean shifted. Sam tried to focus on keeping his breathing slow and even. Dean made a frustrated noise and shifted again. Then, very quietly, “What did you mean?”

“Hmm?”

“What… goddamit… what exactly were you offering?”

Sam was going to go to hell. “I dunno, just, your arms hurt too much to let you, you know, unwind properly, right? But mine are fine and, seriously, if you can’t sleep I’m not going to be able to sleep, so, if you want help taking care of that, I’ll help.”

He could almost hear Dean’s mouth opening and closing like a landed fish, so he decided to push his luck. “It’s like stitching you up or helping you get up off the floor of the bathroom when you’ve had too many.”

Shit, that was probably too far.

“That wouldn’t be too… weird?”

Sam closed his eyes. Bingo! He rolled over onto his back and turned his head towards Dean. “Pssh. No. Nothing weird about helping if you need help, right?”

It was dark in the room, but there was enough light from the digital clock on the dresser and from the moonlight coming in the window, that he could see Dean thinking it over.

“Tell you what, I’ll keep my eyes closed, you just tell me what you normally do and I’ll do that, get you all taken care of before the Vicodin kicks in.”

Holy shit, what was he doing? Where was this coming from? Who was he all of a sudden?

“You sure?” If Sam wasn’t mistaken, Dean sounded almost, but not quite, eager. Like when he was asking if Sam was serious about not wanting his piece of pie so that Dean could have both of them.

Sam forced himself to laugh nice and easy, “Yeah, it’s fine. What do you want me to do?”

Dean still looked unsure, actually, he looked nervous.

“Or, what would you normally do? Talk me through it.”

“Oh shit, yeah, okay. Uh…”

“Do you want me to… Do you usually start over or go right in?” Sam pointed towards the waistband of Dean’s shorts,

“Over, give things a, uh, sorta get the lay of the land.” All of his usual bravado was gone, he sounded breathless and just a little unsure. He sounded embarrassed, which was not something Sam got to hear that often anymore.

Sam rolled onto his left side and moved a little closer to Dean’s right, trying to be careful not to push against his stitched up shoulder, laying propped up on his left arm so his right was free to, um, work. He reached down, at the last moment he actually did shut his eyes, and pressed his palm against the fully hard line of a dick that was not his own. A shudder went through Dean and he tensed up his core, which caused his dick to twitch up into Sam’s hand.

Holy fuck! He was actually touching Dean’s dick!

Sam applied a bit more pressure and slid his hand down to cup Dean’s balls through the fabric, the way he would his own, but it was weird, good weird, but touching someone else, of course meant that he couldn’t feel both sides the way he could when he touched himself. And he’d never touched another guy like this, it was… it didn’t feel wrong, that was for sure.

He opened his eyes and looked at Dean. If his eyes had been open, he would have been staring straight up at the ceiling. But his eyes weren’t open, they were scrunched tightly shut and he was breathing erratically.

“Come on, tell me what to do. I want to make this good for you.” Sam said quietly.

He felt Dean react to his words like everything just telegraphed right through his dick just as a gasping “Ahh,” slipped out of him before Dean swallowed, “I, ah, I… Shit, Sam. Sam.” HIs eyes flew open and searched for Sam’s in the dark silhouette of his face against the light of the window.

Sam slid his hand up onto Dean’s abdomen, his fingers brushing under his waistband .

“I got you, Dean. It’s okay. Is this okay?” He slowly pushed his hand under the waistband, giving Dean time to tell him to stop, but hoping with everything he had that he wouldn’t.

The nod was so slight that in the dark Sam could have missed it if he wasn’t so intently focused on his brother. HIs fingers found and traced along the length of Dean’s erection, the skin had the same velvety softness, radiated the same familiar heat.

Sam realized that he was fully hard too. Somehow he’d been so overwhelmed and distracted that he hadn’t noticed until just then, but it suddenly throbbed in sympathy? Jealousy? As he circled his fingers around the shaft and gave a gentle experimental squeeze.

Another quiet gasp escaped Dean.

“Can you tell me what you like? Or do you want me to just do what I normally do?”

“Ah! Yeah, I, this, yeah, just… yeah whatever, just…” The possibility that he may have temporarily broken his brother floated through his head, but then again, Dean got kinda stupid when his downstairs brain took over, so…

Sam nodded, “Okay, yeah.” And he started to stroke. Everything was a little too dry and a little too cramped to really get going, but he tried to seem casual as he hyper-focused on Dean’s breathing, gauging what worked best as he started with his own usual movements, his tried and true routine, and made adjustments for what Dean responded to.

“Hang on a sec.” He said and pulled his hand out of Dean’s shorts, Dean’s hips thrusting up a little like they were chasing his hand. Sam licked his palm, pushing as much spit as he could muster out onto his hand, getting it good and wet before reaching back down and in, wrapping around Dean again. That was better, Sam thought.

Dean obviously agreed. “Oh fuck.”

Sam didn’t realize that he’d leaned closer until he felt Dean’s breath, hot and moist, against his cheek. Dean’s face was tipped towards his and Sam could see his eyes wide and staring at him as he panted with the movements of Sam’s hand.

“That better?” Sam asked and Dean nodded. HIs lips were parted, his breath coming in gasps, Sam had to resist the urge to turn the light on. He really wanted to see Dean better, to be able to watch all the subtle reactions play across his features when he came. Fuck. When Sam made him come. But the darkness was like a spell, allowing this to happen like it never would have in a well lit place.

He couldn’t stop himself from leaning a little closer still, though, trying to see more despite the dark. Taking in how Dean shuddered and his eyelids drooped, almost closed when Sam rubbed his fingers all the way up across the head of his dick on an upstroke. And then when they went wide again as Sam tightened and twisted his grip just a bit.

“Sam.” His name, just a whisper, barely spoken aloud, like a breath from his brother’s lips, but it rang loudly through him. He was so close, they were so close. Sam’s brain was officially offline. He leaned in that last little bit and kissed those ridiculously perfect lips. He just pressed his lips to Dean’s, maybe sucked, ever so gently, on Dean’s bottom lip. Dean wasn’t kissing back, but he also wasn’t turning away. That had to count for something. Sam pulled back just enough to separate their mouths, but still stayed so close, still breathing the same air, and he leaned his forehead against Dean’s temple.

Sam’s strokes sped up to match the little thrusts of Dean’s hips.

“Come on, come for me.” He whispered it right into Dean’s ear and felt Dean’s balls tighten and his dick pulsed a moment later, hot and wet against the inside of his shorts,

“Fuck! Oh, fuck, Sammy!” Dean’s voice rose, well above the low tones they’d kept to so far.

Sam shushed him with another kiss and this time Dean kissed him back. It was desperate and sloppy, but Dean tasted like toothpaste and smelled like home, like heaven.

Sam’s fist rubbed through Dean’s come, spreading it, as he slowed, gentling Dean down.

“I should’ve offered to go down on you.” Sam said, already thinking about clean-up, even as his own dick reminded him that it was going to need attention too.

Dean tried to bite down the moan that came up deep from his chest as his body made one final attempt to shoot his balls out of his dick.

When Dean was done, Sam pulled his hand out of his shorts and immediately reached down into his own sweatpants. His hand was still wet with Dean’s come and the slick slide of it coupled with the knowledge that it was Dean’s, had Sam adding his own to it just seconds later.

He lay there for a moment, waiting for his heart rate to return to normal.

Sam’s brain was finally starting to catch up and a seed of panic set back in.

“Better?” Sam asked as nonchalantly as he could.

Dean wasn’t asleep, but he was being really quiet, which was not usually a good sign.

“Mm.” Dean finally replied. It sounded mostly affirmative, albeit rather noncommittal.

Sam sat up and swung his legs over his side of the bed. ‘Eh, I need to go clean up.” He got up and felt around with his clean hand in Dean’s duffle until he found a clean pair of briefs, which he tossed on the bed near Dean’s feet.

“Here. I’ll help you change when I get back, you know, if you need help with it.”

Dean still hadn’t moved, or said a word, when Sam quietly went out and down the hall to the bathroom.

The door clicked closed behind him but he just stood there in the dark, building up the courage to turn on the light. If he turned on the light, he would see his hand while he washed it.

He just had his hand on his brother’s dick.

He left the light off and washed his hands by feel, then took off his sweats and underwear, used the underwear to wipe the jizz off his skin before he pulled his sweats back on. He could go commando while he slept, no big deal.

Yeah, no big deal if he slept without underwear on after he just jerked off his brother and then himself, with the same fucking hand. Holy shit, what the hell did he do?

He was fairly certain that Dean was going to freak. After all, Sam was freaking out, and if Sam was freaking out, and he was the one who instigated it, then Dean would definitely freak too. He was going to have to play this very carefully if he didn’t want to get his ass handed to him when Dean’s arms felt better.

He returned to their room and slipped in as quietly as he could. Dean had done something with the briefs, they weren’t on the bed anymore, and while he was still laying on his back, at least his legs were relaxed and stretched out now.

Sam got into bed. He lay down on his back too. He suddenly didn’t know what to do with himself. He also didn’t know what else to say, Dean’s silence was making him doubt every ounce of confidence he’d felt earlier. Finally, he heard Dean’s breathing change and he knew he’d fallen asleep.

“Goodnight, Dean.” he said oh so very quietly.

Next Chapter ->

#wincest #wincest fanfiction #long post

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shivunin · 1 year

Text

Sleight of Hand

(Maria Hawke/Fenris | 7374 Words | AO3 | No warnings)

Here's the magician AU I have been talking about. I may write more in this AU at some point, but for now this is the whole story. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it c: (and here is what I was listening to as I wrote this)

In the hours before showtime, Hawke sometimes liked to come to the stage and stand just behind the curtains. Nothing else. Just—stand there, eyes closed, and listen.

There was a heartbeat to the old theater. In quiet moments, she could almost feel the pulse of it. There: the echo of past applause, the soft swish swish of years of push brooms across the empty stage, the murmurs of a thousand chorus girls and backup dancers. There—the hush as bows rising over violins, hovering over still strings. And there—spots squeaking as they pivoted to the correct position, just before the light inside was lit. It was like a sharp inhale, like the twitch of a muscle about to contract, like toes pressed to the very edge of a precipice.

Or maybe that was just her own fanciful thinking.

“Hawke,” the dry voice of her stage assistant called from the wings, “It is four thirty.”

One breath: in and out.

It was time.

“Coming,” she called back, stepping away from the dusty velvet. “Say, Fenris, do you ever stand onstage and hear the echoes of performances past?”

A pause.

“No,” he said.

When she turned to look at him, she found him already dressed for the show in the customary snow-white shirt, black vest accented with lines of silvery embroidery, and deep black trousers. From the audience, the watchers would not see the many-times-mended seams, the shabby cuffs, nor most of the pale tattoos covered by each. He’d told her there was no sense in covering them—and he was right, for they showed through his shirtsleeves in the stage lights—but at least covering them gave the impression that they weren’t up for casual discussion.

The illusion provided by both was for the best. Most people learned the hard way that Fenris did not like to talk about the markings, and the shabbiness of his clothes was her fault, for she’d had little spare money to spend on fixing it.

“Really?” Hawke asked, walking toward him. “Not even a peep?”

“No,” he said again, but this time the corner of his mouth twitched.

Ah; he was in a good mood tonight. One could never tell.

“I suspect you invent these things for your own entertainment,” he went on, uncrossing his arms and shifting from one foot to the other. “Or perhaps you simply enjoy asking me nonsensical questions.”

“Oh, it’s both,” she said earnestly, widening her eyes. “You’re ever so attractive when you look at me like I’ve gone mad.”

That garnered a snort, which from him might as well have been uproarious laughter. Fenris fell in step beside her as she passed him, and they began to make their way from the wings to her narrow dressing room.

She’d been desperate when they’d first met, facing down an hour and a half to showtime and an assistant who’d delightedly told Hawke she was running off to Rivain with her beau. Hawke had gone to the portion of Lowtown where folk looked for work, and there she’d found him.

Fenris had been scowling and plainly exhausted, clearly the worst possible choice for the task. Hawke had asked him to come anyway, because there was something about him that she’d seen then and saw now, some intangible quality that made her want to do something for him. If the show went poorly, it was just one show. She’d offered him the job on the spot and—well, three months (or was it four?) later, here they were. He hadn’t given her reason to regret it yet, though he’d be the first to admit that he’d tried.

Hawke didn’t have to think very hard to find the next topic of conversation. Work was always easy to fall back on.

“So,” she said, “about the trick before the cups—”

“Absurd,” he murmured, then gestured gracefully, “but go on.”

“The box is an audience-pleaser and I’ve adjusted the swords better this time. Please reconsider.”

He sighed.

“Fenris,” she said, and the pair of them paused before her dressing room door.

“Hawke.”

Maria grinned at him, delighted as ever by the dryness in his voice, then turned the doorknob and walked inside. The lamps were already lit—his doing, no doubt—and both of them politely pretended that there wasn’t a dent in the couch roughly the size and shape of his body.

“I do not believe that this trick is—is that another bruise?” he asked, darting in front of her. Hawke drew up short and angled her chin upward, neither hiding nor stepping away. His fingertips hovered just above her cheekbone for a moment before he took a step back.

“Yes,” she said brightly, and edged around him to sit at the dressing table. She would still need to change, and Honeybun needed to stretch her legs, and—

“How?” he asked. When she glanced at him in the mirror, his brows had drawn tightly together.

There had been a time not very long ago—perhaps three months now—when he’d scowled at her like that all the time. She hadn’t even noticed when his expression had started to soften.

“Picked a fight, as usual,” she said, lifting the first of many makeup brushes. “But good news: the idiot won’t be stealing from the coffee seller again. Oh, also I got paid.”

She smiled at Fenris in the mirror, but he wasn’t having it. He rolled his eyes and turned away instead, reaching under the rack of costumes to flip the cage door open.

“Come on, then,” he said, irritation underscoring his voice.

A rabbit, carmel-patched and floppy-eared, hopped from her enclosure and wiggled her nose at him. Fenris took a berry from the bowl on the side table and placed it gravely before Honeybun, who set upon it with leporine delight.

Hawke smiled to herself. When he’d first arrived, he’d regarded the rabbit with the narrow-eyed suspicion usually reserved for snakes. She supposed he must see more of Honeybun than she did these days, given that he was quietly occupying this room for most of the hours that Hawke herself was not in it. Even so, there was something sweet about the way he gingerly leaned down and ran a hand over the rabbit’s head.

Maria looked away before Fenris could catch her watching and began to get ready for the act as if she’d never noticed anything at all.

Fenris would be the first to acknowledge that it was a ridiculous situation.

Once, he had been a feared living weapon, chained at a magister’s side as a deterrent to the mage’s enemies. Once, he had left a trail of heartless bodies from Tevinter to Seheron. Now, he donned a sparkly vest and stood on stage in front of a crowd, pretending that Hawke’s sleight of hand meant the same thing as magic.

It was not without purpose. He told himself this often, when he lay on the lumpy couch in the dressing room at night, when he worked through fighting forms in the quiet of the morning, when he straightened his vest and readied himself to step onstage yet again four evenings a week and twice on Saturdays.

This was not without purpose—but that did not make it any less ridiculous.

“Alright there, Rog,” Hawke was saying to their audience volunteer for the night. “You see that all the cups have nothing in them, yes? No sticky honey on the inside, no secret bottom?”

The boy, freckled and gap-toothed, nodded and fidgeted with the hem of his shirt.

“They look alright,” he agreed. “Nothing funny inside.”

“Wonderful,” Hawke said, bestowing the full force of her smile on the poor boy, who flushed red enough to mask his many orange freckles. “Now, I am going to put the ball under one of the cups and move them around. Then, you’re going to tell me which cup the ball is under. Alright? If you pick the right one, we have a prize.”

She gestured to Fenris, who sighed and displayed the prize in question: a “wand” of black-painted wood with a white tip. The boy’s eyes widened at the sight of it.

“Alright!” he said, rubbing his hands together.

“Wonderful,” Hawke said, displaying the ball with a flourish before tucking it under the first cup.

This part was always fast by necessity, but Fenris was familiar with it by now. He could see the blur of the ball when she angled the cup just so and it shot into her sleeve. The first few times, though—he might have wondered if it was some sort of magic, though he knew it wasn’t. He could often feel the echo of magic through the tattoos, like the ripples thrown by a rock cast into a still pond. He’d never felt them during her act; whatever she did onstage, it did not involve the Fade at all.

The rest of the scene went precisely as anticipated: the astonished boy picked an empty cup. Hawke revealed that they were all empty, produced the ball from behind the boy’s ear to the audience’s delight, and then sent him off with the little ball even though it was the last of their current stock. Fenris had found this routine absurd at first; he hated to admit to himself now that he thought it was…endearing, perhaps, that she insisted on doing this for the young audience participants even though it inconvenienced her. The boy, stunned, wandered back offstage with many a backward glance at the magician herself.

For her part, Hawke grinned at the audience, bowed with a flourish that scattered light over her red coat, and moved smartly on to the next trick: producing Honeybun from her tophat.

It was as Fenris found his place behind the table that hid the rabbit that he looked up at the audience and saw them.

There: at last, a half dozen fighters dressed in Tevinter garb.

It was almost a relief to see them here, when he’d been expecting them from the first moment he stepped onstage. It wasn’t a trap he’d placed, so to speak, but these performances had been a lure of sorts. And now—now his pursuers would show their hand at last, in the time and place of Fenris’s choosing.

One of the fighters smiled to Fenris and stood, walking toward the rear doors in the audience. The others followed, leaving a large section of the back row empty. Fenris’s blood thrummed in his ears, adrenaline pouring into his system. It was an effort not to call on the markings, but there would be no fight in the moment. They would be waiting outside instead, perhaps with some sort of conveyance to stuff him into. A cage was always easier to begin with; it allowed them to deprive the occupant of food and water, to control their sleep without needing to worry about danger to the slave hunters, and—

The kick to his shin brought him back to himself.

“—must be feeling shy today. Well folks, how about a hand for Her Serene Fluffiness? Maybe we can coax her out from the mysterious beyond.”

The audience cheered accordingly and Fenris realized he’d missed his cue. Of course he had; he’d finally gotten what he wanted, hadn’t he? He could walk off the stage right now and it would not matter one bit.

Only—only Hawke had found him in that alley, hungry and cold, and offered him a job on the spot. He’d never been anything but dry and skeptical during these performances, but she’d never once faulted him for it or suggested he leave. In fact, she seemed to enjoy it—though why continued to elude him. She’d slipped the key to her dressing room into his pocket that first day and she’d never once walked in on him there no matter how wary he’d been in the early days.

Fenris owed her nothing. He performed a job and she paid him for it. But—if this was to be his last evening with her here, he owed it to her to finish this well.

Fenris found the catch under the table without looking and flipped it, opening the trap door to the hidden rabbit cage within.

“And—Abracadabra!” Hawke said, tapping the brim of the top hat with a flourish. When she reached into the hat and scooped Honeybun from the depths, Fenris felt a pang.

It was an absurd trick. It had always been an absurd trick.

But—he would miss the cursed creature.

He’d…miss the way Hawke smiled at the rabbit every time she lifted it from the hat, as if surprised and delighted to find it there.

“Oh, dear,” Hawke said, cuddling Honeybun in her arms. “But you can’t help me do any of my tricks, can you, darling? Perhaps my lovely assistant can keep track of you for the moment. Let’s see—ah! A treat for your troubles, my little friend.”

With a flick of her fingers, she produced a strawberry seemingly from thin air and smiled down at the rabbit. Honeybun took the berry from her hand, nose wiggling furiously, and Hawke held the creature out to Fenris.

Hawke must have seen something in his expression; her eyes searched his face as Fenris took the rabbit from her. He looked right back, taking in the wink of the gold tucked in amongst her curls, the scar that crossed one eyebrow and fell just below her eye, the bruise she’d barely managed to cover with powder, the way her upper lip was just slightly larger than the lower one, and the determined set to her chin.

There was much he would have liked to say to her in that moment. The words crowded in his throat, chokingly thick, but—well. The show must go on, as she often said. Fenris settled Honeybun in his arms instead, noting absently the warm softness of the fur, the soft movements as she went on nibbling her strawberry, and nodded once to Hawke to indicate that all was well enough.

“Alright, folks,” she said, turning and spreading her arms wide. “You’ve seen wonders tonight, haven’t you?”

A cheer from the audience.

“You’ve been delighted and entertained, amazed and awakened to the possibilities of the world—well, now it’s time for the grand finale.”

Fenris stroked his hand once over the rabbit’s back, tension riding the base of his neck.

Yes, it did seem like it was time for a finale.

There was something wrong with her assistant.

Maria had noticed it most of the way through the act, but the oddness in his manner hadn’t gone away when they’d returned to the changing room. She set the last of the baubles in her hair aside and turned at last to look at Fenris. He was keyed up in a way he hadn’t been for months, shifting from foot to foot and tensing at every sound from the hall beyond.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, and Fenris flinched. Hawke half-rose at the sight of it, but sat again when he took a step back.

“If something’s happened—” she began, fingers curling around the arm of the chair, but he gestured sharply.

“It is nothing,” he said. “You need to go.”

“I need to go?” she asked, brows rising. “Forgive me, serah, but I was under the impression that this is my dressing room. I have no intention of walking home in this.”

She gestured to her outfit—still the stage costume—and Fenris grimaced.

“Here, then,” he said, taking the stack of her street clothes from the couch arm, “change and go.”

Hawke took them, but she didn’t go.

“Fenris,” she said quietly, “please. Whatever this is—let me help.”

There was sweat along his forehead, and his hair had fallen out of the neat quiff he wore during the act. They weren’t quite friends—he’d made it clear he wasn’t interested in getting attached to this place—but the two of them worked very well together. And…well, she’d never say it to him aloud, but here and onstage with him was the only times she felt she could simply be herself. Not a sister or a daughter, not the glue that held her friend group together, but Maria the Magician and only that.

“No,” he said, just as quietly, but iron-firm.

Right.

Hawke turned away and went into the back section of the room, where the tiny bathroom was located. It was quick, silent work to change out of her costume, to set aside the tuxedo shirt, the red coat, the matching skirt and shiny shoes. It was quick work, but she worried the whole time and her hands were unsteady on the buttons of her trousers when she did them up.

Returning to the room didn’t help. Fenris watched her while she hung up her clothes, and he was waiting with an extended hand when she was finished.

Hawke looked down at his hand, and then at his face. He’d made it abundantly clear that he did not want her to touch him on the first day they’d met. She’d moved to do the simplest of tricks—pull a coin from behind his ear so he could buy himself lunch—but he’d caught her wrist lightning-fast and forbade her to try it again. They passed things back and forth onstage, but that was the closest they’d ever come to touching skin to skin.

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

She took his hand anyway and sucked in a breath when she felt the hard metal hidden there. Fenris clasped her hand between his, pressing the key to the dressing room into her palm. His hands were callused and warm around the smooth, cool metal he held. There was absolutely no reason to feel the way she did about touching him—they were hands, for the Maker’s sake—but she felt something nonetheless, a bubbling sensation in her chest. It wasn’t helped by the knowledge that he was…he must be…

“Thank you,” he said in that low, serious voice. “For—everything, Hawke.”

She didn’t let go when he did. For a moment, they lingered there, the key pressed between their palms.

What could she say? He’d already refused to explain himself, had already made it clear that he didn’t want her here. What more could she possibly say if he would not allow her to help?

“You need to go,” he said, extricating his hand from her grasp. When he stepped aside, there was a clear path to the door.

Fine.

Fine, she would go—but she’d be damned if she left him to the jaws of whatever fate he’d resigned himself to. Hawke nodded, passing him closely enough that she felt the heat radiating from his body. She paused only once, the door held open in her hand. He was still watching her when she looked back.

“I’ll see you later,” she said, the words not quite a question.

Fenris hesitated. His mouth firmed and he half-nodded, an angled bow of the head that might have been assent or disagreement.

Hawke turned away and shut the door behind her. She strode toward the back door at a clip, taking her staff from the umbrella stand where she’d hidden it. She had people to find and not much time to fetch them here.

She could only hope that whatever Fenris was going to do, he would take his time doing it.

Fenris waited onstage, hands loose at his sides, dressed in the clothing he’d worn when he fled Seheron. Unfortunately, it remained the sturdiest he owned; whatever could be said about Danarius, he’d wanted his pet bodyguard to be properly attired.

The theater around him was quiet. He’d waited until the crew were all gone, until the lights were doused, and then he’d crept from a hiding place along the catwalk and propped the back door open with a brick. They would be here soon; he had little doubt of that. At least here Fenris had the advantage of knowing precisely where everything was—especially given that the stage had already been prepared for Hawke’s show tomorrow evening and all of the usual props were positioned precisely where they’d be needed for the performance.

Fenris clenched his fist, eyes closed, listening. Do you ever stand onstage and hear the echoes of performances past? Hawke had asked him just that afternoon.

An absurd question—she seemed to enjoy being absurd—but standing here now, Fenris felt he almost understood what she meant. The past seemed to live in the empty spaces here, in its way.

Two steps to the left—that was where she’d first tapped his wrist with her so-called wand and drawn a full bouquet from his sleeve. There—just to the right, beside the table—that was where he’d first asked her if anyone fell for this farce of an act. She’d laughed in his face, then announced to the crowd that every performer should have a skeptic on hand, lest they become too full of themselves. She’d given him a cut of the excess tips tossed into the hat after the show that night and every night since—had that been the first night or the second?—and told him he had a job as long as he wanted it.

Odd—because he’d only half-believed her at the time—but in his memory she looked uncharacteristically solemn when she’d said it. “Stay as long as you wish, Fenris,” she’d told him, and when he’d put his hand in his pocket later he’d found the heavy brass key inside.

Tonight, the stage curtains had been left open, as was usual after the audience was gone. If he opened his eyes, he would see all the way to the back of the theater where Hawke’s friends sat during weekend performances. They were loud—would always shout when she pulled off a trick, even if they’d seen it a dozen times before—and Fenris had always taken their presence as his cue to disappear swiftly after the show.

He wondered now if it would have been better to allow himself attachment to this place; if he had reached out sooner, would it have been easier to stay? He didn’t know. He was weary of running—and that was precisely what he would be doing when he left this place. Months ago, he’d thought to take a stand here and make an end of it, but—did he really think this would be the end of Danarius’s pursuit?

No. No, he knew better than that. Perhaps it would be worth it to consider staying here after—

A soft squeak: the hinges of the back door, perpetually overused and under-oiled.

Fenris took a deep, slow breath and released it, feeling along the lines of the lyrium markings. He was ready; he hadn’t spent these past months in idleness. He’d spent them eating properly and practicing in the privacy of Hawke’s dressing room. He was not the shell-shocked slave who’d escaped from Seheron, nor was he the desperate creature on the run through the hills and dales of the Free Marches, striking back just enough to survive before running again. Fenris would fight, and fight well—on his own behalf, for once.

It was a simple thing to turn and face backstage, to wait for them to come. It had been the work of months to reach a place where he would want to.

“Well, well, well,” an accented voice drawled from the wings, “would you look at that? The master’s stray dog, fresh from doing its little tricks onstage. How d’you think the magister will take it out of your hide when he finds out how you’ve been spending your time—little wolf?”

Little wolf. The disgust Fenris felt when the words crawled across his skin was so potent it was almost a physical sensation of its own.

“Come on, then,” the voice drawled. “Heel, boy. It doesn’t have to be a fight; you know it’s all over now, don’t you? Why make this hurt more than it has to?”

Fenris still couldn’t see the speaker, but he could see a dark shape on the catwalk above, moving quietly in the shadows. That was not good; he would need to remember to be especially wary of the space above his head.

“No.”

No. How easy it was to speak a denial of his own volition; how good it felt, even after months of running.

No, he would not go back without a fight. No, he was not Danarius’s little wolf anymore.

The speaker stepped from the wings at last, dressed in sturdy clothes—fighting clothes. Others revealed themselves, four on one side, six on the other. If he wasn’t mistaken, the man in robes to the left was a mage. Fenris was grossly outnumbered, even before he counted the ones hiding on the catwalk.

No matter. He would fight and die before he would allow himself to be dragged back to Tevinter. It could be—would be—that simple.

“You should know better,” the speaker said with a grotesque smile. “The magister never lets go of what belongs to him. Why bother running in the first place, slave?”

“Fenris is a free man.”

No.

Hawke’s voice came from behind him, somewhere in the audience. Fenris didn’t turn to look at her—he couldn’t afford to take his eyes off the slave-hunters—but the man he’d been speaking to angled himself slightly to look down at her.

“How lovely,” he said. “And harboring an escaped slave. Stay back and we won’t take you with us when we haul this one off.”

Footsteps behind him; hard-heeled shoes on the stairs up to the stage. Fenris’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“Hawke…” he said, and felt the stir of air beside him.

“You’re sorely mistaken,” she said in her stage voice, bright and loud, “He’s my stage assistant, not a slave. If you think I’m going to let you—”

“Let us?” the leader barked, laughing. “Let us? You don’t have to let us do anything, Pretty; you can’t stop us.”

Hawke still stood just behind him where Fenris could not quite see her. Fear tangled with the anger in his chest. Had he not told her to go? Had he been anything less than perfectly clear? She—foolish, impulsive—she had put herself in harm’s way for what?

“Hawke,” Fenris said, “I do not want your help. Leave.”

One step. A second, sharp against the black stage floor.

She came to a stop at his side, back straight, chin angled up. When she stood like this, the top of her head was level with his eyes.

“No,” she said pleasantly.

“Suit yourself,” the leader said, drawing a saber from his belt. “You’ll still look pretty enough in chains, girl.”

No.

“How sweet of you to say,” she said. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”

He’d missed the staff in her hand—how, he didn’t know—but Fenris did not miss the wash of fire that poured from it when she struck it against the stage floor. It consumed the first of the slave-hunters all at once, so quickly that Fenris had not yet processed the fact that Hawke was a mage before everyone else was moving and it was too late to think.

Fenris darted toward the leader first, half because he presented the most immediate obstacle and half because of the threat he’d just made. It was one thing to risk himself and another entirely to risk—

No; not now. He did not have space to think of it now.

The spell caught him when Fenris called on the markings, ready to rip the man’s heart from his chest. A cage of light; he’d seen its like many times before, had been caught between its bars more than once. It crushed the air from his lungs, lifted his bare feet from the ground, and stopped his hand mid-motion. Fenris gritted his teeth against the pressure, bracing against the pain to come.

Instead, the spell ended, dropping him neatly back on his feet.

“No, thank you,” Hawke said cheerfully, “Why don’t you try it yourself and see what you think?”

Fenris felt the ripple of magic in a pulse across the markings, but again he had no space to think of this. The leader still stood nearby, thrusting the saber toward him, and Fenris caught the flat of it on his bracer, redirecting it harmlessly away. The others closed in quickly, and it would mean death or worse to be surrounded. Fenris reached into a man’s chest and crushed his heart in one smooth motion, ducked another blow, and thrust the dead man’s body in the way of another combatant.

He’d planned this; it did not matter that Hawke had arrived to upset all his strategies. Fenris snapped one man’s neck, caught another blade with the now-limp body, and slipped backward again, to the place where Hawke had stored his least favorite of her tricks.

The sword thrust into the box was usually dull for his protection, but he’d replaced it this afternoon. The one he pulled from the wood now was much wider and longer than her usual stage blades, and when he swung it before him it knocked back three of his opponents. Only two stood before him now, but the leader was nowhere to be found. Where—

Hawke cried out behind him and Fenris spun around, his chest tight. The slave-hunters’ leader held her tightly, an arm around her waist. There was a long cut across her cheek, spreading a curtain of blood over the freckled skin. It dripped from her jaw, making a darker patch on the collar of her red coat.

“You see?” the man panted. “Look what you’ve done. Now I won’t get near as much for her; she’s damaged goods.”

Hawke’s lips were pressed so hard together that they’d gone pale and her eyes were fixed on him. Fenris’s hands tightened on the hilt of the sword as he watched the scattered light of his markings dance across her dress. She should never have involved herself; he’d made it perfectly clear that she needed to go. And now—and now—

More of the fighters stepped from the wings in his periphery. Fenris stepped to the side to keep them and the leader in his view, but he was already calculating how he could possibly get her out of this with her neck intact. He was too far to rush the man; too slow to stay his hand. He could reach through her for the slave-hunter’s heart—but this was not something he’d done before without intending for both parties to die. Six more stepped onstage, then eight, then ten.

There was no way out of this. He could feel the certainty of that knowledge, rising with the sense of dread. Fenris would rather be dead than taken, would have gladly fought to that end alone. But she—how could he barter her own lifeblood the same way?

How could he do anything else?

“Drop the sword or I give her a matching set,” the leader said, angling the sword up until it rested across Hawke’s cheek and jaw.

Fenris looked at her again, his knuckles gone white on the hilt, desperate for anything—some sign—of what she’d rather he do.

Hawke looked back, raising her chin very slightly despite the blade resting against her skin, and quirked one eyebrow. That was precisely the way she looked at him when he was about to miss a cue, but what cue could she possibly be reminding him of now?

Her arms were held tight to her sides, too immobile to move much, but as he watched one wrist flexed, flicked, and a small wooden ball flew out of her sleeve, rolling across the floor.

“What—” one of the other fighters said, eyes following it, and an arrow sprouted soundlessly from the man’s neck.

As the arrow hit, the man holding Hawke grunted with pain and let her go. At once, she slammed her head back into his nose and ducked, neatly missing the blade he’d tried to bring back around.

“That’s no way to treat a lady,” a silken said behind the two of them, and the leader made a wet choking sound before collapsing to his knees. A woman in a pale dress stood in his place, spinning a bloody blade in one hand while she smiled down at the body.

“Sorry we’re late, Hawke!” a voice called from the catwalk.

As if the voice had reminded them what was happening, the fighters sprang into action again, rushing either Hawke or Fenris. Only—now they were not fighting alone. Arrows and bolts struck the slave-hunters as they rushed forward, and a fist of stone swept another off his feet and into the table where Honeybun’s cage was kept when she was onstage. Fire sparked out of the corner of his eye—Hawke’s doing—and lightning danced through the knot of people who’d tried to surround Fenris. A dark-haired man who closely resembled Hawke stepped into the breach, nodding once to Fenris before turning away and engaging a fighter with twin daggers clutched in her hands.

They made short work of the rest in the end; there were seven of her friends, as far as he could tell, and when they fought together even the largest of their opponents fell before them. As the final slave hunter slipped from Fenris’s blade, Hawke sighed and braced a hand on her knee, breathing hard.

“That was bracing,” she said between breaths. “Maker, what a mess. I’ll be weeks fixing all of this.”

“You could let the stage crew do their jobs for once,” a dwarf said, sliding down the ladder to the catwalk and swinging a crossbow onto his shoulder. “They do fix things like this, you know.”

“But if I don’t do it myself, how will I know they put things in the right place?” Hawke asked, waving a hand. Fenris was close enough to hear the breath she sucked in between her teeth just before she reached up to clear some of the blood from her face.

“Well, don’t touch it,” another man said, stepping over several fallen bodies to peer at her. “What a bloody mess. Hold still and let me fix that, won’t you?”

Hawke rolled her eyes, but straightened so the taller man could see.

“Mother hen,” she told him, and her eyes angled to Fenris at last.

“Alright?” she asked.

Fenris lowered his sword, searching for the words. He found some at last, though they were not the ones he’d been looking for.

“Why do this,” he said, gesturing to the box with swords in it, “if you can do real magic?”

Her brows raised, but she flinched before they would have reached their usual apex.

“Sorry,” the man leaning over her murmured. A soft light spilled from his hands, closing the edges of the cut across her cheekbone.

“They’re both real magic,” Hawke said after a moment, “The only difference is that one makes people clap and the other gets you tossed in the Gallows. And besides—if a templar ever reported me, what would their fellows think except that they were too foolish to realize a good sleight of hand when they saw it? Hiding in plain sight was the best way to go.”

“I still think it’s a horrible idea,” the healer muttered, still frowning down at her face.

“I think it’s genius,” the woman with the daggers announced, neatly sidling around two collapsed slave-hunters and crouching to check one’s pockets. “Hello—look at this.”

“Is that a golden tooth?” an elven woman asked, wandering over the bodies as if she didn’t notice them, “I don’t think those are supposed to be in one’s pockets, Isabela.”

“Ouch—Flames, Anders, if I’d known it was going to hurt, I’d have done it myself,” Hawke snapped. Fenris turned back to her, ignoring the others for the moment. The healer—Anders, she’d said—let his hands fall away at last and shrugged.

“You’d’ve scarred if you had,” he said. “Done now. You may still want to clean up; you’re a mess.”

Blood still streaked her neck and coat. Hawke grimaced again and tipped her head back.

“Alright up there, Sebastian?”

“Of course,” someone called back. Fenris squinted and spotted a bowman in the catwalk. “Didn’t you say Aveline was coming?”

“No, I said Aveline wasn’t coming. She was on patrol when I sent word—but, as it turns out, that’s probably for the best. Can’t imagine she’d love the amount of dead bodies involved in this one. Ah, well. Maybe Merrill can make them toddle off and lie down somewhere less conspicuous.”

“I can’t actually do that, Hawke,” the elf said, looking mildly distressed, “But I do know a carrying spell—if we stacked them all onto something, perhaps I could make them float or—”

“It was just a joke, dear,” Hawke said, crossing to the woman and resting a hand on her shoulder. “Technically speaking—legally speaking—this was self defense. Wasn’t it?”

As one, they turned to look at Fenris, who’d been standing wordlessly at the edge of the stage. He looked back, taking in the lot of them. What would it be like, he wondered, to have so many people who’d come in an instant when one needed help?

What would it be to answer a call like that? To choose to step forward and fight, even before one knew the circumstances of the battle?

What would it be like to…stay?

“Yes,” he said after a moment.

“You see?” Hawke said. “Now, I’ve promised Carver that drinks are on me—”

“Ah, you remembered after all,” the dark-haired man said, tucking a bloody cloth back into his pocket and sheathing his sword.

“—so why don’t you finish frisking their pockets and pop off to the Hanged Man? I’ll meet you there in a bit. I think we need to sort out a few things here first.”

Hawke stood in the bathroom of her dressing room, hands braced on the sink, eyes fixed on the mirror.

Effort and focus had not helped her remove an ounce of the anger from her face.

Really, she was angry often—people didn’t seem to notice if it was covered by a broad enough smile—but it had been a very long time since she’d been this angry.

Breathe, she reminded herself, and closed her eyes to focus on that instead. It was no use. Behind her eyelids, she still saw the bastards on her stage, threatening her friend, demanding he submit to—

“Hawke?” Fenris asked from the other side of the door.

Tears of the Bride, she’d come in here so he wouldn’t have to see this.

“I’ll be just a moment,” she said, and it was an effort to keep her voice even.

Silence. After a moment, she heard the sound of the cage door swinging open again.

Alright. Alright. She could do this.

Maria fumbled the trousers up and over her pantalets, fastened the blouse over her stays, and took another moment to look herself in the eyes and breathe. Fenris had spilled the tale while she’d cleaned up in here, for she’d rightly guessed that he’d be more comfortable explaining if he didn’t have to look at her. Now, she was glad she’d arranged things that way because—well. What good would it do him for her to be mad now? If there was one thing she knew, it was this: people who were hurt, people who’d been tormented and hunted halfway across the continent? Those people were not the ones who needed her to be upset on their behalf.

Not where they had to see it, at least.

Hawke hesitated only a moment longer, hand thrust into her pocket, but then she swung the door open and stepped out. Fenris had chosen to sit on the floor and was regarding Honeybun solemnly as the rabbit investigated the space beneath the dressing table. He rose gracefully when Maria stepped into the room, but didn’t immediately do anything more than that. Hawke paused in the doorway, surveying the scene, and Fenris looked back.

“She doesn’t like to stay in the cage for too long,” he said finally, spreading a hand in the rabbit’s direction, “She seems to prefer the room.”

“I agree,” Hawke said, setting a hand on the back of the nearest chair. “Before you came, I would leave her door open overnight and a sign on the door not to open it without checking first. The amount of times she’s been loose in the theater is…well. Notable.”

They stood for a long moment, looking at each other. Her fingers curled in her pocket. What could she say to him? He hadn’t wanted her help earlier, would have died rather than involve her. Now…Well.

Both of them were far too proud; she knew that for a fact. One of them would have to reach out first.

Maria stepped closer—close enough to touch if she’d intended to—and raised her chin to look him in the eyes.

“Usually,” she said, “the purpose of the stage assistant is to draw attention. The first trick to stage magic, you see, is misdirection. If the audience is looking at the assistant, they miss part of the trick. The assistant is meant to smile and look pretty and charm the ones watching into wanting to believe, just a little, in the idea of magic that cannot hurt or possess or pose a danger to them.”

Fenris regarded her steadily. He really had the most lovely eyes—not that she’d told him as much; she knew better than that. Looking at them made it easier to take another breath, to let some of the anger go.

“You are really, really bad at that. The worst I’ve ever seen, honestly. But—what you are good at is asking exactly the question that they’re thinking instead. Why would you want to pull a posy from your pocket? How would a rabbit even fit inside a hat?”

The smile came easy enough now. She didn’t have to work at it anymore.

“What could possibly be the purpose of levitating two feet in the air and staying there?”

“It is a perfectly reasonable question,” he said, but his brow had unfurrowed slightly.

Stay, she thought at him, smiling, stay with me. Don’t run.

No; too soon for that. There were other things to say first, in any case.

“They like you,” she said instead.

Now came the hard part. She’d practiced this on Merrill for days after she’d first met him just in case. Fenris did not like things in his periphery, and he seemed to dislike being touched on the shoulders or neck in general. So, rather than pulling something from behind his ear, she tapped his chest and produced the thing she’d been clutching in her pocket.

“Stay as long as you wish, Fenris,” she said, holding the brass key to the dressing room between two fingers. “The job is still yours.”

Fenris looked at the key, then at her. His mouth firmed, as if he, too, was holding words in. After a moment, his shoulders relaxed slightly.

“I am done with running,” he said, still not taking the key, “and—I had thought to ask you if you would allow me to remain here. After everything—well. I did not think you would offer. You understand that there could be more of them. This isn’t over.”

Hawke shrugged one shoulder.

“So we’ll fight them again.. You’re not the only one of my friends with a skeleton or two in your closet, Fenris. I could tell you things that would turn your hair—well. Too late for that, I suppose.”

Fenris snorted, but a smile crept up the corner of his mouth.

“In addition to the key, I am inviting you to drinks. The others will hound me for it if I don’t, but I think you might like at least some of them. They’re loud and cantankerous, they cheat at cards and half of them hate each other, but they’re family. If you’re going to stay, that’s something you might like to have.”

Honeybun hopped over her feet, and presumably over Fenris’s, too, for he looked down and away for a long, silent moment.

“Yes,” he said at last, straightening, “I will stay. I…would like to stay.”

“Wonderful,” Hawke said, beaming at him. The key gleamed in the air between them.

Readily, Fenris reached out and took it.

#maria hawke #fenris #fenris dragon age #da2 #fenhawke #my writing #da fanfic #this was the hardest to tag on ao3 haha. it isn't any of the usual categories i write and (unsurprisingly) there is no magician au category #also. it didn't fit in this but bethany is alive and in a coma jsyk #hence hawke being broke. all of her spare money goes to pay the healers etc.#shivunin scrivening

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