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gutsby · 9 months ago

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Who’s Your Daddy?

Pairing: Stepdad!Joel x Reader

Summary: You get stuck in the washing machine. Thankfully, your stepdad is around to help you out.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Deadbeat-Perv-Peepaw LOVES corny porn tropes and women over half his age. Stepcest & dubcon technically bc Reader’s locked inside an appliance, but she’s into it (getting fucked, not stuck). One (1) kick in the dick. Spanking. Brat-taming. Choking. Daddy issues. Size kink. Praise kink. Infidelity. Creampie.

Note: Saw this post by @ovaryacted and started BARKING. For my Old Man lovers/daddy issues crew, this one’s for you.

Word count: 8.3k

It was the closest thing to porn you’d ever done before.

Still, you weren’t quite ready to call it that.

And why should you? Financial straits were no anomaly to a girl your age, especially in this economy, and almost everyone you knew had a side gig of some kind. It just so happened that your job required slightly skimpier attire. And a webcam. And some very special…accessories that would likely send your grandmother into cardiac arrest if she ever took a peek inside your bottom dresser drawer.

Okay, it was definitely porn.

But you never showed your face, so it didn’t really count as the same kind of stuff that your family condemned.

You scampered out of your room the second you heard the front door to the house slam closed all the same. Arms laden with G-strings, stockings, satin bralettes, lace and tulle bodysuits of almost every style imaginable, you ran a quick, perilous path to the living room window and made sure to keep your head ducked low as you did. You peered out through the gap in the curtains and had to squint hard to see anything in the midafternoon sun.

Then you saw it and felt instant relief—they were leaving.

Your grandma for one, your mother for second, and wherever the latter was headed, you knew her shadow would be soon to follow. You saw a thick plume of smoke outside and surmised that Joel was somewhere around the other side of the SUV, smoking and droning on about how he was perfectly fi-i-i-ne to drive, don’t be like that.

By ‘like that’ he meant sensible. And by ‘perfectly fine’ he meant two Miller Lites shy of completely shitfaced. You could already imagine the wry smile on your mother’s lips as she tried prying the keys from his hands. Your stepdad would probably plant a wet, sloppy kiss on her cheek to win a ‘yes’ in return—and when she shyly reminded him that he couldn’t afford to get another DUI, he’d get pissed and yank them out of her fist anyway.

Fucking loser.

Fucking triple-the-legal-limit dumbass motherfucker.

It didn’t bother you as much today because you knew they were only driving a couple blocks away to get to the farmer’s market, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t hope he’d get caught. Again. Maybe blow a 0.25 this time and land his old, ungrateful, law-breaking ass in Travis County Jail, where his little brother Tommy was likely keeping a cell bench warm for him, per usual.

At any rate, you didn’t have time to be fantasizing now. It was your turn to embody some guy’s grossest wet dreams for the next two to three hours. Stripping away layer after layer of your latest, tightest ‘costume’ while catering to whatever requests happened to float in your inbox, you knew you’d be up to your eyeballs in work. Though almost routine by now, you had to hurry up.

If you could just get the rest of this ridiculous gunk out of your clothing, you’d be all good to go for the job.

TRMAN22: Pour honey on your tits in the next vid???

TRMAN22: Milk too. All over you.

Looking back, you probably shouldn’t have obliged that request. Now you were facing the consequences—forced to throw all your clothes in the washing machine because the milk and honey you’d dumped on yourself for that video had gotten everywhere, and then swiftly congealed while wasting away in a pile of laundry for over a week.

The whole heap smelled rancid. Still felt sticky, too. Presently, you chucked each one inside the washing machine while holding your breath, and as soon as the last was discarded, you sniffed the shirt you had on.

Tolerable. With the rest of your stuff in the wash, you hoped to get at least one request off the checklist:

TRMAN22: Bet you’d look sexy in a schoolgirl outfit!!

TRMAN22: Why don’t you try one on for me?

It was gag-worthy and gross. Slightly alarming for a man who was more than likely twice your age and old enough to remember Watergate, but you agreed to play along. Your old school uniform was, after all, the only clean clothes you had left, and ‘TRMAN22’ was, unfortunately, your top subscriber. He’d paid $300 for this video alone.

TRMAN22: Wear some NEON pink panties for me too ;)

You squatted in front of the washing machine and stuck a hand inside. You sifted around, furrowing your brows.

The brightest undies you owned were in there, soiled, but you figured you could get away with one gross article of clothing, all things considered. You reached a little further and continued to dig. When you couldn’t find it by feel alone, you peered inside the circular, metallic cavern of the washing machine and craned your neck.

Not here…not here…not—

You tilted forward, venturing a closer look with your head, then shoulders, pushing into the machine.

—here, not here, not—

“EW!” you shrieked.

In your search, you’d inadvertently brushed up against a mildewed piece of clothing that had gotten wedged between the grooves of the washing machine’s interior.

A pair of boxers, it seemed.

You recoiled as soon as your fingers grazed the wet and smelly thing. Your skull went crack against the low-sloped ceiling of the appliance, and a jolt of pain was quick to course through you at the contact. You groaned.

Of course Joel had forgotten some old, cum-stained scrap of fabric out of his last load. Always leaving his shit around for you or your mom to pick up like he owned the place. And here you went, again, angrily plugging your nose and pulling as hard as you could on the shorts to get them free from the washing machine. You hardly thought twice, just made a face and then yanked on it.

The boxers wouldn’t budge.

You tugged even harder. The fabric stayed put.

Something akin to a grunt and a whimper, only far more pathetic, slipped out of your mouth, and you slapped the half-hollow steel wall in frustration. Surrounded as you were—fully encased in metal—the sound just echoed.

“Fucking…CUNT.”

You weren’t sure if you were talking to the shorts, the machine, or Joel Miller in the abstract. Or maybe all three. You just hated the thought of washing your lingerie with your stepdad’s skivvies, and no amount of rational thought or practical reasoning could hold you back now.

The tip of your index finger sank deep beneath the same ridge of the wall where the boxers had gotten stuck. You curled it inward, trying to loosen the material up a little. You wriggled your knuckle even further. And just when you managed to get a hold of the cusp of the tangled fabric—just when it seemed the green plaid cluster was about to give way—you heard a low pop. You felt it, too.

Shortly, your finger was pinched inside the deep, blunt valley of steel that had similarly snagged Joel’s boxers. It seemed you’d pushed the tip of your finger so far that you were caught straight down to the second knuckle—trapped between two grooves of unforgiving alloy inside the washing machine tub with no clear means of escape.

You jerked your arm back, panicked. When the metal sank its teeth even deeper, you didn’t stop. Completely heedless of the pain, you operated on impulse and by the feeling of needing to get the fuck out of that little space, quickly, and instead yanked your hand back even harder.

To your horror, your finger was stuck.

“FUCK!”

You stared down at the poor digit, only half-visible inside the wall at this point, then glanced down at the heap of sweaty, sticky, slutty pieces of clothing that were presently strewn about you, and felt an even deeper stab of dread. Stuck inside your family’s washing machine with every bit of damning evidence one could hope to have—and wearing your old school uniform to boot—you realized at once you were fucked if you didn’t get out.

You slammed your palm against the nearest wall once more, shaking your other wrist like an unruly child.

“FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!”

You weren’t good at solving problems. In point of fact, you sucked at all things prudent resolution-related and regularly made it a habit to capitulate whenever you sensed loss inevitable. You were a little like your mother in that way, quick to give in to life’s uglier challenges. The only way you could conceivably claim to be stronger, the only place you always had the strength to say ‘no’ was—

“Aw, shit.”

—Joel.

Your throat tightened as soon as you heard the voice. Your eyes went wide, and the rest of you went numb.

Bent at the waist and kneeling with half your body inside the washing machine, you remained there, motionless. Back arched and ass out. Thanks to the way you’d rolled your old plaid skirt, the fabric covered almost zero cheek.

Someone behind you cleared their throat. Then coughed.

And coughed again, again, and again. Evidently trying to clear the smoke out of his lungs and the surprise from his eyes as he drank in your sight from the doorway.

“What in the—wh—th—” You could hear Joel wheeze, beating his chest with his fist, “What— in— the hell?!”

“Help me,” you hissed.

You weren’t sure why you chose that as your go-to. It just sounded like the right thing to say, and frankly, you weren’t sure how else to distract from the fact Joel was probably gawking at your ass as he coughed up a lung.

“The fuck do you mean ‘help’?! What are you doing?”

The coughing subsided, if only momentarily. You tried pulling back on your finger again to get out, but couldn’t.

“I-I’m…I was just…” you stammered, heart racing.

You heard the tread of heavy footfalls. You felt them.

“Just—trying…” you ventured again, suddenly at a loss for words and breath alike as you felt a presence draw in.

You could smell him.

That realization alone made you want to stop taking in air altogether. It happened out of instinct, really—feeling the shift of two huge boots settle behind your feet and then flinching inward, further inside the metal tub for…safety? A pang of abject humiliation? You were far past the point of civility with the man, caring what he thought, or fearing for your modesty in a position like this, but something about the proximity now just made you itch.

You wished your finger wasn’t jammed inside this appliance so you could give that feeling relief, somehow.

At length, Joel’s voice dragged you back:

“What’s stuck?”

Too calm. A second passed. Then he added, more stern,

“This some fuckin’ joke’a yours or somethin’?”

“No!”

“Then what—”

“My finger. My finger’s stuck.”

You tried to crane your neck to see behind you, but all your eyes had to feast upon was denim. Bluish-grey stonewashed denim, faded with years of use. Joel stood back for a second, as if considering what to do, and then you saw two hands descend to brace themselves against his knees. He bent at the waist to get a better look below.

When his eyes locked with yours, you got the same twist in your gut as you’d felt before, only sharper. Shameful.

The look on Joel’s face was abnormally bright.

“And how on earth did that happen, dumbass?”

Your shame morphed into chagrin in a blink, seeing the ghost of a smile bleed into your stepdad’s features.

“‘Cause of you, leaving your shit in here!” you snapped. Your chin jerked toward the green fabric, “I was just trying to get your boxers unstuck—and my finger…”

Your finger was kind of fucked.

Joel cast a look inside at the source of your frustration. He extended his left arm and reached over your torso, and as he did, you felt the slightest, albeit solid, sort of warmth press in. The man let out a low groan of exertion—likely at the strain the movements placed on his joints.

The warmth got worse. You weren’t sure where it started.

Vaguely, you were aware of Joel’s thumb pressing into your hand. Gliding down your finger, stroking across the spot where your knuckle had gotten caught, he circled over it, slowly, and made another sound in his throat.

“Well that ain’t…good.” Not one to mince words.

By now, your whole body was on fire. You barely had the strength to keep kneeling, much less speak to the man thumbing your hand and pressing his heat so close—

“Just get me out!” you shrieked.

You heard your mother’s voice in that. A shrill, impatient lilt in her speech that came out, invariably, around Joel. Normally, he would have done something to deserve it. But today, with his hand splayed over yours and his breaths as calm and even-keeled as he could hope to have them while he tried to help, he was blameless.

Evidently, he heard a trace of your mother too, because you heard him laugh. You felt the reverberations of his amusement travel up from his belly all the way to his lips.

“Cool your pits, kid.”

For that, you would’ve loved nothing more than to reach back with your free hand and hit him in the balls. But, as it was, this man was your only hope for escape, and he was being tolerably polite, anyway. He pinched your finger between the tips of two of his and gave it a tug.

“Okay, lemme just—” Joel started.

“Why are you home, anyway?”

The question came out more clipped than you meant it.

“Why are you dressed like that?” Joel countered evenly.

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

You reckoned he could probably feel you roll your eyes, even if he wasn’t able to see you do it right now. He waited another moment, then leaned back on his haunches and withdrew his arm from the tub.

“Mama don’t like me drinkin’ and drivin’, you know that.”

With that, the warmth was gone. Joel retreated.

“Like that’s ever stopped you before.”

You heard him exhale a little harder through his nose. When he’d steadied himself against the washing machine, gave his knees another second to prepare for getting up again, you could feel his eyes back on you. Maybe he lingered longer than his legs really needed.

Maybe if he hadn’t stayed crouched like that, he wouldn’t have gotten the chance to give your surroundings a second look. He wouldn’t have stopped to watch the rate of your breaths pick up or the way your skin startle to bristle with some strange, unknown sensation. He certainly wouldn’t have felt for himself the fever leaking out from the base of your spine right then.

Today just wasn’t the day for keeping secrets, it seemed.

“And what’s this?” You could feel Joel lean back in.

He was looking again. Peering inside. Steadying his weight with the edge of the washing machine gripped in one hand, while the other snaked its way back inside.

You’d already squeezed your eyes shut by the time Joel got a hold of something. You didn’t know what it was.

But it became painfully clear that it wasn’t just one ‘thing’ that had grabbed his attention at all, but rather a series of items that his hands were just now getting to explore. You didn’t have to see his broad and tan, callus-streaked fingers to feel them roaming over your clothes.

Gross.

“Gross,” Joel agreed, as if he’d read your mind. Grinning.

If you thought the embarrassment was bad before, you really only knew a fraction of what humiliation could be. Your finger throbbed along with the pulse in your skull.

Your mother’s husband whistled and lifted something.

“Darlin’, this is just…disgusting.”

You winced. You tried not to pry an eye open, to steal a covert look through the frame of your lashes in that dim and crowded spot, but the inducement was too great—Joel was dangling one of your lime green G-strings like it was a fish he’d just caught out on the lake. Boasting it.

Doting, almost.

“Well I’ll be—”

“Will you quit?!” you snapped.

You grabbed the thing out of his hand and threw it aside.

“Can you be serious? For one fucking secon—”

“Oh, I’m bein’ serious, sweetie,” Joel cut in. Cool as ever, “Serious as the business end of a .45, I swear.”

He paused. Then he reached for a white nylon bustier, drenched in a layer of honey that was as hard as a rock.

“Do you always keep your little…skank tanks so filthy?”

That was it. You kicked your heel back—and up—and made a pass to hit your stepdad square in the balls.

Your aim wasn’t the best it’s ever been, seeing that half your body was trapped inside a home appliance at the moment, but what your jab lacked in accuracy, it made up for in force: your foot plunged into the seam of Joel’s jeans full throttle. From the way the back of your heel plowed into his crotch, and the sound that clawed out of his throat the same instant, you reckoned you did okay.

What you weren’t expecting was a smack in return.

An answer in kind—delivered by the palm of Joel’s hand.

A taut, thoughtless THWACK on the swell of your ass.

Your mouth fell open. Your body barely had the chance to recoil when, shortly, another blow landed on your cheek.

Joel spanked you.

Spanked you.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he spat. His palm had slid up with the weight of his last slap, and now his fingers were clenched in a fist in the back of your skirt. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel him gripping fabric. It was firm.

He was firm—unrelenting in his hold.

Kneeling behind you, yanking back a handful of tartan skirt like it was nothing, then sidling up behind you.

And just when your attention was drawn to some other firm thing, it was shortly diverted by another sensation.

“JOEL!” you shrieked as he gave you another spanking.

The bare skin of your cheeks was on fire. Joel hit hard. Just when you feared you might legitimately whimper with the sting of that last blow, and while the imprint of his palm was still fresh, you felt it move again. Lower.

“Joel.”

That came out more like a whine than a cry of protest. And how could you, now, when he was soothing the raw bite of his hand with a touch that was kneading the skin?

Working the soft, supple flesh of your ass in his hand like he’d never dream of being anything else but gentle to it.

“Good?” Joel said.

Your head flinched to nod, but your brain thought better.

It did feel good. So good, in fact, that your eyelids were starting to droop just a bit and your back was subtly arching into the touch, but those were only instincts. Stupid, useless, brain-rotted reflexes born of years of paternal neglect and replete indifference, the likes of which could bring a grown man to his knees, begging—

“Please.”

But the entreaty was your own, and the voice that spoke it was hoarse. Your belly sank into the circular aperture of the washing machine, and you could feel your ribs scraping close to metal. Nevertheless, you didn’t mind. That ditzy lizard brain of yours was starved for physical touch, and who were you to deny her at a time like this?

No, not when Joel was squeezing like that.

Groping was the more appropriate word for it, really. Notwithstanding the decades of sexual experience that no doubt preceded the man that was standing before you—behind you—today, Joel was unduly coarse. His broad, weathered hand made as if to cool its former sting, but the motions themselves were jerky. Desperate.

He needed this worse than you, the fucking pervert.

Just when the realization had begun to settle over your mind and your legs were getting to feel a little less like jelly, knowing you weren’t the only weak one here, Joel’s palm slowed down. He pressed the heel of it into your flesh as if to force himself to stop, then he took a breath.

“Now use your words.”

“But—” you sputtered.

“I said,” Joel resumed, and you could sense it was through gritted teeth. His movements came to a halt.

“We use our words when we want somethin’, hear?”

It was the first you’d heard Joel attempt to enforce anything close to discipline with you in your life.

That had to warrant a little defiance, no doubt.

Under your breath, quiet: “So ‘we’ includes ‘you,’ too?”

Beneath that one, seemingly innocuous question was lurking another, and both of you knew it: Remember that time you put a fist through the kitchen wall? Was that a good example of what it means to ‘use words,’ Joel? Whether it was adequate provocation or not, you could sense what was coming next before you’d even finished. When the spank landed on your right cheek so loud that it echoed, you didn’t flinch. You did snag your lip between your teeth to keep a sound from spilling out.

“A dad makes rules. Ain’t his to follow,” Joel growled.

You blinked and bit down harder. Watched the broad, amorphous shape of the man’s reflection shift along the back metallic wall in hues of grey and blue and wished you had the strength to turn around and face him then.

“You aren’t my dad.”

“Said ‘a’ dad, didn’t I?”

“You’re not that either.”

Heat was rising to your cheeks again, this time for different reasons. For a cause you were far better acquainted with to date—annoyance at Joel.

“So that means I’m—”

“Nothing. You’re nothing to me,” you finished, tone wry.

Nothing to anyone, you wanted to add. Not with a shiny gold band latched onto your left hand to tell the world that you’re married to my mother, a pack of smokes tucked away in the jeans she washes every week, or a couple years spent under the same roof as me. Nothing.

Your teeth clamped back down—and almost sank clean through your lower lip this time—when next you felt a touch at the plush, covered mound that was normally shielded between your legs. The spot that was hardly ever tilted up in a position like this, exposed to the air and a man’s hungry gaze, now invaded by the press of a single thing: a warm and soft middle finger at your core.

Joel brushed the tip of it against your entrance, through your panties, and sucked a breath through his teeth when both of you felt a tiny squelch at the pressure.

He pressed harder, and the wetness only spread.

You didn’t have to be in Joel’s position to know what he was seeing, but the feeling from his finger overpowered any better sense to speak—or tell him to stop. He traced his slow, cruel circles against your warmth and moved it up to where he knew he’d find your bud, and when you whimpered, he simply added his index to the mix. There wasn’t a doubt in your mind you were leaking heat at that point. You could feel it seeping beneath his touch.

“Nothin’, huh?” Joel breathed, voice low. Your arousal made a sickening hiss beneath his fingers as he rubbed you even harder, “This feel like nothin’ to you, honey?”

You couldn’t speak. He knew you weren’t capable of it.

“‘Cause this sure don’t feel like nothin’ to me.”

Wet and tacky beneath his touch, your warmth supplied the answer that your mouth couldn’t form. It came out in more of a tap, tap, tap, punctuated by breaths that were toiling in earnest not to turn into moans too soon. But, as hulking and clumsy as his hands had once shown themselves to be, the old man knew where to put them, at least. He made circles on your clit with practiced ease.

“You can try lyin’ to me, but she can’t.”

He was right. ‘She’ was a traitor.

You could deny it all you wanted, but the proof was there.

Indeed, she was crying. Aching. Bleeding with desire. Throbbing beneath the pads of Joel’s fingertips and growing only more desperate as he increased the speed of his touch. When he notched the drenched cotton to the side, you had to grit your teeth to keep in a whimper.

Joel whistled.

“See? Seems like she likes me just fine right here.”

Your jaw stayed wired shut with the weight of your own humiliation. Instead of answering aloud, you hummed. Made a sound low and soft in your throat like, ‘Uh-hmm’ and tilted your hips, as if you didn’t know how else to ask. Joel couldn’t see inside the washing machine, but he must’ve felt the gesture, because he greeted it with a motion of his own: he chuckled, and he puckered his lips.

And when you felt the warmth of his spit hit you between your folds, your shame should’ve tripled. Should’ve made you flinch away from his touch and tell him that was so fucking gross, Joel, stop, but then he smeared it up your slit. He pressed in and mixed it with the rest of your arousal; any reproach died on your tongue in an instant.

A part of him was on you now. Trickling in, sticking to the most sensitive part of you, and settling into your skin like a glaze. With his other hand, he found your skirt again.

“Who’re ya wearin’ this for, sweet pea?” Joel murmured.

“No one.”

Another glob of spit landed between your cheeks. Now, the man used the lubrication to sink two fingers inside you—pushing them in until the rim of your cunt met his knuckles. You whined at the stretch, felt him coax your walls open with a consciousness and a carefulness that felt almost mean, but then he stroked down the base of your spine with the hand that still held onto your skirt. He soothed your startled cry with a curl of his fingers.

And he found the soft, spongy patch of flesh inside that made your eyes roll straight to the back of your skull, quickly. Working his fingers in and out, flattening the base of his free hand over the skin exposed by your flipped-up skirt, and watching your body give way to the force of his fingers, he was uncharacteristically patient. Exacting in the way he worked your body open to him.

“What do you care?” you groaned. You winced when you felt a squelch signal that he’d stretched you even wider.

“‘Cause,” Joel started, slow. Pumping his fingers through your folds and likely wondering when he’d add a third, “You got your hand stuck in a fuckin’ washing machine, a treasure trove of this slut stuff piled in a heap…I mean…”

“They’re just clothes!”

“Just clothes?”

In the wake of those terse, incredulous words, you tried your best to match his tone—call his bluff—but the only sound that came out of your mouth was punctured by a pitiful whine. He tried another finger but couldn’t fit it in. As wet as you were, and as strong as he was, your cunt wasn’t quite ready to accept all three of Joel’s thick, probing digits inside. You’d fit more than a thing or two with a girth even greater than that in the past, but you figured your nerves might have something to do with the way you were tightening around the man’s fingers now.

Why you couldn’t take more of him in, as much as you wanted him there, felt, at present, like something of a shortcoming, and a pathetic one at that. You let out a breath, and a second later, Joel slowed his motions.

You didn’t expect him to stop. Didn’t hold out a hope he might curtail his pace and talk you through a quiet, gentle arrangement for fitting a third finger inside you—that just wasn’t him. You didn’t have to share a paper-thin bedroom wall with your mother and her husband for the last however many years to know that Joel Miller was not a tender lover. It simply wasn’t in his nature to care.

So when you heard the clink of a belt coming undone a moment later, your senses strangely flooded with relief. He wouldn’t care, wouldn’t inquire, wouldn’t coddle with false, romantic ideals of how a woman should be treated.

In that way, Joel shared something in common with your father after all: he set standards as low as they could go.

“Just clothes?” he repeated, snapping your underwear against your ass and jerking the fabric further aside.

Then somehow send those expectations even lower.

There was a hand splayed out across the small of your back. Another fiddling with the front of his pants, wrestling the button and zip of his jeans in little more than one, two, three careless seconds, before he drew in closer to your rear. Your slit was messy, wet, and exposed to his eyes once again. For a second, you almost took comfort in the fact that your hand was still wedged inside a groove of steel and you couldn’t meet his gaze.

That was, until Joel slid his bare length along the seam of your cunt. When the inability to see him made it so you had no other choice but to be surprised when he finally touched you was unnerving, to say the least.

And when the head of his cock blended seamlessly between your folds, was drenched in less than a blink and nearly notched straight into the place you needed him most—well, that had an effect on him, too. Joel moved his flat and sweaty palm up your back, found purchase in the hem of your blouse, and gripped it. Tugged it down a little more and let a low groan billow out of his throat while he rocked his hips back and forth.

Desperate, clumsy, pussydrunk Joel was back before you’d even realized he’d left. Only now he was keen to put the disquiet and hesitations to rest; he needed to fuck you before either one of you wisened up just then.

Your parts and his commingled again. First, with the lethally warm trail of precum leaking out from his tip. Then the intrusion that followed, inevitably, glossed with self-indulgence and desperation—soiling any semblance of platonic affection or parental attention—as he fed you the first inch of him. Barely half the head got fitted inside and your grip on that was like a vice. Joel’s was bruising.

Suddenly firm on your hips, carving crescents in the skin:

“When’s the last time you got fucked, baby?”

You reckoned Joel had a guess—and it wasn’t correct.

“Last…week,” you whimpered, words punctuated with a sigh as his cock tried to make room for more of him.

Joel sucked in a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. He’d barely gotten an inch past his tip, facing more resistance than he’d felt in a long, long time, and you were wet, but so tight. He was big but not so massive as that. He couldn’t fathom what you were saying was true.

“That…fratboy fuckstick you went out on a date with?”

“Didn’t think you even saw me leave.”

Joel withdrew, gripped your hips even tighter, then drove his cock to nestle three solid inches inside your cunt. It was extra snug, but he made sure to try to loosen you up with a couple short, shallow thrusts and a hand gradually drifting down between your legs. Of course he saw you.

The circles on your clit and slow-growing movements may as well have been kerosene in your veins. With what limited range of motion you had in that grey, compact space, you let out a sigh and dug the fingers of your free hand into the closest scrap of fabric beside you. Joel’s own touch gradually moved from your hip to drag your hand behind your back, clasping his. He fucked in deeper

“So that’s who this is for?” Thumbing your skirt.

“Y-Yeah,” you lied.

“Wanted to send naughty pics in the schoolgirl getup?”

“Yes,” you lied again. You closed your eyes when Joel sank his cock even deeper and made you stretch inside.

“‘Atta girl,” he praised.

It might’ve been the first he’d validated you in your life.

“Grippin’ this cock extra tight, ain’t ya, sweet girl?”

Never in a million years would you have imagined it’d come this late—or leave Joel’s mouth in a way like that.

‘Elastic’ wasn’t a word you’d ever used to describe your body, either. Frankly, there was no need for it to be; every one of your partners before had been average-sized, and every other object that went inside you, too, had almost always been a comfortable squeeze between your walls. Outside of maybe your first time and a once-off awkward hookup now and again, you were never forced to feel a stretch to this degree. Joel felt huge moving inside you.

He was nearing your cervix and still nowhere close to the base of his cock. Meanwhile, you were stuffed to the brim, saturated with arousal and his spit, and practically keening at every stab of his hips. You couldn’t reach back because Joel’s fingers were still enmeshed with yours, gripping them hard behind your back. As wore down, fucked out, and desperate as you already were, you were less than only a second away from asking him to ease up.

And then he stopped.

Joel pulled out, let go, and pressed onto the old washing machine, where you heard his touch echo through metal.

He was leaning against it. You were about to turn around. Before you could, though, you felt his form mold into yours—this time not in it, but on it, as he drew closer and once more reached into the space where you were stuck.

“Can you be brave for me, baby?” Joel murmured.

“Wh—” you started, soft, only to feel the words plucked straight from your lungs as Joel leaned his body inside. Carefully, and with concerted effort, it seemed, he was trying to squeeze his way into the O-shaped hole of the washing machine, snaking his arm around your torso.

Pinching your finger again. Breathing just gently enough for his exhales to tickle at your shoulders and your neck.

“Can you be brave?” he repeated, and you weren’t sure you’d ever heard him so soft-spoken, or felt him so close.

You nodded, not knowing why.

Without another word, your stepdad pinched the digit even tighter and yanked it out from where it was stuck.

It all happened so fast. Joel freeing your finger, squeezing it tight, helping you out of that hot and crowded space while your legs gave way like mush beneath your weight—and your hand throbbing in pain. You’d never thought a single finger could cause a feeling as strong as that, but it stung like hell. You almost raked your nails through the man’s arm when he tried to hold you back, holding you up just as well as you stood.

“Joel!” you screeched, like the whole thing was his fault.

You flexed your hand and wanted to sob. You could feel the streaks of pain start to claw up your wrist, were just about to shove Joel aside and wallow in agony, when at length, he did something strange and unexpected again.

This time, he lifted your index to his mouth and kissed it.

It wasn’t a sensual kiss. Coming from Joel, it hardly even seemed affectionate. His lips were so warm and firm and decidedly unacquainted with anything approaching a threat of tenderness that his act read almost aggressive. He let your finger rest loosely against his mouth, and he kissed it again, while his eyes burned holes into yours.

‘You’re okay’ came out muffled against your hand.

“You’re okay—hey—baby, you’re good. Don’t cry.”

You hadn’t even noticed the tears had started to form. You blinked and felt one trickle down your cheek. With the hand that wasn’t holding your wrist, Joel brushed his thumb against that lone trail of moisture. He didn’t cup your face, hold you close, or stroke your cheek in the seconds that followed, though he did keep kissing you.

Or, rather, it—your finger.

Joel didn’t have to care for you at all. He just feared he might’ve pulled on your hand too hard in getting you out.

‘You’re okay’ was being mumbled away like a fractured refrain, touch descending gently to your hip, and his eyes grew softer by the second, surely he had to be thinking it.

Sinking inside you, again. He was standing; your hips were tilted to his, and your ass was pressing flat against the front of the washing machine. All it took was an inch or two off the ground and your limbs hanging limply around his hips for Joel to fuck back into you. He sucked on your finger so hard you feared the skin might actually bruise—a hand hickey, of all fucking things—and when his grip tightened on your side, you knew he felt it too.

His teeth succeeded his lips in an instant, and he was biting, gnawing pathetically as a groan shuddered through his chest. If you didn’t know better, you might’ve said the sound was veering perilously close to a whimper.

Fully sheathed inside you, Joel Miller didn’t seem to care. His lids fell like lead across the upper half of his brown, glossy eyes, and the expression behind them was blank.

Safe.

“‘S’alright, baby,” he grunted. Maybe he’d just seen you wince, as he cradled your hand and withdrew another inch, “Keep squeezin’ me, it feels real good. Right here.”

Out of instinct, your gaze drifted down to the spot where his body joined with yours. The sight was hardly a shock, but the feelings it evoked were not—he had you split along two-thirds of his dick, a pretty shelf of belly protruding beneath and gleaming with the arousal he’d drawn out from your body. Tufts of silver and grey littered his skin in every direction, aged muscles tensed with the weight of each thrust, and the warm weathered hand that hadn’t dared touch you once before today was now cupping your chin. Tilting your head closer to him.

“Right here, baby. Look at daddy.”

Wild, unbridled heat flooded your brain in a second. The thing seared the insides of your skull with all the force of a fire and stole the air from your lungs just the same—still, you couldn’t refrain from making a face in disgust.

“What the fuck, Joel?” You shouldn’t have liked it.

His hand ascended your throat in a blink.

“Ain’t that what you want, sweet pea?”

“I—”

Just as you started to answer, though, his cock took a dizzying plunge, hitting exactly the right spot inside you. Like clockwork, your mouth fell open, a whine tumbled out, and Joel took that as his chance to grip your neck even tighter and push your hips against the washing machine, where his height afforded him an easy hold.

“What you want—”

He squeezed harder.

“—what you need—”

You gasped, starved for air. It wasn’t every day a man took your breath away. Not like Joel could, anyway.

“—is me, ain’t it?”

The gaze fixed on your face was alight with desire.

“Bet you miss him somethin’ awful, huh? Been needin’ a man to fill that spot ever since he left, haven’t ya, baby?”

‘He’ required no further clarification. The words stung. You communicated as much by wriggling your hips back and pressing your hand against Joel’s chest, just quit it.

Keep fucking me, but shut the fuck up about my father.

“I don’t miss shit,” you sniffed. Felt the head of Joel’s cock carve a shape somewhere deep inside your body and couldn’t pretend it wasn’t filling a metaphorical void someplace else. You hadn’t got this much attention from a man as many years your senior since…well, ever, really.

You preened beneath his touch. Wanting to feel. Wanting to please. Wanting, more than anything, to be needed.

Joel sated each craving with a simple hand smoothed over your face. His palm moved from your throat to your chin to the hinge of your jaw before coming to rest at the nape of your neck. This time squeezing lightly, bringing your face in close while he fucked you. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, and your stomach tightened inside you.

“That’s alright,” he said, words hardly above a whisper, “No need to miss that man at all, ‘cause I’m right here.”

For once the assurance came as somewhat of a comfort. You suspected it had something to do with the fact he was balls deep inside you and pushing you closer and closer to the brink of release with each painstaking stab of his cock. You fisted his flannel, holding him there. Spreading your legs, accepting his thrusts, taking each movement with ragged, shallow breaths and moans that blended with his own, you felt your body grow warmer.

Almost febrile beneath him as he tilted your head again.

“Who’s your daddy now?”

You winced, shaking your head. You hated that word.

“Who’s your daddy?”

Joel lowered his hand and began to thumb at your clit. Hot pleasure coursed through you, made you whine at the contact and dig your heels even deeper in his back.

“Who’s your daddy, baby? It ain’t that hard to say.”

But it was. Joel stroking your clit, stuffing you full, ghosting his lips against yours without ever furnishing a kiss, just goading you on with: ‘I know you wanna say it.’ Tough grey stubble teased your mouth with each word.

“I know she needs to cum, sweet girl. Know that poor little pussy’s taken a beating—and she’s done so good for me—but she needs to let it out now. All over me.”

His gaze held yours. You couldn’t turn away.

An unmistakable tenderness pervaded that look, and it didn’t seem keen to depart. No matter how tightly you pursed your lips, made fists in his shirt, or choked his cock between your walls in fluttering, desperate pleas, the man remained calm. Attentive. The eyes didn’t stray.

“It’s okay to say it.”

“C-Can’t—”

“Sure can. Be the easiest thing you ever do—D-A-D-D—”

“Please. Please.”

You hardly even knew what you were asking for at this point, only beholden to that big, swollen something in your tummy starting to give way beneath the push of Joel’s cock. Tightening up, leaking out, practically drooling down the length of this man who seemed relentless in his current pursuit. Two more circles on your clit and you were keening, whimpering pathetic as ever:

“Pleasepleasepleaseplease.”

“Say it now. Who’s it for?”

Above you, Joel’s teeth gleamed in a smile—or a snarl, you couldn’t tell. All you knew was the pleasure, the concomitant pain of having to contain this desperation while his thrusts sped up. You were bouncing on him, getting fucked against the washing machine in the raw and terrible central Texas heat wearing a sheen of sweat and a set of clothes that no longer fit your body, but that was just fine. You were okay. Joel was here, and he was holding your head, lips hovering less than an inch away.

“Who’s. Your. Daddy?” His words were slow. Coarse. Spilling into your mouth with every short puff of breath.

You couldn’t take it. You felt a band of pressure come to a head in your belly and the brush of Joel’s cock making its rounds in and out of your swollen cunt, pushing hard, and you knew that you’d had enough. He knew it, too.

“Y-You.”

“Who?”

“Joel.”

“Who?”

Your wet, pearly slick rang a deafening pitch. Enough.

“You, daddy! Daddy—please, fuck—I-I-I’m gonna cum.”

“Gonna cum for me? Make a mess of your old man?”

“Make a m-mess— yes, daddy, yes—” you slurred.

Joel drove his cock, fully coated in you, down to the hilt. He captured your lips in a kiss and didn’t even mind your mouth was whining, hissing, whimpering its filthy pleas for him to fuck a nice, big orgasm out from your body.

“—want yours inside,” you added, without realizing it.

“Sweet girl…” Joel groaned.

You didn’t know what you were asking him for. How badly he wanted it, too. His cock dragged in and out of your precious cunt and was barely more safe from the threat of its grip when you spasmed, at the last. Joel should’ve expected no less, after all the time he’d spent teasing and edging, then begging you gently, in grunts, ‘Cum for daddy, baby. Let me have it, that’s it, good girl.’ Still, somehow, he wasn’t prepared in the slightest.

When you squeezed your eyes shut and kissed him back—that was all it took. When you clenched on his cock, gave the front of his shirt a tug, locked your ankles about his hips so you could more properly increase that friction by fucking him back, grinding in place, he feared he might fairly make an irreparable, unforgivable mistake.

And when the whites of your eyes appeared again—eyelids fluttering open while your lips were glossed with his spit and a lazy smile—and said what you said next, he sensed that his fate was sealed. The old man was fucked.

“Cum inside me, daddy. Please.”

Joel couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried. He shuddered, then flooded your insides with rope after rope after rope of his spend, burying his face in your neck and taking your hips in his hands like a looser grip might lose you to him forever. He fucked his cum deep, deeper, darlin’ don’t move, can’t lose a drop, baby, please, he let out a whimper that made your walls pulse again. You felt him fill you to the brim and keep rutting his hips. Your body and his were shaking by the last of it.

And when he was finished, Joel dropped a kiss along your limp, glistening lips. He slid you back on the metal. By the expression on his face, it was plain to see he was loath to withdraw, but he had to. That tender little hiss and the sounds of your shared fluids trickling out were all the impetus he needed to act quick. As soon as he’d pulled out, Joel was back leaning against the washing machine—tilting your hips back a little, then lowering his sweaty, handsome head to the spot between your legs.

The wrinkles to the sides of his eyes grew more pronounced when he smiled. A happy grin, plastered across his lips, would have struck you as almost smug, were it not for the look of sheer adulation that followed it.

Joel was enthralled, watching his cum leak out of you. He kissed your thighs, flickered his gaze to your own, briefly, then damn near sank his nose inside the place he was watching before your fingers stopped him cold.

It was your body, after all. He had already had his fill.

Hardly knowing what came over you in that moment, you sank two fingers inside your wet, drooling hole and watched the eyes of the man beneath you go wide. He soaked in that sight completely: you pushing his cum back in, drawing it out, using the viscous white liquid as a lubricant of sorts before releasing a pleased little sigh.

Joel closed his mouth reluctantly. It took him more than a second to tear his eyes from that place, but when he did, the motions were quick to grow assured, by turns.

As if remembering something.

In a second, the innocent smile you’d seen before was being infiltrated, slowly, by a look you couldn’t place. Joel’s grin morphed from gentle to contented to plainly enthused and beaming ear-to-ear with a conceited glint. With his finger, he tugged your panties back into place.

“Baby—” he started, only to be cut off lightning-quick.

“What? What is it?”

His smile stretched even wider. By that act alone, you were half-tempted to forget the events of the last hour and set your jaw in a scowl. You looked down, unamused.

“What?”

“It’s just…” The man trailed off, and as he did, his gaze descended with it—straight down to your bare pantyline.

You cast a look there too—“What the fuck is it, Joel?!”

At that, two brown eyes flitted back up to you.

“I thought I asked for neon pink underwear, baby.”

Your breaths slowed. His gaze didn’t waver. Your heart came to a standstill in your chest, and you were amazed you had even half your present willpower then to speak.

“Wait, Joel, wh—”

“Shame you couldn’t get around to filmin’ today. Had me hard as a fuckin’ rock with all that milk and honey stuff.”

You nearly choked on your spit. Joel kept grinning.

“You’re—”

The guy. That fucking subscriber. The one who’d paid almost $500 in commissions in the last month alone.

You stared at Joel with eyes as wide as saucers, and were about to press on, when you heard the front door to the house shriek back on its hinges. Two sets of footsteps followed it, and their entry inside was loud.

Immediately, Joel rose to his feet. It seemed that grin wasn’t meant to stay long on his lips, because the next thing you knew, he was dropping a kiss somewhere soft and sweaty on your face and flipping your skirt back into place, holding his index up to his lips and stepping away. Your mouth twisted into a frown but stayed zipped out of sheer necessity. Seeing this, and likely unable to help himself, your gross, depraved, grinning old man leaned back in and planted his hands on either side of your hips on the washing machine. His nose nudged into your own.

“Between us—” he began, slowly.

“Get fucked,” you finished for him.

Joel nodded his assent, smirk faint. He cast a look over his shoulder, and, hearing what sounded like your mother’s footsteps drawing closer, lowered his voice.

Rubbing his thumb under your chin, making you tip your head back to meet his for one final look—then a kiss:

“You keep my secret, I keep yours, alright?”

—

Note: I’ve never done a real writing challenge before, but hopefully this fic will work for #hotdilfsummerchallenge !!! @hellishjoel this is such a fun ass idea & i hope you enjoy❣️

#‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING STEP BRO????’#BUT IT’S JOEL #AND HE’S VERY CONFUSED BUT ALSO VISIBLY ER*CT #don’t ask me to elaborate because i have no idea what i just wrote #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller #joel miller tlou #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel tlou #the last of us fic #the last of us #tlou #stepdad joel #hotdilfsummerchallenge

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catsushinyakajima · 1 month ago

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oh my god bro kill me now

“You’re coming, right?” Bakugou waits expectantly by his car, trunk stuffed with everything from his dorm. Kirishima stares at him in return, mind darting, his hands clenched at his sides. The sunset douses his friend’s back in golden-pink hues, casting soft lines on his messy blonde hair.

Graduation set on them in a flurry of emotions, panic, and last-minute decisions. Many of their classmates had big plans set in stone since the beginning of the year, including Bakugou, who had an offer from Endeavor early on. Todoroki also was set to work in the same agency, while Midoriya already had his own currently under construction with Iida. Everyone had decided weeks before graduation, and most people assumed Kirishima was going to Fatgum.

He wasn’t.

Bakugou crosses his arms, impatient. “You can’t just wait around all day. We gotta get outta here, Kirishima.”

It’s nice, getting acknowledgment from Bakugou. Use of his given name. Choosing Kirishima to be his partner. Reaching out and grasping his hand, and only his. At some point, though… acknowledgement isn’t enough, and it evolves into reliance.

Kirishima lets his hands open, and breathes in quietly. He really looks at his best friend.

All he could see before was the sun, blazing brightly, demanding attention and recognition. If Bakugou is the sun, Kirishima is a heap of fool’s gold doing a poor job of reflecting it. Struggling to be seen. Using his warmth as a crutch, even.

While he loves fighting side-by-side with Katsuki, Kirishima knows that he will never become capital-G Great if he keeps throwing punches from the devouring shadow of Dynamight. So, here he is, holding onto this last secret.

Bakugou awaits his response. It’s not his fault, really, and honesty is the most important gift Kirishima can promise him, after all the nonsense that they’ve endured.

“I’m going to Germany,” Kirishima finally replies, voice thin and choking. “I signed the contract last night.”

He doesn’t say I’m sorry, or it’s nothing personal, because he isn’t and it is. It’s always been about them. For once, Kirishima has to be for himself. He watches as anger builds in Bakugou’s eyes, but maturing has made him less of a temperamental boy and moreso a rough-edged man.

“Running away?” he challenges. Always searching for weakness, to the point of exhaustion.

“Never.” Kirishima bares his teeth in a strained grin.

In Germany, he will start something new. See what he can do alone. Bakugou nods, as if reading his mind, and turns around to get into his car.

“Then you’re coming?” He demands, voice unreadable as ever.

“Soon!” Eijirou declares. “Don’t wait.”

The blond swings open his car door and steps inside, tossing a challenging grin out the window as he slams the door closed. The sun’s almost dipped below the horizon, now, and he’s almost entirely hidden in the shadows of his sedan.

“‘Course I fucking won’t.”

Before Bakugou can drive off, Kirishima is the one who picks up his bags and turns around. He doesn’t listen for the sound of tires or an engine starting. With a tall stance and a determined gaze forward, he walks to the airport shuttle.

#If Bakugou is the sun #Kirishima is a heap of fool’s gold doing a poor job of reflecting it. Struggling to be seen. Using his warmth as a crutch #even #idk why tumblr split it like that #BUT #I LOVE THIS LINE

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lifeasadorkwithnolife · 3 months ago

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Concussed (Azriel x Reader)

Cassian accidentally gives you a concussion, his only request is that you give him time to get away before Az gets home.

------

“Your heads not in the game,” Cassian teased, nudging your feet apart as he examined your form. “Come on, what’s on your mind?”

“Nothing is on my mind.” You mumbled, dropping your fist and turning to him with a pout. “We’ve been out here for hours, can we please be done?”

It was an unusually hot day, and you and Cassian had stripped down to the bare minimum, and it still wasn’t cool enough. His torso was coated in sweat, and you could see the defined lines of muscle lining his abdomen and arms. You, on the other hand, had only joined the inner circle recently, and you couldn’t see any muscle in your abdomen, hence the vigorous training sessions with Cassian.

“Do you think Hybern is going to wait until it’s nice and cool outside to attack us?” Cassian asked, raising his eyebrows and crossing his arms.

“I don’t know… maybe?” You shrugged, he shook his head, laughing. “Spar with me one more time.”

“I always lose!” the grumble left you before you could stop yourself. Cassian laughed again, and you got into position on the mat, and he stood across from you. Past Cassian, you could see the landscape of Velaris, the mountains in the background with the sun high above. Clouds littered the sky but provided almost no shadow.

Speaking of shadows, you wonder what Azriel had been up to. You hadn’t seen him today, where usually you two spoke before breakfast. Seeing him was one of your favorite parts of the day, whilst he was quiet and refined with everyone else, you made him smile and laugh. Your friendship was full of inside jokes, occasional hugs and a lot of pining for him. You wish you were able to move on, and in an effort to, you told Cassian- but that was a huge mistake.

Cassian teased both of you, constantly, and you could tell Azriel was embarrassed. You two would be eating breakfast together in the morning, and Cassian would come in and call you two lovebirds, or a nice couple, or even ask if he was interrupting something with a wink. Azriel would always snap some retort back at Cassian, something along the lines of ‘Not us’, “Not gonna happen”, or, the one that hurt your heart the most, “Not in a million years.”

Sure, Cassian’s teasing was embarrassing, but you never understood why Azriel felt like he had to shut it down so harshly, Cassian was only joking after all.

“You’re not focused!” Cassian snapped his fingers in front of you, and your eyes moved quickly from the mountains to him. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

“Of course I did!” You snap back.

“Lets see about that.” Cassian replied, his fist came at you in the combination you guys had been working on. You ducked to the right and you heard the whoosh of his hand past your ear. You blocked his right knee with your forearm, turning quickly to throw a punch into his unshielded face.

Instead of watching your fist land a satisfying blow to his chin, you instead watched as his fist came right towards you and land an unforgiving blow to your right temple. You flew back on the mat, landing in a heap and losing the air in your lungs.

“Y/N!” Cassian shouted, quickly getting on his knees and standing above you. You saw his shadowed blurried face above yours. After a few moments, you were able to gasp, your lungs finally allowing air in. Cassian’s one face turned into two, then four. “Y/N, are you okay?”

“I don’t know.” You whispered, you reached up for his face to see if there was really four of him. You cupped his cheek. “Cassian, I am literally seeing like- eight of you right now.”

“Fuck Y/N!” Cassian groaned, turning his head away and looking around. “I thought you said you heard what I said, I told you that after the first combination, we were skipping the second and doing the third.”

“I think I lied.” You groaned, your arm falling back down to your side. You reached up to feel your head and could feel that your eye area was swelling already. “The sun is so bright.”

“I’m going to take you to madja Y/N, but please, do not tell Azriel.”

------

Hours passed, and Madja diagnosed you with a slight concussion. She was able to give you something for the pain, but the bruising and eventual black eye was unavoidable. Cassian had tucked you into your chair in the library, making sure you had a snack, a couple of books and a tall glass of water within reach. “Cassian- I’m not helpless you know.”

“Y/N- trust me, this is the least I can do.” Cassian handed you your book, then moved the table even closer to you. “Is this close enough?”

“Yes! I’m fine, you guys get punched around all the time, I can handle it.” You tried to raise your eyebrows in a teasing manner but felt a surge of pain through the right side of your face. Cassian’s face fell, “I’m serious, don’t feel bad. It was my fault for not paying attention.”

“He’s not going to see it that way.” Cassian retorted, and you shook his head.

“Why are so worried about what Azriel will think?”

“I just do not want to be anywhere near here when he comes home, speaking of which, I best be on my way.” He leaned down, giving you a light hug before backing up. “Again, I’m sorry, but I’ll see you tomorrow yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, smiling as he walked from the door. You looked around the now empty room, the fire was roaring in the fireplace, the light leaving shadows against the dark shelves filled with books in varying condition. You nestled into your chair, opening the book and continuing where you left off.

------

The door opened to the library with a groan, and you smiled to yourself, noticing the new shadows flowing around you that were not caused by the fire. “Hey Az.” You hummed, not turning towards him.

“Hey, how was your day?” His low voice reverberated through the small space, making you smile. He sat in the chair next to you. You were sure he looked handsome, like he does every night, but you didn’t turn your head, instead leaving your hair to frame the ugly bruise.

“It was uneventful.” You flipped the page, “What about yours?”

“Just uneventful?” Azriel reached his hand over, grabbing your arm. “What was uneventful?”

“Just did a little sparing with…. Cassian.” You hesitated, “It was hot, very hot, and very uneventful.”

“I feel like you’re not telling me something.” Azriel said, and your felt him get up and go to kneel in front of you. You looked down even further, you probably looked ridiculous. “Why aren’t you looking at me?”

“No reason Az, my eyes are…tried of looking at stuff.” You cringed at your bad excuse. “I mean- I think its time to get to bed. You walk out first- I’ll be right behind you.”

Azriel slowly placed his hand on your chin, and gently forced your head up, causing your eyes to meet his. His teasing smile immediately dissolved into concern, then anger. “Y/N!” Azriel’s voice was sharp, but his hands were still gentle as he cradled his face. “What happened?”

“It wasn’t Cassian’s fault!” You pushed your hair behind your ear, “I was distracted and then his fist just came out of nowhere-“

Azriel stood up, walking out of the room. You got up to follow, trotting behind him as he went to Cassian’s door. He swung it open, not knocking, and stormed into his empty room. “Where is he?” Azriel growled, turning back to you.

“Azriel calm down!’ You replied, coming over and grabbing his arm. His shadows dispersed, probably looking for Cassian somewhere in the house. “He left- I don’t know where.”

“I’m going to kill him.” Azriel looked down at your face, but instead of meeting your eyes he stared at the huge bruise.

You understood why Cassian left in this moment, but couldn’t exactly figure out why Azriel was losing his cool. “Azriel please-“

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know! I just said that!” You replied, you turned your head back towards the door and winced, the quick motion causing your head to throb. Azriel’s hand immediately fell to your cheek again. “I’m sorry, it just hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “lets go back.”

His hand hovered over your lower back as you walked. “Do you have a concussion?”

“A slight one, yeah.” You replied, deciding that instead of the library, your room was definitely a better destination.

“I’m sorry to cut tonight short Az, but I’m really tired.” You looked up at him, opening your door. He nodded, following you in and sitting in the chair next to the bed as you laid down, getting under the covers. As you settled into your pillow, you expected him to move, or leave, but he stayed put. “What are you doing Az?”

“I’m going to make sure you’re okay.” Azriel stated, leaning back in the chair, his wings awkwardly crunched between him and the wall.

“Not that I don’t enjoy your company, you know I do, but what?”

“Concussions are serious Y/N, even if Madja says you’re okay I’m not taking the chance that you’re not, so I’m staying here.”

“all night?” You retorted, and he nodded.

“Yep.”

“Az please, go to bed. You look uncomfortable.”

“Nope.”

You glared at him, and he sighed, leaning forward and clasping his scarred hands on his knees. “You want the truth?” You nodded, “I would sit here, all night, and watch you sleep just to make sure you woke up. The fact that Cassian hurt you…. Makes me want to tear him limb from limb, even if he is my brother.”

“Az-“ You started, leaning up on one arm and taking a good look at him. His eyes bore in to yours, no trace of humor left in them. “You’re serious.”

“Yes, I’m serious.” He replied, “so don’t ask me to leave again, because I won’t, I physically- I physically can’t leave.”

“Then at least climb in with me.” You whispered, patting the spot next to you. He froze. “Please, you look uncomfortable.”

“That’s the concussion talking.” Az mused, and you shook your head.

“I swear it’s not.” You whispered, earnestly looking at him. “If you were ever hurt, I don’t know what I would do. Do you want the truth?” he nodded, and you sighed. “I didn’t see the punch coming because I was thinking about you, and about…how you would never feel the same way as I do.”

“And how is that?” Azriel dropped to his knees, coming to the edge of the bed.

“I…care about you, deeply. I want to spend every day with you, and…” You felt tears prick your eyes and you turned away, your face flushing in embarrassment. “Honestly it really hurts my feelings when you say you could never see us happening, because I’ve always seen us happening.”

He stared at you, hands falling to his side. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m concussed.” You quickly wiped the tears from your eyes, turning away and plopping on the bed. “Forget I said anything, goodnight, Az.”

After a few moments, the bed creaked and you felt a warm hand on your shoulder, slightly pulling you. You turned, and Az was above you on his side, staring at the non-bruised side of your face.

“I have always thought that you would not be able to love me, for the things that I have done.” He whispered, cupping your face. “I never wanted to offend you with the… insinuation that we could ever be a match.”

“My chest physically hurts when I’m away from you, and my shadows would rather be with you than with me at this point, you are so kind, so beautiful, the thought of us together, the thought of you caring about me, and possibly loving me, just seemed too much like a dream rather than reality.” Tears burned your eyes again as he spoke, “I love you, I’m sorry I ever made you think differently.”

“I love you too.” You whispered, and he wiped the tear from your cheek. “All those comments Cassian made- it was because I told him how I felt about you, he was just teasing me.”

Azriel barked a laugh, turning away from you on his back. You looked at him in concern, and he just shook his head. “I had told him about my feelings for you, I thought he was…I thought those comments were aimed at me.”

You shook your head, laughing as well. “ Az, I won’t stop you if you still want to kill him.”

#azriel fanfic #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel imagine #azriel shadowsinger

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skeltnwrites · 3 months ago

Text

Break the Bed In— ⋆₊˚⌂

The first morning in your new home is slow and soft, spent tangled up in bed with Steve.

mdni 18+ fem/afab reader, p in v sex, oral (f receiving), switch!steve/reader, the fluffiest sweetest smut you'll ever read | 4k

a/n: this is dedicated to all my single ladies. happy valentine’s day you freaks! coincidentally i also moved houses yesterday so this feels extra fitting

── .✦

You wake well-rested; like every inch of you was unraveled and woven back together while you dreamt. Your wrist hangs off the side of the mattress, fingernails brushing the carpet. Your bed frame is a heap of wooden slats across the room, as is most of the furniture currently in your house.

Steve’s arm is warm under your neck, his breath a steady string behind you. You flip over, your ear landing in the crease of his elbow.

He’s softer in sleep. Cheek squished to his shoulder, lips pressed to a pout. He’s boyish in a lot of ways still, but growing less so the longer you know him. He’s got stubble and sun spots and smile lines. And you love each of those things, swearing he’s getting more and more handsome with them every day. Blame it on the lingering moving high but today the feeling triples.

There’s a unique kind of joy in buying your first home together. It’s perpetual surprise, popping up in the most mundane of moments. It’s picking taupe over eggshell for the living room and it’s paying extra for matching key designs and it’s waking up beside your favorite person on a mattress on the floor.

You stamp your lips into his skin in good morning, and again because it’s a satisfying warmth on your mouth. He smells sweet, like your new body wash since he couldn’t find his last night. You decide you like the scent on his skin better than yours.

The quiet is strange but the farthest thing from unwelcome. No neighbors or roommates or parents to wake to. Just the soft hush of rain against the roof and the swish of your ankles underneath the blankets.

Your fingers chase the hair from Steve’s eye socket, your thumb perching behind his ear. His pupils shift under his eyelids and he sighs the softest little sound you’ve ever heard.

It’s cruel to wake him, certainly. He did most of the heavy lifting yesterday and was up organizing later than you were. But you’re feeling especially selfish this morning, tickling him awake with a swarm of several more arm kisses.

There are worse things to wake up to, you reason with yourself as Steve hums, his fingers curling against the sheet. He’s quiet for a long beat and you decide maybe it's better to let him rest.

But his lips part and he rasps out, “Mornin’.”

“Mornin’,” you parrot. Your grin is immediate, spanning ear to ear with an overwhelming sense of gratitude.

He smushes your face to his bare collar, the heel of his free hand climbing up his cheek.

You turn to watch his eyes unstick themselves of sleep and continue to wonder how you got so lucky. You press another kiss to his chin. Another to the coarse thatch of hair on his chest. Another to his shoulder. You just can’t help yourself today.

“It’s so quiet,” he murmurs, hand crawling under your shirt in a long splay up your spine.

You beam, weaving a leg under his heavy one. “I know.”

“We have a house.”

“I know.” You sound as excited as you can be without yelling.

He hums, the corners of his smile creeping wider, a hand steady on your back.

Your finger twists a curl at his nape idly. “What’re you thinking?”

Steve’s gaze flickers from the ceiling to you, eyes like old pennies under the clouds coloring your room a gloomy shade of gray. “Nothin’,” he whispers, lips skimming the corner crease of your eye. “Just happy.”

You hum, one part agreement, two parts delight. “Can we get a dog now?”

He huffs out a chuckle, vibrating the place where your chests kiss. “I can’t believe it took you this long to ask.”

“‘Cause you always say no.”

“‘Cause it didn’t make sense before.”

“So, we can?”

He has a hard time pretending to hate the look you show him. Your jutted lip and raised brows show no mercy. He wants to say yes, of course he does, but he’s not as impulsive as he used to be. He’s a homeowner. His responsibilities extend beyond just himself now.

“Can we unpack the house first? Then we’ll talk about it.”

You flick his collarbone. “Excuses. Excuses.”

If there’s a fond way to roll your eyes at someone, he’s figured out how to do it. Steve knows you’re all drama. And he knows you’re over the moon with or without the promise of a dog.

You bend out of his embrace and regret sitting the second you’re up. Your back aches twice its weight, muscles sore with yesterday's labor.

But Steve relishes his view. You're in nothing but underwear and one of his shirts, the dip of your lower back exposed where the hem has scrunched up. He might buy you new pajamas if he thought you’d actually wear them or if he didn’t adore just how lovely his clothes look on you.

And he doesn’t give you a chance to ask, his fingers automatically massaging a path up your aching shoulder. You squirm but you love it. You kiss his hand in thank you and carry it around your waist to play with.

“Don’t get up,” he says. Pleads, practically.

You face him. “But we have sooo much to unpack.”

“It can wait,” he argues. He steals your entwined hands for a persuasive set of kisses. One to each knuckle and then a flurry up your arm. And his hands are an equally convincing force, coercing you right back onto his chest.

You’re putty, melting into his hot hands like candle wax. You throw a leg over his waist and settle down in a more comfortable straddle. The possibility of you falling back asleep jumps an alarming percentage.

You bolster your chin on his sternum and meet his eyes. “But I really want that dog.”

“More than me?”

You hum debatably into his puckered lips.

He smiles hard and forgets about kissing you, pinching your side until you yelp. Your giggles spill through twin smiles, overlapping each other in layers. “Might have to put the house back on the market if you keep being so mean to me," he says.

“I’ll be nicer if we go look at the shelter today.”

“Mm. Not letting this go are we?”

You shake your head.

He pecks the corner of your mouth. “We’ll go–”

You see the shift in his expression before he even says anything. Your eyebrows jump in excitement.

“If,” he tacks on quickly, “we finish downstairs today. Hmm?”

“Mhmm. Easy.”

“Easy,” he repeats. But not one lick of him believes you. It wasn’t easy carrying so many of your boxes yesterday and it certainly wasn’t easy getting you to pack everything up in the first place.

But ultimately he’s amused. And he thinks you’re especially pretty when you’re confident. So Steve kisses you like he has something to prove.

He gropes the swell of your ass mid-kiss and while it’s not unusual for him to do so playfully, you can’t perceive it in any way innocent when you’re pressed up against his morning wood.

“Steve,” you scold lightly.

He hums against your mouth, a faux sound of innocence. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

You break apart with a wet smack. “Gotta unpack.”

“Have all day,” he says, words all smushed together so he can sew his lips right back to yours.

“Mm-mmm.” You turn your cheek, but the hands on your waist don’t let you go far. “‘S, like, ten-thirty already.”

He works a slow line past your jaw, spending extra time on the sensitive skin around your throat. Devious.

“Steve.”

“Hmm?”

You push off his chest until you're sitting upright on his thighs.

His heart tick tick ticks under the flat of your palm. His pupils are wide, mouth kiss-bruised a bright shade of red. He’s so, so dreamy, all flushed and starry-eyed like this. He’s got you wrapped around his finger just as much as you’ve strung him with yours.

You sigh. “Why do I let you win?”

He smirks that stupid victorious smirk you love so much. “‘Cause you love me.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“Me?” he laughs.

“Mhmm. And a hypocrite.”

The hand clasping your hip pressures you back down, the other cradling one side of your jaw. “A hypocrite?” he whispers.

“Mhmm.”

He fills the tiny space between you, half-lidded and heavy-handed in a fervent kiss. He’s not rough but he is eager. Open-mouthed and persistent like he’s trying to weld his face to yours.

You meet him with the same intensity. It’s instinctual. The push-pull of your bodies, like you’re more one entity than two. You’ve been dating Steve long enough to know what he likes and what he doesn’t. You’ve made out more times than you can count. And he’s a simple man. You’ve got him hard, properly hard, in a matter of minutes.

His bottom lip is pinned between your teeth, your chests rising and falling in sync. You grind back on his crotch and his breath hitches.

“Ahh,” he pants. “Can I…”

You don’t know what he’s trying to ask but you nod anyway. It’s not hard to piece together, though; not when he’s fisting the fabric of your shirt like it’s causing him physical pain to see you wear it.

You help him hitch it up your back and down your arms to be tossed out of the way. Steve quickly stops you from lying back down. His large palms spread wide against your tummy, thumbs kneading either side of your belly button. He roves up your ribs attentively, studying how your skin pulls and dips beneath his fingers.

You swear you feel him down to the divots in his fingerprints, the slow speed of his hands tantalizing.

His thumbs pause at your breastbone, sweeping up and around your nipples as if he’s never played with them before. They perk up easily, to Steve's obvious enjoyment.

He’s told you a thousand times how pretty you are, naked and not. And he doesn’t have to say it now for you to know he’s thinking it.

He stares at your chest, your tummy, the soft stretch of your thighs, each like they’ve been carved from marble, destined to end up behind a glass at some museum he’s never been to.

You get shy eventually, needling past his hold to hide in the slope of his neck. Your mouth peppers lazy kisses where it can reach. Soft ones, not nearly as greedy as before. You work your way up, suckling long enough to leave a couple of red rings in your wake.

Steve's hips shift under yours as you arrive back at his mouth. He’s getting antsy, the finger fidgeting with the hem of your panties no longer satisfied. So maybe you shouldn’t be as surprised as you are when he holds your hips down and bucks up into your clothed cunt.

Your jaw slackens, a broken moan dampened against his mouth.

“Can be loud ‘s you want now,” he assures. His hands roam, around your ass and back up your sides. Soothing, but so feather-light you shudder.

“Still have neighbors.”

He hums in half agreement. Yes, you have neighbors, but their bedroom wall isn’t attached to yours. He imagines you’d have to scream bloody murder for the neighbors to hear you here.

You slink back up to sit and Steve’s fingers fall to your hips. Your pelvis rolls into his. Again when he shudders.

“Shit,” he sighs.

“Feel good?”

His eyes disappear behind his lashes, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. “Mhmm.”

You continue to work him through his briefs, a slow back and forth forming a hot puddle between your own legs. With one hand propped against his sternum, you force your eyes over to the stacks upon stacks of moving boxes in the room.

“Condoms… condoms.”

Steve almost misses your mumbling– and to his credit, you’re talking more to yourself than him– but he blinks out of his daze and sighs vaguely at the nearest box. “Fuck. Bathroom, maybe.”

Not ideal.

“Think I have one in my purse,” you remember, swaying heavily to the side to scan the floor beside the mattress.

Steve’s hands fly to your waist to balance you as he huffs. “You mean your bottomless pit?”

“Don’t shame me. It comes in handy.” The bottomless pit in question is spotted, half buried under yesterday’s clothes across the room. “One sec’.”

Steve grumbles as you climb off of him. But his heart turns in his chest as you saunter off. His love for you is always there. It’s the shape of you as you crouch, how you tip your purse upside down and fan the contents out across the floor with a hum.

“Aha.” You pop up, waving a glossy, square packet as you skip your way back. “My trusty bottomless pit saves the day.”

You clamber back on top of him clumsily, planting yourself in his lap like he’s no more fragile than the kitchen barstool.

Steve groans under his breath. You’ve got him really wound up and his patience is thinning.

Your hips roll into his again, the curve of his cock a strong silhouette through two sticky layers of fabric. You scoot back on his thighs and palm him with modest pressure.

“Babe,” he shudders, thumbs pawing the sides of your underwear again. “Please.”

“So impatient,” you tease.

You watch him intently. How his nostrils flare the second you break the seal between his hot skin and the band of his underwear. How his eyebrows crinkle together as you push the cotton down his thighs.

His cock bobs free before you take it gently by the base. Steve’s not just a pretty face, and he’s not cocky for no reason. He’s well-endowed, a dusty shade of pink blended tan into the dark curls at his hilt.

“Fuck, baby.”

He shifts his gaze past you because he’s certain if you make eye contact with him this’ll be the shortest sex of his life. And even the half-blurry blob of you in his peripherals is still too fucking enticing. He forces his eyes up at the popcorn ceiling and traces the shapes in his mind.

You spread the pearl of precum down a vein on the side of his cock, using the slip to tug him a handful of times. The slick dissolves, and your hand catches twice before you’re getting ready to spit in it.

But Steve whines, “Need to feel you.”

Your hand stops but the pad of your pinky trails a sneaky line from tip to base. “My hands not enough for you, Stevie?”

“Not gonna– mm– last.”

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

You mean it rhetorically but he quickly shakes his head no. You forget how much you enjoy being in charge until you have Steve squirming under you.

You stabilize yourself on his chest, hiking one leg up at a time until you’re underwear have been flung to the floor. The slick between your folds is more palpable as you sit back on his thighs, hot skin to hot skin.

His eyelids flutter closed as you roll the condom on. He’s flushed up to his ears, breath nimble off his open mouth.

“Ready?”

He nods like you’ve asked something outrageously silly.

You guide the head of his cock up to your folds, sinking down in one tedious stride. It’s a good kind of ache, scratching the deepest part of your tummy.

His hips jerk involuntarily as you release your full weight onto them, his nails leaving crescents on your skin. “‘M not gonna last,” he warns again.

“I’ll go slow.”

It’s not much consolation. No matter what you do to him, he’s not gonna last. You’re too damn irresistible for your own good.

You rock your hips forward and back in a continuous cycle. The pace is indulgent, just slow enough to make things last. Your eyes unfocus, your head tipping back. Every drag squeezes the coil in your stomach tighter.

Steve’s eyes flick to yours, his voice wavering as he mumbles, “Tease me too much.”

“I do?”

“Mhmm.”

You smile softly at him and his eyes jump away. He’s drawing loopy patterns into the meat of your thigh to distract himself. And it doesn’t help when you cover his hand and sweep your thumb across every digit. He’s so focused on not blowing his load that he can’t even speak.

You pause your rhythm and hum to yourself before continuing. “Know what I just realized.”

“Hmm?”

“Forgot the shower curtain.”

Steve exhales hard, words sticking to his teeth.“We’ll get a new one.”

“I really liked that one.”

He can’t think straight long enough to tell if you’re purposely trying to distract him or not and he doesn’t care all that much either way. He just needs you to be the same level of fucked that he is.

His hand trembles over to your pubic bone, thumb snaking right up to your clit.

You nod as he presses. Right there.

He rubs slow circles, a spark of pleasure each time he closes a loop.

“Fuck,” you drawl simultaneously.

You laugh, blissfully unaware as your muscles clamp around his cock.

But Steve’s fingers pause on your clit, his other hand tense at your hip. “Don’t,” he shudders out.

You close your mouth, a soft little apology grin that sends Steve’s stomach flipping. He’s so fucking in love it’s not even funny.

“Sit on my face.”

You hum, so high on cloud nine you’re sure you’ve misheard him.

“Let me taste you.”

Your breath stutters. He’s serious.

“Come here,” he’s pushing you up and off him before you have much of a chance to process it. “Wanna make you feel good.”

Your cheeks burn a hot shade of embarrassment, your tongue suddenly too heavy in your mouth. You wriggle up his body, guided by the relentless hands on the backs of your thighs. Steve’s eaten you out, but not like this.

“Steve,” you manage.

“What?” He knows you better than he’s known anyone in his life. He feels your shaking and he hears the rampant doubts coursing your mind. “I want to,” he promises, pressing a long, love-packed kiss to the soft flesh of your inner thigh.

You’re unconvinced. You’re certain you’ll break his face the second you sit down. You’ll be so mortified you’ll have to break up with him if he doesn’t first. You’ll have to sell the house before you’ve even unpacked–

“Please?”

He’s not trying to be pushy or even funny as he bats his eyes. He just so genuinely craves to see you unravel in the same way you’ve spun him around. And yeah, he has a sweet set of brown eyes. Sue him. He loves you too much to look at you with any less adoration.

You nod emphatically.

It’s been a long time since you’ve been this nervous about sex with Steve, but you’ve learned just about everything there is to know about him since. You trust him in every capacity, especially in bed.

He nips his way up your thigh, pulling you lower and lower until his breath is hot on your cunt. Steve licks a wide stripe up to your clit, sucking before swirling his tongue around the sensitive hood. And then his mouth starts lapping you like you’re his last meal.

Your fist jerks, fingers knotted through the hair on his scalp, and he moans. You don’t hear it over the wet smacking as much as you feel it, the vibrations sending pleasure through you like a pulse.

His tongue drives you to a mess. He’d push you completely over the edge if you didn’t stop him.

“Okay, okay,” you gasp, pushing up onto your knees. “We’re even.”

He smirks and strokes down the backs of your calves. “Are we competing?”

“You seem to think so.”

He shimmies to a sit with an arm around your waist and bestows you with a fleeting kiss, lips washed with the taste of your juices. “Lay down.”

How the fuck could you say no to such a pretty face?

You scooch down, face up on the sheets. Steve parts you by the ankles and crawls up your body, planting kisses like seeds. His teeth graze the inside of your wrist before he stretches it up and flat against the mattress above your head.

Your fingers thread through his, his other hand steadying his cock at your entrance. He swipes the head up and down your wet folds before sliding in with a groan. There’s less resistance this time, a fluid in and out to his hips.

His thrusts are languid. He indulges more closely in the taste of your mouth and the balmy feel of your waist.

The winding in your tummy resumes, your fingers naturally finding your clit while Steve rocks into you. A heavier thrust and your lips detach, Steve’s rehoming to the skin beneath your jaw. He picks up his pace, puffing and panting into your neck in short bursts.

Your legs wrap around his, the heel of your foot digging into his lower back. “Mm– Steve.”

“Yeah?” he huffs.

“Mhmm.”

If the sounds you’re making are anything to go by, Steve thinks he’s doing a pretty good job. And you know he’s just as close to cumming. You know his little sounds and twisty little expressions like the back of your hand. How his stomach tenses and his breath catches.

You burn the entirety of this to your brain, rubbing yourself faster, more in time with his movements.

“‘M close,” he says, desperate and hopeful that you are too.

You nod, focused on the high climbing higher each second.

His hips stutter when you clench around him. The coil releases and you come undone simultaneously.

“Fuck, ah– fuck,” he whines, sharp but breathy in your ear.

Your fingers slow and his thrusts wane and the pleasure softens. Steve wobbles down onto you as gently as he can, taking your interlaced hand between your bodies. Your hearts kiss with each rise and fall of your chests. Steve mouths over the most accessible bit of skin under your ear, thumb sweeping the gentlest curves around your face.

You exhale into his crown, raking a hand through the dark mop of curls damp at his nape. Your other eases down his back, savoring the contraction of his muscles as he breathes. You travel down the curve of his ass and give him a firm squeeze. “How’s your ass? Still sore?”

He huffs at you, nose crushed to your neck. “I fall down one flight of stairs and I never hear the end of it.”

“I told you to be careful.”

“I was being– whatever.” His thumb continues to caress your jaw, his lips idle on your neck.

This is Steve’s favorite part of sex. To hold and to be held, easing off a high that’s miles better than a good smoke. There’s nothing greater.

“Should I check for bruises?”

“If you kiss ‘em better.”

Your chest aches with the sweet swell of laughter. Steve’s your person. You realize it time and time again.

He peels himself off like you're double-sided tape. His hair’s still crazy despite your finger-combing and his eyes are just as heavy as they were when he woke up. He slides out of you with a hiss, sitting back to knot the condom and toss it toward a pile of bubble wrap.

He looks back at you fondly. “Shower?”

You shake your head. “Just lay with me.”

“Downstairs isn’t gonna unpack itself, you know.”

“Shut up.” You palm his chest until he lays and you throw an arm across his middle. “This was your evil plan all along.”

He chuckles, taking your hand to massage between both of his. “I’m just the worst aren’t I?”

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #skeltnwrites

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vultursvolans · 6 months ago

Text

— ★ 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐓

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: when being assigned a joint research project with a very attractive haravatat student proves to be more distracting than you ever anticipated

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: akademiya!student alhaitham x akademiya!student reader, afab!reader, established relationship (early stages), secret relationship, sex in the desert, flirting, playful banter, casual nudity, no preparation, rough fucking, multiple positions, creampie, not proofread. obv they are adults. 2.1k wc MDNI. 18+ ONLY. | masterlist

reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The heat had already taken hold of you this morning.

Even before you opened your eyes, the desert sun had crept into the makeshift tent, meandered across your skin, and clung to the bedding beneath you. Outside, you could hear the wind humming in a lulling rhythm but the air inside was still heavy—scented faintly of canvas, sand, and Alhaitham.

Officially, this trip was sanctioned by the Akademiya to catalog ruins and decipher inscriptions long buried in the dunes. Your joint project culminated in months of preparation but between your academic pursuits, you and Alhaitham fell into the trap of proximity, lured by the temptation of wandering eyes and coy smiles exchanged over the rim of coffee cups.

Long nights spent under oil lamps became less about studying and more about the rush it gave you when your knees brushed beneath low tables. It was nearly impossible to concentrate on reading when Alhaitham sat so close that his scent clouded you entirely.

Wandering eyes turned to coy smiles turned to lingering touches turned to… well.

Such distractions would be frowned upon by the Akademiya, yes, but how could you resist when Alhaitham treated you like you were the most fascinating discovery he had ever encountered? You both agreed on discretion to save yourself from the mortification of other scholars and seniors. They didn’t need to know about his sweet confession and the many other things you both got up to when nothing but the stars could witness you.

So unofficially—this trip was the perfect excuse to stay tangled together despite the sweltering heat.

You blinked against the wedge of sunlight, rolling over to a very bare Alhaitham sprawled beside you, one arm tucked lazily behind his head, the other resting just centimetres from your waist.

“Morning,” his voice was thick with sleep but when your eyes met, you saw that his expression was immensely not.

“What’s got you so focused?” you said groggily, propping yourself on your elbow as you faced him. “Already thinking about all the hard work waiting for us today?”

Your clothes were still discarded from the night before, sitting in a crumpled heap near the corner of your bedroll. Perhaps the events of last night were why he was looking at you with that slanted smile.

“Do you always think about work the moment you open your eyes?” he replied, tracing small circles on you.

“Someone has to keep us on task,” you shot back, raising a brow.

“I didn’t realise I was sharing a tent with a Matra.”

Of the 20 languages he knew, the same mouth rendered him incapable of completing this project in a timely manner—what should have been done two days ago was instead spent with his tongue on your skin.

Not that you had many complaints.

“Mm,” he added. “And here I thought mornings were for recharging, not nagging.”

“For someone who implores efficiency in all things,” you said, poking his nose, “You spend a suspicious amount of time lying around. Observing me isn’t going to help your thesis.”

“Observing you is a worthwhile distraction actually,” his hand began to slip onto the bare curve of your hip, “In fact, I think you’re my most compelling subject.”

“I would pay you sacks of mora to include that in your report,” you retorted, clicking your tongue with false annoyance, but you were too focused on something else to actually care.

“I’ll pass,” he tipped his chin at you, “Instead of mora, another thorough exploration should suffice.”

“You’re avoiding work.”

“I prefer to think of it as redefining priorities.”

“Oh? And what’s at the top of that list now, Mr. Alhaitham?” You felt wrapped in warmth but you weren’t sure if it was from the desert or his fingers settling between your thighs.

“Must you know?” He pressed his body against you, “It seems to me you don’t think we can afford to delay.”

Suddenly, the tent felt smaller, and something familiar coiled low in your belly. You let out a soft sigh, shifting closer to him, “Enough.”

The word felt hollow, even to your own ears.

He not only decided he wanted a repeat of last night (and the night before) but also the right to brag about passing with flying colours even when he was buried inside you during the most crucial part of the research.

It became a cycle—he apologised for keeping you distracted and you forgave him by moaning his name.

Never one to be so sexually inclined but now he understood why men sculpted monuments to their obsessions, why poets spilled ink in worship of carnal desires. Lust was not a sin because it was tempted, but because it was consumed. However, the way Alhaitham consumed you was completely intentional.

You were no different from his books. He spread you open, studied you, and read every inch of you all the same.

“I personally think we have plenty of time,” he leaned forward, slowly grazing his lips across your neck before kissing your pulse point. “Trust me.”

And trust him you did.

The world outside was quickly forgotten after he turned you on your back. Your words died in your throat as he hovered above you, capturing you in a careful kiss that tasted of salt and skin.

There was plenty of time in the way his fingers coveted pleasure out of you.

There was plenty of time in the way he mapped your jaw, your neck, and your collarbone with love bites. Like you were something so desirable to him.

Beads of sweat rolled down your temple as the tip of his cock shallowly pressed your entrance. Your mouth fell open—the friction was maddening, and every inch of you clung to him. Even when his lips ghosted the swell of your chest, he was lucky your skin was there to swallow his quiet grunts each time his hips moved against your tight hole.

“Patience,” he said when you instinctively arched your back, though his own breathing was uneven. Already, his hair was tousled and damp from the heat of your bodies mingling and you felt his length throbbing on your thigh. He was so hard, you couldn’t help but wonder if the one who actually needed patience was him.

You couldn’t hold back a giggle. “Speak for yourself,” you said, swiveling your hip upwards. A groan left his lips so quickly you saw a blush spread across his cheeks. “You’re barely holding it together.”

He grumbled in response. “You find joy in others’ misery.”

“Not at all.”

Although, your teasing wasn’t for naught. Alhaitham wasn’t exactly famous for bedding women so seeing you stripped of everything that made you prim and proper left him craving you that much more. “You should take it as a compliment that I—”

“So I’m the problem?” you laughed under him to mask the flutter in your stomach.

“Precisely.” You were glad he remained obstinate even when he so lewdly towered over you. “You’re in such a hurry this morning. If you want to be reckless, I won’t be blamed for the consequences.”

Then a strategic purse of lips followed suit, “I thought you enjoyed my patience.”

Patience. That damned word again.

Screw patience. Whatever consequence he was referring to was burning away any semblance of patience you might have had left. Thus far, he had taken his time with you but he had only taken his time with you. If he could be more crude, you wanted to see it—feel it.

“Alhaitham,” his entire name rolled off your tongue. Quick and demanding. Your tone only fueled the fire in his seafoam eyes. “Stop talking.”

The end of your words dissolved into a gasp as he thrust into you, hard and sudden, stretching you with a fervor you hadn’t felt before.

His muscles flexed while you dragged your nails down his spine, closing your legs around him for even an ounce of stability. The rhythm he set was already so relentless that his hands gripped your thighs, pulling them higher around his waist to drive himself deeper, and the change in angle made all sound catch in your throat.

“Haitham—!” a cry rippled from how hips were snapping against yours with a pace that was anything but patient. He had accepted your unspoken challenge so quickly, that nothing would have prepared you.

Your head swam.

The wet, sloppy slaps of skin meeting skin filled the tent, blending in with your jagged moans and his lower grunts. No part of his brain wasn’t thinking about how soaked you already were, how you welcomed him so easily before he slipped—no—pushed it in.

His hair clung to his forehead, every movement felt tight and addictive. When he leaned down, his lips brushed the shell of your ear, “Is this fast enough for you?”

You could only whimper in response, feeling your toes curl as his hoarse voice and your own pleasure consumed you.

He shifted, pulling you onto your side and hooking your leg over his shoulder. The new position sent another shockwave through you, and your priceless whines filled the small space as he drove into you over and over again.

The heat of the tent seemed endless, but so did the hunger between you. Alhaitham’s pace never truly slowed—each time your whines softened, each time you thought the storm of his touch subsided, he just tossed you into a new position, kindling the fire all over again.

“I want to hear you,” he growled while his chest was flushed against your back. Reaching to lift your leg so his heavy cock could invade you deeper, you tried to muffle your moans into the bedding. But he grabbed your chin, tilting you to look at him, “Head up.” He half-chuckled, “You were so mouthy before. What happened to that?”

Before you could answer—or think—he shifted again, this time unsteadily pulling you onto his lap. Your knees dug into the bedding but at that point, holding yourself upright proved difficult. His hands gripped your waist, guiding you to ride him as his mouth leisurely latched onto the peak of your breast. The combination left you shuddering, clinging to his shoulders as his fingers pressed bruises into your hips.

“Did you know,” he slurred against your skin, “that you’re terrible and incredible?” His praise made your cheeks burn but terrible? Terrible was the way he fucking you so hard you could barely roll your hips.

“Y-You might want to refresh yourself,” you chewed your bottom lip from yet another hard thrust, “On the meaning of ‘terrible.’” You could feel the remnants of your previous orgasms dripping down on him, “Because that’s you.”

Time blurred. You lost count of the positions, of the way he had you on all fours only to have you back in his arms moments later, of how many times you greedily begged for more. Every touch was electric; if only you could clutch him closer. The noises were shameless and the scent of filthy sex and sweat was nothing shy of erotic.

When he pinned you beneath him again, you felt him stiffen. Every inch that sunk into you felt more desperate and even the way he called your name sounded huskier. You could have sworn the tent walls were ruffling in sync from his losing control.

Your lips parted in a silent scream and with a final throb around his cock and a deep drawn-out groan in your ear, he released inside you for the first time. Your body drew out his pleasure as his forehead pressed against your shoulder. His laboured breathing told you everything about the ecstasy he was experiencing, like his body and brain were struggling to stay connected. Finally, he pulled out, trembling and sensitive, and collapsed beside you who was still panting.

Ultimately you got what you wanted: unfiltered crude sex with your insufferably hot research partner. Your pulse ran wild.

A hazy silence settled, broken only by his stroking your hand to check if you were okay. Part of him wondered if he went a bit too far which you wordlessly answered by rubbing him back. He held you, and like last night (and the night before), you lay glistening and tangled together in the aftermath.

It was a perfect system, a hopeless, delirious cycle.

“Well,” he said as he returned to tracing circles on you, “I think that concludes this morning’s exploration.”

You rolled your eyes, still dizzy and breathless, “Do you think the Akademiya will accept that as your final thesis?”

His lips quirked into a rare, little grin. “Hard to say. Who knows which of the sages might secretly be perverts?”

“Alhaitham,” you groaned, swatting weakly at his chest.

But then his arms tightened around you. And you didn’t mind. You didn’t protest. You believed you might have even loved being clad in nothing, lying in a cramped, too-warm tent that reeked in the musk of what transpired.

There was, as he said, plenty of time to finish the project. And if this was part of the process, you weren’t in any hurry.

a/n: idk if i love or hate this but it’s so hot where i am rn and the only thing i can do to distract myself from perishing from the heat is to pretend i’m here!!!

dividers by @/adornedwithlight

#✧ vultursvolans #house of solis occasum #nereids' realm #genshin x reader #alhaitham x reader #al haitham x reader #alhaitham smut #genshin smut #al haitham smut #gi smut #alhaitham x you #alhaitham x y/n #genshin impact smut #genshin impact x reader #al haitham x you #genshin x y/n

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thestuffedalligator · 2 years ago

Text

The goblin looked at the orc. The orc looked at the goblin. They both looked down at the crumpled shape of the Overlord, His Unholy Majesty, in his obsidian armor.

His final spasms had been mesmerizingly acrobatic. The fall down the steps leading up to his iron throne had pretzelled his body quite impressively, both arms folded behind his back and one leg bent at a jaunty angle.

The goblin looked at the orc. The orc looked at the goblin.

"Shit," said the goblin.

"Shit," said the orc.

"We're likely to get blamed for this," the goblin said. She walked over to the head of the glittering mangled heap and started pulling the helmet off.

"It's not our fault," the orc said. "It's hard to help someone choking when they wear two-hundred pounds of spiked armor at all times."

"Yeah, well," the goblin grunted. The helmet came free, and the bald head of the Overlord bounced on the stone with a hollow, coconut noise. "You know how it is in this bloody country - thieves get their heads cut off so they can't think about thieving, and all that." She fished in the Overlord's mouth with a finger and pulled out the obstructing olive on the end of her claw.

She popped it into her mouth and chewed. "What do you reckon they do for a regicide?" she said.

"We should run," the orc said. She had started bouncing her leg. "I hear that there's some places in the Alliance where they just kill you and let you stay dead. That's got to be nicer than what'll happen if we stay here."

The goblin started to nod - and then her gaze fell on the helmet.

It looked like a pineapple designed by a deranged blacksmith. It was all thorns and spikes and hard edges, as though the maker had been very determined to not let pigeons roost on it. The only bits that weren't solid iron were eyeholes. Nobody had ever seen the Overlord's face.

She held up the helmet and squinted from it to the orc. One of the thorns had been bent badly in the fall.

Nobody had ever seen the Overlord's face...

"Right," she muttered. "Right. Could work - or."

The orc had a sudden vision of the immediate future. "No," she said.

"I mean you're about his height-"

"No."

"It would just be for a-"

"Absolutely not."

"Just hear me out," the goblin said. "Outside of this room are two-thousand men and orcs and goblins who are absolutely gonzo about this man, and there's a whole country of them outside of the castle, and at any moment someone's going to walk in that door and see one dead tit in black armor and two unbelievably dead idiots next to him.

"Or." She tossed the helmet up like a basketball to the orc, who fumbled and tried to find somewhere to hold it that wasn't a knife's edge. "We chuck him out the window now, walk out the door in the armor, and ditch the armor as soon as nobody sees us."

The orc had started bouncing her leg again. "They'll know something's up the second I walk out of the room."

"No worries," said the goblin. "Leave that to me."

---

It had been a very strange year for the Empire.

Change had rolled across the land as slow and inevitable as a glacier. Roads and bridges carved the gray, blasted wildlands, and a number of social reforms had made the country a place where you could be miserable, yes, but miserable in comfort and safety, and that was an improvement.

Barely anyone got boiled alive in molten metal, and even if the disgusted sun never rose to light the Empire, at least you had a roof over your head to protect yourself from the acid rain.

"Your empire flourishes, Your Unholy Majesty," the magician said over her wine glass. She looked down from the tower's balcony over the gleaming stone battlements. Some work had been done to line the castle and surrounding city with sizzling, crackling alchemical lights at night. The whole thing glowed like something dangerously radioactive.

The suit of armor waved a languid, glittering gauntlet over to the goblin, who bowed.

"His Abominable Gloriousness Thanks You," the goblin recited. "The Prosperity Of His Empire Can Only Be Achieved Through The Prosperity Of His People."

"If I may be so bold, I am quite pleased that you had chosen to take my counsel under consideration," said the magician. "We have accomplished many things together."

Another wave. Another bow. "The Overlord, May His Presence Swallow The Sun And Stars, Thanks You As Well."

"It was quite gratifying to see you change your mind, after so many centuries of denial." The wine was swirled. "Tell me, what was it that finally gave you cause to listen to me?"

There was the slightest hesitation. The goblin's eyes flicked to the armor, then to the magician. She puffed out her chest. "Do you question the wisdom of His Austere Lugubriousness?" she asked.

The magician looked at the goblin. She looked at the armor. She tipped her head back and drank the wine too quickly.

She looked back at the armor. "I know you're the orc, you moron," she said.

The room went deathly still. An alchemical light fizzled.

The orc pulled off the helmet, sending long, untied hair down tangling, and said: "How could you possibly-"

"Because you're both idiots!" the magician said. The goblin jumped. The orc jumped with a noise like a dropped stove. "What kind of a plan was this?! If it wasn't for me, you would have been turned into fertilizer months ago."

She closed her eyes. She took a long, dramatic breath. She set the wine glass down on the balcony rail.

"How did the Overlord die?" she asked when she seemed like she had gotten a hold over herself.

"Choked on an olive," said the goblin.

"Threw his body out the window," said the orc.

"You don't have to mention the window," said the goblin.

"Right," said the orc. "Sorry."

The magician looked out over the city, hand curled thoughtfully under her nose. "Who knows about this?"

"Just us. And, uh. You. Apparently."

"And why did you accept my counsel?"

The orc blinked. "Sorry?"

"Why did you accept my counsel?" the magician repeated.

"Well," the orc said. "Well - you seemed like you had good ideas-"

"Great ideas!" the goblin said with an edge of desperation. "Don't know why the old bastard didn't listen to you!"

"Right - right," said the orc. "And when we figured we were stuck doing this - well, it just made sense, really."

The magician seemed to absorb this. She nodded. "All right," she said, striding between the two and grabbing the crystal decanter.

"Um," said the orc. "Sorry. What happens now?"

"What happens is that you two will continue to serve as Overlord," said the magician. "You will continue to take my counsel. We will continue to reform this bloody country, and gods willing, we will turn it into the crown jewel of the world by next Midwinter."

The orc looked at the goblin. The goblin looked at the orc.

"Really?" the goblin asked.

"Oh yes," said the magician. "I've worked hard to be counsel to the Overlord, and I have no reason to stop now. And besides-"

She looked the orc up and down with a deliberate slowness, poring over every microscopic detail, eyes tracing over every jagged line, and grinned like a panther.

"You look much better in the armor than he ever did," she said. Dark robes swirled like a becleavaged thundercloud, and she strode out through the high iron doors, decanter in hand.

The goblin looked at the orc. The orc looked at the goblin.

"Shit," said the goblin.

"Shit," said the orc.

#short story #fantasy writing #narrativia #10k

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takes1 · 3 months ago

Note

ur blog is so pretty...

if you are okay with it, do you have any headcanons bout what type or p0rn the Karasuno boys would watch? 🌹

what type of p*rn would the karasuno team watch?

warnings. heavy nsfw under the cut. minors DNI

characters. suga. daichi. asahi. tsukki. kageyama. hinata. nishinoya. tanaka. yamaguchi. details. lots of kink discussion - just about anything you can think of

links. my masterlist. my ao3. more haikyuu. my imagines. requests open.

suga९᠀ - likes a good storyline video. loves a bad one. shitty acting gets him laughing, and he needs every chance he can get to feel as though he isn't sinning. won't say no to an amateur flick, but he likes the structure of 4k videos, and is a suuuucker for the 'oiled up' aesthetic.

asahi९᠀ - buddy has a rampant size kink that doesn't get much of an outlet. downside: most videos that cater to this are not what he wants, because of the unavoidable infantilization in most of them. so he opts for amateur vids with bigger guys turning out their smaller girlfriends, wives; extra props if there's some real, organic dirty talk, or if it happens to be super low-quality.

daichi९᠀ - has no shame about his oral fixation. face fucking. deepthroat. he's got any video with some lucky dude getting good head memorized by the title and the preview. his favorites are either: when the guy stays hands-off and silent, or when she takes a load down her throat. not much in between.

tsukishima ९᠀ - is a filthy animal with a porn addiction. will watch/has watched just about everything under the sun. he had a bukkake faze, a gangbang faze, but is now proudly serving his bdsm faze with specific interest in femdoms. shiny, black heels get him hard in an instant. has done the tried-and-true bdsm questionnaire in his spare time and does heaps of research on the community, usually as a pregame to jerking off.

kageyama ९᠀ - no particular preferences. but if he's got a crush on somebody, he will strictly watch lookalikes. it wasn't a conscious habit at first, but after the third time it happened, he couldn't articulate any other reason to look up seven descriptors in the search bar and get 0 results. how well/quickly he gets off is based on how well the actor or subject looks his crush. it's a long endeavor, too. he edges for as long as he can, and almost always does it twice.

hinata ९᠀ - can't watch porn long enough to build any strong preferences. has sensitivity/premature ejaculation issues, so he tends to just listen to whatever video he landed on. this has opened more of a pipeline to nsfw audios, instead. loves the sound of two bodies coming together, especially all the little pants and huffs in a video that aren't faked. has gotten insanely good at being able to tell if it's fake, too.

nishinoya ९᠀ - doesn't watch videos; similar problem to hinata. instead, yuu buys physical hentai novels. big fan of monster-fucking. tentacle stuff is a staple in his readable porn. he guards his collection with his life and would sooner lose a limb than have anybody go near the shelf that he keeps them hidden behind. once, asahi stood too close during a sleepover and -naturally- yuu bit him as a distraction, just to get him away from the area.

tanaka ९᠀ - wlw videos. solo-girl vids. he can't stand to watch something with a guy in it. it's huge turn-off, especially when the dude is too loud, or in the way, too soft, or straight-up ugly. learned to love the slow, women-catered stuff that's 40 minutes long and has plot to follow. also picked up a lot of tongue tricks from these vids, too. (congrats, kiyoko!)

yamaguchi ९᠀ - mmf threesomes. i think ya'll know what i'm getting at, here. either he 1: is poly and doesn't know it, 2: is gay and doesn't know it, 3: is genuinely very enticed by the idea of overstimulating a gorgeous girl, OR 4: can't see himself as enough for a potential partner, and this might be a subconscious way of evading that insecurity.

notes. i'm very sorry to any who were looking for ennoshita, kinoshita, or narita. i tried, but genuinely couldn't get anything going for any of them. they all seem like nice guys, but there's no material that i can properly make nasty.

taglist. @integers @paradoxicalwritings @yuchacco

links. my masterlist. requests open.

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vunblr · 1 month ago

Text

A Star Without a Sky (#1)

Pairing: Sheriff! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight angst. Comfort. Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.

Summary: A wounded Sheriff Barnes seeks shelter in a young widow’s home, and finds himself wrapped in a warmth he no longer believes he deserves, and longing for something he thought long buried.

Word Count: About 6.7k.

Note: Old West Bucky, just because.

She forced herself out of the warm bed, groggy and resentful of the cold that crept from every crack in the old wood walls. The sun had been up for hours. Errands -postponed too many times- piled at her with obligation, so she folded back the quilt with a sigh and let her bare feet hit the frigid floor.

The curtains were stiff from the cold when she opened them, but the frost-laced glass flared gold for a moment. Maybe the sun would heat the place a little, while she got the stove going. She rubbed her arms through the sleeves of her nightdress, crossed to the kitchen corner, and bent to arrange kindling into the firebox. The cold bit into her hands as she fumbled with the matches with a curse.

Then she caught a movement in the corner of her eye.

She promptly turned toward the window, and through the murky pane, she saw a figure moving slowly across the edge of the wild hay meadow. Long black coat dragging in the snow, matching black hat pulled low. He didn’t look like much, -no rifle, no saddle- but the way he walked made her breath stutter, just a little.

Not like a man who meant harm.

Like a man trying hard to stay on his feet.

One of his knees buckled, sudden and ugly, sending him listing sideways. The white behind him bloomed red.

She pressed a hand to the glass. He tripped on something under the drift -maybe a stone, maybe nothing at all- and crumpled, hard, face-first into the snow. He didn’t move. The black of his coat sprawled out like an ink stain across the white.

She didn’t think. She just moved.

----

She reached him just as the wind picked up, scattering loose snow across the meadow in dry, hissing gusts. Kneeling beside him, she pressed a hand to his shoulder, the fabric of his coat was soaked through and cold to the touch. He flinched like a spooked horse, jolting upright onto his knees and lifting his head, looking at her with an impossibly blue gaze.

Then his eyes rolled back.

His body folded on itself, collapsing again into a heap of dark leather, blood, and limp limbs.

She panicked. He was going to die out here.

She hooked her hands under his arms and tried to lift him, grunting with the effort, but he was heavy and slack and offered nothing to work with. The cold was stealing him by the minute. Her breath fogged fast as she scanned for something -anything- and then, she scooped a fistful of snow, and smeared it across his face.

He groaned, low and miserable. Still alive.

Good.

She slapped him. Hard.

"Wake up!"

His head jerked. A curse slurred past cracked lips. He pushed himself onto one elbow, swaying, and that was enough. She ducked under his arm and dragged it across her shoulders, locking her other arm around his waist. He stank of blood and iron, sweat and gunpowder, and her knees almost gave under his weight, but she held fast.

“We are going to the house now,” she hissed against the sharp wind, with her cheek brushing against his stubble. “I need you to move, because I can’t do this alone.”

He grunted, barely conscious, but his legs obeyed enough to shuffle, stagger. Step by step, they moved toward the porch. His hair fell across her face, chestnut strands tickling her lashes as she leaned into him. She was too focused on the door, on the fire she hadn’t lit, on the bed she’d just left, when something hard knocked against her hip.

She froze. Shifted. Felt it again.

A pistol. Holstered under his coat.

So, not unarmed after all.

----

She wrestled the quilt aside just in time before they toppled onto the bed, both hitting the mattress in a graceless heap, with his full weight sagging over her until she twisted, shoved, and managed to roll him off her with a grunt. The room was freezing, the stove still unlit, but she felt sweat prickling along her spine.

"Don’t die," she muttered, more to herself than him, as she bent and started on his coat. The leather stuck to his body, frozen and soaked through with blood. She peeled it back, inch by inch. Waistcoat next, then the shirt. His chest was heaving shallow, and his skin was pale beneath the streaks of dirt and gore. She fumbled fast, tearing open fabric until she found the wound, just under the ribs, on his left side.

“Damn it.”

A neat hole. Clean, if blood could ever be called clean.

She pressed her hand under his back and felt the sticky mess there, another hole, just above his waist. She exhaled, shaky.

"Through and through."

It was something.

Blood still pooled thick beneath him, though. He'd been walking like this. Bleeding like this. God only knew how far he'd come or how long he'd been dragging himself through the cold like a ghost looking for somewhere to fall.

She reached for the basin on the table, filled it with what water hadn't frozen overnight, and tossed in a kettle from the shelf. It’d be warm in a minute if she got the fire going.

But first…

She went back to him. Looked at him.

His shoulder-length dark hair clung damp to his temple. His face was unshaven, with a jaw that looked carved from stone. He looked hard. Worn. Tired. The kind of face that had seen years too fast.

Her gaze drifted lower, to his torso, lean muscle beneath the blood, scars and bruises, and something caught the light.

A glint of metal, nestled against his side, half-tucked under the folds of his waistcoat. She reached for it.

A silver star. Dull, scratched, but unmistakable.

A sheriff badge.

She stared at it for a long beat.

A sheriff was bleeding out in her bed

----

She cleaned the blood away with water and vinegar, soaked into a rag until it turned rust-brown, wiping carefully like she could scrub death off him with enough effort. The bullet hole wept dark blood with each shallow breath he managed to pull in. He hadn’t stirred since she got him into the bed. Not even when she pressed down to see how deep the wound ran.

She lit a candle and threaded the needle by its shaky light. The thread was thick and waxed -meant for mending saddle leather, not flesh- but it would hold. She'd done this before.

Dozens of times.

The needle pierced skin, and her hands didn’t tremble. Not once.

She'd stitched up gashes, tears, and ugly farm accidents when Cole had come limping in from the fields with blood on his shirt and his mouth twisted in pain. She could still hear his voice, grumbling softly while she worked, trying to distract her.

Cole.

If he were alive, he’d be the one dealing with this. Would’ve hauled the stranger in himself, dragged him out of the snow with strong arms, and laid him out with confidence, not panic.

But Cole had been dead for two years.

Two winters of silence, of watching the fields change and learning how to do what needed doing whether or not it broke her.

These were the cards.

And this was the hand she played.

She tied off the last stitch and cut the thread with a scissor. Then she sat back, wiped her palms on her nightdress, and stared down at the sleeping lawman bleeding on her sheets.

She uncorked the turpentine with numb fingers and poured it straight onto the wound. He flinched -just a twitch, not enough to wake- but his body jerked like it knew how to scream even if he couldn't.

His face had gone gray, and his lips, the color of ash. Too much blood gone. She pressed her knuckles to her mouth and thought, hard.

He needed something in him. Something warm.

She stumbled into the pantry, shivering in her nightdress, and pulled down the bottle she’d never used. Bought it in hope, and tucked it away when that hope became vain. She filled a pot with milk from the day before, added water to thin it, and honey to sweeten it. The teat was stiff from disuse, but it softened as she worked it between her fingers.

Back in the bedroom, she pressed it to his mouth.

He didn’t drink. His lips parted slack, and the milk dribbled out, warm and wasted down his chin. She cursed low under her breath, brushed her hair from her eyes, and did what had to be done.

She climbed onto the bed.

With effort, she shifted his weight, stuffing pillows behind him until he was propped just enough, and then settled beside him on her knees, feeling his head heavy against her chest. She cradled the back of his skull with her forearm, grabbed the bottle, and rubbed his throat gently with her empty hand.

He groaned. Not awake. But there.

She tilted the bottle again, angled it just so, with her fingers still coaxing along his throat.

This time, he drank.

Suckled hard, desperate, and instinctual. Like his body wanted to live even if his mind wasn’t aware of it. She didn’t speak at first, just watched, mesmerized by the motion, the hollow pull of his cheeks, the faint rise of color in them.

When he paused, she rested her hand on his cheek. Cool, rough with stubble. "You’re doing good," she murmured, low and close to his ear. "Come on, just a little more."

No answer, but he kept drinking.

And she stayed like that, curled around a half-dead lawman, feeding him from a bottle meant for a child she never had.

----

After three days, she had a routine. She pushed the door open with her hip, balancing the basin, a clean rag, and the bottle in her arms. Her boots thudded softly on the floorboards, and she didn’t even glance toward the bed at first, she was halfway to setting the basin down when she felt his eyes on her.

He was awake.

Propped up slightly on the pillows, with the blanket bunched at his waist, and his face still pale but alert. His blue eyes were sharp, almost piercing.

They stared at each other for a long second. Neither moved.

"Where am I?" he rasped.

"At my house," she answered, calm but cautious, tightening her grip on the bottle. "You’re safe here."

His shoulders didn’t relax. “And you are…?”

“Y/n. You collapsed inside my property and I brought you here.”

He blinked slowly, as if chewing the words, and then glanced at the bottle in her hand. His expression changed to one more open. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, stiff and formal. “I’m sorry for inconveniencing your family, being another chore-”

“Oh, it’s just me,” she cut in, with a lighter tone than she really felt. “You’re only disrupting my less-than-exciting week.”

His gaze dropped again to the glass bottle.

She followed his eyes. Paused. And then felt the heat crawl up her neck.

“Oh. That’s why you thought…” She fumbled with the bottle and nearly dropped it. “Actually, I made this for you.”

His brows pinched together, slow and confused. “Why…?”

“I- um- I've been feeding you with this. Since you couldn’t swallow, and I figured… you needed the strength.”

His expression shifted, his eyes widened, and a faint red crept over the tops of his cheekbones. “That so?”

“You were so weak,” she hurried, mortified. “You couldn’t even hold your head up. And you needed nourishment, and I didn’t know what else to-”

“All right.” He lifted a hand, sluggishly but firm. “I understand the whole picture. No need to…”

He made a vague gesture, then dragged his palm down over his face and groaned low in his throat. The thought of this fine woman kneeling beside him, cradling his head, easing a damn baby bottle between his lips, nearly made him wish he'd bled out in the snow.

But he didn’t. And now he owed her.

“Thank you, ma’am.” His voice was softer now. Less wary. “I’m Sheriff Barnes. James Barnes. I’ve been in town for three months now. Never saw you before.”

She crossed her arms, leaning on the bedpost. “Oh, I don’t go too often to town and surely didn’t cross paths. Maybe that’s why.”

He nodded slowly, with his eyes still on her. He went quiet for a beat. Then-

“I imagine I made quite an entrance.”

She shrugged like she hadn’t spent the last few days feeding him in her arms. “Well, not every morning one finds a dying man at home.” She fiddled with the rubber teat, until it came loose with a soft pop. “Here. I already made it… it'll do you good-”

He took it with a slow nod, brought it to his mouth, and drank. Just a sip, just enough to coat his throat, but the moment the warm sweetness touched his tongue, that creeping, cursed heat returned. His ears burned. He could still imagine her hand at his jaw, coaxing, soothing. Her soft voice whispering encouragement like he was some wounded thing, some child.

“So you live out here all alone?” he asked quickly, trying to think on anything else.

“I lived here with my husband.” Her tone didn’t waver. “He died two years ago.”

He straightened up a little. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

A pause.

“I’m not that alone. I rent most of the land to my two neighbors. They’re decent folks. Help out from time to time, or their wives come around to chat when they want to gossip.”

“That’s good to hear.” He finished another sip and placed the bottle on the nightstand with a soft groan, and his muscles shifted in his bare torso, slow and deliberate. She noticed -of course she did- and quickly turned away, busying herself with the basin and gauze.

“I have to change the bandage now.”

“I can-”

“You can’t.” Her voice came out final. “You can’t be moving around yet or the stitches will tear.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I-”

“It is the first time I’ve had a man bleeding out on my bed,” she noted, crossing her arms and arching one brow. “So be a good sheriff and let me do this.”

He exhaled slowly and long, leaning back into the pillows with a look that said he knew better than to fight her. “Suit yourself.”

She dipped the rag into the vinegar water, but before she could begin, she paused. “Oh! before I start. Do you have to pee?”

He blinked at her. “What?”

“To pee, Sheriff Barnes. You know. That yellow-”

“Don’t say it.”

She gave him a flat look. “Well?”

He pressed his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I might need to use the bathroom, yes.”

“Alright.” She reached behind the nightstand and pulled out a dented tin jar with a handle, the kind that had seen use. She reached for the quilt.

His hand shot out, pinning the fabric down. “What are you doing?”

“You said you wanted to relieve yourself. I was going to-”

“Thank you, ma’am, but I won’t… do it there.” His voice cracked slightly, with mortification blooming again hot on his face. Goddammit.

“You don’t have many options,” she said gently, matter-of-factly. “I wasn’t going to look, just put it down there. No offense, but how do you think I’ve been managing you until now? The jar is an improvement. I’ve had to put towels between your thighs and your-”

“Okay.” He stared at her, then at the quilt covering his hips, then closed his eyes with a grimace. “Okay. Just… gimme the thing. I’ll manage.”

She handed him the jar and turned her back with the dignity of a queen.

“Ask for help if you need it,” she said, with infuriating cheer.

He groaned like a dying man all over again.

----

He watched her as she worked -silent and focused- like the shape of his naked body didn’t bother her at all. Like the scars weren’t there. Her hands were warm against his chilled skin, and he hated how good that felt. Hated that he noticed.

A lock of hair slipped from her bun and swung against her cheek. She didn’t fix it. The sunlight caught on her skin, and the neckline of her work dress, on the soft outline of her breasts shifting beneath the fabric as she leaned forward. She didn’t wear a shawl. And damn him, it had been so long since a woman touched him without fear or hurry. Since he’d seen something so gentle up close.

“So…” He cleared his throat. “Why don’t you come into town more often?”

She didn’t look at him right away. Just kept cleaning the wound, slowly, squeezing the cloth over the basin.

“Well… I go. For groceries. Things I need from the general store.” She dipped the rag again and wrung it out. “But it feels strange, wandering alone. And there’s always someone bringing up Cole- my husband.”

He gave a small nod, not wanting to interrupt.

“And then, sometimes it’s the whispers,” she added, quieter. “Men think I don’t hear ’em. The young widow who lives alone out there, renting to men, with no husband or family around. Must be doing more than sewing curtains.”

He stiffened and frowned.

She smiled, small and humorless. “People get real creative when they don’t have anything better to do.”

“And you just let ’em?”

“What should I do, sheriff? March in and shout I’m not fucking the tenants?” She shook her head as she wrung the cloth out. “Anyway, since I’m already damaged goods…” She shrugged. “They’re not so judgmental. Even save me a spot in church on Sundays.”

He watched her for a long beat.

“You’re not damaged,” he said, with a rough voice.

She chuckled. Couldn’t believe a man like him didn’t catch the meaning. “I’m not a virgin, sheriff. It’s a commodity I don’t have anymore. That’s why some of them talk, but in the end, it’s not like I could trick a man into something that’s not real. Pretend they’re the first and all that, since, well, it’d be odd for a widow to never have laid with her husband.”

Oh. That.

He felt the heat crawl up his neck like a stupid boy.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “in my opinion, ma’am, they ought to mind their own damn business. And if anyone says a word about the woman who saved my life… well, they won’t like how that ends.”

"Thank you,” she said softly, standing up and brushing her hands on her skirt. “Speaking of town, now that you're awake and probably can pass a couple of hours alone, I should go fetch the doctor," she suggested, looking at his tired face.

The smile vanished, and his body tensed under the quilt. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” he said. “You did a good job.”

“I’m no doctor, and neither are you.”

“I’ve been shot a couple times,” he muttered. “Seen more bullet wounds than a man should. In my experience, this looks promising.”

She arched a brow at him.

“I promise you, when I can mount I’ll borrow a horse and be off your back.” He murmured

“You may have a point. But it’s not about you being a bother, sheriff.” Her tone softened. “Isn’t it better if someone knows where you are? Just in case?”

“Actually… no.” His voice dropped a note. “Don’t mean to scare you, but if word spreads I’m here -injured and on the outs of town- some folks might see it as an opportunity to… take care of me permanently. If you catch my meaning.”

She did. And her stomach turned a little at the thought.

She nodded once. “Right. No doctor then.” Then she thought. “How about your wife?” she asked, keeping her voice casual. No ring on his finger didn’t mean he hadn’t left someone behind.

He gave a tired chuckle. “Ain’t a Mrs. Barnes out there to miss me. Maybe Deputy Wilson’ll shed a few tears.”

She looked down quickly, fiddling with the hem of her apron. Stupid, how relieved she felt.

“Maybe give word to your deputy, then?” she said, not quite looking at him as she rearranged the basin and cloth. “So he knows you’re alive and… maybe fetch you some clothing?”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “Yeah. That’s a good idea. I’ll write him a letter if it’s no trouble for you. Also…” He scratched at the scruff along his jaw, scanning the worn floorboards with tired eyes. “Could ask him to bring a rifle.”

She stopped tending him and tilted her head. “A rifle.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you, a man or an army?” She folded her arms, with a teasing tone in her voice. “You’ve already got two pistols and a pair of knives in my cupboard.”

He huffed out a breath, almost a laugh, or close to it. A flash of something that nearly passed for a smile curled one corner of his mouth. “The job comes with its risks.”

Looking at his wound, her eyes narrowed. “Can see that,” she murmured.

----

The fresh gauze and clean bandage were already in her hands, as she traced the rim of the wound with a featherlight touch of the cloth, with more tenderness than he expected, almost reverently. The muscles of his abdomen twitched under her fingers, and he cursed himself inwardly for the reaction.

“Sorry,” she said, not quite meeting his gaze. “I needed to dry the moisture.”

He wasn’t looking at her either, fixing his gaze somewhere behind her shoulder, clenching his jaw. That wasn’t precisely what hurt. “It’s... alright.”

She reached behind him. “Can you lift yourself just a little so I can wrap this around you? It'll be so much easier that way.”

“Yes, ma'am.” The words came through grit teeth.

He pushed himself up with trembling arms, catching his breath in his throat from the flare of pain that tore down his side. But he held it. He had to. She’d been dragging his half-dead weight around like a sack of flour for days. If he could do this one simple thing, he'd damn well do it.

She wrapped the bandage with quick hands, brushing his sking with warm fingers. He focused on the sound of the wind rattling against the windowpane, the creak of the mattress, and the feel of her arm briefly pressed to his ribs.

But it was hard not to think about how fucking good her hands felt against his skin. The way her fingers ghosted over his ribs, and how the scent of her hair -lavender water and woodsmoke- drifted close, and he caught himself wanting to bury his fingers in that bun, and tug it loose just to set it free.

Pathetic. Half-dead in a stranger’s bed and his touch-starved, half-feral body had the gall to ache for more.

She could feel his stare, like a weight. It made her fumble. When he’d been unconscious, it was easier. He wasn’t a man then, just a body in need of tending. She could wash him, move him, press cloth against his skin, and ignore what it meant. But now… now he was watching her, and his body wasn’t slack anymore. His breath caught at her touch. And he was handsome, damn it. That didn’t help a bit.

She forced her hands to finish, too quick, too clinical. “There you go,” she muttered helping him lean back into the pillows. “I’ll fetch you pen and paper so you can write the deputy.”

“Maybe... it'd be better a pencil,” he rasped. “Ma’am, I already bled on your sheets, don’t wanna stain ’em with ink.”

She blinked, then smiled despite herself. “That is very considerate of you. Thank you.”

He just nodded, slow and heavy-lidded. His face was unreadable, but the tips of his ears had turned red.

----

She entered the bedroom with a glass of water and a plate of crackers. Her hair was combed into a neater bun now, tucked under a wide-brimmed hat tied beneath her chin with a pale ribbon. A thick shawl was draped over her shoulders, knotted above her chest, the heavy wool taming now the shape of her body he’d gotten used to seeing in thinner cotton.

Bucky blinked. She looked… respectable. Buttoned up like a preacher’s wife. He kind of missed the sight of her work dress, with the sleeves rolled up, and her hair slipping wild around her ears. Somehow this -this distance of her appearance- made the bed feel colder.

“Did you write the letter?” she asked, setting the plate and glass on the nightstand with a careful clink.

“Yes, ma’am.” He handed her the folded paper. “Deputy Wilson should be at the office. If not, I wrote his address there for you.”

She tucked the note into her satchel and glanced at him. “Alright. Do you need anything else?”

“No, ma’am. Just… sleep.”

“Seems fair. You just woke up.” She reached for her gloves. “I’ll try not to linger much, hm? So you’re not here alone too long.”

He nodded. Alone’s the usual state of things anyway.

“Careful on the road, ma’am,” he said instead. “Put a blanket up over your legs.”

That got a soft breath of laughter from her. “Well now, ain’t that thoughtful.”

He didn’t answer, just watched her as she pulled the shawl tighter and walked out.

----

The afternoon light spilled gold across the dirt path as her cart clattered into town, with the wheels creaking softly over the uneven road. A few townsfolk tipped their hats or nodded her way. Mr. Granger from the tannery, old Miss Routh hobbling along the storefronts, and she nodded back, polite, reserved. The wind tugged gently at her hat ribbon.

She pulled the cart at a short distance from the sheriff’s office and tied the reins to the hitching post, patting the mare’s neck once before stepping down. Her boots crunched against the packed earth and dirty snow as she made her way toward the squat brick building, with its door half open. The scent of tobacco and dust met her first.

Inside, who she think it was Deputy Sam Wilson looked up from where he sat at the desk, chewing through a sandwich. He froze, mouth half-full, eyes wide with surprise.

“Oh- uh- morning, ma’am. Beg your pardon, I-”

She raised a hand before he could scramble upright. “No need to fuss, deputy. You go on.”

He swallowed and wiped his hands on a kerchief.

She hovered by the desk a moment, smoothing a fold in her shawl before reaching into her satchel. “Sheriff Barnes asked me to give you this.” She offered the folded letter, a little hesitantly.

Sam quirked a brow and took it from her fingers. As he unfolded the page, his expression shifted: surprise morphing into concern, then loosening into something softer as he read the last lines.

“Well, that explains the absence,” he muttered with a huff, setting the paper down. “Man always did have a knack for showing up bloodied and half-frozen like it was a hobby.”

She gave a little chuckle, folding her arms lightly. “He’s been... decent company. Quiet. Polite. If he’s trouble, he’s not shown it.”

Sam leaned back in the chair, and laughed at that. “Ma’am, I don’t know who you’ve got laid up in your spare bed, but that sure doesn’t sound like the James Barnes I work with. Grumpier than a bear with a sore tooth most days.”

She smiled, a little more relaxed now. “Well, then I suppose the snow knocked some manners into him.”

He stood with a grunt and disappeared into the back room. She heard the clatter of a cabinet, the rustle of canvas, and then he returned with a wrapped bundle, long, narrow, and unmistakable even beneath the cloth. He laid it on the desk and tied the covering snug with firm hands.

“His rifle,” he said, nodding toward it. “Lost it, he said?”

“Snow buried it. Or carried it off. Either way, it’s gone.”

“Well, he’ll be glad to have this one. Tell him to sit tight. I’ll keep things running over here until he’s back on his feet.” Sam tapped the letter with two fingers, then watched as she reached for the rifle.

He lifted a hand. “Wait a moment, please.”

She paused, puzzled, as he turned and disappeared into another room, this one closer than the back storage, maybe the Sheriff’s quarters. There was a muffled sound of rummaging, drawers opening, and something heavy shifting. Then he returned with a small leather satchel in his hand. He set it down on the desk with a soft clink: the unmistakable chime of coin against coin.

Her brows drew together. “There are no shops on the road for him to-”

“No, ma’am,” Sam said gently, already anticipating her. “This’s not for him. He asked me to give this to you. For the inconvenience.”

She shook her head, taking a step back. “I can’t accept that.”

“He figured you’d say that,” he cut in, folding his arms over his chest. “And insisted. Said to tell you he’s not the sort to eat a woman out of house and home without paying properly.”

She stood still.

Sam gestured to the satchel. “I’ve seen that man come back from a week on the trail, and let me tell you, when he starts eating again, it’s like a plague of locusts. He’ll feel guilty as soon as he can stand upright for long. Just take it, ma’am.”

She hesitated for a moment longer, then sighed and stepped forward, picking up the pouch. It was heavier than she expected. She tied it to the inside of her satchel with care.

“Thank you, deputy.”

He gave her a nod and an earnest smile. “You let me know if he gets outta line. I’ll come drag him back myself.”

----

She eased the door open with her shoulder, careful not to let the parcel slip from beneath her arm. The cabin was quiet, steeped in the scent of faint wood smoke. The fire had burned low, and the ash grayed the edges of the hearth. She shut the door with a soft press, set the wrapped rifle, satchel, and products down on the table, and poured water into the kettle, placing it over the coals.

Then, she walked quietly down the hall.

He was awake, barely. His eyes tracked her slowly as she entered the room. though his face stayed slack with exhaustion. The tension in his shoulders and weird posture gave away that he’d tried to push himself up and lost the will halfway. His breathing was shallow through his nose.

“I’m back. You alright?” Her voice was soft, instinctively hushed, already drawing closer to his bedside.

He blinked once, then nodded. “Didn’t set the place on fire, so… yeah.”

She gave a soft, breathy snort and pressed the back of her fingers to his forehead. His skin was cool to the touch. No fever.

“I brought your rifle. And some fresh things from the grocer,” she said, shedding her shawl and draping it over the chair. “Deputy Wilson gave me coin. From you. I told him I didn’t need it, but he said you’d pitch a fit if I came back empty-handed.”

His gaze drifted to the little satchel she’d carried in. “Didn’t want you footing the cost. Feeding me. Patching me up. It’s already too much.”

“Well,” she said, undoing the hat lace, “I used some of it to buy food. He said you eat like a bear after hibernation.” She glanced at him and gave a crooked smile. “I’ll make soup in a bit.”

A flicker of a smirk crossed his face, faint as a shadow, then gone. His voice came rough, almost sheepish. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She glanced up, straightening. “You don’t have to thank me every time I do something decent, sheriff. That’ll get exhausting for both of us.”

He looked at her then, for a long moment, with heavy-lidded eyes and something unreadable flickering there behind the pain. “Force of habit, I guess.” Then, quieter: “I didn’t want to make trouble.”

She stepped to the bedside and folded the blanket down from his ribs, careful not to pull at the dressing. Her fingers brushed the edge of the gauze, checking for dampness. “You’re not trouble,” she said plainly. “You’re injured. If I didn’t want to deal with the mess, I wouldn’t’ve dragged your bleeding body through the door, would I?”

That made him exhale something between a laugh and a wince.

“I’ll get the soup started,” she said, smoothing the blanket back over him with her palm, pausing halfway up his chest. Her hand lingered a moment, just a beat, then withdrew. She hesitated near the foot of the bed, then nodded toward the old tin jar next to the nightstand. “Do you have to… you know. Use the jar?”

His gaze darted away, and he clenched his jaw, sensing his cheekbones ruddy with embarrassment. “…Yeah.”

“Alright. Can you manage it on your own like before, or do you need-?”

“I’ll manage, ma’am.”

----

From where he lay, too battered to do more than breathe and not split his wound open, he could hear the creak of floorboards as she crossed from the little guestroom -where she seemed to sleep now- to the kitchen, the brief creak of a cabinet opening, the clink of tin on enamel. Water being poured. Her voice, low, warm, humming something, a tune to pass the time.

He let his eyes fall shut. Not from sleep. From the weight of the situation. From the foreign comfort of knowing someone else was taking care of the fire, the lighting, the food.

Then the smell hit his nose, onion, garlic, maybe a touch of rosemary, something hearty and meaty.

Christ, when was the last time he’d had a meal that wasn’t lukewarm beans or the dry-ass bread some rancher shoved into his hands after a day of work? Before the hotel deal, it had been mostly tinned shit: whatever could sit on a shelf for two winters without sprouting something alive. Since coming to town and becoming sheriff, the hotel owner had insisted on bringing him food daily. He didn’t trust the old man’s idea of nourishment, meat stringy as tendon, coffee like mud, potatoes with the consistency of river clay. But he had worst.

Still… none of it held a candle to the smell in this house.

His stomach gave a weak groan of approval, then turned on him for remembering the chalky paste they used to serve at the orphanage. Gruel. Oatmeal so thin it wept down your throat and stuck to your throat like lard. He remembered trying to swallow around it, trying to keep his tongue from touching the roof of his mouth just so the bland texture wouldn’t coat everything. He made a face. That shit had been the closest thing to punishment without a whip they had. Even now, decades later, his mouth remembered the dull horror of its taste.

Now, for the first time in a long time, he felt the ghost of something he hadn't dared name, longing, maybe. Or homesickness. The cruel kind. The one you feel when you realize you’ve never really had one.

----

She came in slowly, with the enamel bowl balanced carefully on a wooden tray, and the warm, savory promise of meat, veggies, and a thick slice of bread, with a golden and imperfect crust perched beside it. She crossed the room, and sat beside the bed with her knees nearly touching the mattress.

"You can manage or-"

"Yes, ma'am."

She gave a short nod, setting the tray aside on the nightstand and sliding an arm behind his shoulders and chest to help him sit. Her palms were warm, and his skin twitched where her fingers brushed it, his ribs, and the slope of his shoulder. It shouldn’t matter, not after she'd cleaned and seen all his body, and bandaged him. But for some reason, this felt different.

Maybe because he was watching her now. Maybe it was because he wore that ragged charm like a second skin, paired with unpolished courtesy.

“Here we go,” she murmured, settling the tray over his thighs.

“Try to go slow. It’s been days since your stomach held anything more than milk. Don’t want it coming back up.”

She turned to leave, but then paused, catching on the shape of his mouth, the rough way he held the spoon, wary of every gesture, like his body didn’t quite trust itself.

And there it was again.

The memory, vivid and close. The warmth of his weight slumped against her chest. Her hand curled at the base of his skull, her fingers tangled in sweat-damp hair. The way his throat worked helplessly when she coaxed him to swallow. His lips around the rubber teat of the bottle, desperate and fevered. How close she’d held him. How instinct had guided her words, with soft, gentle encouragements, like a mother to a baby, except it hadn’t felt maternal. Not then. Not now.

She felt the heat bloom in her cheeks and turned away quickly, clearing her throat.

“I’m going to eat my share,” she announced, too casually. “I’ll come back later to pick up the plate. Won’t offer you seconds today, let’s see how your stomach reacts to this.”

He didn’t answer right away, bringing the trembling spoon to his mouth.

Paused.

Swallowed.

His eyes drifted half-closed for a second like he was relishing the taste. He looked at her then, with a ghost of a smile on his face. “Thank you.”

He waited until her footsteps faded down the hall before letting the spoon hover again over the soup. The steam curled into his face, coaxing something low and needy in his gut. The scent -fresh vegetables, meat boiled down to silk- threatened to undo him more than a bullet ever could. It was good. Not just edible, not just hot. Good.

Goddamn.

His hand trembled weakly, but he managed another mouthful. His whole body urged him to shovel it in, to tip the bowl and gulp it down like an animal, but he didn't. Couldn’t. He knew how this worked. The second he gave in to the desperation, was the second his stomach would revolt, and then she’d be back, cleaning his vomit off the sheets.

He wouldn’t put her through that.

So, he paced himself. Spoon by spoon. Each swallow was a battle against the part of him that still lived as he’d die with an empty belly. The part that remembered starvation not as a story but as a sensation tattooed behind the ribs.

He let his eyes drift shut after the third or fourth spoon. The flavor dragged bad memories of meals eaten on cold steps, hoarded crusts, and bitter coffee watered down to stretch for two days. This was also not that hotel swill they shoveled into him because it came with the badge, not the canned shit he kept in his desk at night.

His mind wandered, tracing the fight.

There’d been five. No insignias, no uniforms. Thought they’d found easy prey. Maybe they had. Still, he didn’t go down soft. The pistols had emptied first, then the blade, then his goddamn fists. They had shot his horse. He remembered that clearly. Heard the scream, the crash of its knees giving up.

And then the rest got murky.

But he must’ve finished it. Must’ve finished them, because if they were alive, they’d have sniffed their way here by now. It’d been four days, and no one came knocking. No creak on the porch. No shadow against the curtains. Just the soft noises of the ma’am in the other room, humming.

Still. He didn’t regret dragging his broken ass to the kitchen cupboard when she was away. Nearly passed out, but he'd found what he needed. The Colt was back in hand, tucked under the pillow. Cold comfort, but comfort nonetheless.

He took another spoonful. Let it sit in his mouth. Thought about the way she’d held him, how careful her hands had been, how warm her eyes were.

She wasn’t afraid of him. Not yet.

That was the worst part.

Next Chapter

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