#I don't think I could rest another night without posting this so two fics in one day for you all!!!

[griefabyss69]

Right Where It Belongs

Written for @steddiemicrofic!

[ AO3 ] [ Tip / Commissions post ]

‘HOLE’ wc: 404 | rated: E | cw: None

Steve's POV of Legend Has It + a little further 😈

Whatever the hell had possessed Steve to answer Eddie's question by gently taking his hand and making tender love to it with his mouth has decided to stick around, apparently.

The side of him that goes a little nuts at the opportunity to eat someone out didn't care that he was about to wholesale simulate oral sex on his good friend's hand – and not even for a joke, there's no inebriated guffawing here.

There's only Eddie's lips, wet and bitten and open on the type of moan he usually only ever hears from himself.

There's only his own mouth, his tongue still fucking the tight ring of Eddie's fingers, flicking the underside of them as if it’s inside of someone's pussy.

And he's getting into it – too into it – his cock giving intermittent reminders that it exists every time Eddie's eyelids flutter shut or he gasps around a swallow… or when he fucking cums right in front of him, in his jeans.

He stares at where Eddie's grinding his palm down into his crotch, only looking up to catch the tail end of his orgasm face, drinking in the hot red flush over his skin.

Shit, either his oral skills are telepathic or Eddie's got sensitive hands.

"Oh God," Eddie groans, and Steve wants to make a joke about that, ease the tension a little, but he's too slow to pull his mouth away from Eddie's knuckles.

Steve clears his throat awkwardly, and kisses Eddie's wrist, trying for an "It's okay that you came in your pants, I thought it was really hot" kind of moment while Eddie's got his eyes covered with his free hand.

"I'm so sorry," Eddie mumbles, and Steve liked the embarrassment, but can't stand the shame.

So he places Eddie's hand on the couch between them and goes for his zipper, the sound making Eddie's head perk up.

There we go.

"I'm sorry too," Steve says, meeting one unnecessary apology with another.

He pulls his cock out, hard and bare and ready, not touching it yet as Eddie watches, teeth sinking into his lip.

"This is the other part of it," he says, shifting on the couch to give his hand room so he can cup his balls. "Making someone cum with your tongue is fucking great."

"Yeah," Eddie breathes, folding down to get his mouth close to Steve’s cock, looking up at him. "It is."

[macfrog]

ghost

when i wrote jet, she was always a two-parter to me. two characters, two horses, two stories. equal and distinct. you guys loved the first part so much that i figured i'd leave it as it was, but recently i hit 2k and thought this could be a cool way to mark it. think of this as jet's sister story. walks right alongside her; same universe, same joel - but still very much a standalone. she can be read with or without her predecessor. thank you a million times over for all the love y'all show me on the daily. writing for you guys is so much fun. love you all the most. 🤎🖤 dedicated to @hellishjoel whose love for this pair inspires me daily

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

summary: your loyalty to joel - and your ability in yourself - are tested in st. louis. the reward might just be worth the risk

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) post-outbreak!joel, graphic violence, moderate threat, a horse is shot and killed (though i don't think i made this too graphic, more gutwrenching), reader and joel are separated, badass stealthy reader, near-SA (more intended than attempted), very protective & very violent joel, unprotected piv sex, like...bloodplay i guess? lil bit of consensual choking and spitting, creampie, possessive!joel, dom!joel but also softdom!joel, big fluff at the end, age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), strong language. this fic is not sponsored by nike. lol.

word count: 10.1k

main masterlist

It’s been weeks. Weeks of just the two of you, shoulders brushing together, hips moving in stride. Horses parallel to one another, heads nodding in unison. The time you’ve spent without Joel since leaving the QZ amounts to a grand total of about ten minutes. What if something goes wrong? If he doesn’t cover himself properly? If you clear the building, come back, and you’re not only a horse down, but a partner, too? You’re standing by the hole in the wall, trying to convince yourself to duck under the bare brick when Joel’s urgent voice does it for you. “Go now. Now!” And you do.

St. Louis is quiet, still, but fruitless.

It’s been two long days of wandering around and you’ve found one building safe enough to camp in. One. The rest have either been inaccessible – boarded up, broken down, or otherwise already inhabited by infected – or Joel’s deemed them too close to the middle of town, too open, not safe enough.

Not safe enough in a world overrun by a brain-rotting fungal infection? you’d asked.

He shut you up with a sharp expression which you understood simply as: Enough.

It meant that you were wasting days, though. The night you arrived, Joel quickly combed the area surrounding the barber shop you were holed up in for supplies, and found none. He woke you at the crack of dawn next morning to set off, saying he didn’t like the fact nothing was around here. Meant someone had been through before you guys and taken it all.

Meant company, is what he was saying.

So you’d ridden around for – what, maybe three hours? You and Jet, following Joel and Ghost down cracked roads, under rusted street signs. Listening to the wind circle the buildings overhead, nudging traffic lights gently until they sang in distorted, off-key creaks to you. Always keeping your eye on the Gateway Arch between buildings, using it as some kind of north star – not for any reason other than you’d never seen it before up close, but when you mentioned this to Joel, his brows furrowed and he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

Which meant that no, you wouldn’t be paying it a visit anytime soon.

It was mid-afternoon when Joel pulled on Ghost’s reins, brought her to a halt, and held his hand out to you. Jet huffed to a stop, and you swear you felt her cock her hip angrily at him.

“Turn back,” he muttered.

“What?”

“I said, turn back. Ain’t nothin’ out this way.”

“Turn back ‘n go where?”

He jerked his head back in the direction you’d come, swerved the reins sideways and then clicked to the black-coated horse to set off. She nodded obediently, like she knew what he was thinking and she figured he was right, and began the long walk back to the barbers.

You muttered an expletive and Joel coughed a Ha, hearing you loud and clear. So you turned to silently praying for a rainstorm, for a horde of infected, for anything you could sling an I told you so in and whip it at Joel.

You followed him, though, deliberately a good few paces behind, knowing he’d keep twisting around to check on you, and letting him fucking do it. Asshole.

When you finally arrived back at your spot, the red sun low behind the buildings and bleeding skyward into twilight, you slept with your back to him.

He didn’t seem to mind. He never seems to mind when you’re distant. You wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t even notice. He knows you’ll come back when you need something from him – want his words in your ear, want his body on yours, want…him.

The splintered sunlight through the boarded-up windows of the shop stirs you from your sleep. It wasn’t much of a sleep, despite Joel’s promise late last night that he’d let you lie for a little longer; knew you had a long day ahead if you were to get out of St. Louis, and he’d already drained your energy with the travelling yesterday.

You’d woven in and out of unconsciousness all night, dreaming of creaky farmhouses with clicking children inside, their skin torn and swollen and sprouting in swirls of pale white, singed with raw red and rotten green. And you dreamt of Joel’s shotgun blowing their moldy maws apart, blood and bone splattering across the floral wallpaper behind them.

You’re lying on your stomach, flat out on the floor with nothing but a worn comforter separating your fatigued body from the dusty tile. Joel’s out front feeding the horses on the street. You push yourself up, stretching your back, and a red-hot pain licks around your wrists.

“Motherf–”

You wince, falling onto your elbows, and your fingers link lightly around the red skin. The marks from Joel’s belt two nights ago still haven’t eased, haven’t cooled down so much as a degree. They’re still glowing, still burning, still painful.

Joel’s rugged face appears through a busted window. “Y’alright?”

“’m fine,” you mumble, turning over and examining the sores in the sunlight. The sting as your fingertips trace over the skin draws sharp tears to your eyes.

He feeds Jet the last handful of the hay you’d stocked up on and steps in from the golden morning to the dim light of the shop, dusting his hands on his jeans.

“You want more water on ‘em? Cold flannel?” he asks, avoiding the sight of your pained hands.

You shake your head. “Don’t think it’s helping.”

Eyebrows close, crease between them deep, he lowers himself with an achy groan and says, “We’ll find somewhere. You ready to go?”

You nod, tight lips blocking any words you think you’d probably regret later.

Joel helps you up, hands you a bag of beef jerky from his back pocket, and tells you to go get settled on Jet. He’ll pack up.

As you walk by him, he runs a hand from the crown of your head down to the nape of your neck. Gentle as air. And you almost fucking turn back. Almost catch his hand as it leaves your hair, almost wind your body into his. Almost.

Almost.

You follow at Ghost’s tail for another two hours, this time west instead of north. Joel turns to check on you more than he did yesterday; asks a couple times if you need more water, if you want any food. Even asks once if you need a break.

Each time, you reply with a flat, No. It seems to come from your throat more than your lips, more a grunt than an actual rounded word. Teeth locked tight around it, barely separating to let the sound through.

And each time, Joel turns back wordlessly. A mutual understanding; an unspoken agreement – as most of them are – to not talk any more than absolutely fucking necessary.

You spend most of the ride hunched over, your palms pushing heavily against the horn of Jet’s saddle. The sleeves of your jacket rolled up to stop them from brushing against your wrists.

The horse whinnies softly, and you reply to her as though she’s actually speaking. As though you can understand her thoughts, your forehead pressed lightly to the crest of her neck. You tell her you’re fine; tell her she’s doing a great job. You notice Joel’s jaw turn whenever you speak to her.

And then he whispers, “Hey,” and you lift your head, following the flick of his head to a tiny, lone pharmacy up ahead. You could fall off Jet’s back in equal parts shock and relief.

Joel winds Ghost along the road towards the building, stops by the curb outside it.

Its windows are smashed, broken glass decorating the sidewalk in front. There’s dried blood painting the white stone exterior, and empty shell casings dotted along the paved ground. You draw your eyes from the sight to look at Joel, and he’s already noticed them. He’s staring around the street, eyes darting from building to building, looking them all up and down.

The back wall inside the pharmacy is blocked, rubble and rafters hanging loose from a huge hole in the ceiling. Dusty insulation hangs between beams, and through the tears in the candy floss material, you can see the metal grate of the dispensing area. Joel sees it, too; notes it with a grumble and a click of his teeth.

“You stay here,” he tells you, dismounting Ghost.

“’n what if you get stuck in there?”

“Stuck in front of the collapsed ceiling? I ain’t gettin’ anywhere close to bein’ stuck. Stay put.”

You slide to the side, rubber-toed sneaker angling toward the ground to jump off of Jet. Joel swings back around and shoots you a look like fire on your skin.

“You got a death wish, or som’?”

“You just said you won’t get stuck. The hell’s gonna kill me in there?”

“Me, if you don’t listen to my damn instructions. Get back on the horse.”

“I ain’t off it,” you snap, a little louder than you intended. Sure, you want him to comfort you sometimes, but fuck, he pisses you off.

Joel stalks off without another word, head low between his shoulders. You hook your foot back into the stirrup and shake your head, averting your gaze to the other side of the street where the sight of an ill-tempered man-child won’t piss you off more.

The street is lined with stores and cafes, a bar on the corner with torn-up leather seats spilling out of the door like someone’s barricaded it. Your eye travels further down, where faded, moldy bunting ruffles in the wind, hooked around a traffic light.

There’s a red-brick building directly across from you, a truck with green tarpaulin parked out front. The doors to the building creak as they swing back and forth in the wind. The windows are still intact – surprising for this deep in the city. Other than that, the place looks pretty damn abandoned.

Ghost shakes her head, ears flicking. A heavy, shuddered breath jolts from her flared nostrils in the form of two white clouds, lit golden in the sunlight. She moves from foot to foot. You pat Jet gently, distracting yourself with the feel of her long, ginger mane.

You hum quietly, filling an eerie silence. Something to the beat of your heart, quickening with each second. Trying to calm the horses, calm yourself. Joel’s still wandering around inside.

You read an article once before the outbreak that said horses can smell fear on humans. It was for a school project. Said it affected their nervous system, like, made their heartrate pick up, though they never concluded whether it made the horses more afraid themselves or not.

Feeling Jet’s body weight shift from side to side as you swerve around atop her, analyzing every movement, every sound, every change in direction of the wind on this street, you figure you know the answer now.

Yeah. She feels edgy.

The wind picks up, carrying leaves across the broken road, fluttering by burnt-out cars. There’s a scuff from the store and your head shoots back to find Joel emerging from the shadows.

“Nothin’,” he mumbles, giving the street a sideways look as he walks back over to Ghost.

“Nothing I need, or nothing at all?”

He lifts his hands to take hold of her. “Nothin’ at all. Place is ransacked. Whole damn city’s –”

It all happens in the blink of an eye. One minute you’re looking at Joel, watching his lips form the words, his fingertips coming to land on the leather strap of Ghost’s bridle, and barely a heartbeat later, there’s a deafening crack from across the street.

Ghost’s body falls to the earth like she’s nothing but an inanimate sack. Her front legs buckle first, her chest crashes down towards the smooth stone, and then she’s rolling onto her left side. She’s dead before she hits the ground.

Dust and dirt are thrown skyward as she slams down, head falling heavy and still on the sidewalk.

“Ghost!” you shriek, and then you feel Joel’s hands on the sleeve of your jacket – rough. Painfully squeezing, canvas burning against your wrists.

He’s gripping the material, hauling you down to him, only you won’t let go of Jet’s reins. You’re being tossed to-and-fro atop the now-panicking horse. Ghost is bleeding from her head; thick, dark blood spilling out like tar and dripping down the curb.

You scream at Joel, fighting his grip off, eyes never leaving the black horse. But then another shot fires, ricocheting off of the ground by the pharmacy window, missing his head by less than a foot, and you fall limp.

You let him drag you off of Jet’s back and hurl you inside the pharmacy, shoving you out of view and into the dingy shadows. When you turn, you realize she’s still out there, a chestnut-colored blur as she rears and spins, fleeing from the noise. You scream her name but Joel whips around and plants his palm flat against your mouth, smothering your cry into a muffled whimper against the curve of his calloused skin.

“Shut up,” he whispers, free hand reaching into his holster for his own gun.

You drag his hand from your face, dropping it. “Jet’s still out –”

“They ain’t aimin’ for Jet,” he replies, switching the handgun into his right. “They’re aimin’ for us, and they’re gonna be down here soon. I need you to listen to me.”

“But Ghost –”

“Baby,” he says, laced with frustration and desperation and panic. Your sentence falls flat on your tongue. “Listen – to – me. Now.”

You nod, tears forming in your eyes. The horse is still lying out front; you can see her past Joel’s shoulder. You think back to your agreement: Do as you say. He’s shaking you by the shoulders, forcing you to look him in the eye, repeating those words to you. Listen to him. Focus on him. Stay alive. You don’t survive this if you don’t wake the fuck up right now.

And then he has his hands either side of your face, shaking you back to reality. “Hear me?”

“What? No, I didn’t hear. I didn’t fucking hear!”

He wastes no time chastising you. Just says it again. Calm, clear. Every word its own sharpened shape.

“I need you to move, need you to get out of here. They’re across the street, in that red building. There’s probably a gang of ‘em, right? So we gotta take ‘em out.”

“Take ‘em out? We gotta fuckin’ run, Joel! We don’t even know how many –”

“You,” his voice sounds like he’s about to break, “are gonna head out of there.”

He points past you, behind an upturned shelving unit, where there’s a small hole blown in the side of the pharmacy. Unnoticeable from outside, though if the perps across the street have ransacked this place, they’ll know it exists.

“You’re gonna make your way around the street, head low, quiet, ‘n get in the back of that building. You got it?”

“What the fuck are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna distract ‘em. I’ll cover you, alright? Just do it.”

Just do it. Just fucking do it. I tell you what to do, and you just do it, because it’s me. Because you trust me, because we’ve kept each other alive this long.

Just do it. Because right now, what the fuck else are you going to do?

Your head’s still spinning. Pulse throbbing in your ears. Lungs hammering against your chest wall for breath. You can barely think straight.

“What do I do once I’m in?”

He’s kneeling down, swinging his backpack off of his shoulders. “Take – them – out. You’ve done it before, you know what you’re doin’.”

“Real noble of you, Joel,” you hiss, taking the spare gun he offers and slipping it under the back of your jeans, “sendin’ me in alone to kill who the hell knows how many fuckin’ guys.”

You pull the switchblade he picked up from that farm in Nebraska and flick it once, letting it glint fiercely in the light from out front, then close it and place it back in your pocket, ready to hand if – and when – you need it.

Joel’s loading his rifle, unable to meet your eye. He sniffs. “Do it quiet, you hear me? Sneak up on ‘em.”

You shake your head in disbelief, feet starting to carry you over to the side of the room. Powered by adrenaline only, letting go of any emotion that might keep you inside this stupid pharmacy. Forgetting anything in you that might convince you to stay glued to Joel’s side.

Yeah, you can fucking do it. You’re not a kid. You’ve been doing this long enough.

This was life before the QZ. You were in a group then, a collective of survivors whose only interest was staying alive. At all costs. And you got good at it. You’ve told Joel about it before – you were the first wave. Whenever you came across another group – no matter if it was hunters, smugglers, fucking FEDRA – they’d send you in, alongside Mila. The two of you lightest on your feet, best with a knife in your hands.

You started to find it fun, after a while. Thrill of the chase and all that. Creeping up behind them, dragging the blade along their throat, dropping them to their knees as they choked and gargled and bled out. The two of you could clear an entire building in ten minutes, not a single bullet fired.

Mila preferred puncturing them. She’d lift her arm and bring the knife down with the weight of her entire body, sinking it into their necks, under their jaws, sometimes through their fucking temples. You’d seen that girl do some pretty fucked-up stuff.

You’d seen yourself do some pretty fucked-up stuff. Stuff that’d have you avoiding mirrors for weeks.

And none of it scared Joel away. None of it made him think twice about setting off with you.

Certainly never made him think twice about sending you on what can only be described as a suicide mission, just to rid St. Louis of a few bandits.

Doing it isn’t the problem, though, is it? You haven’t had to do it in a while, sure. Joel takes care of you well enough that you barely have to look twice at a threat before there’s a bullet, a blade, or an arrow through it. And you’re not scared, either. Not of those guys across the street.

No. You’re scared of leaving him. Parting with him.

It’s been weeks. Weeks of just the two of you, shoulders brushing together, hips moving in stride. Horses parallel to one another, heads nodding in unison. The time you’ve spent without Joel since leaving the QZ amounts to a grand total of about ten minutes. What if something goes wrong? If he doesn’t cover himself properly? If you clear the building, come back, and you’re not only a horse down, but a partner, too?

You’re standing by the hole in the wall, trying to convince yourself to duck under the bare brick when Joel’s urgent voice does it for you.

“Go now. Now!”

And you do.

You emerge into an alleyway, concealed from the street by a rusty blue dumpster. Overgrown weeds at your feet, you stay crouched and still until you’re sure there are no eyes on you from the windows overhead.

I mean, you’d be dead by now if there were. So that’s hopeful.

You slink around the jagged metal, slow, silent. More gunshots sound from across the street, and you know Joel’s tossed them a bone. Maybe he’s shown himself – a flash of his jacket or scuff of his heel as he settles to fire back. Maybe they’ve already killed him. Who fucking knows?

At the end of the alleyway sits a black gate, bent and contorted into an archway which separates you from the street. Still covered by knee-high weeds, you kneel down onto your stomach and peer between the wiry green plant to get your first scope of the street ahead.

There’s a long-abandoned nail bar on the right, a few doors down from that bunting you spotted earlier. And right outside it, cast in shadow from the awning: a chestnut horse, saddle hanging lopsided on her back. Waiting, patiently, watching the shootout before her.

You breathe a sigh of relief. Stay there. Stay right there.

Joel’s on his knees outside the pharmacy, crouched behind a Jersey barrier. He lifts his head every thirty seconds, fires one heavy shot at the windows on the top floor of the red-bricked building, and then ducks for cover when they send a burst of erratic bullets back down to him, pelting against the concrete.

You watch for a minute, studying the pattern, and then slip back between the weeds like a lion hiding in the bushes. When Joel fires at the window, you push yourself up and make a swift run for it.

There’s a truck in the middle of the street. Black paint scraped, shot, and sun-burnt off. You take three good strides, kneeling once you’re at the tailgate. You peer around the rear of the truck, huge tires flat and melted into the broken tarmac. You spot your opening.

A gray fence faded by the sun, a few slats missing from the bottom half, guarding an overgrown yard, and, sitting wide open: the backdoor to the building.

Bingo.

It’s an easy enough route. Looks almost like someone’s laid it out for you this way, a perfect path. You wait for your signal – Joel’s gunfire – and sprint over to the fence, back flush against the rotting wood.

You pull the revolver from your jeans and open the chamber. Five bullets. Not bad. You snap it back and adjust your grip on it, finger ghosting the trigger. And then you hear them.

“The girl’s still inside,” a voice grunts from over the fence. Your blood runs cold.

“He’s gotta run out sometime. What the fuck’s Nico doing wasting bullets?”

“How often do strays come through? Let him have his fun.”

Strays. Like a little pet name. Like it’s sport for them. It pisses you off, your adrenaline channeling into rage, white hot across the nape of your neck, growing into determination to put your knife through every single one of them.

So, you return the gun, favoring your switchblade.

Old dog, new tricks. Yadda yadda.

You bend down, peering through the gap like a dog searching for scraps.

It’s just the two of them. One, standing by the door; looks about six feet tall by six feet wide, buzzcut atop a puffy face, tattooed arms hanging loose by his side. The other, pacing around the yard; when his worn jeans pass the opening in the fence, you scan up the tall figure and notice dirty blond hair, scraped back from a gaunt face into a greasy ponytail.

“And if anything hears him? Runners? Fuckin’…we ain’t ready for that.”

Neither of them seem to have a gun. Scrawny doesn’t, anyway, and if Buzzcut does, it’s not in his hands. Which gives you a few seconds’ advantage.

Once Scrawny turns away, you slip through and hook your arm around his neck, holding your knife to the spongey skin under the ridge of his jaw. Buzzcut steps forward, hands reach into his waistband. Fuck.

“Make a sound, I’ll cut him.”

It’s not hard for your voice to fall back to that pitch, that same old tone. Muscle memory. Hushed, so no one inside hears; serious, flat, not a hint of fear. Even though this guy can probably feel your heart hammering into his back.

There’s still shooting on the street. Buzzcut steps forward, pistol between his fingers, silver reflecting the sun into your eyes. He’s unsure if he should lift it or not. Unsure if he should do anything or not. There’s panic painted across his face the color of crimson. He’s not built for this stuff, and he knows it. His free hand comes up, palm forward. Half of a surrender.

Not good enough.

“Put the gun down.”

“Fucking bitch,” Scrawny mutters, wrestling around, long legs bent awkwardly as he leans into your smaller frame.

Fucking idiot, you think. He doesn’t know that this is the fun part. This is why you chose the knife, and not the gun. Blade over bullets. It’d be too easy to rip his brain apart with the squeeze of a trigger. Too quick. Nah, you want to hear him. Want to feel him writhe against you.

You let the blade sink into his whiskered neck. Ever so slightly. He hisses and settles.

“Put – the fucking gun – down.”

“Patrick,” your hostage spits, “just do it.”

Just do it.

Patrick glances down briefly and then nods, eyes flitting back to you. Your eyes stay locked on him, your grip tightens around the knife, but you deafen to the heaving of the chest under your elbow.

Just do it.

Where’s Joel? Is he alive? His voice is ringing in your ears.

Just do it.

There’s a pause between the bullets across the street. Have they hit him?

Just do it.

Patrick’s gun hits the ground with a blunt thud.

Just do it.

And then you feel it.

Searing pain, hot as fire in your upper thigh. A sharp scratch just below your hip, teeth cutting through denim and flesh, then a rutting feeling, twisting and digging and fucking burning as the knife is pushed further and further. You let an angry groan pass your lips and dig your own blade deep into his throat.

His skin bursts open like a bag of water. You pull on him, letting him sink to his knees flush against your chest. Before he’s even on the ground, you’re lurching forward, retrieving the pistol and swiping your knife at Patrick’s outstretched hand. He gasps, clutching his split palm, and then backs away a couple steps.

This time, he lifts both hands. That’s better, fucker.

“Don’t – don’t gotta –”

“Shut the fuck up,” you cut back, staring him down while his buddy writhes at your feet, taking his last few gulps of air. Fresh, warm blood seeps into the grass. Your thigh is on fire.

You edge closer to Patrick, and Patrick edges further away. Until his back is pressed against the wall, his knuckles scratching against the brick; his own blood streaming down his wrist.

“How many are in there?” you ask, head nodding to the doorway, barrel of the gun pressed into his cheek.

He gulps.

“How many?”

“Th-three. Please.”

“Where?”

“One in the h-hall. Two upstairs. Please,” he says again, and you drop the gun, leaving a white ring in his skin.

Mila would sink it in deep, right into his neck. The trapezius. Her favorite spot. She’d just plunge the knife in, push until he collapsed, and then leave him to bleed out. But this is a big guy. He’s gonna need more than that to floor him.

“Alright,” you concede, stepping forward. “Since you asked so nicely.”

You pull your arm down to your hip, knuckles white around the handle and take a fistful of his shirt with the other. Draw him in real close, and angle the blade to the sky, shoving it up under his chin. Nice ‘n snug.

It glides through his skin like it’s butter, and you catch the butt of the knife in your palm, pushing further up. You watch as his eyes widen, his pupils focus on yours long enough to take the memory of your face with him – and then they relax, roll back to check out the metal intrusion behind them.

Patrick gargles, chokes on blood and blade, then gasps as you haul it back out, bright red gushing down his front.

His body folds, both hands come up to cup his torn jaw, and with one kick which cracks into his knees, he’s flat on his face, breathing in dirt and grass and…the blood of his buddy.

“You’re welcome, Patrick,” you breathe, limping over him to enter the building.

Shots are firing again upstairs. It’s dark, your eyes take a few seconds to adjust, but you’re in a derelict store. Place is empty, probably looted by these assholes.

Patrick told you there was one guy in the hall, which you assume is through the door sat ajar on your left. Patrick, however, was most likely a liar. And even if he was telling the truth, you don’t know what this place looks like. You have no idea when or where you’ll come across this one guy.

The only things you have on you are your gun and your knife. So you open the revolver again, your trembling fingers fish one bullet out, and you toss it, aiming for the sliver of light between the door and its frame.

It rattles through, rolling over the solid floor.

“Patrick?” a voice calls, and footsteps begin to approach. “Tucker?”

You duck behind a battered, empty shelf.

A third guy, long brown hair tangled across his shoulders, thick beard patchy with white and gray, pushes the door open and sidles in.

“Pat–”

You’re on him before he can finish his pal’s name, same way you jumped Scrawny – now Tucker, out there. Your blade glides across his throat and he buckles, much quicker than his predecessor outside did. You settle him face down on the tile floor, nodding to him as some twisted form of a thank-you, and slip out of the room, swinging down to collect your bullet as you go.

Patrick, as it turns out, was not a liar. The bottom floor of the house is empty. You’re in a long, narrow hallway. A bloodstained runner at your feet. There are muffled voices upstairs – roaring, cursing. The sunlight streaming in through the arch-shaped window on the front door draws you nearer.

Your breathing is labored, with stress, exhaustion, and pain. Your thigh throbs under your jeans, pain shooting like lightning from the wound anytime you put weight on it. You drag yourself to the bottom of the stairs.

More shots. You swear they’ve only been coming from this building for the last five minutes. Where the fuck is Joel?

You lift your foot hesitantly, hovering over the first step. Don’t fuck this up now. You line it up, applying your weight bit by bit until you’re pushing up off the floor with a whimper, balancing on one leg, bracing for the inevitable creak of the wood.

Nothing.

You’re about to step onto the second, when the door behind you bursts open. Light screams into the hallway, shining on you like a spotlight, and three huge figures stumble in the doorway.

“Wh–? That’s the bitch on the horse!”

You throw yourself up the stairs desperately, taking them two – three at a time, but a pair of fists are in your hair, dragging you back down to the man they belong to. You cry out, swinging around, and catch him square on the nose with your elbow. He swears, retreating only momentarily, before looking you dead in the eye, blood pouring down his lips.

“Fucking – cunt,” he seethes, arms darting out to reach up for you.

His attempt is short-lived, for a number of reasons.

First: you kick his chest before he can grab you, sending him hurtling back down where he came from.

Second: one of the two Patrick said would be up here is at the top of the stairs now, taking you by the shoulders and hauling you up.

And third: Joel just opened fire downstairs.

The bullets pelt around the hallway, coming from the side you just snuck in through. He must’ve followed you across the street.

The last thing you see as you’re dragged off into another room is the three of them ducking for cover, and then you’re being flung onto a cold, dusty floor, knocking the wind out of your lungs and the revolver from your waistband. You roll over and groan, staring up at two men standing over you.

One of them – the one whose vice grip dragged you in here – is big and bulky. Like a brick wall. You realize you’ve no chance of getting by him. His fists are clenched, face reddened, black beady eyes boring into yours. Then he lurches forward, steals the gun from the floor beside you, and points it at you. The safety’s still fucking on.

The other looks younger, but still built. Toned. His shoulders swell in the green canvas jacket he’s wearing, patches on the sleeves. Short, black hair, face sculpted and smooth, chin hairless. Lips pursed as he surveys you, tosses over what to do.

“Cute little game you were playin’, down there,” he muses. “Took out half my guys.”

“Wasn’t that hard,” you pant in reply, “you’re all fucking idiots.”

You can hear Joel fighting off the rest of them, grunts and growls of pain echoing up the stairs. You don’t know which are him and which are them, and it sends fleets of panic through your chest, tightening your breath.

“Sounds like your man’s losing.”

You laugh, masking your fear with a roll of your eyes, head leaning back. “I don’t think so.”

The two men look at each other. The black-haired one nods down to you, then turns on his heel. “Do what you want to her,” he tells Brick Wall, bored, and begins walking away.

A repulsive smile pulls on the man’s lips as he glares down at you. Putrid pink cheeks swell, eyes disappear. Your heels dig against the floorboards, beginning to push yourself in a dizzy haze backwards as his huge, beefy hand reaches down for your waistband.

Something of a scream, warped by the way your body so quickly jumps away from him, escapes your throat, but it only makes him laugh. Your hand slips up inside your sleeve, fingers clutch the cold metal handle of your blade. It flicks open under the fabric, and, just as the noise draws the attention of the man now fumbling with the button of your jeans, you take one good swipe and cut through his forearm. One clean slice, separating skin and soaking the tip of your knife in his blood.

He hisses, stumbles backwards two steps, clutching his arm. You throw yourself to your feet, backing into the corner opposite.

“Nico!” Brick Wall cries out, and the canvas jacket spins to face you.

You clutch your knife, hunched, panting. The room slowly tilts, resetting every time you blink, then begins rotating again.

Nico laughs, pulling a gun of his own and aiming it straight at your face. It’s a nightmare – two on one, both of them armed. But it’s better than what was about to fucking happen.

“Fucking – bitch,” Nico snarls.

“Y’all keep saying that,” you utter, eyes never leaving the barrel of the gun, “I don’t get it. I’m goin’ easy on you here.”

“You’re gonna fuckin’ get it,” Nico spits, apparently not paying enough attention.

The building’s silent. The fighting’s stopped downstairs. And there are no loud footsteps making their way up here, which means one thing.

There’s a quieter, deadlier threat on his way up.

A brutal shot fires from the hallway, taking your breath with it, and Brick Wall’s body flops to the floor. Bullet hole in his temple. Spray of blood across the wall. Only three beating hearts left in the building.

Nico seems to gasp, whether from fright or the way he lunges toward you, wrapping a tight, choking arm around your neck and holding the gun to your temple, both of you waiting for Joel to materialize for two very different reasons.

His figure creeps around the doorway, footsteps slow and soft. His eyes flit over yours, shoulders hunched, rifle aimed ahead. Your breath lets go in one huge, shaky gasp, feeling your muscles relax.

“I’ll do it,” Nico hisses, panic strung through his voice tighter than the bow of a violin. “One wrong move and she’s dead, asshole.”

Joel shrugs. “Do it.”

Nico doesn’t move. He shakes your body, pushes the gun harder into your skin.

Joel looks you dead in the eye. “Do – it.”

Your fingers run over the handle of your knife, lowering it until you have a good enough grip to lock your fist and tilt the blade, lifting your right arm and hammering it backwards, stabbing deep into Nico’s side.

Your head leans to the right as he screams out; he falls to the left. And Joel takes his shot.

Nico’s hand bursts open, blood spraying everywhere. The revolver is thrown from his grip, rattling against the floor as your fist takes one good swing across his jaw and then you fall apart from one another – you, rocking into the steady weight of Joel’s body, and Nico, collapsing against a desk.

Joel catches you in his arms and straightens you up, shifting you to aim his gun back at the threat – though there’s not much about him that warrants such a name anymore. He’s slumped against the dark wood, dark stain seeping through his shirt, head rolled back and groaning. One hand cupping what’s left of the other, blood snaking through his fingers and down his hand like vines on a tree trunk. He looks…pathetic.

Joel fires another shot at him without fucking looking; it lands in Nico’s thigh, and he screams. Mouth full of blood and loose teeth, it’s a gargled, drowned howl of pain.

“They try somethin’?” the fierce drawl asks you, brows low, eyes dark. You know what he’s talking about. The button of your jeans is undone.

You want to say, It’s fine, I’m fine. You want to tell Joel to leave Nico to bleed out. He’s the last one, he’ll be dead inside of ten minutes. You want to go, want to climb onto Jet’s back and let her carry your weak, limp body as far from here as her legs will gallop, and then, once she’s rested, further.

But Joel won’t hear any of that, you know it. Won’t leave this little son of a bitch to slip into a half-conscious drowse, the dripping of his own blood ticking down the seconds he has left while the sound of Jet’s hooves fading into the distance lulls him to hell.

He knows you. Joel. He can read lies on your lips like they’re words scrawled into your skin, so that’s a waste of time, too.

You nod. Joel’s jaw locks. And his eyes flood black like ink.

He hands you the rifle, pulls his arms out of his backpack, and paces over to Nico. The bloody, injured figure begins to back up, push himself further away from Joel, who’s reaching down for something.

“Look, man,” Nico heaves, “you gotta see it from our point of v-view. You guys came walkin’ into our territory, you – you…”

There’s the sound of metal dragging across the bare floorboards, vibration strong enough that it rattles your entire body. You turn away, figuring you don’t need to see him pummel a man to death with a broken pipe.

You hear it, though. Every grunt from Joel, every cry from his victim. Every time the pipe bludgeons into him, the wet squelch of warm flesh and blood meeting cold, rusting metal. You wander off to the other side of the room, closing your eyes.

It’s like a pattern – like the shooting from earlier. Joel sucks in breath as he lifts the pipe above his head, groans as he hurtles it down. There’s the blunt sound, a ding almost of the metal whacking against Nico’s skull, the splatter of blood bursting. And repeat. Deep breath as the pipe winds back – groan as it uppercuts through the dusty air, crack of bone breaking when it makes contact.

Finally, he stops. Takes three deep breaths. Drops his weapon. You turn.

The limp body lies at his feet, a dent the size of Texas in the globe of his skull. Olive skin now splattered red, face unrecognizable. Blood pouring out of somewhere – everywhere in his head, circling his body in a thin, fast-moving pool.

Joel’s staring at you when your eyes lift. Sweat glistening on his forehead, lips apart. Shoulders tight. You’re standing face to face, both of your breathing heavy and labored. Exhausted. And yet…you fucking need him.

You take one step forward and suddenly Joel’s advancing, too, hands out to meet you when you collide into him. Your fingers scram for his collar, ripping his jacket from his shoulders while he messily tears apart the waist of your jeans.

His weight bears down on top of you and he pushes you to the floor, following you down. The floorboards are dirty, coated in a thick layer of dust disturbed by the scuffle you just had, and glazed by the blood of those who lost. You sit up only long enough to remove your jacket before Joel’s pinning you down, unbuckling his own jeans and taking a grip of yours.

You flinch when he tugs on the waistband, and he pauses. Looks up, watches your expression twist. Then follows your eyeline, down to your thigh, where the fresh stab wound oozes thick, dark blood.

Joel slowly peels your jeans down your legs and over the gash. When they pool loose around your knees, you bend them, angling your broken skin in the sunlight. It’s swollen, the cut, reddened and raw. Flesh dragged back and forth, torn and ripped around the edges. You can’t even feel the pain of it anymore, only a prickling heat leading up to the ridges of your broken skin.

And so, when Joel’s fingers run through the air directly above it, and he mutters something about cleanin’ you up, you grunt. Straighten your legs. Pull him by the shoulders back down to you. Reply with a rushed whisper, a Hurry the fuck up.

And he listens; he unbuckles his own jeans, sags them low on his hips, and bends your knees at his shoulders. His cock is already stiff, bead of precum at his wide tip, which he dips between your folds to collect your slick, and then fists himself slowly.

Hurryhurryhurry “– the fuck up,” you groan, watching your wet glisten off the smooth skin of his shaft.

He smirks, then pushes straight in.

Your head hits the floor, eyes rolling with it as he fills you up. His face buries between your breasts, voice muffled by the material of the fabric when he lets out an open-mouthed moan. You both adjust to the feeling – the stretch and the tightness – and then, with a couple more shallow thrusts, Joel begins really fucking you.

He drags his forehead up to yours, sweat mixing where your skin touches. Your jaw clenched; you’re hissing every time he hits that sweet spot inside of you. Holding onto him by the shoulders as he rocks his hips forward, pushing you closer and closer to your first release.

Joel lifts his hand, placing it flat on the floor above your head to steady himself. Then, he quickly glances up at it, an unusual look on his face. You crane your neck and follow his eyeline to find his hand gleaming wet with blood. Bright red. Fresh.

It’s the guy he shot. Bullet wound peering out from the other side of the desk you’re lying next to; his blood has travelled across the uneven flooring.

Joel studies his palm intently, thrusts slowing down some. His face looks…puzzled? As if he’s never had to physically encounter the result of him and his bullets. As if he doesn’t know where to put his hand, now that it’s covered in that result.

You do, though. You know exactly where you want him to put it.

You take his wrist in both hands and draw his gaze down to you. The blood drips from his almost trembling palm down your fingers.

His expression changes – softens, when he sees you looking up at him, watching him from under hooded lids. And then it darkens, when you pull his palm flat against your neck, and the red fluid stains your throat.

You can feel the warm wet between Joel’s skin and yours – the same warmth on the back of your head, creeping through your hair as it seeps further across the floorboards. You’re both covered in blood and dirt, anyway. Joel seems to consider the same, and his grip tightens.

His thumb and forefinger pinch, cutting into your windpipe. Your vision falters for a second, Joel blinks out of focus, and a tiny wave of euphoria crashes over your body. A sick grin pulls across your lips, mirrored in Joel’s.

He releases you and you gasp, oxygen surging through your throat like a burst of water in a dried-up pipe. You let go of his wrists to run your blood-soaked fingers across his face, through his hair. He’s still fucking you hard, and you need something to ground you as white-hot heat pools rapidly between your legs, and a knot begins to tighten.

“You like that?” Joel grunts, driving his hips harder.

“Mhm,” you reply, mouth falling open in a silent gasp when his tip punches into your cervix. The edges of the world start to whiten.

“You’re mine, you hear?” he says through gritted teeth. “Belong to me.”

You’re nodding, throat tossing out an, Uhuh.

“Ain’t no one gets this but me, h-uh?”

Joel’s hand is back around your neck, this time taking either side of your jaw between his fingers, keeping your eyes trained on his. Whatever the fuck makes you do it – the look in his eye, silently commanding, or maybe your own fucking desperation – you’re not sure. But you open your mouth wider, rest your tongue on your bottom lip, and plead with your eyes for him to do it.

So, he does.

His jaw slackens and a bead of spit falls from his mouth into yours. He watches as it lands on your tongue and you run it along your lips, coating yourself in him, before swallowing it.

Joel groans, lets a staggered, “F-fuck, baby,” pass his lips.

You smile in return, filthy, but needy, and beginning to crash hard as your orgasm bursts through you.

He fucks you through it, pace never faltering, still stringing wet saliva between your lips as he kisses you. You pull away when it becomes too much, burying your head in his shoulder and biting down on his shirt.

“Yeah,” he coaxes you, “that’s it. Fuck. Nice ‘n tight, baby.”

As soon as the room starts to return to your vision, the feeling back in your body, you’re rolling him over. Ignoring the burn of the wound in your thigh, you push him back down and straddle him, his cock still deep inside.

You roll your hips lazily, fingers coming down to toy with your clit as Joel stretches you even more from this angle. He groans, hands finding home tight on your hips, head rolling back. He bucks his hips and your free hand steadies yourself on his chest.

“Faster, baby,” he says, trying to move you with his hands.

“No,” you hum, “we go slow. I want to go slow.”

He grunts, pissed off. Good. Keep him that way.

You begin to slowly bounce, pads of your fingers drawing circles over your swollen clit, almost hurting with overstimulation.

“Tell me what you did downstairs,” you whisper, eyes falling shut.

“Downstairs?” Joel asks in a broken voice.

“Mhm. What did you do to ‘em?”

He catches on. “Shot one of ‘em under the jaw.”

You shake your head. “Next.”

“Ch-choked one of them out.”

“No. Not him.”

You want blood. You want Joel’s fists wrapped around someone’s vital organs. You want the sound of your screams in his ears, whether they were really there or not, driving him to commit acts so heinous he won’t look you in the eye when he confesses them.

That’s what you want: him to confess them.

“One of ‘em had a Bowie…” he breathes, knowing what you’re looking for.

You fall forward with a deep moan. “That’s it. Him.”

“…hangin’ from his belt. Shot his leg, right above his knee –”

You moan again, sighing as you sink down on his cock and that feeling creeps over you again.

“– then took the knife.”

“He on the floor?”

“He got up. He – fuck – he stood up, ‘n I put it between his shoulders.”

“Fuck, yeah?”

“Yeah. Ripped ‘im apart, baby.”

You cry out in pleasure, bouncing up and down faster and faster the more the image replays in your head. You’re leaning forward, hovering over Joel as your skin slaps against his every time his hard length fills you. Fucking him to the thought of him slaughtering anyone who posed any threat to you. Those guys didn’t make it upstairs, you’re not even sure they got a good look at you before you were hauled away. But Joel tore them limb from limb at just the possibility.

“Did he – did he scream?”

“Yeah, he fuckin’ screamed.”

Your head drops between your shoulders, hands splayed on either side of Joel’s head, and his fingers knot in your hair. He pulls your forehead against his again, whispering into your mouth.

“Begged me not to do it,” he hums, and you’re thrown over the edge for the second time.

Your hips stop moving to allow space for your high; a second blinding, screaming orgasm ripples through you. You’re gasping now, fingers clutching for Joel, but he’s already moving again.

He slips out from underneath you and lets you down gently on your front, taking your hips and pulling them up to him as he positions himself behind you. And then, without a second’s hesitation, he’s back inside you, chasing his own high. Your back arches as he fucks you, chest flat against the floor.

There’s blood fucking everywhere. On your clothes, in your hair, on the floor beneath you, streaming down your thigh. The entire room smells of it – that suffocating, sickly sweet bite of iron. The bitterness so thick that it coats your lungs with every desperate pant of breath.

And finally, fucking – finally­, all the adrenaline and momentum is brought to a climax when Joel releases deep inside you, and you feel yourself contract around him as a third orgasm pulses through you. Your cunt swollen, aching, you almost don’t feel it, but for the way your legs give as soon as he stills inside you.

He’s groaning, borderline fucking whining, before he draws out of you and slumps down beside you on the floor. You’re both staring at one another, almost afraid to touch each other – as if you’re made of glass. Fragile. Breakable.

Yeah. You’re his. And he fucks you like you’re his, like your only purpose is to relieve his stress, tire out his anger, but then…then he looks at you like this, the sunlight twinkling in his warm eyes, dust falling over him like snow. Then he shifts the hair from your face so he can take a proper look at you, study every detail on your face – the cracks in your lips, the curve of your nose. And you know you’re so much more than that to him.

Always have been. Always will be.

You lean over and run your fingers across his cheek, dried blood the color of wine all over your hands. Joel lies still, places a soft kiss to the pad of your thumb when it touches his lips. Your nails sift through his beard. His eyes close over, laying in the comfortable stillness as you trace his face, delicately drawing from his dark brows down to the patches of skin between the graying hair on his jawline.

He doesn’t move when you push yourself up and roll over onto his chest. Doesn’t flinch when you press your mouth to his neck, running from the bottom of his ear up to the tip of his chin.

And when you bring your lips up to meet his, he kisses you back.

His hand sneaks through your hair to the crown of your head and he sits up, rolling you onto your back and caging you underneath him, teeth grazing along your bottom lip, asking it to part. His tongue slips inside, wet and warm and comforting against yours. Your fingers lace at the back of his head, your own cradled in his hands on the hardwood.

It’s like he’s starving. Like he’s been holding off on doing this, for whatever reason. And now that you’ve been the one to open the floodgates – fucking, destroy them – everything comes rushing to the surface. Every time he wanted to, and didn’t. Every time he was buried inside you, and purposefully held his jaw apart from yours. Every minute he’s spent since he met you, without his lips on yours. It all comes rocketing up.

And before it gets too heated, before he begins winding that coil again, he’s pulling away. Lips leaving yours, noses bumping together as they part. You smile, and Joel breathes a laugh for the first time in what feels like weeks.

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Hey.”

You glance down at his flannel: stained with dirt, with sweat, with blood. It brings you down a little from your sun-kissed, golden-rayed eutopia. You suck in a deep breath, and his finger hooks under your chin to lift your face to his.

“Should get that leg covered.”

You nod, and he pulls up off of you, letting you sit up. He wanders around the room, checking the backpacks of Nico and his guys, and pulls some gauze and a bottle of alcohol from a side pocket.

He kneels slowly by your side, offers you the white pad. You shake your head. He has to do it. You don’t know why, don’t know what’s stopping you from wrapping your own wound – something you’ve done hundreds of times by now. But it has to be Joel.

He tips the bottle over the dressing, dousing it in alcohol, and settles it carefully on the floor by your hip. You look at one another, a Ready? and a No, but do it anyway pass across your gaze.

The clear fluid seeps from the pad down his hands, thinning the bloodstains and dragging them in light orange streaks down to his wrist. And when your eyes are distracted, watching the stream of blood and alcohol, he presses the gauze to your thigh.

“Fuck – you,” you stammer, eyes screwing tight enough that you see stars.

“I know,” Joel breathes, and pushes the gauze down harder. Firmer. It shoots heat up your leg, flashes the image of that plank of wood named Tucker who stabbed you across your mind. Your teeth grit, the tendons in your neck leap.

Still holding the pad to your skin, Joel winds a dressing around your thigh. He knots it, gives it a little tug, and then sits back on his heels.

“Okay?”

You tilt your head, lift your eyebrows in form of a Yeah. A half-truth – it feels better to have it covered, but fuck is it stinging. You lift a roll of spare bandage and wrap your wrists.

Joel nods, and then passes you your jeans.

“We should go,” he tells you. Then, softer, kinder, “Gotta go back to the pharmacy. Still supplies in the…”

You push yourself to your feet, unable to listen to the end of his sentence. Ghost was carrying most of your food. The map is still in her saddlebag. Ammo, too. The thought of seeing her again turns your stomach, and Joel seems to figure.

“Why don’t you head out back, go get Jet? I’ll grab everything.”

You stare down at him. Your head shakes before words filter through it. You don’t want to be apart from him again. Not today, at least.

He seems to figure that, too. He nods once, then stands with a low grunt. He fixes his jeans, shrugs his jacket back over his shoulders, and his hand finds the nape of your neck again. He pulls you nearer him, your lips brush against the shoulder of his jacket, and then you split, grabbing your supplies and searching the room for any that these assholes might’ve left to you.

When your pockets are full, you limp at Joel’s heels down the stairs and outside, glancing down the street. The silhouette of a horse slowly meanders back over to you, head bobbing, hooves clicking across the asphalt. Show’s over.

Joel stops and waits for her to approach, lets you bury your face into her strong body when she reaches you.

You squeeze your eyes shut against her muzzle, your forehead between her glossy eyes, and hope the message finds a way through flesh and bone – strong enough and sincere enough to push its way through your skull to hers. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Joel’s hand leaves your back and he walks slowly over to the pharmacy.

Your hands run over Jet’s soft mane, combing her gently, reassuring her as if she’s the one covered in blood, bruised and pained. You hook a finger around her bridle and follow Joel.

As you slowly approach, he’s emerging from the shadows of the pharmacy, a backpack in each hand. He reaches the same curb you were stood on less than an hour ago, and looks up to check on you. Your stomach lurches, glancing down to his boots.

There she is. Black coat shining, chest not moving. Legs splayed out on the road. Pool of blood around her velvety soft ears. She seemed so lean, so fit and graceful when she was on all fours. Now, lying in a heap in the shade of some barren street, she looks huge and clumsy. It makes your eyes swell with tears.

You shift with Jet, turning her to avert her gaze. It’s stupid; she’s a horse. How would she know what’s going on? But then, the way she’s breathing – soft, quiet. It’s like – it’s like she fucking knows.

Joel does it gently – kneels beside Ghost, searches in each pocket for your belongings. He knows your eyes are on him. He pulls a box of bullets and the folded-up map from the bag, slips them into his jacket pocket. Collects the tins of soup and canned fruit in one hand, standing to roll them into Jet’s bag.

He turns to you. “You got your switchblade?”

You nod, and he holds his hand out. You drop the heavy knife into his palm, and he bends back down to Ghost’s side.

He uses your blade to cut the bridle by the corner of her mouth, slicing through the leather running from the bit up to the headpiece. Then pulls it apart, a single strap with a tiny buckle still attached, a silver hoop at one end.

He reaches for your backpack, drags it across the rough ground, and knots one of the canvas ties through the silver hoop of Ghost’s bridle. Triple knots it, to make sure it won’t budge. And then he leans back, surveys his handiwork, and turns to gain your approval.

You can’t do much more than nod, tears dappling down your raw cheeks.

When he’s sure he’s got everything, Joel passes you your backpack, slings his on, and then kneels by her side one last time. He places a gentle palm on her head, runs his hand down her muzzle. Sniffs.

A thank-you, you think. A Farewell, brave girl.

He stands again, turns back to you. Waits for you to decide it’s time to move on.

“I can’t do it…” you whisper, and Joel nods, taking a step closer. “I don’t want to leave her.”

And then you’re sobbing, and he’s taking hold of your shoulders and pulling you into his arms, and your cries are muffled by the soft fabric of his shirt. You wrap yourself close around him, bury deeper into his chest, and Joel tightens his grip. The steady beat of his heart pulls you back down, grounds you. You match your breathing with his and pull away.

You approach Ghost shakily, then crouch, fix her mane out of her eyes, scratch her silky ears one last time, and let her go.

Joel’s face is tight when you turn back. Eyebrows low. You bite the inside of your cheek as you pass him, and then hoist yourself up onto the brown horse’s back.

He pulls himself up in front and leans back into you, head cocked to wait for your signal. You snake your arms around his waist and feel a delicate hand rest on top of yours, interlaced on his belt buckle. His thumb traces your knuckles, and when you lean your ear between his shoulder blades, he clicks to Jet.

The horse swerves off, beginning your long journey out of the city.

----------

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[ihavethedreamies]

Cherry | Juicy Fruit | Haechan

Lee Donghyuck (Haechan - NCT Dream)

Rating: M (18+) MDNI

Word Count: ~2.2k

Pairing: Haechan x AFAB!Reader

Genre: Reader-Insert, Smut, Established Relationship, Porn without Plot

!!This is smut…if that much isn't clear you should probably leave now!! MDNI!

Warnings: She/Her Pronouns used, Swearing, Kissing, Oral (F! Receiving), Couch Sex, Unprotected Sex (Don’t!!)

Summary: It all started with a cherry stem…

Author's Note: This series was supposed to be of drabbles, but as you can see by the word count, that didn't happen.

This is only vaguely based off of Smoothie…I say this because I got the idea for a fruit theme, but past that its unrelated.

-> Series Hub <-

🍉 Mark 🍉

🍇 Renjun 🍇

🍌 Jeno 🍌

🍑 Jaemin 🍑

🍓 Chenle 🍓

🍍 Jisung 🍍

I am cross-posting this on Archive and Wattpad. Please reblog! If you know anyone that would like this or future fics but they aren't on here my name and icon are exactly the same on the other sites. Happy reading!

"Do cherries come from the same trees as the flowers?" Your boyfriend was holding one of the red fruits by the stem. It spun back and forth in the air with prompting from his finger tips, another one being chewed in his mouth. You could hear the pit clacking against his teeth as he sucked it clean.

"I don't think so…" You wondered what prompted the question, only briefly glancing up from your phone at him. You were sitting at your kitchen table to eat. You had been looking over the different delivery menus, spread across the surface and you were scrolling through your phone to see who was open. Not only was it past normal meal hours, which was normally not too much of an issue, it was some kind of political holiday that only old people cared about. The only problem was that most of the people that would make the food you wanted were said old people. It was also more of something for families, not young couples who did a lot of the baby-making practice but with not desired end product.

"Okay, this place is only open for fifteen more minutes so they're out." You took the noodle menu off the table, placing it on the discard stack.

"Anything else look good or do we need to go to the convenience store?" You asked and when he didn't reply, you slammed your hand down to get his attention. He startled and his wide eyes were really very cute, but you would never admit it out loud, even in private with just him. While you loved him to pieces, you were very reluctant to voice it. After trying to say he was annoying for so many years, you were loath to admit you didn't hate him. You never did, you were just in denial about how much you liked him despite your harsh words. He saw through it.

"Donghyuck!" You scolded and he blinked.

"What?" He emphasized the vowel, and you rolled your eyes. His shocked face softened to a smug grin as he watched you watch him put the next cherry in his mouth, the other pit still in his cheek. His tongue wrapped around the red orb as he took it between his lips, and you shook your head to pull your attention away. He huffed in amusement, you were such a tsundere.

"What are we having for supper? I only got snacks and stuff…" You poked the container holding the cherries. You had planned on eating out or getting delivery, but the stupid holiday interfered with your regular Saturday night plans.

"We could have each other." Donghyuck smirked, chewing the last bits of fruit off the pit before rolling the two around his open mouth playfully. He knew your eyes were not just on his face, but specifically his tongue. You swallowed hard and your eyebrows furrowed, mouth open to scold him again. He let the pits fall out of his mouth and onto the paper plate where the rest of them laid and his smug look turned bored.

"Idiot." You clicked your tongue, face pink, "I need actual food."

"Hm, you might, but I could just eat you?" He winked and your let out a disgusted grunt, getting up from the table and moving to leave the apartment and head down the street.

"(Y/N), wait!" He cooed at you, skipping to follow you. When you started to wiggle your foot to slip it into your sneaker, he kneeled down to tie his. You struggled to get the shoe on without untying it, so he leaned forward to help you get them on. The sweet gesture made your cheeks warm further, but you didn't say anything, so he helped you get the other on. He stood back up with a hop, still taller than you even though he was standing on the lowered part of the floor by the door.

"Ready, milady~?" He held his arm out for you to link with, but you just mumbled something and walked past him and out. Your boyfriend sighed dramatically but followed after you still. You always made up for your dismissive behavior after he railed you into the next morning, turning affectionate and playful. He continued to try and seduce you through the not subtle act of aegyo, and you kept shoving him away, especially as you walked down the road. Donghyuck held the door open for you as you entered the convenience store. The inside was just as dead as the streets, and it felt nearly surreal. You each shopped around a bit, and he got nearly twice as much food as you, and for some reason he felt the need to buy everything he could find that was cherry flavored.

"You know none of this stuff tastes like actual cherries, right?" you asked, watching him place the different candies and sweets down. The only thing you would actually consume was the cherry flavored cola he got as well.

"I know. That's what the actual cherries are for." He pointed out like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Not wanting to admit it even in your own head, the blank look he gave you was just as cute as everything else he did. It pissed you off a bit that he was so endearing. The tired cashier told you your price and your boyfriend had his card in the reader before you could even pull yours out. He took all of the bags as well and you opened the door for him that time.

"Did you need to buy all of that?" You grumbled, eyeing the five bags he was carrying.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Curiosity." He answered after donning a pondering look.

"Okay." You rolled your eyes, not caring enough to delve further into that line of questioning.

"Did you get everything cherry flavored?"

"Not everything…"

"What did you leave behind, cough syrup?"

"The condoms." He stated simply and you halted for a beat, then jogged to catch up.

"Why not?" You finally relented to ask. He tossed you a coy look, "they didn't have the right size." You halted a step but conceded his point and jogged to catch back up. When you finally got back to the apartment, he put the bags on the coffee table, and you grabbed your meal to heat it up in the microwave. As you plugged in the numbers, Hyuck came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your middle.

"What?" you asked flatly, and he whined pathetically, resting his cheek on the side of your head.

"Can't I hug my girlfriend?" You didn't reply to his question, so he took that as the go ahead to continue. As he smelled your food as it got done, he realized how famished he was and hurried to make his own. Some random variety show played on the TV while you both ate, he devoured twice as much food as you did in nearly half the time. Once you were both done and everything was cleaned up, he laid out all the cherry candies and snacks, as well as some real ones.

"We shall judge them for quality." He motioned broadly and you sat next to him at the coffee table. Hyuck was a bit surprised at how close you willingly sat, pressed to his side. You were warming up. You started to sort through them, pushing the ones you refused to try to the side.

"You need to have the full picture to make an informed decision." He told you with false condescension. He sniffed and picked up the first packet to rip it open. The fake cherry scent hit your nose and you sneered, reaching over the table to grab a real one. As you chewed, he started in on the candy and his face twisted, putting the bag down and grabbing a fruit himself. You pulled the pit from your mouth and set it on your napkin from supper and he did the same.

"Can you tie a knot with your tongue?" He held up one of the stems and you hummed.

"I don't know, I haven't tried." You took it from him, and he plucked another one off a cherry for himself.

"Let's see who can do it faster." He decided and you nodded in agreement and you both watched the other as you took the stems into your mouths. You focused hard, trying to maneuver the little piece with your tongue into the right configuration, but it was no use. When you almost choked on it, you pulled it out, nose crinkled.

"Nope." You turned to look at him and he stuck his tongue out at you, the tied stem resting on the surface

"How the heck!?" You grabbed the little stem from where it laid, looking it over.

"Want me to show you?" His tone had deepened, but you were too confused to register it.

"Yeah!" You turned to watch, not expecting his mouth to connect to yours. Your shocked inhalation allowed his tongue entry and you wanted to fight, but you also really didn't. Hyuck smirked into the kiss as you let out a tiny mewl, expertly twisting his tongue around yours. You moaned when he led you to straddle his lap, pushing the coffee table away with his foot. When you settled, his hands on your hips pushed you down, grinding your covered cunt over his hard cock. You whined, trying to pull back, but he held you still, sucking on your tongue so you couldn't easily pull back. He had a hard time not laughing when your entire body shuddered. Finally, he let you go, you leaned back, panting hard.

"Fucking hell-" Your fingers were clenching the fabric of his sweatshirt.

"I can do more than that~" He hummed playfully, and you blinked, "huh?" Your noise of question was followed by a yelp as he lifted you, setting you on the couch behind him, turning to he faced you. Another tug brought your butt to the edge of the cushion, and he took advantage of your surprise to yank your shorts and panties off without hinderance.

"H-Hyuck~!" You whimpered when he instantly brought his skillful tongue to your cunt, wriggling it inside, nose hitting your clit. You sighed shakily, legs twitching when he hummed, the vibration ringing through him to you.

"Wait-" You tried to get him to stop, extremely embarrassed at your position and feeling weird about how fast he was bringing you to climax. You shuddered again as his tongue left your core, stroking up through your folds to flick your clit. Your eyes were closed, so you didn't see his stupid grin right before he sucked on your clit hard. Hyuck's hands flew to your hips to hold them down as you came, helping you ride it out.

"Too bad I can't pop your cherry…" He mumbled, a little embarrassed at his stupid pun. You huffed in disbelief, having heard him perfectly fine even though he kind of hid it.

"Doesn't fucking matter, get inside me-" he had never heard you so impatient, but he was more than willing to abide. He removed your top as you helped him get rid of his own clothes, and your back barely hit the couch cushions before he was pressing into you. Even if you hadn't just came on his tongue, you were soaking wet, your gummy walls clenching desperately to his cock.

"Aw~ sweet girl~" He huffed in delight as your cunt quivered, getting used to the stretch and before you were fully acclimated, he started to move.

"Wait, Hyuck!" Your hands grabbed his shoulders. When he leaned over you move, he took your hands from him, holding them above your head with one of his. His lips hovered over yours, hips rolling slowly but hard, fat cock battering your back wall. You practically cried when he kissed you again, tongue reentering your mouth to capture yours. You were helpless under him, sanity quickly leaving between his cock in your cunt and his tongue down your throat. When air was getting a bit low, he finally removed his mouth from yours, moving it to your jaw and down the column of your throat. You whimpered with each thrust, getting steadily faster and harder as he sucked your skin. His goal was to make the hickeys are red as the cherries you both had been eating earlier.

"Hyuck, I~" You couldn't get the rest of your sentence out. His hand had let go of your wrists, both of them going to your waist so he could shift positions. He sat back up move, hiking your hips up to arch your back and after an extremely practiced and hard thrust, he chuckled as you came again. He groaned at the tight flutter of your walls and couldn't help but fall over the edge himself. You whimpered when he finally let your legs and hips relax, not pulling out of you yet. With a tired gaze, you watched him reach and grab a bottle you hadn't noticed before from the coffee table, barely within reach. He popped the cap on the red container, an equally red substance spilling out and dripping over your skin. You shivered at the cold, and he licked his lips.

"Hmm… cherry flavored (Y/N)~"

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[moonydustx]

So I have this thing...

I need more Law x Reader fics pleeeaassee (；ＴДＴ)

Anyway...

May I ask a reader (up to you what gender) reacting to law proposing to her? Which I doubt canon law would even do but I guess since it's fanfiction, who cares if it's Canon, right???

OMG, this is incredible, hold my hand and I'm with you on this, thank you so much for the request. In my HCs on the Law (I will still post them) I think if it was important for him to do it without even blinking. Surely it would be something more discreet, a small ceremony between just two? I don't know, I might be rambling too much.

Apologies because I didn't have much time to review and maybe I got carried away writing it. I hope you enjoy!

Important: italics are for flashbacks and character readings aloud.

The proposal - favorite moment (part 01)

Part 02 - Part 03

Law counted the minutes until night arrived, it was one of his favorite moments. That was when you would sneak around the submarine and end up knocking on the door on it. In most of these situations, you didn't get out anytime soon. He's not much of a follower on the calendar, celebrating each month together - and come to think of it, everything happened so naturally that it was decided on which day it started to be difficult for you to be a boyfriend.

Like so many other nights, you found yourself doing what was one of the only things Law could name as a hobby. You were nestled between his legs, your body resting on his chest as you attentively read another book. He found himself leaning against the wall, one of his hands resting on his body while with the other he tried to leaf through one of the new editions of Sora comics that he had picked up on the last island he visited.

He had already lost count of how many times the two of you had wasted hours tangled up in his bed reading and something else he was used to hearing you sniffle at something, like you were doing this time. His eyes looked away from the painting and went straight to where you were reading, just out of curiosity. The other times you were sniffling, he had found you reading about some character who died, some reunion, some couple who got together. This time, from what he could see, it was a marriage proposal.

He already knew it was an important topic for you. He also knew that if he had to choose to spend his entire life with someone, it would be you. Law had thought about the hypothesis a few times and when reading the small excerpt from the book, he let himself think about the idea.

"Wow." your feet were planted in front of an immense showcase. Dresses were stacked side by side in various sizes and textures, some with huge trains and others full of silk.

"Don't tell me you're one of those marriage freaks." Ikkaku planted himself next to you, next to Bepo.

"They are beautiful." the bear confirmed, touching the glass.

"Not freak…" you tried to find the words, you really didn't want to sound like a crazy person. "I mean, marriages are two people coming out in love to the world, to the government, to whatever god they may believe in or to no god at all, as if nothing could intervene or separate them."

"Okay, insane then." Shachi appeared behind you, mumbling.

"Actually, that's a nice way of thinking." Ikkaku replied to him, watching you just shrug. "And I won't deny it, they are beautiful dresses."

"Time to go." The captain's voice echoed closer than you imagined, as if he had been there the whole time listening.

Seeing the crew members move forward, agreeing to the captain's request, Law took a few seconds to evaluate the display that had distracted everyone. He could just be daydreaming, but one day you would look incredible wearing a dress like that along with the new name you would carry. Ms. Trafalgar.

From that day on, the idea of ​​proposing to you never left his mind, Law just needed to find the perfect opportunity and it appeared before his eyes.

"Okay…" your choked voice took him out of his reverie. "That's enough tears for today and I'm getting sleepy." you closed the book, turning towards him and snuggling even closer against Law's body.

"Do you mind if I keep reading some more?" he asked and you just mumbled no. His hand got tangled in your strands of hair and it didn't take long for unconsciousness to take you away.

Law gave himself a week to put the plan into practice. The small room at Polar Tang was tidier than usual however you could notice Law more tense than usual behind his back.

"Everything is fine?" you asked, quickly turning to face him. Law seemed distracted from the book in his hands.

"Everything amazing." his lips quickly touched the top of your head. It was now. All the other battles he had faced had not even come close to the anxiety he felt at that moment. "That book you were reading last week?"

"Ah, it's this one. I'm almost done. It's a period romance, princess, knight and all the little things that involves." you laughed, knowing that from your description he would hate the book. "There's no point trying to convince me to read Sora, this one is much cooler."

"So cool you were crying the last time you read it." he said in a teasing tone.

In a casually planned way, even if it went unnoticed in your eyes, he placed the comic he was reading on the bed.

"It's because he was so sweet to her, made an amazing statement."

"Really? Let me see." He moved even closer to your back, looking for space on your shoulder to follow the written words and find the perfect cue.

"Here. Can I read it?"

"Please." he asked, feeling his hands sweat cold.

"Of all the countries I've visited, I don't think I've ever found a home except in you. You've been my home, my safe haven." You started reading, already feeling yourself melting with those words. At the same time, Law took out a small box hidden behind one of the pillows. "So let me be the sword that protects you, the heart that loves you infinitely. I thought happiness would only find me in the next life until I found myself lost in you. What do you mean by that, my love? So, the The knight fell to his knees, the wounds of the battle he faced seemed not to bother him, not when Annya's eyes rested on him. Annya then heard the four words that carried a lifetime of promises…"

"Would you marry me?" Law's voice echoed alongside yours.

Before you could ask what he thought, a small black box appeared in your field of vision. Inside it, a golden ring with a small heart symbol glittered. The book fell from your hands, finding your lap, as you turned to your boyfriend.

"Law?" at that moment, your voice was not the most reliable. As shaky as she was, your vision was blurred by what you suspected were tears. Your hands covered your lips, still not believing what you were seeing.

"Maybe my sword heals you more than defends you, but that doesn't mean I'll let anyone hurt you in this world. You're my home, my safe haven and I can't wait for you to be my wife. I'd even kneel, but It's a little complicated." he smiled, seeing you still paralyzed on top of him. "So, would you marry me?"

"Yes." the first time came out as a whisper. "Yes Yes Yes!" with each new time the word left your lips, you allowed euphoria to take over your body.

Law took your hand, placing a small kiss before putting on the ring and repeating the gesture, as soon as the jewel was in the place where it belonged. His hands pulled you so your legs were around his waist.

"That's…" you even tried to speak, but it was impossible to put everything you felt at the moment into so few words. You saw him pull out a ring that was the same color as yours, without all the details. "Let me do it."

Before he could put it on his own finger, you took it from his hand and repeated the same thing he had done to you. He placed a small kiss between the tattooed fingers and let the jewelry take its rightful place.

"I don't believe." You looked at your hand and then at him. "Law, that was so amazing."

"You're incredible. I can't wait to see you become Mrs. Trafalgar. My beautiful, smart, a little crybaby…" he wiped away your tears, bringing a laugh from your lips. "My dear wife."

"I love you so much." you cupped his face, taking his lips to yours.

Even though it was full of emotions and promises, it was a calm kiss. Law, like you, wanted to record every second of that moment, every inch of skin kissed, every touch.

In the end, Law was also a marriage nut - just with his dear Lady Trafalgar.

----

Little extra:

Law was never a big fan of public displays of affection, but that morning he had made an exception. Seeing you happy, showing off your new ring and the promise of marriage, ideas of what to do on the date, honeymoon suggestions. He couldn’t deny it, it was amazing to see how happy you were with the whole situation.

His happiness was short-lived when he saw three sullen faces - one of them looking like a bear - sitting in front of him.

"So Law, my friend." Penguin began.

"Shut up, it's me."

"But I'm his best friend." Bepo grumbled.

"What do you want?" he asked, trying to understand what the three were discussing so much

"Which of the three of us will be the best man?" Shachi warned and Law watched the three in front of him cross their arms and wait for a response.

Before he could respond, Law felt two arms slide and lock around him.

"We haven't decided that yet guys. We can talk about it later." you asked and watched them begin to argue among themselves who would be what.

"Thanks." Law muttered, making you laugh. You bent down to his ear level.

"And you, I'll be waiting for you in the room. I got someone to cover my duties today, now I want to continue feeling what my dear fiancé can do for me." In contrast to the whispered and sexy voice that left your lips, you left a chaste kiss on Law's cheek and left towards the dorms.

[lassieposting]

So in the wake of my post on Astarion and cptsd, have another concept I've been thinking about lately:

Tav/Durge (or an origin character, but I'm gonna use Tav because there are so many potential ships) using magic on him - with his permission, of course, they're not a complete monster - to help him cope with the symptoms.

I feel like there's a lot of potential here? But I haven't really seen anyone using it in fics, so. Here are some ideas I've been turning over.

Spells Tav Can Use On Astarion:

Calm Emotions: magically subdue intense emotions.

So.

I have a fond headcanon that while Astarion is still in survival mode during the game - the worst symptoms of his cptsd are on lockdown and he's mostly able to keep it together well enough to be functional and clear-headed - there is an incident where Tav sees him have a panic attack.

Like. Maybe they're attempting to sneak around patrolling guards in enemy territory, or edging around hostile wildlife in the Underdark. They're alone, the party split into two pairs with different tasks, and some threat is headed their way. They don't want to raise any alarms, so Tav drags Astarion back into a narrow crevice in the rock, or a chest loaded onto a supply wagon, or something, to hide until the threat has passed by.

And. Astarion has never mentioned that he's claustrophobic. He doesn't show weakness unless he's forced to, and at this point, he hasn't told Tav about being sealed in a tomb for a whole year. So the first they know of it is when they're crushed up against him in a cramped hiding spot and they realise he's shaking. They try to calm him, but his eyes have gone unfocused and glassy and he's starting to hyperventilate, a wounded animal noise brewing in his chest.

And Tav has to make a split second decision, because he's going to get them noticed. So they try to comfort him and instinctively cast Calm Emotions - and it works. It cuts the panic attack off, and once the threat is audibly moving away from them, they're able to emerge and carry on undetected.

He's angry, on and off for a while, that Tav used magic on him without his consent, even once he understands what they did and why. But the thing is, it did work. It helped him get his fear under control. So down the line, as they get closer, and he begins to really trust Tav, he agrees to them using that one on him when he really needs it, when he's crippled with the panic of 200 years' worth of obediently withstood torture sessions, when he feels like dying is the only way to escape the fear. They're both aware though that Calm Emotions is a deferral, not a cure - it won't help him work through the panic attacks, and it won't stop him having them.

Heroism: instill the caster or an ally with courage

I like to think Tav uses this one on him a few times as the group approaches the city, when he's fretting about being back within Cazador's reach. They're not ✨sleeping together✨, but they are sleeping together - he has an open invitation to share Tav's tent at night, just to cuddle and rest a little easier with someone he trusts close by to watch over him. They know he's scared, and they know he doubts the group's ability to protect him if Cazador tries to take him back. Heroism here is essentially a stand-in for anti-anxiety medication - it stops him ruminating on what-if scenarios the group is determined not to ever let happen.

Enthrall: capture the attention of a creature, making it look at you

Another one that could be useful in a panic attack situation, though it's far too similar to Cazador's control to ever use on him spontaneously - it would need to be something suggested, discussed and agreed upon while he was clearheaded, to see if it was useful for him. Making him focus on Tav stops him focusing on whatever is causing him to nosedive. It's the, "Astarion, hey, look at me, just focus on me, breathe with me," spiel taken to a level that actually yanks him out of his fear spiral when just their voice won't do it.

Dancing Lights: creates magical orbs of light that brighten an area

Sometimes, Astarion struggles to switch off and unwind at bedtime. The "trying to get to sleep" gap can be a fucking horror show when you have a condition like cptsd - everything goes quiet in preparation for sleep, so it's the perfect time for all your intrusive thoughts and ruminations and spiralling to dogpile you, the way it struggles to do when you're compulsively keeping busy in the daytime.

A Tav who can create Dancing Lights is essentially giving him Candy Crush. A mindless, no-complex-thought-required distraction that shuts up all those bad thoughts long enough for his eyes to start closing.

Light: makes an object shed light in a small area

He's not afraid of the dark. The dark is a vampire's natural habitat, after all. But he is, in the early days, sometimes afraid of what might be in the dark - he has nightmares of Cazador lurking around the outskirts of the camp, waiting to snatch him up. Shifting shadows against tent fabric can warp and twist into horrors to a groggy, fresh-from-a-nightmare mind. He would rather die again than ever ask Tav to magic him a nightlight. But if an object bespelled to cast a soft, grounding glow inside his tent happened to be left beside his bedroll, well, finders keepers and all that. Of course he uses the damn thing, darling, if he leaves it off for one night Gale will probably eat it.

Detect Thoughts: telepathically link to unprotected minds and hear the thoughts of targeted creatures while talking to them.

I like to think this mostly happens when he's struggling to express something and getting frustrated.

Sometimes, it's a vocabulary issue. Faerûn is a medieval-esque setting - Astarion doesn't have terms like "trigger" or "dissociation" or "flashback" to express what's going on in his head. He has to cobble together not-quite-right-but-close-enough explanations out of the words he does have, and that shit is hard.

Other times, it's because he's trying to recount a memory that gets stuck in his throat or between his teeth. Because he can't bear to voice the humiliation, or the dehumanization, or the violence that goes with it. Putting it to words makes it real in a way that he can't deal with anymore. He wants Tav to know what's distressing him, but he just...can't say it. He can't.

And once upon a time, he would've just shown them through the tadpole, but that's no longer an option, so Detect Thoughts it is. Tav can either hear him, or he can visualise the memory and show it to them - or flashes of it, anyway. And it can be a quiet understanding between them - no stumbling over his words, no tears, no shaking voice.

Hold Person: hold a target humanoid in place.

Paralyzing Ray: paralyzes the target.

Otiluke's Resilient Sphere: enclose a target in a sphere of shimmering force...blocking all incoming and outgoing damage

These wouldn't really come into play until months or even years postgame, once Astarion is safe and settled and finally processing all the horrors he's been through - if he has an era where the flashbacks are so vivid, he might not recognise Tav, or might even mistake them for Cazador or Godey. The era where, sometimes, through no fault of his own, he might be a danger to himself and others, Tav included. What's a fantasy protagonist to do with him, when he's beyond reason? Pop him in the rage cage - where he can't hurt himself or anyone else - until he comes back to himself.

Spells Tav Has Tried And Failed To Use On Astarion:

Cure Wounds: heal wounds through touch

Probably the first spell they ever try on him, and one he could've sorely benefited from. The extra impetus to start associating touch with pain relief instead of pain itself would've done him a lot of good. But, according to the wiki, undead are immune to virtually all healing spells, which is a deeply angsty bummer.

Sleep: make a conscious creature fall into a deep slumber

As a high elf, he's immune to sleep magic, but he gets the elven equivalent of night terrors, and days on end of broken rest will leave anyone drained and exhausted. Tav has absolutely offered to try and put him to "proper" sleep, a deep sleep, so he won't dream. I've never actually played dnd, so I don't know how much leeway there is here for creative interpretation of immunity, there are certainly ways you could be creative with it - maybe his fey ancestry protects him from being put to sleep specifically in an attack context, or from being put to sleep unexpectedly, or by unfamiliar and potentially hostile magic. Maybe, if he knows it's happening and his innate magic recognises the magic of the caster, he's able to lean into it. Like the difference between being shot from behind with a tranquilizer gun and popping an ambien before bedtime.

Also! These could even be scrolls! It amuses me to think of Tav popping over to the pharmacist Gale's tower in Waterdeep to get Astarion's monthly anxiety prescription scrolls of Calm Emotions

[jolalibrary]

the yearly round up

so, i am not someone who tends to toot their own horn a lot, but i thought i could be forgiven since it's my birthday. if there were a party, i'd maybe give a speech, right? so, instead of talking about myself, i thought id talk about my work and some of my fave things I've written this year and a little bit as to why. for this list, i have not included late night texts purely because i gave it a lot of love on my last secret birthday. and equally, as do me yourself comes to a close during this one, i feel it's having such a hot moment in the sun, i didn't want to bore everyone. also because if you ask me anything about dmy i won't shut the fuck up. to ask anything about these just add an 🍊.

anytime javier p x f!reader

best friends who go to a wedding only to realise they're in love? sounds like jo. this story fell out of me upon seeing a moodboard by /wildemaven and god i love them. i think about them so often and it makes me want to write him like this again. just fun, easy. it helped me find my nerve to tackle him again after a break when LNT finished, so it was nice to hang with him again.

in my room javier p x f!reader

this idea lived in my head for so long, it went through so many variations until we landed on this. i loved writing it because i hadn't written him like this, and how closed off they both were was so much fun. not having a resolved ending was tough to, but it was also really nice?

i like the way you frankie m x f!reader

would it even be a list if i don't include this? it's a work that on the surface might just feel like a lot of fun. and it is, for sure. but also this fic really taught me a lot and helped create a new relationship with sex. i won't bore or dwell on sad things, but even with therapy, a solid and healthy relationship, this fic helped heal some lasting wounds with my relationship with sex. all through the eyes of two friends who were just trying not to confess they loved one another. so very jo.

up sky, low high frankie m x f!reader

im not sure why this man makes me write some incredible smut (IMO, ofc) but he does??? this one wouldn't exist without @morallyinept urging me on, because honestly i wouldn't have had the guts without her convincing me. but, god i think about this fic a lot? i write a lot of lovely romance, but the romance in this with the smut? i never EVER thought id find that balance. and i did, have, yay!

be good, be you joel miller x f!reader

never in a million years did i think this would have been so popular. and that's not why it's on this list. it's on this list because i lived with this fic for weeks. every bit of rain the UK we had, i thought of this. anyone who knows me, knows how much i love bill + frank joel, so this was like giving into an idea that i thought would only live in my head. and now, it's there, and I'm not ashamed to say i re-read it a lot.

meet you once, saw you thrice lucien flores x f!reader

who'd have thought this would make this list? not me. but it has, and god. i really tested myself with this one. creating him was days of churning over interviews of other actors, of finding who he is in the centre of fucking nothing. and then pouring my heart into it for lovely @pedgito and god am i grateful that's the moodboard i was given. i was terrified (ali will attest) but now i am so proud of it. i love it, and him. I'm almost terrified now to see the movie and watch this version die and wilt hahaha.

din and the travelling of planets din djarin x f!reader

not a one shot, but a collection, because i spent longer trying to choose than i did dwelling on choosing the rest and writing this post. i never thought id step back into star wars, but i'm so glad i did. din and his girl, seeing different planets together, letting us see the world through her eyes. there's a lot of my writing I'm proud of, but I'm most proud of the lines in this. because i get to describe in a way where i don't feel its redundant. because we're seeing it at the same time as she is. i also have so much fun each time i get to write him, and that, makes me happy.

[tojigasm]

Cat And Mouse

Authors note: another Sam fic!! I'm hoping to finish all of my requested Jake fics by this next week and have another Sam fic posted! I hope you all enjoy! <33

Warnings: 18+ nsfw, fem!reader, smut, petnames, daddy kink, swearing, reader is tied up for sexual reasons (only her hands), creampie, reader is a naughty and gets punished, public sexual stuff (just kissing and groping)

Sam, who keeps you, sat in his lap at the bar he frequents. The two of you tucked into a tight corner under amber lights, watching the room of men and women flounder amongst themselves.

You're not a regular of the small cantina, and more often than not you'd be at home working or out shopping with your friends when the opportunity arose for you to travel alongside Sam and his friends.

The short of your mini skirt rides up against the rough of Sam's jeans and your cunt is suddenly exposed to his thick thigh.

The fabric below you dampens with your heat, and Sam adjusts gently, tucking the two of you deeper into the booth.

"Daddy's not happy with you, missy." He comments, shaking his head before taking a sip of his beer. The hand that had been resting on your thigh slips around the front of your skirt to cup your heat in his palm.

You gasp before mumbling a stuffy apology.

"And I don't wanna hear it." Sam pulls his hand away from your cunt to wipe the evidence of your slick onto his jeans.

There's a teasing game of cat and mouse that rustled the two of you throughout the night as the bar floods and waiters and waitresses make their rounds to other booths.

Who could get a reaction out of the other without it being too obvious? Who could get fingered like the naughty girl they are? Who could get threatened with punishment ti'll they're flustered and stumbling over their words?

It seemed that no matter what, you would always be mouse.

Sams lips are to yours, your thigh linked over his own. One of his hands cups at your jaw, keeping you still as his other gently scissors your pussy open.

"You're in fr'a world of hurt when you get home, little girl."

There's absolutely no faux heat in his words as he threatens your punishment, laying out the details of how he plans to punish you once the two of you get home.

"I know." You speak softly, pulling at his bottom lip.

Mistake.

He pulls away, a hand solid to the soft of your neck. He gently holds you there, reminding you of the status between you two in a flashing moment.

"Don't be a smart ass," his fingers curl against your soft walls, and you moan softly.

And just as quickly as his digits were past your velvet folds, massaging your sensitive walls, they were gone, and he was wiping them off on the sides of his jeans.

"Finish your dinner." He points to your plate.

You don't argue.

—

"You're naughty. You're a naughty girl." Sam holds your chin between his fingers, knee pushed against your heat.

"I am." You peer, "i thought you liked your girls naughty." You crawl further over him, mini skirt stroking your soft thighs,

He doesn't say anything. Yet the tender and fond look that softens his features stays and its not as though he's watching you, but rather, the expression itself and its own through his cool blues.

Like it's judging your immodest tongue.

"Do you wish I was behaved? Do you wish I was a good girl?"

"Sometimes." He nods softly, thumbing his hand over your chin, holding you still. There's no spite in his tone.

You smile at the heating tease that strokes over his voice.

Sam shakes his head, holding you under his eyes. "Sometimes I think you need to get punished. Punished bad, tied up and teased ti'll your beggin' fr'me to even get near me." He turns your head from side to side gently, "Think you need to be broke."

"That's not very kind." You fall back to your hip, tilting your chin over your shoulder to meet his eyes.

"Life's not kind." Is all he adds before he's dragging you by your ankle to lie flat against the duvet.

It all happens so quickly that you don't feel the gentle curl of his tie around either one of your wrists while his hands dress you with themselves, painting gentle poetry over your soft skin.

Only noticing your aliment when he pulls back to rest on his haunches. His tongue rolls over his swollen lips in a sickly smirk.

"Sam–"

He tsks.

"Daddy..." you try, correcting yourself. "Daddy, can you please untie me?" Your knees knock together.

Sam ignores your pits of cry and stuffs a pillow beneath your head before wrapping his hands around your calf, massaging and needing your soft skin.

"Please," you try again, "Please, I'll be good."

He scoffs.

"Wanna touch you," you mumble.

Sams brows raise in amusement, stilfing a chuckle. His hand links around your throat and holds you – as if your escape was threatened, as if the idea had occurred to you to at least try.

He straddles your hips and leans down to lick a stripe up the colloum of your neck and onto your jaw.

You gasp beneath him, shivering some when his free hand slinks between the two of you to lightly tap your cunt.

"Who's is this?" He speaks against your lips

"'S yours, daddy." Voice low.

Sam nods and sticks a finger past your folds, the flat of his palm presses into your swollen clit.

"Tell me you want me," Sam kisses the dimple of your cheek, pulling his hand away from your clit to unbuckle his belt and pants.

You watch him, eyes falling from his own to his hand, working quickly to stroke over his thick length.

"Don't make daddy tell you again." He corrects you.

"I want you." You whisper, breath catching when his cock rests up against your folds, slipping up to run along your clit and down to tease your entrance.

"I want you so bad, Daddy, please!" You sob, voice broken and eyes watery.

There's little warning in the way the fat tip of his cock presses against you, gently sinking into your heat.

He doesn't move any further. Pumping only some of his length in your cunt.

You whine, trying to reach him futility.

Sam chuckles at your attempt, sinking all the way to hilt, and you moan when his balls press up against your sopping folds.

"Oh...!" You sob, head falling back against your pillow.

Sam plants his hands onto the headboard of the foot of the bed, pumping into you, hips rolling thickly against your own.

The achey stretch is delicious as he fills you, veiny cock massaging your gummy walls and fucking you open.

"Christ," he pants, "always forget how fuckin' tight you are."

Sam groans, dropping his weight onto you, thrusting into your cunt at a leisure pace.

"M'gonna cum," you whimper, trying to reach for him again.

Sams eyes soften, and he runs his hands along your arms to untie your wrists, letting you wrap your arms around him.

"You're not cumming until I say so."

It's cruel — the punishment paired with the way his cock stretches you so good it's a miracle you haven't already cum.

You sob, dipping your head into the crook of his neck as he grunts from above you, heat spilling into you.

His hips jolt into you as he cums, hands squeezing the plush of your waist.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck m'still cumming," he groans into the soft of your neck, pushing himself to hilt before resting theere for a moment.

The two of you take in the cool of the room and shiver as he pulls himself from your heat to watch his cum dribble out of your folds and onto the sheets below you.

Sam scoops his cum back into you before kissing your clit.

"I didn't get to cum," you whine, still restless from your lack of release.

Sam falls back on his hip, trailing his fingers over your hips.

"Did you think you were going to?"

You're foolish to think you would. Foolish to think cat would take mercy on the mouse and let it free. And you'd always be mouse.

[therealslimsanji]

Ok, my darlings! As promised.

One Taz/Reader sexy time fic at your service!

Please be aware, I'm no writer. Plus, I've got a house full of noise and chaos, and I work from home, so this will probably have a ton of grammar and spelling mistakes. C'est la vie, mon ami.

So without further ado, I bring to you:

Taz/Reader

Rated: Explicit for language and oral sex (m receiving).

(Also rating E for "eh" at the quality of work here.)

But anyway, I hope you all will enjoy it a little bit!

**UPDATE, I EDITED THE STORY A BIT AFTER POSTING SO IT MIGHT READ DIFFERENTLY THIS TIME**

Taz Skylar/Reader

The night had come and the kitchen was finally quiet now. A few of Taz's cast mates from One Piece had dropped by yalls apartment to celebrate the show's season two renewal. Nothing too major. Mostly it was just another excuse for your boyfriend Taz to show off his excellent culinary skills.

That thought made you smile as you finished towel drying the last dish and placing it in the dish rack. A gentle wave of warmth spread through you. It always did whenever you thought about Taz cooking for you or his friends. He was such an affectionate man and one of the ways he's come to show his love is through his kitchen creations.

"Quickest way to a person's heart is through their stomach, darling," he'd said once while effortlessly chopping up a wide variety of vegetables for some fancy stew.

On cue, almost as if he could sense you were thinking about him, Taz appeared behind you, wrapping his slim toned arms around your waist. His chin came to rest on your shoulder.

Your eyes fell closed as you leaned back into his touch. His arms pulling you impossibly closer to him.

"Did you have fun today?" You asked as the two of you began to sway slightly. Your arms coming to rest atop his around your waist.

He chuckled lowly, "I always have fun when I'm with you and my friends. I love you all. Very much. You the most, obviously." At that he chuckled some more, burying his face into your neck and kissing the skin there.

"We love you too, babe. I can't even begin to tell you how proud I am of you and everything you've accomplished in the last year alone," you spun around to face him, sliding your hands up and down his biceps, "if anyone deserves to be celebrated right now it's you, my love."

Taz blushed at your words, eyes dipping down a bit in a bashful manner. That was something else about Taz you've come to love, how he shy he gets whenever he gets complimented. It was adorable and you took that moment to lean up and kiss him.

Your arms came up to wrap around his neck as his hands moved to the small of your back. Eyes closed, the two of you kissed slowly and deeply. You moaned a bit as you felt him grind subconsciously against you. Smiling into the kiss, you bit gently at his bottom lip and pulled away slowly. There was a glint in your eye that made Taz shiver in your hold.

"C'mere," you whispered, taking both his hands in yours and guiding him towards the counter of the kitchen island. You spun him around, his lower back pressing against the edge of the counter as you attacked his mouth once more in a much needier kiss.

You felt his hands try to grasp at the buttons of your shirt but you quickly put a stop to that, grabbing them and pinning them down on the counter's edge.

"Mm-mm," you hummed against his mouth before pulling back to say, "this is about you tonight. Leave your hands on this counter and don't move them until I say." 

Taz looked as though all the wind had been punched out of him, his face flushed as all the blood rushed south quickly. You could easily fell the hardness of his arousal pressing against your own crotch.

It made your mouth water.

Leaning forward to lick the shell of his left ear, you whispered, "I think I'm still hungry.."

You could hear him swallow audibly.

"Y/N...you..."

Before he could finish his thought, you sunk to your knees, maintaining eye contact with him the entire way down. His gorgeous ocean eyes were blown near completely black, his chest beginning to rise and fall a bit rapidly. His lips were still a little moist from kissing, and God dammit if he wasn't the most beautiful man you'd ever had the pleasure of, well, pleasuring.

Oh yeah. You were gonna take your time with this. Savor every second. Watch every micro-expression cross that stunning face of his. Slowly you undid the button and zipper of his dark jeans, pushing the material down a bit along with his black boxer briefs-- this man and his love for the color black. It was understandable though. He looked fucking amazing in it.

But then, he'd look fucking amazing in a burlap sack.

Taking out his cock, you let the warmth of your breath to ghost over the tip as you pulled the foreskin back. You watched as Taz's head fell back and felt the full body shiver run through him.

"Taz," his head snapped back down at the sound of his name, "look at me. Don't look anywhere else but me."

"Christ, Y/N..." He grit out. His slender hips bucked slightly, searching out more friction. Your hand was still wrapped just this side of too loose around his cock. You knew it was driving him crazy.

With a smirk, you stuck your tongue out and lapped at the precum gathering at the tip, shiny and salty and tasting uniquely of Taz. It was definitely a taste you could get addicted to.

Your right hand stroked his base as your full lips closed around the tip entirely. Your tongue pressed along the slit, rubbing against the spongy head as you sucked lightly.

Above you the blond moaned, tongue coming out to lick at his bottom lip before his teeth bit down in it. His knuckles were white where they held their death grip on the counter's edge.

You kept your eyes locked as you swallowed more of him down with each bob of your head. Both of your hands griping at each of his denim clad thighs. A few more bobs and you had him swallowed down nearly to the hilt, the dark curls around the base tickling at your nose.

A small whimper left his throat, he was trying so hard not to thrust up into your mouth. You smiled around your mouthful, admiring his attempt at control for the sake of your comfort. But you meant what you said.

Tonight was about Taz.

You pulled off still staring up at him, lips plump and wet, "you can fuck my mouth, baby."

"Oh fuck..." He groaned. "Can I..?" He lifted a hand off the counter in a silent request for your permission.

"Use me," your voice was a bit deeper now.

His hand threaded through your soft hair as he grasped a handful, not too tight. Just enough to know you were gonna be hoarse as fuck after all was said and done.

Wasting no more time, you swallowed him back down as far as you could handle. The hand in your hair moved to cup at the crown of your head, keeping you in place as your throat muscles worked around him.

"Oh my God, Y/N. Oh shit..." his blue eyes were struggling to keep focus on you. He was beginning to pant hard, hips moving more and more, almost desperate.

You pulled back a bit, stroking him quickly as you took a moment to catch your breath.

"That feel good?" You asked with a mock innocence, mouth going right back to sucking him down.

"Fuck yes. Feels incredible. 'M not gonna last..."

But you knew that already from the way his hips were starting to stutter in their thrusts. You're no amateur. You've gone down on him enough times to be able to read his body like an open book.

His moans and whimpers as he inched closer to climax were a melody you knew by heart. He was so close now.

"Oh God..Oh f-fuck, Y/N fuck.." this was the part where you swallowed him deep. Sucking as best you could while your throat muscles worked around him and his hips ground against your face. Your left hand came up to massage at his tightening balls while your right hand sought out the hand he had in your hair. He released his grip on your head so that your fingers could lace together. 

There was something so intimate about grasping his hand as his orgasm approached. It made your heart swell. It was also established by now as your way of giving him consent to continue chasing his climax since your mouth was usually too busy to actually tell him in the heat of the moment. A silent assurance that you were in it until the end.

"I'm gonna cum. Y/N I'm gonna-fuuuck..." 

One more clumsy thrust of his hips, and you felt your mouth fill with his warm release. You swallowed as much as you could, trying to keep up with how much was shooting out. You continued to suck him through it all, only popping off when the hand still grasping the counter weakly pushed your head off.

He was panting and beginning to slump down against the bottom cabinets beneath the marbled counter. You could feel his thighs trembling as you tucked him back into his underwear and pants. He was struggling slightly to remain upright and standing. But he was also smiling bright and sweet. Skin almost glowing from the thin sheen of sweat gracing his forehead.

Good God he was beautiful in his post-orgasm bliss.

"Oh my God, Y/N, that was..."

You rose up to your feet and nuzzled your nose against his, feeling cocky and euphoric and aroused as FUCK.

"Amazing?" You supplied teasingly, "mind blowing? 10 outta 10 would recommend to all your friends??"

He shot you a curious glance at that last one before a sleepy smile took over.

"First two, absolutely. But I've no intentions of ever sharing you with anybody." He wrapped both arms around your waist and kissed your forehead. "I love you," he spoke against your hairline.

You tightened your hold on him, "I love you too, Taz."

He pulled back, eyebrow raising mischievously.

"Round two in the bedroom?"

"Way ahead of you, sugar tits."

With a giggle, you shoved him back playfully against the counter and made a mad dash for the master bedroom. Taz chased behind hot on your heels.

The sound of yalls laughter filled the apartment before the bedroom door closed behind you.

End ❤️

[accihoe]

Flight or Fight

Pairing: Duff McKagan x fem!reader

Summary: He has a panic attack mid flight and turns to a stranger for help.

Warnings: Panic attack

A/n: Like with my Steven fic, I don't know lots about GNR. I know the music, but I'm holding back from knowing them beyond that, so I'm very sorry if my work for them is inaccurate. I might be wrong but I've read a few places that he used to have panic attacks on planes, and just saw a really cute post about an old lady waking a passenger up to hold her hand because she was scared. I couldn't help but want to write an inspired fic. Without further adue:

Xxxx

Duff's seatbelt unclicked with a loud click, and he tossed the two ends away, chest beginning to heave. The loosening of his seatbelt did little to ease the worry within his chest. His thin arms trembled as they laid across the armrests. He pressed his back into the seat, trying anything to distract himself from the upcoming panic attack.

"Sir, could you please fasten your seatbelt? We are experiencing some turbulence."

The air hostess's voice made him jump, his already wild heart almost thumping through his ribcage. His fear spiked, worsening his situation.

"I-I-..."

His throat constricted, unable to get out any more words. He sighed shakily, trembling hands struggling to clip the metal pieces back into place.

"Thank you."

She continued walking down the aisle, checking for any more passengers to tell. It seemed the entire plane was clipped in and asleep, leaving him more alone. The darkness of the night did nothing to ease his worries. His head shot up, wanting to plead with the air hostess to help him, to give him air, reassure him, hell, even slap him. But she had already gone back.

Duff looked around, panic stricken face desperately searching for any help, anyone else awake. His head snapped to the beautiful woman beside him, the one he'd been too shy to greet when he boarded the flight. As his airways got more constricted and his eyes pricked with more tears he decided to try and ask her.

He raised a quivering hand to her, gripping her upper arm as he shook it gently, breath disappearing more by the second. She awoke with a jolt, looking around confused before her eyes landed on him in the darkness, and then moved to his hand around her arm. He dropped his quaking hand.

"Please help me."

He croaked out, throat straining as he held back tears.

"I-I think, I think I'm having a panic attack and I'm so sorry to be having it up h-here and waking you but please, please help me, I don't want to cause a scene,"

He pleaded softly. Y/N could hear the fright in his voice, and she was instantly wide awake. She pushed the arm rest up, moving to the middle seat so that she was sitting next to Duff, who was on the aisle seat. His reached out, eyes pleading with hers. She took his shaking hand, giving it a gentle squeeze to ground him.

"Here, hold this."

She took his other hand, heart shattering as she felt how badly it was trembling, and put it on the cold armrest between them. The only thing separating them.

"My name is Y/N. Can you repeat that for me?"

She asked gently.

"...Y...Y/N."

She nodded with a gentle smile.

"Follow my breathing, deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth. There we go,"

His eyes darted across her face, hand gripping hers like a vice. It took several dreadful moments of her having to show him a task as simple as breathing, but he got there, and she praised him for it.

"Alright, you're doing so well. Now, tell me 5 things you can see."

"I-I uh, I can see you?"

She nodded encouragingly.

"I... the- the... I can't! I can't see- or breathe- I can't breathe please-"

She gave his hand another squeeze, a very gentle one.

"Tell me your name."

"Duff... my name's Duff. Michael Andrew McKagan."

"That's a beautiful name, Duff. And you said it beautifully. Well done, keep breathing for me, alright?"

Duff found himself feeling better, he'd achieved at something. Even something small and normal, it was an achievement. He nodded frantically, watching her chest as he tried his best to mimick the patterns.

"Duff, you're alright, you're safe, you're fine. We're in capable hands. We're all going to be fine, we'll have landed before you know it. Its just a brief bit of turbulence."

His other hand, still shaking, moved to up grasp at hers.

"But what if we don't!? I-I've.. I've got so many people to make amends to I can't die! I need- I need to say sorry!"

"And you will, I promise you will. But in the meantime, tell me 5 things that you eat."

"Um... Turkey- chili turkey. A-and sweet potato fries! Grilled chicken. S... salad?"

"Wonderful, sounds nice, doesn't it?"

He nodded, eyes still searching her face.

"Tell me one more. The fith one."

"... Banana bread..."

"That's one of my favourites. Wonderful, Duff. You're doing great. Are you feeling any better yet?"

He nodded, forcing a small smile.

"Tell me what you need."

"I want, I need to be able to move."

He rasped, still shuffling against the seatbelt.

"It's okay, unfasten it. I won't tell if you don't."

She smiled, one he couldn't help but return. He let go of her hands to unclip himself but took her hands as soon as he was free, exhaling in relief.

"Better?"

"Much."

Though the attack had calmed, she knew that so much as another sudden shifting of the plane could trigger it again.

"Would you like a hug, Duff? Only if you're up for it. If you want one, I'm right here."

"Y-yeah, yes I'd very much like that. Thank you."

He rushed out, letting go of her hands. Y/N pushed up the arm rest that was between them and opened her arms. He lunged forward, gripping onto her for dear life. Y/N draped her arms across his back, hugging him, stroking her hand up and down his back.

He was still trembling slightly, but a lot less than a few minutes ago. His grip around her tightened with each passing second, and she kept her arms clasped around him. Eventually, he pulled away.

"Thank you. Thank you so much."

He whispered, smiling sheepishly. Y/N nodded with a warm smile, moving back to her seat. She picked up her blanket that had fallen to the floor, shaking it out.

"I... would... would you mind if I sat here instead?"

He pointed toward the middle seat. She shook her head with a smile, patting the seat as a friendly gesture. He shifted instantly. Y/N watched as Duff wrapped his arms around himself and looked around in thought. Worried he might pull himself into another state she called out to him gently.

"Duff, would you like to share my blanket?"

"I don't want to keep you from sleeping."

He smiled, though he wished with his whole heart he could snuggle up against her under the warm blanket.

"I'm awake, it really won't bug me."

His stomach panged with guilt. Y/N could see the suble jerk of his body.

"I-I'm so sorry, I really didn't mean..."

"Duff, hey, it's alright. It's really alright. I promise. I love talking to people. I love helping people. It's what I do. It's what I love. You really didn't bug me. I promise."

She gave him a warm smile, shifting so that her body was half facing him. His face flushed with relief, and a smile broke out across it.

"So tell me, Mr. McKagan. How come you're in economy on an international flight from San Fran to Sydney?"

He shrugged with a smile.

"Felt like a change of scenery. The jet gets boring."

She snorted, rolling her eyes.

"So, Y/N?"

He smiled, still slightly on edge.

"Mhm?"

"Why are you going to Sydney?"

"I'm moving there. For work."

"Woah, all the way from good old San Fran?"

"Yep. I'm excited. It comes with a nice raise. So maybe I'll be in first class next time."

"That's great."

His hand fidgeted with the seat.

"Duff?"

He hummed, looking at her.

"If... uh if you'd like... you can snuggle with me? I know it's super weird but I'm getting cold looking at your bare arms so-"

"I'd love to."

He grinned, moving closer. Y/N grinned back, lifting the blanket. He wormed underneath it, shuffling to lay, pressed against her chest with his head tucked into the crook of her neck. Y/N draped the blanket across his back, worming her arms under. Duff sighed, content, and draped his arms around her loosely.

"Should've had a paic attack ages ago."

Y/N huffed a breath at what he had to say, swatting where she could reach.

"Oh uh.. I said I was going to make amends so I-I uh... I guess I'll start with you... When I got onto the plane- and I saw this was my seat, you smiled at me. And I didn't smile back. I just sat down. I'm sorry. You're like really beautiful, and I was nervous. So I'm sorry about that, for not greeting you."

Y/N listened to him, grinning as he spoke. He leaned his chin against her chest, looking up at her.

"That's quite alright. I forgive you."

He grinned, moving so that his cheek was resting against her chest again.

"You're like one of the coolest people I've met, if not the coolest. I don't know any other lady that would do this for me. Let alone a stranger after I ignored her and then woke her up."

"Well, we're not strangers anymore, are we?"

"I suppose not."

And that's how he found himself falling asleep, something he didn't not at all even consider when boarding the flight. Y/N found herself hugging the man from the magazine she'd had a few fantasies about, the one who's music helped her through tough studying nights.

"You were there for me, I'll always be here for you."

She whispered to the sleeping figure of Duff McKagan in her arms, pressing a soft kiss to his hair. He seemed to further relax against her and she smiled, closing her own eyes.

Xxxx

Fin. Very rushed. Written during a thunderstorm the night before an audit at work. Promise my stuff will be better when I have time.

Lots of love, always xx

[druidrot]

since your asking for requests i have one from the 2023 list "Just admit it, you have feelings for them." "Only the worst ones." with astarion if you dont only write gale?

I do indeed write for all the companions + Dammon! I just love Gale lol.

My first fic on this blog is this one, a spicy little Astarion piece I wrote back when the game first game out. I originally posted it to ao3 but thought to bring it here.

Anyways, on to the show!

pairing: astarion/reader (m/f)

warnings: none, just some pining lol

word count: 1k

The party grows weary. 

You had been traveling through the muddy forest for the better part of the day, clearing the area of any stray cultists. Another cloister of zealots had been your latest find as dusk faded into night. The spellcasters among them were relentless, their spells leaving your party sore, battered, and exhausted. The wounds sustained from their brawlers fester and ooze. You know it’s time to rest soon, you can feel your body practically begging for it after all. You have no choice but to press on, growing more and more desperate to find the way back to camp.

As you continue to trudge through the mud, you find yourself growing irritable. You know this clearing, recognize it after traipsing through it three times. Your legs seem to grow heavier with every step you take, weighed by the mud and the exhaustion beating down on you.

Realistically, you know you should have sought shelter hours ago. You’re too stubborn for your own good, however, and the need to prove yourself to your ragtag group of party members burns a hole through your chest. It churns like a cesspool in your belly, the sick feelings of guilt and fear and inadequacy. You're a good few weeks into your little misadventure and if anything, you feel even less suited to the job so graciously bestowed upon you. You sigh heavily, cursing as your ankle is sucked into deep mud. 

“Darling, are you quite sure we’re going the right way?” Astarion’s tone is deceptively soft, but you know better. He’s crouching on a nearby rock, pompously smirking down at you like the smug bastard he can be sometimes. “Why, I think you’ve led us through this filthy little clearing three times now.”

"I know that, Astarion," you spit, leaning down to try and pry your boot free. "I'm doing my best, okay? I'm just as tired as the rest of you."

He regards you for one long, agonizing moment, and then he simply shakes his head, gracefully climbing down from the rock he so proudly perched upon. "What are we to do with you, pet? You're a mess."

"We could help her to start," Karlach interjects, huffing heavily as she finally reaches your position. "Easy, soldier. Don't move too much or you might snap a bone or two."

Astarion glowers at her. It doesn't last long as he's more focused on trying to get to you, all measured steps and careful movements as he traverses through the heavy mud. Last night's rain really did your party no favors, leaving the forest a wet, mucky sludgepit.

"Ugh, this is dreadful," he remarks, scowling as his foot slips. "How people find enjoyment in this astounds me."

"I, for one, think it builds character," Karlach quips, leaning down to help tug at your foot. "What's life without a little mud, aye?"

She proceeds to yank from your ankle and you cry out as the mud seems to thicken, pulling you in further.

"Perhaps we might take a different approach?" you gasp, swatting at her hands. "Sorry, Karlach."

She sheepishly pulls away. "Yeah, maybe that was a bit much. Sorry, Soldier."

Astarion scoffs as he settles behind you. You had briefly forgotten his presence so you startle, body going stiff as he presses even closer. You take note of the easy way he crouches, careful of where his feet stand so as to avoid your fate.

"While I do enjoy a good show of brute force," his sly voice in your ear makes your stomach flip, but you hold it together. "A situation such as this calls for finesse. Allow me?"

You nod breathlessly, body stiffening as his hands find purchase at the calf of your trapped leg. He takes his time moving down the expanse of your armor, delicately coming to a stop at the tip of your boot. He is quiet as he begins to work at the clasps, loosening them as much as he possibly can. Once finished, he turns to meet your gaze.

"Do you trust me, pet?"

His eyes are intense, inscrutable, but still you see something sparking to life behind those pretty red irises. So you concede and nod your head, all the while keeping your eyes fixed on his. He takes off his gloves and slowly, so slowly does he wrap his hands around your ankle before he finally slides them under the lip of your boot. His fingers are gentle as they prod at your skin, sure when they wrap around your heel and slowly begin to prise it free from the leather encasing it.

You can't look at him anymore, so you turn your attention back to Karlach. She hums some noncommittal tune, faced away from you both to give you the illusion of privacy. You burn in embarrassment but you know by this point, you should be used to it. This dance you and Astarion move through is a familiar one. You push, he pulls. He pushes, you pull. It's no secret the lines have blurred, not to you, not to the party. You don't know if the pale elf is up to speed, but you do not push it.

Once your foot is free, you thank him quietly. He meets your gaze again, all ruby, undecipherable intensity. You swallow the sickening want that threatens to burn a hole through your chest, choosing to instead pluck your freed boot from his hand. A coy smirk pulls at his lips but you ignore it, still burning, and you simply pull yourself together and continue on the path.

Once you're far enough away, Karlach nudges Astarion.

"Just admit it, fangs," she teases in a singsong voice. "You have feelings for her."

Astarion bristles, scoffing in indignation. If blood ran through his veins, he's sure he'd be flushed pink. He ignores the twisted way his chest aches at the insinuation.

"Perhaps," he muses, glaring at her. "But only the worst kind"

Karlach laughs and sets off after you. It takes him a moment to follow and when he does, he feels that same deep-rooted ache start to throb.

The worst kind indeed, he thinks, resigned.

[amorgansgal]

Please Don't Leave Me

Inspired by my own post, I decided to write a little fic for my female tiefling tav x Gale, but I've decided to avoid using names, so if you have an insecure tiefling tav who loves Gale then hopefully you might enjoy!

Female tiefling tav x Gale

CW: Some reference to sexual content, but nothing too explicit.

His mind drifts back to what she said now that they’re lying quietly, curled up with one another, her head resting on his shoulder, her fingers lightly skimming over his chest, her long nails leaving little goosebumps in their wake, his arm is wrapped around her, keeping her close, his hand resting on her hip, the other trails up her arm, until he cups her face and kisses her softly. Gods, he loves her and she is such a beauty, dark eyes gleam in the low light, her skin is soft but covered with little bumps and ridges he has made it his mission to map out, her lips full and soft and so easy to kiss. Every night when they close the tent flaps and tumble into bed together he thanks the stars, fate, the gods for letting him have just the smallest of tastes of this glorious, wondrous woman. How lucky he is to get to hold her, to kiss her, to love her and she… She loves and embraces and kisses him! 

And yet his mind replays her words, over and over and over, how when her arms and legs were wrapped around him, when he was buried inside her and she was panting and moaning so sweetly. 

‘Don’t leave me! Promise you won’t leave me!’ she had begged and he had sworn he never would, he had held her tighter, kissed her more passionately and fiercely, hoping that it would convey in some small form how much he adored her, how he would never ever even dream of leaving her, that he couldn’t.

“Why did you beg me not to leave you?” he asks now and feels her tense up, he soothingly strokes her arm and back and is glad when she relaxes. He kisses her forehead, mindful of her horns. “You must know that I could not even think of such a thing, that I love you too much and I know how lucky I am to even have you look at me.”

She shrugs and nestles closer. “I feel lucky to have you. You’re a great wizard and a wonderful man, you could have anyone you wanted. I know I don’t offer much-”

His hand tightens on her hip. “Well I do not want anyone else, I want you. I love you. And you offer me plenty, you offer kindness and goodness and unconditional love. I’d have to be a mad man to turn my nose up to that-”

“I’m a petty thief with a few knife tricks, not to mention my own past is… well… dubious,” she sighs.

“None of us are exactly without flaw,” he points out. “Besides, none of that matters to me. You must know that.”

“I just think you could do better and so I’m fearful you will do so and someday you will leave me.”

“I won’t. You have my word. My solemn oath. I will never leave you. And I cannot do better, when I already have the best woman in the entirety of Faerun.”

She gives a small snort of laughter. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do,” he places two fingers under her chin and raises her head, encouraging her to look at him. “You have my heart, entirely and completely. I am at your mercy, please don’t leave me and don’t doubt me.”

She smiles, almost shyly, and he kisses her again. She hums contentedly into the kiss and he brings her hand to cover his heart so she can feel it beating under her fingertips, then he covers her hand with his own. “This is all yours,” he murmurs.

[rowdyhughesy]

Don’t run away, not now - Trevor Zegras

“ I’m burnt out, shit I need some rest. But how can I escape you if you’re in my head? “

- chase atlantic

requested: no

wc: 870

song fic inspired by This is what a broken heart feels like by Marina Lin

You gave it all away

Didn’t even let me in

You gave the worst goodbye

And people ask me how I've been

I wished relationships would come with a trailer, that you could watch it before you fall in love and decide if you wanted to continue. That if the impending heartache that could follow is truly worth it. If those two years filled with kisses on Saturday mornings, the smell of burning toast coming from the kitchen, warm fingertips drawing invisible shapes across my back in the early hours.

The fights when neither of us want to admit we've been wrong, when Trevor threw dirty laundry on the bathroom floor or forgot to put the dishes away.

Or when I let my insecurities become an obstacle I had problems crossing on my own. He would be there with a smile so big the ends of his eyelashes kissed the apples of his cheeks. Soft pink lips placing butterfly light kisses on my temple. Whispering how I was the most beautiful thing he's ever laid his eyes on.

How I wish I could've seen the trailer and been prepared for the ending. Saved myself the numbing ache that followed when I walked inside that door. Trevors facial expression void of any emotion as he breaks my heart into a million tiny glass pieces. 'I don't think it's working out.' Echoing inside my skull every damn time someone asks me how I'm holding up.

Replaying like a broken record that won't stop no matter how much I scream or cry. Palms pressed over my ears crying for it to shut up. Begging for silence. If only for a second

Friday nights got me feeling lonely

Saturdays are when the bottles empty

Why'd you have to leave me?

Dani strokes a comforting hand over the top of my head. Trying to smooth out the tangled rats ness I call hair her other arm wrapped around my body, cuddling me close to her side. Mumbling words of encouragement in my ear as I press my cheek closer to her chest. Hot tears wetting my skin as they run down, leaving small dark splotches on her sweater in their wake.

Throat sore from the cries of a broken heart I’ve been letting out for the past couple of hours.

It’s been two months since Trevor left but the tears still haven’t run dry. Every day there’s new ones along with the clenching feeling in my ribcage. It’s like someone has a tight grip on my heart and slowly but surely the grip becomes tighter and tighter. Squeezing with everything it has until the pain is all I can feel. Until it’s all that’s left.

‘Why did he have to leave Dani? What did I do wrong?’ Voice cracking as another wave of tears bubbles up. Eyes bloodshot, glassy from yet unshed tears and eyelashes clumped together.

‘You didn’t do anything wrong honey you did absolutely nothing. Do you hear me? This is not on you.’ Dani rests her chin on my head. Hand having left it’s previous position in my hair so both her arms are now cradling me close.

Small drops of her own tears that’s managed to slip out landing on my head. Troy gives her a sad smile from his place on the armchair across the coffee table. Trying to hold back all his frustration at his teammate for leaving someone so hurt and broken. For hurting a girl he’s considered as his little sister for two years.

But all he and Dani can do is be a shoulder to lean on and someone to confide in as the girl tries to get over the boy who left without warning.

Don't leave me

Don't leave me

Don't leave me

It’s hard to explain the feeling that crawls up your chest when you come across your ex boyfriends Instagram post. To see those light blue eyes and big smile that used to make your body tingle, lips twitching up at the corners and heart feel like it doubles in size.

Just that this time it’s shards of glass ripping through my skin and into my bones. Tears pricking at my waterline and breath getting knocked out of my lungs. Whole body deflating when I notice the pretty girl standing with her arms wrapped around his middle and kiss pressed to his cheek.

Love you to the moon and to Saturn typed underneath.

And the realisation that he’s never coming back crashing over me like a building being torn down. Rubble and dirt all that’s left behind along with my heart.

Flashes of a face red from crying as I beg for him to not leave, tell me what I could do to make him stay. Without even knowing that he’d been one foot out the door the whole time.

Heart already belonging to someone else. That I was the obstacle he had to get over to be with someone new, someone that would never be me. Not ever again.

[nenynrawrites]

Mmmm hello hello

I’m sure you had NO idea I was gonna request this, but could you write a fic about that one post you made about Razzle blowing a kiss to reader then getting hit in the face with his spinning drumstick? (You know which one I’m talking about? Sorry I’m really bad at explaining things)

Summary: Razzle's drumstick decides to go for revenge (and the rest of what the dear requester said:))

Wordcount: 418words

Warnings: There's a hint of smut at the end, but other than that, just a drumstick taking revenge

A/N: I LOVED your request, it was fun to write! Can't wait for more of your requests<333

Razzle invited you to watch him and his band practice, and who would say no to that?

~-~

,,Hey, Y/N, look!''

,,Oh?''

Razzle was sitting behind his drum set, spinning the drumstick in his left hand, whilst blowing you a kiss, and just when he turned back around, the drumstick searched revenge for his dizziness by hitting him straight across his forehead, even making him fall off of his seat.

,,Razzle, are you alright?''

,,Yeah...I think I'll make a fire with this thing tonight. Can't even do its job right...''

The complaint sounded even more pissed with his accent poking through every word, grumbling every now and then until he got back to his feet, being handled as if he was an old grandmother that fell down a flight of stairs.

~-~

,,Ow, ow, ow! That's too cold!''

,,Oh, stop whining, you little child!''

It seemed as if the drumstick had really searched revenge on Razzle, because what you thought to just be some redness (as it happens) turned into a pretty big bump, that seemed to burst any second.

,,Y/N?''

,,Hm?''

,,Could you...You know...''

,,I know...?''

,,Kiss it...Better?''

,,Aww, of course.''

Razzle looked like a kid on Christmas after you set a soft kiss on top of the bump, opting to hold you tight by your waist.

,,Was that good?''

,,More than good. Can you do it again?''

,,All night long probably, right?''

,,Mhm...Unless you don't want to.''

,,No, it's all good. Anything to make you feel better.''

~-~

By the time you two got to bed, the pounding headache had stopped. The bump was still there, but it didn't hurt Razzle too much anymore.

,,Thank you.''

,,For?''

,,Caring for a wounded soldier!''

You just smiled, embracing the kiss he gave you.

,,You know...You could dress up as a nurse sometime...''

,,Oh Razzle, I think that bump did worse...''

He didn't listen, just gave you another kiss, long enough for him to move on top of you.

,,Pretty...''

,,Handsome...''

,,Trying to one up me?''

,,Of course.''

No more words were spoken, but many tasks at hand: His kisses went down to your neck, staying there as his hands explored further. Your tummy, which he loved the most, your waist, your hips, your thighs...Everything got felt up, nothing was left without attention.

,,Pretty darling...Gonna eat you, alright? Enjoy it, yeah?''

He had that mischievous smile again, where you knew that everything was going good and he was feeling well. So, well, he was going to share it with you:)

[sophiethewitch1]

Look, look. It's not my fault I wrote 998 words on Wayne comfort. Or I'm giving it to you anonymously. Just think of me as the neighborhood feral cat giving you a dead bird for all the nice head scratches. I don't have enough guts to post my writing on my blog since I'm new to Tumblr. So please enjoy this comfort, slight nsfw fic at the end. Your writing has been inspiring me, so you deserve this. 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭👍

You had just been laying on the couch that was undoubtedly worth more than anything you ever owned in your previous life. Anyone rich can buy a uncomfortable and presumptuous piece of high quality furniture, but finding one that looks this nice and feels great too is a special skill. The nice buttery leather was encasing you like a hug that you sunk into as you struggled with being awake. To make matters worse, you had grabbed one of the bloated pieces of Victorian literature off the shelf in the library. You fully intended to give it up at first sign it got hard. Then Todd challenged you on whether you could read and gather it's plot without help. He wasn't saying you were stupid, but you still heard it hanging in the air after he shuffled out of the room. You really hate being called stupid.

That's how Damian found you, lounging on the couch and half dozing as the sun and fireplace chased away the chill. Damian was also tired for another reason, he had spent all night on watch and was finally showing signs of tiring like a normal human. And there you were, all nice and cozy in silk pajamas, even though it was cold outside, you had long discarded your sweater and changed into shorts. Ever since you complained about the cold in the Manor, Bruce had raised the heating to a nice summer day.

It didn't bother Damian at all, especially when he got to see the way your pajama shirt rode up in your tossing and turning on the couch.

The sudden weight made your breath wheeze out and you lifted the book off your chest to peer down at Damian. In no time he settled himself between your open and splayed legs, hooking his massive arms underneath your knees and slightly under your bum so that he can wiggle closer to your navel. Your eyes widen and you almost squealed at him. Especially as his warm breath started warming your stomach.

Then you saw how his eyes dropped, and he slightly nuzzled into you before going slack. Your eyes traced the planes of his face as they slowly smoothed out from sleepiness.

"What are you reading", Damian slurs out, his voice heavy and deep from contentment.

"Some meaningless Victorian novel, everyone is so emotionally stunted it's hilarious" you hum out.

He doesn't respond and you cautiously close the book and rest it on your chest. His breaths were coming in deep now, having finally lost the battle when you started ranting about your arch nemesis book.

You take another moment to appreciate the softness that was missing from his face usually. Brows slack, not furrowed in rage or disgust. Nose not scrunched up from sneering. Cheeks puffed out slightly from sleep as his mouth pops open to let out the softest snore. This was Damian, the version you longed for. And ever so softly and gently, you run your hands through the silky but forbidden hair.

That's how Dick found you two hours later. Only your shirt had crept up more as you settled into sleep. Most importantly, Damian had slid down as he stretched slightly in his sleep, one of his hands crawling up underneath your ass and to fan out across the side of your ribs. This movement unconsciously moved you more in your sleep as you curled protectively around the weight on you. Your hands still buried in his hair.

Now though, Damian's face was buried in your pelvis, way too close to the goal for Dick. Older brother slapping younger brother in the calf to get the rotten bastard to wake up. Which he succeeded in.

Just for Damian to give Dick a shit-eating smirk as you mumbled in your sleep from the jostling. To rub his position in his brother's face even more, Damian leans over to give the lightest kiss to your inner upper thigh that was so tantalizingly close. Cue both Dick and Tim who just walked in having a collective mind blown explosion.

Needless to say there were a lot of harsh slaps and pathetic "ow"s as they wrenched him out from you as best they could without waking you. It didn't really work as Damian's stray hand slid back down as both held your ass for dear life. He buried himself even closer to you as your thighs clenched around him and you let out the littlest of moans in your sleep. Something that had both brothers dropping Damians legs and scurrying away with beet red faces while Damian flicked them off.

When you woke, Damian was sitting up in the chair with your legs on his lap and your discarded book being held precariously in his long calloused fingers. He looks down at you as you let out a delicious sounding moan as you stretch the sleep off. It wasn't as good as the one you let out earlier though, he needs that one again. Soon.

"You know it's not the Brontë sisters fault you're stupi-" he didn't get to finish as your foot slams the book into the side of his stupid gorgeous asshole face.

Took me a while to answer this because I didn't even know what to say. It's perfect it's fantastic it's amazing and I'm genuinely begging you to write more. The assholishness. The clingy desperation. The way both reader and Damian are so obviously in love with eachother but can only manage to get along long enough to touch. The little hints to the other relationships. The TENSION. All of it. All of it is amazing and wonderful and gorgeous and I'm dying on the floor. AAAAAAAA

[hepbaestus]

✨My fics - a masterlist✨

Here's where all my fics go in order of publishing with a little detail about each fic, the blurb and accompanying credited fanart.

Hep's Hideduo Stardew Valley AU Masterlist

Hideduo Kiss Week Event Masterlist

Hep's Familial Souls AU Masterlist

don't just count your years make them count (nenê feliz aniversário!!!) - 09/03/23

4.5k words|family fluff|no TW's apply|tumblr link|

A parent struggling to find a gift for his son, only to be saved by his son's chosen sister. The eldest children's birthday party happens and Pac didn't think that Ramón could get any cuter. How wrong he was. A story of how family helps one another and can look like something that you never thought you could have.

Accompanying fan art by Shen ❤️

What a Monster he'd become - 12/03/24

1.1k words|angst with a hopeful ending|TW's do apply|tumblr link|

TW: cannibalism

Vacuus Island, an abandoned Federation Island. Fit's left in the ravine by Madagio with the rotting corpses of the workers that had worked here previously. Fit doesn't have a fun time down there, resorting to things that he hoped Pac wouldn't hold against him when. If he returned.

to be loved is to be changed - 25/03/24

2.1k words|family fluff|no TW's apply|tumblr link|

Based off a prompt by Pen

As you love, you change too. Ramón goes through that process of changing because of the love he's received since Pac became his Pai, so much so that his physical appearance is altered by it. This is Fit and Pac's reactions to that.

Accompanying fan art by Mooney 🩶 and mini-comic by Shen ❤️

love is the longing for the half of ourselves that we have lost - 30/03/24

2.6k words|angst with a happy ending|TW's apply|tumblr link|

TW: mild blood

Fit goes missing after having completed Madagio's mission, and with the children all put into a medicated sleep, Pac has no one. It isn't until he realises that Fit's been gone for too long that he begins to truly panic and sets out on a search for the Dread Bow. On the search for the underground cabins, he sees a burst of light and thinks it's Fit. It isn't him. It would never be Fit. Until it is.

count your age by friends, not years. count your life by smiles, not tears - 03/04/24

2.4k words|sad with happy ending|TW's apply|tumblr link|

TW: Blood and injury

It's Ramón's first birthday and his dad isn't there but Pac is.

You can't recover memories of a missing event - 21/04/24

0.4k words|hurt/no comfort|no TW's apply|tumblr link|

Based off this series of posts

Without realising, Pac's missed a lot of events in his boyfriend and kid's lives. Their first birthdays, his second date with Fit, seeing Fit's face as he realises that Richarlyson called him dad. This is him having that realisation.

I was performing my ritual of sipping tea, shooting flirtatious glances and planning murder - 21/05/24

2.3k words|purgatory angst with sad ending|TW's apply|tumblr link|

TW: Blood and Violence,Body Horror,Character Death

Fit had not been able to think of anything else other than Pac's betrayal two days prior. This is his revenge. Exactly what he thinks Pac deserves.

Waking Up - 25/05/24

0.9k words|it was all a dream au|TW's apply|tumblr link|

TW: Mentioned character death, off-hand mention of starvation

It was a normal day on the island, Fit was with his family.

Until he wasn't. Until it wasn't.

Fireflies (The day is over. It's time for rest. Sleep well, my dear. You did your best). - 02/07/24

1.7k words|family fluff stargazing|no TW's apply|tumblr link

Rosa's first night in the family and it doesn't quite go to plan at first but with the stars in the sky and family surrounding her, all will be well.

What was I made for? - 08/07/24

2.8k words| sad ending| TW's apply|tumblr link

TW: Experimentation on children

He could never escape the sterile quartz that the Federation used in every building. It would haunt his nightmares, both waking and not. A deeper look into Ramón's first and last day on Quesadilla Island, from his perspective.

[hegoeshardasfuck]

casual

wordcount: 2K

tags: semi-public sex, biting, handjobs, workplace (?) sex, sub Itachi, dom Kakashi

synopsis: Kakashi and Itachi both think that it's nice having a wherever we want and whenever we want kind of relationship / OR / that fic where they fuck on the job

authors note: hehehe been working on a fanfic writing/reading discord server lately :3 me and my bud r still workin' out the flaws rn but i got something queued to post when its ready to drop

https://archiveofourown.org/works/57578641

Really, they couldn't ask for much more out of their agreement. Simple and concise and signed with ink laden with trust to the point it may as well be blood. Not a word would ever be uttered outside hallowed halls to keep both of them safe.

Although, hallowed halls are almost never enclosed spaces, almost never somewhere without a risk. That's part of the fun. Two high standing shinobi having an affair in the dead of the night against a tree or in the hallways of an abandoned building.

They play fast and loose with each other. Sparing raking glances if they cross in broad daylight. Hunting one another down if split missions cross paths. Whenever and however they want each other they have each other, only if they can be done within the parameter of time limits. They have jobs to do even if they're shaky legged as they do so.

It's a simple mission this time, assassination. Sneak into a theater and kill the lead actor because they're planning a coup d'état and they're the one in charge. Kakashi wants to bite back against the Hokage's instructions, that it's improbable for an actor to be capable of revolution. But he doesn't, he may be in his twenties but backtalking his old teacher won't fare well.

He doesn't get a teammate at first, Minato sure of himself that his prize pupil would do fine. But after a bout of consideration and back and forthing between the two, he dispatches another. And that other is Itachi, someone who'd blend in well with the darkness of the house. He supplies a script of the show, how the scenes play out, and notating each of the leads major scenes.

A simple job, they weren't even advised to do it in the back after the show. Just to get the job done, even if the entire audience sees it happen. They just need to get it done.

"How do you want to do this?" Kakashi asked the day of the mission, closing night. The sun was starting to set already, just an hour until the show would start.

"There's a dressing room underneath the stage, and two that are far off stage right. I doubt he'll use those ones during quick changes, too much distance and too little time."

"If he's a shinobi then he'll only need a minute, he could use any changing room. Where else could he hang out when he isn't on stage?"

"There's a chance he'd just loiter off to stage left, or underneath the stage."

"Underneath it?"

"It's called an orchestra pit, it's quite close to the changing room. Sometimes there are live instrumentals, I suspect there will be for this play."

"What about the pipe grid above the stage?"

"Don't you think we'd get noticed? It'd be too creaky anyways."

Kakashi raises a brow, "Too creaky? My, my, Itachi, how much moving around do you think we'll be doing?"

"Enough to risk alerting a cast or audience member."

"You really think you'd be shaking that much?"

"You really think you wouldn't."

They share a brief pause, carnality rests heavy in the air, but it's dismissed as fast as it's agreed upon. They have a mission to do. They can swap spit and fuck before the play hits it's crescendo.

"What about the catwalk?" Kakashi asked.

"Do you know how hard it would be to get up there even before the show starts?"

"Sneaking around wouldn't be too hard, we just break in through the backdoor and then find our way to stage left and make our way past the balconies undetected, and then climb the stairs."

"I didn't take you for a theater guy."

"Itachi, I throatfuck you every other week, what makes you think that I wouldn't be invested in theatrics?"

Itachi gives a nod, "Fair point." He shoves himself off of the wall he was leaned against, "So it's settled then?"

"We hide in the catwalk and assassinate him for all to see?" Kakashi confirmed, just to make sure they're on the same page.

"If nothing goes wrong, then it'll pan out just like so."

-/-/-/-

The catwalk is more of a crawl space, they have to hunch awkwardly to dart through to a good spot so they can actually snipe him when he's center stage. Heat rises up to the top and the urge to call it quits for up top and hide out in the dressing room is strong. But they have a plan and they're going to stick to it.

Even as Kakashi pushes Itachi against the low railing, back arching against it they'll stick to the plan. They have forty minutes till the big cue where it'll be fun to watch someones brains splatter across the stage. He grips one of the bars to keep himself from tilting to far back as Kakashi bites his throat.

Lips trailing up from his collarbones and along his major veins and to his jawline. The mask got pulled down once the potlights came down and they were thoroughly drenched in darkness, save for the glow of limelight hitting them from below. Kakashi doesn't know when exactly he deemed Itachi a safe person to take down the mask in front of, but he just did.

And maybe he ended up deciding so when he realized he couldn't leave marks that darkened to the point of needing concealer to cover if he had on the mask. He'd rather avoid clawing tears into Itachi's hips and his shoulders and his thighs, much rather bite and kiss his way into permanent residence of the flesh. Leave marks with lips that sear skin and make Itachi falter when he has to wear a tight collared shirt.

Knees rest on either side of Itachi's hips, his own barely bent to keep from his feet hanging off the ledge. A hand rides up underneath his armor and undershirt to brace his lower back. He keeps his hands up above his head because they both know they'll never be in a situation where his wrists can be tied to a headboard.

The hand on the small of his back drops down to grip his ass as teeth sink into his throat. Then his hip, tenderly kissing along the mark as he goes. Semi gloved fingers trace past the waist of his pants, sliding along warm skin and the contrast makes Itachi shudder.

He gasps as blunt nails firmly grip into his thigh and fingers jam into his mouth. He goes ramrod straight at the intrusion and tries not to moan around them. Kakashi leans back from Itachi's throat, sore and red and slick with saliva. He retracts his fingers briefly to allow Itachi to breathe before pressing them back in, "Itachi, if you don't want to jeopardize the mission, you'll have to stay quiet."

Itachi tried to nod in spite of fingers pressed down on the back of his tongue, triggering his gag reflex only a little bit. He swears he'll start to dry heave around them or pull back his head. He knows that if he pulls back Kakashi will thrust his fingers in deeper.

"Can you do that for me, sweetheart?" Kakashi asked quietly. The swell of a musical number started below them, the serenade of an ensemble started singing. Kakashi gives a hum of laughter at the timing, "See, there'll even be a little bit of cover for your moaning."

He drags his fingers out of Itachi's mouth when he finishes speaking, "I can be quiet." Itachi hisses the words at Kakashi. Almost a dare. Go on, he urged, make me scream so loud it stops the show.

And despite how much the notion made Kakashi shiver with delight, he held strong. They have a job to do and they have a plan for it. Instead of bearing down on Itachi's throat to make him fucking howl he rubs circles into the tender flesh of his thigh. Well, not super tender, he is toned, but there's enough give that Kakashi can feel the flesh depress under the calloused pads of his fingers.

The fingers in Itachi's mouth hold him steady at the shoulder blade, shaky arms still held high above his head. Lips meet his own every single time he gasps or moans with Kakashi's fingers pull down his pants at an agonizing pace. The theater is already a hotbox but Itachi's swears he could faint with how hot his body feels.

Heat courses underneath his skin as pale flesh is exposed to the air. Eruptions of song and cheering go on below them every few moments and it makes it really hard to focus on not moaning. Normally it's dead silent, normally there isn't a semblance of cover from being exposed. It's so much easier to crack when there's something to catch his slip up.

A shaky moan slips past his lips and Kakashi devours it without hesitation. Meeting his lips and kissing to make sure that they're red and puffy and slick with saliva. He kisses to the point he might as well be throat fucking Itachi with his tongue as his hand deftly slides slick down his partners cock.

Itachi bites his tongue as Kakashi slowly strokes him. Don't moan. Don't groan. Quiet little gasps escape as he follows the rises and falls of the music below them with each stroke. His toes curl and he tries his hardest to shift the wanton moan into an uneven exhale as Kakashi nips his throat. Teeth so sharply blunt, like that of a dogs.

Kakashi pauses, words hush against Itachi's throat, "Nice and quiet, you wanna cum for me?"

Itachi nodded fast.

And as fast as he nodded Kakashi stilled his motions.

A bewildered little "what?" escapes Itachi's throat as he registers the stall of motion and the incessant throb of want. He whimpers and tries to buck up but he hears something in the infrastructure of the catwalk or the bar he's gripping creak and he goes still.

"Go on," Kakashi said, "Tell me how badly you want to cum for me."

"Kakashi..." Itachi seethed and whimpered at the same time, "We can't, can't risk being loud- what about the job?"

Kakashi gave a hum as he ghosted his hand dangerously close, "You have plenty of time to beg before our target gets on stage for his big musical number."

Itachi tries to glare but Kakashi's hand rests heavy on his inner thigh and Itachi sort of just crumbles to pieces, "Please."

"Do better than that."

"Please, Kakashi, just let me cum. It's been too long since we last did this, please. I don't care if they hear me; make me cum, Kakashi sensei."

The word sensei hits Kakashi like a bag of bricks, it's been a long time since Itachi called him that. And this re-contextualization makes him feel something ungodly burning in his stomach. He let's his hand trace back up Itachi's thigh to slowly pump him, the somewhat rough texture of fabric against skin makes Itachi whimper and whine.

He doesn't stop giving pathetic, pleading sounds though. As he hits climax and Kakashi kisses him to muffle his reaction his grip on the bar slips, the hand on his shoulder blade catches his fall. He leans onto Kakashi as he's carried through the high of orgasm and somehow he timed it with the way the orchestra falls out of a tune.

"Want me to take the shot?" Kakashi asked, a tenderness too his tone he reserves only for the likes of Itachi and his dogs.

"We only have one chance, and you're definitely in a better state to be the one to do it," Itachi answered with, already back to calculating every possibility so they can come out on top and succeed.

"Got it," Kakashi said, shifting his knee away from where it bracketed Itachi in. Minimized him. Made him easy to dominate because it really is hard to make it seem possible unless you've already done it a hundred times.

Which, Kakashi can't confirm or deny if he has dominated Itachi that many times. Because as often as he does top Itachi has done the same to him twice over. And he really wouldn't have it any other way.