#Mens feelings placed over a woman’s health | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

chiumii · 6 months ago

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SIZE ~ (true form) sukuna x reader ౨ৎ .⋆。⊹ 18+

thinking about kuna with a size kink....... is not good for my mental health omg. sukuna has been stalking you for what seem like years. Watching you when you walk to class, going out with your friends, heading to work,,, and who you fuck yourself late at night. You've always had a feeling as if you were being watched for the last couple years. An unknown darkness that follows you around. It should have scared you away,,,, but you couldn't help but give into your sinful desires... especially on the night that this darkness comes to pay you a little visit.

word count: 7600 sukuna x reader smut. size kink,,, obviously. dumbification, fingering, slapping, overstimulation, heavy smut, corruption kink, stalking, voyeurism, breeding, monster fucking, heavy CNC. Double penetration. Perv! Monster! Stalker! Sukuna x Innocent! reader (I have a problem). True form sukuna smut (yes, we get a double dicker sandwich).

Sukuna always knew that he had a size kink, he just never acknowledged the fact until he met you. You were so small compared to him, it was like you were just a measly doll, a puppet. So pretty, so small, and so, so very innocent. He almost felt guilty for the things he fantasizes about doing to you. almost.

He additionally almost felt a little guilty for how many times he'd watched you masturbate through your window late into the night. The sounds you make while touching your pretty pussy were the only thing that calmed him after a long and stressful evening. He had been doing this for a while. Watching you, that is. He liked watching you get dressed for the day, guessing what makeup style you were planning on doing, the little pop you did with your lips right after you applied your lip gloss. It should be disgusting how many times he's rubbed one out to the sight of you popping those pretty pink, full glossy lips. but he didn't care nor did he feel a tinge of disgust towards himself.

He enjoyed all the times he's watched you walk to and from your little cafe job down the street. How your routine consisted of grabbing a coffee at a different spot despite being able to make yourself a free one at your place of work. How you would play with and feed your cats before heading out for the day.

He also enjoyed the days where you went out with your friends to the mall to shop, or to a restaurant for girls night. He especially liked it when you and your girls went out for dinner. All the cute and godawful tiny dresses you found yourself wearing always just about make him lose his cool. The only thing he hated about girls night out was the fact that you knew you were sexy, meaning men swarmed around you like vultures, eyeing you like a piece of meat. It made him want to bend you over the nearest table and fuck you right in front of everyone.

Sukuna owned you, he just hasn't put the collar on you yet.

Tonight was one of those nights where you went out with your girlfriends. Your hair was done up all pretty and your makeup took you hours to perfect, but it was all worth it for the evil, thigh clasping presence you felt in the dark corner of the club you were in. Your glossy lips were a tint of pink and your cheeks matched the deep red of the short dress you were wearing. The familiar dark energy seemed to be radiating all around you, more than normal.

He knew you couldn't see him, but sukuna stood at that corner of the room, hidden away from all the humans, his eyes locked onto one. Sweat glistened on the top of your breasts, and your lips seemed more plump than normal. But the thing that was driving him crazy was the fact that one man couldn't seem to leave you alone. he kept coming up to you in desprate search of starting a conversation, shamelessly eyeballing your prominent curves and licking his lips. sukuna wanted to explode his head right then and there for trying to seduce his woman. And what pissed him off even more was the fact that you were actually playing into it.

You kept making small touches to the mans arm whenever he said something "funny" and you bit your lip whenever he complimented you. But sukuna knew that your laugh wasn't genuine and your smile was a fake. He knew the real you. Of course he did. He'd been stalking you for months, if not years. he made his claim a while ago, and he wasn't gonna let some scrawny low life steal his property with a couple sad jokes.

Your smile faltered just a hair when you felt the dark presence leave the club. It was almost like a warm blanket had been ripped off of you. Your eyes seemed to glaze over, which led the random man to ask if you were okay.

"Yeah, I'm fine, I just feel sick for some reason" your response was an obvious lie, but apparently good enough for the man to believe.

"oh, are you alright, would you like a ride back to yours?" He asks, and to be completely honest, kinda made you cringe. Of course you didn't want a ride because the only reason you were talking to him was to make whatever was watching you jealous.

Sukuna found interest in you because of your innocence. But oh was he in for a surprise. You knew something had been following you, you knew it had been watching you whenever you touched yourself late at night. You've felt it since the very beginning.

its like you had your own curse.

You should have told somebody when the red flags started popping up out of nowhere; they started out small, ranging from your couch pillows being moved around, then progressed into things like your favorite pair of panties going missing, then to things that freaked you out, like waking up to your bedroom window being open in the morning even though you know for a fact that you had closed and locked it. You should have moved apartments. You should have done something when this started happening.

But you didn't. And it made you sick. Getting off on the fact that you knew you were being stalked by whatever was hunting you.

And the fact that you were upset that the mysterious darkness had left proves just how disgusting you actually are.

"guys, I think im gonna call a cab, I just got hit with a wave of sickness and I really just wanna go home and sleep" you told your friends after shooing off the man you had no interest in.

"omg girl are you okay? of course go home and rest im so sorry!" one of your friends said right after taking her 4th shot.

"yeah im fine, just not really feeling it"

"text me when you get home!"

Staring at the dark yet lively city lights flashing by you, you kept thinking about the little stalker you seem to have. You thought it was weird how turned on you got just from an energy, from a presence. You've never felt so.. needed. so, praised ?

No man, or woman. Has ever given you so much confidence, if that's the right word. And because of that, you've never felt another human beings intimate touch. You only want its touch. Whatever it is.

Sukuna knows what he does to you. He could basically see it radiating off of you. How much confidence you gained and how well you hold yourself. And he'd never been happier to be the one gifting you that grace. That's actually the main thing that peaked his interest about you. The way you held yourself throughout life. Nothing could stop you from getting what you want, and he admired that. It made him question himself at first, being so interested about a human being. It made him debate on keeping you alive. How dare a human make him question himself.

But that passed quickly the first time he'd seen your fingers fuck your pussy. it was delicious. he had to restrain himself from shattering your balcony door and fucking you stupid.

You felt it leaking through the cracks of your front door. It felt different than all the other times its followed you around and watched you throughout your life. It was stronger, and it turned you on so, so much more than normal.

You stood outside your apartment door debating on going inside. Your face was burning and your pussy was throbbing.

It felt like you were going absolutely insane, and it pissed you off not knowing what was making you into such a pathetic mess. With a deep breath, you opened your door only to be met with darkness aside from a few street lights illuminating your living room in a dull yellow.

You set your stuff on the couch before walking into your room, slinging your door open, you didn't even have to turn the light on to know that whatever it was, had decided to perch itself in your bed.

For the first time in years, you actually felt scared of whatever it was. Your whole demeanor changed in an instant, and it made sukuna chuckle.

That chuckle vibrated throughout your skull, straight down your core.

Wanting to fold in on yourself out of fear, but too turned on to do so; you walked in, closing the door behind you. Sukuna's eyes never leaving your much smaller frame.

Trying to hide the fact that almost your entire being is screaming at you to run away from the thing in front of you, you stand your ground.

"What are you?" You ask the figure you have yet to fully lay eyes on. All you're able to make out is a monster-like figure with four arms, two behind its head using them as a cushion against your headboard, and the other two resting on its thighs. Its legs are long and big, both of them spread apart, inviting you in, in the most almost taunting way imaginable. Its face is completely hidden in the dark, restricting you from seeing the cocky, shit eating grin plastered on its face.

"What a weird first question to ask, y/n."

Its voice sent chills down your spine, creating an even stronger pulse in your heart, and your clit. You involuntarily suck in a breath at the sound of its voice. Deep, husky and masculine. It's nothing like you've ever heard before, and it makes your skin crawl in excitement and fear.

He chuckles again at the gasp you let out. You stay in your spot, making sure to keep a safe distance away from him.

"Answer my question." The words left your throat as more of a command than anything else. Your eyes never leave his frame, even as he removes his arms behind his head and lean forward, crossing them across his chest. His eyes never leave your body either, drinking in the sight of your skimpy dress.

All he wants to do is burn it off of you and make you scream his name as you cream all over his cock, but that'll take a minute to happen, so he answers you instead.

"King of curses, my dear." His voice sending another wave of shivers coursing through your body. He stands, and your entire body starts screaming at you to run away. but despite that, you hold your ground, challenging the being in front of you.

He's at least over 7 feet tall, one set of arms still crossed over his chest, the other finds their way to rest on his hips.

"The name is Sukuna." You just about drop to your knees. not only is his voice is unbearable, but you've heard about him before. You never believed in ghosts, curses, spiritual beings, anything of the sort and you've never believed any of your friends or family members when they told you legends about the man standing before you, yet here you are. About to be torn apart by the king they've warned you about for so many years.

"Guess you've heard about me, hm?" You can't get your damn mouth to move or your throat to make any noise. Your eyes are as wide as planets and all you can do is take a shaky step back, mimicking his opposite step forward and towards you.

"Why- why are you here?" voice is shaking as you speak, your breathing is jagged, which is prominent in your stutter. Just as sukuna takes another step forward, his features are illuminated in the moonlight shining through your bedroom windows curtains. He's absolutely breathtaking, and not many people would say that.

I guess I really am fucked up huh

"oh y/n, don't play dumb now, doll." His grin never leaves his face and your eyes meet with his. He's scary in the best way possible, and it's making you want to wipe off that dumb grin by sitting on it.

"You're the one whose..." You take a moment to think, which is extremely hard when this monster starts stalking towards you ever so slowly, both sets of arms coming down to dangle by his sides. He tilts his head to the side and begins to hunch his back and bend over to get a closer look at you. The distance is closing in on the two of you, making you unintentionally walk backwards and into a wall.

The sudden feeling of the cold wall on your back makes you yelp in surprise, but you never look away. He hums at you, signaling you to finish your sentence.

"You're the one whose been watching me for so long.." You say under your breath. Chewing the skin on the bottom of your lip. Your hands clench into fists as he keeps getting closer and closer.

"don't act like you didn't enjoy my little haunting game, love. you do remember touching yourself just to the thought of me, right y/n?" His smug smile could be heard just by the tone of his voice. Your breathing deepens and he's stopped right in front of you, face to face with the thing that's been taking over your entire life for the past couple years. Your back would be disappearing into the wall if it weren't made out of sheetrock. He stands up fully and all you can do is stare straight ahead, looking directly in the center of his entire body. He's fucking huge. Letting out a shriveled breath, you close your eyes.

"Look at me, y/n."

You refuse to open your eyes, or even move in the slightest.

He gives you 15 seconds before one of his hands grips the base of your jaw and forces your face upwards to look at him, nails digging into the flesh of your rosy cheeks.

"I said, look at me." With a fearful yelp at the sudden contact, you force your eyes open and are met with the most sinful red eyes you could ever see in this lifetime.

"Good girl." He snickers at the petrified look that paints your face. Even though you look so scared, your eyes are clouded with so much lust. Sukuna can basically smell the arousal pooling in your panties and it's driving him up the wall. Without a word, he pins you in place, making no room for escape by pressing his one of his forearms against the wall above your head, another one finds its way trailing up your thigh.

You let out a desprate sigh at the contact of his fingers. He traces up the skin of your inner thigh, leaving goosebumps to trail behind until he's met with the flimsy fabric of your underwear and it takes him less than a fraction of a second to feel just how soaked you really are.

"You're disgusting." His voice somehow got an octave deeper, but who are you to complain? You whine at his words, following a louder whine as he starts to trace the slit of your pussy through your underwear. Sukuna's hand locks your head in place as you look up into his eyes as he pushes your underwear to the side and pinches your clit, his fingernails creating a painfully pleasurable feeling.

With a loud yelp, your hips buck forward. With his final free arm, he uses his hand to push your hips back against the wall, keeping you in one place.

"Stay still." He commands. His hand on your hip is locking you in place, so you have no option than to obey. His finger traces patterns on your clit and moans dance off your tongue as a result. His fingers pick up the pace and are now harshly massaging at your center.

"a-ah, slow ple-" Without stopping his brutal pace, sukuna lets go of your face and just before it can fall forward, he grips a handful of your hair and yanks it backwards roughly. your eyes to lock with his once more. A scream at the sudden pain erupts from the back of your throat.

"Don't tell me what to do, i'll use you how I please." Sukuna pulls his fingers away from your clit only to land a harsh slap on the bundle of nerves, making you yelp loudly and your body jolt in surprise. He slaps it a couple more times before forcing two of his fingers into your wet pussy.

Sukuna's fingers slide in with ease thanks to his assult on your clit. He was standing at such a close proximity to your body that when your back archesoff the wall, your stomach and chest meet his front. Just as your body meets his, he decides to let go of your hair, making your head fall forward and onto his center. Your hands instinctually reach up and wrap around his body, using him as leverage to keep yourself from falling. Your nails dig into his back as his fingers work wonders deep inside of you, all you can do is bury your head into him to suppress your noises.

His fingers pump in and out of your pussy, curling and twisting at all the right angles, fingering your core as if he's trying to tear you apart from the inside out. Wet sounds come from just below you, but neither of you seem to hear them because they're drowned out by your loud moans and whimpers of pleasure. Sukuna's eyes never leave your body as you come undone.

His now free hand that was once in your hair decides to hook under your thigh, picking it up and letting it dangle, helping get a better angle to fuck you with his fingers. Because of this newfound angle, your back and head hit the wall behind you once more, but your arms don't leave his body.

"Look at you, such a pretty girl. So fuckin' small I could break you so, so easily." Your nails scratch at his back like there is no tomorrow and all you can do as a response is whimper.

"su- kuna" Your hiccuped plea of his name is enough to know you're about to cum all over his fingers, but he wont let that happen just yet.

"say it, y/n" Sukuna says, his voice solid. You look up, tears welled in your eyes as you look into his and your voice breaks.

"Please can I cum, please k-una please please please" Your cheeks are a deep shade of red and your mouth is slightly ajar and oh does sukuna wanna fill up your pretty mouth and ruin that pretty pink lipgloss that stain your full lips.

Without another word, his smirk deepens and his chuckle vibrates inside your skull. He takes his fingers out of you, your juices now running down your thighs and you're pretty sure your panties are completely ruined thanks to the demon above you. Your eyes widen while you plea him to continue with a hushed whimper.

"Hush, little one" is all he says before one set of arms is gripping your thighs and hauling you into the air. Your legs wrap around his torso on instinct and your throat lets out a surprised squeal at his actions. Your hands come up and one of them grips his shoulder, the other rests in his hair. You're now face to face with sukuna and his eyes look deeply into yours. one of his other free hand's is tangled in your hair within a fraction of a second and is pulling you in to kiss him with so much force, it almost gives you whiplash.

Your tongue tangles with his and you let out another squeal of surprise right into his mouth when your back hits the cushioning of your bed. Sukuna is now on top of you, his torso flat against your heat. The hand that was once tangled in your hair is now trailing its way to your neck. Sukuna breaks the kiss and you go to lean forward in protest, but his huge hand wrapped around your neck stops you. Another hand rests on the headboard above you, and the two that were holding you up now rest at the top of your dress.

With brute force and in the blink of an eye, your once beautiful red dress and strapless braw are now being ripped off of you, tiny flames ignite from the freshly ripped seam for a just a fraction of a second. You gasp at the sudden action and Sukuna's glowing red eyes never falter to look at the reaction on your face. He laughs once more at just how jumpy you are. the cold air hits your skin, causing your nipples to grow hard and goosebumps form on your smooth skin. Sukuna grabs the dress and bra out from under you and throw the articles of clothing across the room to be forgotten, all while looking right at you. Once the dress is out of sight, you look up at him, your eyes half lidded with lust that are basically begging him to use you.

Sukuna smiles at how innocent, yet already fucked out you look and decides to lean down toward your breasts, taking one of your nipples and fondiling it inside of his warm mouth. His tongue laps at you and your hands fly to his hair, pulling it out of pleasure. His two free hands now rest at your thighs, slowly pulling them apart, to which you happily obliged. His mouth moves from your nipple and starts to suck at the skin of your breasts. His mouth trails from your chest, down to your stomach and abdomen, leaving deep purple marks and bites that will most likely be staying for days, if not weeks. Your whimpers are like music to Sukuna's ears which only make him want to make you scream his name.

The hand that rested on the headboard is now grabbing your hands from his hair and forcing them down onto the mattress above you and the set of hands that were on your thighs are on your hips. Your eyes dont leave his, even as he rips your panties and throws them in the same direction he did your other clothes, making you bare yourself completely to him.

His hands part your thighs once more and pins them down, holding you in place.

"So cute, so tiny. 'could just ruin you hm?" he speaks as he lowers his head down to your heat, his breath fanning your dripping pussy. Your breathing is even more uneven than before as it's mixed with your hushed moans. Without taking his eyes off yours, he sticks out his tongue and licks a stripe up your cunt, causing your jaw to slack open in the perfect "oh" shape as your whine rings inside sukuna's skull. He licks up your cunt a couple more times before it initially lands on your clit, then he buries his head into your thighs and nips at you like a dog in heat.

His mouth sucks, bites and laps at your clit, and you try with all your strength to buck your hips up, but to no avail, the hands on your thighs pin you in place as your arms are basically unuseful. All you can do is throw your head back in pleasure as this creature devoures you. His grip on your throat tightens a little more and suddenly it's more difficult to breathe, but you dont even care.

Sukuna's saliva mixes in with your fluids that run down your thighs and asscheeks, wetting the bed under you. His long tongue fucks itself inside your pussy and against your walls as his teeth drag across your clit. Sukuna doesn't look away from you, not for a second. He wants to see every twist on your face and flex of your abs as he eats you out, he's desperately and intensively observing you, as if you were the most beautiful, treasurable piece of art he's ever layed eyes on. His tongue is rough as he creates a rhythm of fucking your insides, and sucking your bundle of nerves.

Your arms tug at the restraint of his hands holding your wrists. He's so much stronger than you, yet that fact alone turns you on so much more. Your moans and hushed screams fill the room as small beads of sweat gather on your hairline. Your body twitches under sukuna's control and your clit is throbbing for release as he toys with you.

You're so close to finishing and sukuna can tell so easily. Your moans grow into louder screams and your back arches off the bed. His grip on your throat tightens, cutting off all supply of air and your eyes are thrown open as you choke and cough, trying to get any oxygen possible.

Sukuna laughs into your pussy, which vibrates through your whole body. Your eyes look down into his, desperately trying to tell him to let you cum, or breathe. Whichever one he will let you do. Your silent plea only turns him on even more and your vision is starting to blacken and your head begins to feel light.

"Fuck, you're so adorable when you're beggin' for your life" He says as he sits up and hovers over you, refusing to let you finish. The hand on your throat disappears and you cough and gasp for air, but just as you suck in a deep breath, its knocked out of you by a harsh slap to your face and all you can do is gasp in pain at the sudden stinging on your cheek. He grips your face directly after with the hand he had previously slapped you with and forces you to look down at your pussy.

One of the hands on your thighs moves up to your cunt and plunges inside you. Two of Sukuna's fingers thrust inside your cunt at lightning speed and curl up into your center, hitting that spot you need him most. You choke out a scream and your hips grind into his palm.

"Look at the mess you're making y/n. Such a nasty little girl you are." He says as he looks at your pretty face contorting from the overstimulation he brings upon you.

Sukuna's fingers are relentless as they move fast inside of you. Not even a couple seconds later, you're cumming all over his hand and arm, squirting your fluids all over him as well as your bed sheets. You come undone with a scream.

"K-kuna oh my god!" You're being so loud, you could almost bet the neighbors across the street could hear. Neither of you cared though, all you cared about was how you were about to be torn in half.

Your eyes are watery again and you're still desperately trying to gather air in your lungs. Sukuna's hands let go of your wrists and face, but right after, you hear an article of clothing rip. You sit up slightly in wonder, but your mouth instantly hangs open at the sight of two handsomely large cocks sprung up, hitting just above Sukuna's belly button. Your mouth instantly dried at the sight.

Speaking of sights, Sukuna thought you were a beautiful one. Your hair was a shriveled mess and your face was the most gorgeous shade of red. You looked so fucked out, yet so ready to take anything he gives you like the obedient whore you are. You had a look of fear and interest plastered on your face. Sukuna was never one for love or anything of the sort, but the moment he layed his eyes on you those couple years ago, he knew he was fucked. You were just so different than most of the humans he had ever made contact with. You didn't care about the difference between "good and bad" and you always took what you wanted without second thought, even if it took you a while to grasp. You were always ready for whatever was thrown at you and were always in control of everything around you.

That's why he decided to stick around. Since the beginning, he's wanted to corrupt your world and fuck up your flow of control. He was arrogant and cocky. You just needed someone, or something, to step in and take control over you. And sukuna was never going to let anybody else besides him take control over his woman.

Though he would never admit it out loud, you were breathtaking. You're also the only reason he hasn't burned this world to the ground,,,, completely.

"Think you can take em'?" Sukuna's voice never fails to make a shiver run up your spine. You don't answer him, all you do is stare into his eyes, a silent plea to just have him use you however he pleases. He takes your lack of an answer and laughs quietly under his breath. He brings one of his hands to his face, and smiles into his palm.

"you're gonna be the death of me."

His body slowly stalks towards you, crawling onto the bed, trapping your body between his and the headboard. Your thighs rub together in desprate search of friction. You can't take it any longer, you need him inside you. You need every part of this being in any way you can have him.

"I don't care if you think you can take my cocks' or not, I'll force you to take em' how bout that, yeah?" His head tilts as he speaks and one of his hands grips your leg and pulls your body down farther onto the bed, causing you to lay down underneath his much larger body.

"You're so- so big kuna.." Your voice is uncontrolled and small. Unlike earlier where your screams and moans were ear piercing and just so delicious. Your eyes look up into his, your hands sneak up to wrap around one set of his arms, squeezing his biceps as you chew on the skin of the inside of your cheek.

Sukuna groans at your words. He really was huge, trapping your body underneath his. One of his hands grips the headboard, another comes down to grip the side of your face. His thumb traces your bottom lip, smearing your lipgloss.

Just as you open your mouth, his thumb presses down on your tongue as you suck in his finger. One of your hands makes its way down his body, gripping one of his huge cocks in your small hand. Despite the size difference, Sukuna still hisses in response. You pump his hard dick a couple times, looking directly into his eyes as you suck on his thumb. With painful force, sukuna grips your wrists and suddenly, both your hands above your head once more.

With one hand gripping the headboard, one holding your wrists in place, another moves from your mouth to grip one of his dicks while the final hand holds himself up, hovering right above you. You whine at the lack of control you have, grinding your hips upwards as a sign to let you go, but all sukuna does is laugh at your attempts of escape.

"Stop moving, slut." He pushes one of his dicks at your pussys entrance, but you don't listen to him, you grind your hips upwards once more and Sukuna doesn't seem to like that very much.

"Told you to stop movin' brat" and without warning, or any lube (as if you needed any) he pushes one of his cocks into your pussy with full force. It has you automatically screaming at the stretch. It's painful and you're pretty sure you're bleeding.

Sukuna bottoms out inside of you and stills, the outline of his dick prominant through your stomach, it drives him insane.

Sukuna uses his now free hand and pushes down on the outline of his cock through your tummy and chuckles.

"Fuck you're so small y/n, look at your tummy baby" You obey him and look down, seeing the outline of his huge dick bulging in your abdomen. A scared moan leaves your lips as you take in the sight. It literally looks like he could split you in half at any given moment. Sukuna pulls his dick out, a painful sensation radiates through your vagina as he does. The bulge in your tummy disappears and sukuna's face falters into one of disappointment.

"fuck, you're bleedin' y/n! " sukuna says to you, and just as you're about to look for yourself, he thrusts his dick back inside you, filling you back up again. He bottoms out inside you and a strangled moan that sounds more like a cough forces its way out of your throat.

"full- im so full, too full please-" Sukuna's face turns into one of disappointment again at your words as he says

"that's too bad, I wasn't even close to being finished with stuffin' you doll." He mocks you, and just as he finishes talking, you feel his second cock at the entrance of your ass, which causes you to shoot your head up.

"No, no please dont" you beg him, despite your words not being how you really feel, you beg him not to anyways. sukuna's face is still one that mocks you, pretending as if he feels bad for splitting you open. He pushes his tip into your ass so slowly it almost makes this situation better. The stretch is unbearable, especially with how tight you are with another cock spreading you open and filling you already.

Sukuna's entire tip is stuffed inside, waiting for you to adjust to his length.

"Look at you, taking me so well. Such a good little girl aren't you?" His voice is taunting you. Your arms feel weak from how much you've been struggling to break free, so all you can do I lay there and adjust to his cocks with hushed moans.

Sukuna starts moving his cock deeper inside you slowly, but not slow enough.

"Kuna please no, it's too much I can't take it" Your head shakes from side to side as painful tears fall from your eyes and down your cheeks. Sukuna pouts at this and leans down and uses his tongue to lick the tears away.

"you can take it, you're already doing such a good job for me." This reassurance helps you a little more, and with every inch growing deeper inside you, you find it hard to breathe, and sukuna notices.

He leans down and whispers deeply into your ear

"breathe my dear."

you listen to him and take deep breaths. In one particular deep breath, sukuna takes it upon himself to completely push the other half of his cock into you, getting it done in one swift motion just as you breathe out.

His actions cause you to scream in pain,,, and in pleasure. More tears fall from your eyes. Sukuna doesn't even give you time to adjust this go around, he just can't wait any longer.

"fuck, takin' my cocks' so well, you're so fuckin' tight, couldn't help myself" Sukuna says into your ear.

Your ass feels so tight as he thrusts in and out of both your stretched holes. the pain subsides into pleasure after a couple strokes and your painful hisses turn into sickening moans.

The sound of skin slapping echos off the walls of your dark room, the only light source being the moonlight shining through your window. Your pussy feels like it's going to burst every time sukuna's dicks thrust back inside you.

Sukuna's grip on your bed frame is so tight, the wood crumbles in his hand

"fuck" He curses under his breath

He needs to grip onto something, anything, so he decided to harshly grip the sheets that lay right next to your head. He looks from your face, down to your pussy where he sees his cocks move in and out of you, stretching you so beautifully.

When he looks back up at you, your teary, half lidded eyes lock onto his. You dont break eye contact, even as you moan out his name like a chant that dances off your tongue straight into his ears. And he loves it.

Your walls squeeze his dick's like you're trying to milk him dry. He's even surprised both of them fit inside you.... as if he didn't literally force them to fit.

"Please please let me touch you, just wan' touch please kuna' please" you moan out, begging him to let go of your arms. Much to his objection, he lets you go.

Your arms instantly wrap around his back, nails digging into his skin as you pull your bodies closer together. Your boobs press up against his broad chest as your sweat rubs into his skin.

Two of his arms hold his body up on his forearms above your head now, the other is pinning your stomach to the bed, the feeling of his dick entering and exiting your pussy being felt through your tummy.

his last free hand finds its way to the small of your back, his arm wrapping around your body and pressing you somehow closer against his. Your face is directly into his chest as you moan and scream out his name as his thrusts become wicked and fast, his hips snapping against yours. Your legs spread out for him to take advantage of you.

Sukuna looks down at you buried into his chest, his body hot and sweaty. Your nails scratching daggers into his back, you're pretty sure you can feel blood under your fingernails.

With each thrust inside you, your moans are choked and jagged and it's hard to breathe. The coil in your tummy is about to burst and you feel like you could explode from just how full you really were. Everything was too much, yet so perfect. Sukuna felt as if he was going to burst too, everything was so hot and wet, it was only driving him even more insane.

Your screams grew louder with each stroke of his cocks, signaling to sukuna that you were close.

"want me to come inside you? full you up and breed you like a dumb fuckin whore, turn you into a mommy?" He asks you, and all you can do is shake your head.

"you're gonna take my cum weather you want to or not, understand? Fill you up so nice nd' warm" He bares his teeth as you scream his name..

"no, no please dont I can't handle it, too full please k-una!" He doesn't like this answer, and it causes him to groan through his teeth. With a set of his arms, he grips your waist harshly, and with the other, he's stabilizing himself on the bed above you and sits up slightly.

"I dont care what you want, you're gonna take whatever I give you." he says before pulling his cocks out and flipping you onto your tummy. Your yelp of surprise is cut short as your hands grip at the sheets above you, trying to pull your body up and away from the monster.

"ah ah ah, dont run away from me, im nowhere close to being done with you." Sukuna stands up at the edge of the bed, his feet on the floor. He grabs your ankles and pulls you to the edge where he stands. He lets go of your ankles and roughly grips your hips, pulling you up and slightly into the air. He forces your knees down into the mattress, your ass up and your face in your sheets. His hands remain on your hips as another one of his hands finds a handful of your hair, gripping and pulling your head upwards and next to his chest, forcing you into a painful arch.

Sukuna bends over so his face is next to your ear. His long tongue licks your neck, and up to the lobe of your ear just before he bites it, your moan in exchange.

"now shut up and let me ruin you" is all he says before forcing your face down into your sheets, one of his hands pressing your head down into the mattress.

Sukuna thrusts his cocks into your holes once more, resulting in a muffled scream coming out of your mouth, but he doesn't move. his hips flush against your ass. Sukuna lifts one hand from your hips and lands a harsh smack on your ass, leaving your skin red. Your walls tighten around his cocks.

so he does it again

and again

over and over and over until you're creaming all over his cock and squirting all over your bed once more with more muffled screams.

"pathetic. squirting all over my cock with just a few slaps to your ass. how disgusting could you possibly get?" He mocks you again, landing one more painful slap to your ass as your liquids drip down your thighs and onto the mattress below you. He grabs the flesh of your ass with both of his hands and slowly pulls his dicks out of you, the empty felling in your tummy has you begging for him to fill you back up.

sukuna's face twists into one of interest as he hears your whines of protest.

"oh? what a little slut I have on my hands. and here I thought you truly didn't want me to tear you apart" he says as he thrusts his cocks deep back inside you, hitting your sweet spot that has you squealing ever so loudly. Your hands above your head painfully grip the sheets, your nails digging into your palms drawing blood. His thrusts are endless and with each one, he grows deeper inside of you. He uses one of his hands and rakes his nails down your back, scratching at your skin. It was a painfully blissful feeling that had your walls squeezing his cocks so tight, it causes sukuna to curse under his breath.

With a chuckle, he says

"you're so fukin' tight, im gonna fill you up so full, so swollen with my baby, you'll forever be marked as mine, you'd like that huh?" of course sukuna was lying, he would never ever want to reproduce, but the way you're milking his cocks is making him reconsider his entire opinion on that subject.

His thrusts grow faster and stronger, your pussy and ass flutter around his dicks so prettily, he can see it whenever he looks at your holes. You moan his name over and over again, like it's the only thing you know how to say.

The knot in your abdomen kept getting tighter and tighter every time he hit your sweet spot, you were so close to finishing and all you could do is yearn for sukuna to carry you to the finish line. So that's exactly what he did.

The hand holding your head down into the mattress disappeared, so you turned your head to the side, resting your cheek against the mattress, your eyes find his and oh fuck

oh good god

sukuna lost it

he threw his head back with a loud moan and tightened his grip on your hips so intensely he felt your skin break from under him, his nails digging into your flesh as blood ran down your legs, pooling on the sheets, staining his fingertips.

You had a puddle of drool where your face lays. your lips were bleeding from biting down on them so roughly, and your eyes. oh fuck your eyes were so perfect. it was as if sukuna could read a whole book just by looking into your eyes.

Just as he was about to finish, you came all over him once more, wetting the bed, soaking it really. Your walls fluttered all around him like the butterflies in your stomach. as you came, sukuna shot warm ropes of cum straight into your ass and tummy, so full it was leaking out of both your holes. but it wasn't enough.

It wasn't enough for sukuna.

In the middle of both your orgasms, he resumed his thrusts, but your body gave out and you collapsed on the mattress, your stomach hitting the wet bedding.

your body couldn't move, you became putty in his hands and you had no complaints.

sukuna cursed as he crawled over you, his dicks never leaving your walls. one of his arms snaked its way under your arm to grip your throat, another one held your tummy, another spread your legs enough for him to continue fucking you, and the last one held him up.

His hips met your asscheeks in a monsteristic rhythm, a burning sensation beginning to form on your flesh. your eyes rolled into the back of your head as your jaw layed slack open, drool running down your chin.

he was fucking his cum into you, making your soul intertwine with his in more ways than one. He fucked you through your next and final orgasm, your legs shook involuntarily as your guys' mixed cum got everywhere. it dripped down sukuna's cock, onto the mattress, between your thighs, onto his abdomen, all over your asscheeks, it was everywhere.

Your eyes closed, even as his thrusts continued, your mind faded away from your body and before you fully lost consciousness, you could hear sukuna's words ring through your ears.

"Ill see you soon, y/n."

#sukuna x reader #jjk #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #sukuna ryomen x reader #sukuna ryomen smut #jjk x reader smut #sukuna true form #sukuna smut #ryomen sukuna smut #ryomen x reader #sukuna jjk #sukuna jujutsu kaisen

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motthe · 20 days ago

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hiii !! just read like ,, a BUNCH of ur lumen au stuff ,,,, truly i am brainrotted now because i'm just thinking of so many different scenarios involving the lumens and i am just . EXCITED !!! its SUCHHHH a good concept im a big big sucker for soulmate stuff ,,,,

i was just wondering how you feel about jayvik x reader ,,,, TWO lumens ,,,,,,,, idk if you write for anything poly or not, but id love to hear your thoughts on it !!! either through headcanons or a ficlet, whichever you feel like :]

my first viktor x reader x jayce piece i’ve ever written… wait is this my first poly drabble?? it might be actually! i hope it’s fun to read ♥️

warnings: fem!reader, slight negative feelings of not being good enough, but overall fluff!!!

The scientific jargon that came with having not one but both of your fated being inventors was overwhelming. The words they tossed around became an entire other language since you’d all gotten closer. It left you feeling unbearably empty-headed, wondering why the universe would bond you to such intelligent men.

They were already changing an entire city with their ideas, and you would bet the world would soon bear their mark as well. In comparison, you were a meager artist making ends meet at festivals and street corners. Sure, maybe your work could be seen on a few shop signs or covering a wall or two in a cafe, but that was as famous as you’d ever be—a stranger to the passing eye.

“We need to widen the cylindrical chamber, maybe add an exhaust pipe to help with the cooldown.”

Jayce’s voice slipped through your head, smooth and confident and making no sense. You’d gotten rather good and tuning out the meat of the conversations, only recognizing the tones and emotions.

The heavy, warm accent of Viktor’s replied, swirling in the back of your mind as your pencil swiped over the heavy parchment against your thighs.

Recently, they’d begun inviting you to their lab to spend your free time in their company. There were two desks to choose from, though they were usually piled high with blueprints or notes. Jayce had moved a couch into the space for your comfort, placed in the corner and under a window, well away from any dangerous work they had their hands on, though they usually took anything too precarious into another portion of the building.

Their assistant, Sky, was in and out, always double-checking if you needed anything. She was a kind young woman, curly hair and glasses and a smile that made anyone feel at home. She brought you your own coffee and snacks, promising it was no trouble since she was already bringing them to Viktor and Jayce, anyway.

“You actually eat them,” she chuckled. “Jayce will if he notices they’re there, but it’s a long shot most days.”

You understood what she meant, seeing how focused the men became on their gadgets and studies. You’re sure if you got up and left they wouldn’t notice for a good, long while.

Today was one of those days, though there was peace in your private little corner as you sketched away. You squinted over the top of your sketchbook, skimming the outline of Viktor’s goggles pressed into his thick, winding hair and quickly adding the little licks of tresses to the paper before he was moving again.

You switched targets, taking in Jayce’s side profile and adding a bit more depth to his eyebrow and under eye.

Taking a moment to look between both drawings, you were hit with their beauty once more.

Jayce was deemed the academy’s “pretty boy,” with his strong jaw and perfect smile. He was a clean cut handsome, peak health and built with broad shoulders. He knew how to use those looks to his advantage.

On the other end was Viktor. He was a haunting beauty, sleek and angular. If he had the same charisma with speaking to the masses as Jayce did, that accent would gain him more than a fair share of admirers, but his confidence and skills lied elsewhere. He had a sharp eye and wore his emotions rather loudly on his face.

Where Jayce had faint lines from how much he smiled, Viktor had a feather soft crease between his brows from how often he furrowed them. Where the golden boy’s hands were always warm, his partner’s was cold. They made such gorgeous opposites, yet they held so many comparisons in mannerisms when it came to their shared hobbies and passions.

It was safe to say you adored them and their intricacies.

Taking a slow, deep breath you checked both shoulders before moving the tuft of black in your periphery into your hand. Gold shimmered between the dark mass that made up Jayce’s lumen, settling deeper into your palm as you raised your arms and stretched.

When you moved your drawing pad to the side, you spotted Viktor’s wedged between the apex of your thighs. Swallowing your gasp, you scooped it up, praying it hadn’t been smushed the entire time.

“When did you get there?” you whispered, rubbing your pointer finger into the tawny fuzz of his light. His lumen had always had a bit more give to it, leaving it to wedge itself under your leg or your shirt collar. Viktor’s preferred to be as close as possible to you, even if it left his lumen squished.

Jayce’s lumen was firmer, still soft but in a velveteen sort of sensation. It was bigger, taking up a good portion of your palm. Now your second month with it, you’d learned if it wasn’t on one of your shoulders, it was likely circling your head. His never went far either.

You wondered if you’d received Jayce’s lumen first, if it would have more of an attachment to you. As it stood, you’d had Viktor’s since you were young while he’d held Jayce’s and Jayce yours. The three of you being tied together had become quite the story as there went many outward poly fateds in Piltover, but luckily the gawking had passed after the first handful of weeks.

It was only a few days ago that Viktor confessed he’d been rather confused when he’d met Jayce and the lumens had flashed against one another.

“There were no similarities,” he’d explained, holding up one long, thin finger for your lumen to rest on as it hovered in front of him. The three of you were cozied up in your lackluster apartment—a studio more than a bedroom but it had a nice pullout couch and plenty of blankets to rest on in front of your heater. “Jayce was ecstatic, of course, but I was ruminating over your lumen when we first met.”

“I thought he hated me,” Jayce had murmured, breath warm against your ear as you laughed.

“I did not hate you,” huffed Viktor on your other side, rolling his eyes as he dropped his hand, your lumen resting within. “I wasn’t aware we had a third, yet—it was puzzling.”

“I had to explain it to him,” Jayce chuckled. “One of my old friends was in a poly.”

“And, then, he was even more ecstatic,” Viktor sighed but there was affection in it. “I thought you’d follow him home some nights.”

“And leave you all by yourself?” You laid your head on his shoulder, grinning as his eyes fled. It was still so early into the relationship, and he grew flustered with physical affection whereas Jayce sought it every chance. “I’d never.”

“It’s better now, we’re all together,” Jayce hummed, lowering to lay his head in your lap. You brushed your hand through his hair, smiling as his lumen lit up in Viktor’s lap.

“Yes,” Viktor had agreed, careful as he laid his head against yours. “It all feels…complete.”

Your chest warmed at the memory as you held both of their lumens in your hands, giving a fleeting kiss to each. Viktor’s snuggled happily into your palm while Jayce’s pulsed a happy gold before flying off, likely to check in with Viktor.

As your eyes lifted to follow its journey, you jumped when you found Jayce smiling from a few feet away by his desk. He seemed to be shuffling through some papers. Your lumen floated just nice his head, twinkling in the sunlight that shone through the windows behind you.

“Didn’t see you there,” you said, stretching your legs out before standing. Viktor’s lumen left your hand, keeping close to your neck.

“I hope you’re not bored.” He opened an arm up and you approached. You still grew giddy with any chance to be wrapped in his embrace, quick to accept the invitation.

“I like spending time here with you both,” you assured, giggling as he bent down to kiss your forehead. “Gives me plenty of practice.”

His eyes lit up, one of those dark eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”

“I know what you’re about to ask—”

“Please?” His arm wrapped tighter around your waist. “I wanna see.”

“They’re just rough sketches!” you laughed, pushing against his chest.

“C’mon, I bet they’re great! I’m sure Viktor wants to see them, too.”

You shook your head, a mess of giggles as he wrapped both arms around you and slowly edged his way towards the couch.

“Did someone call my name?” asked Viktor, turning from the machine he was working on. A torch was in his hand but luckily still off for the time being. Jayce’s lumen was sitting on his knee.

“Viktor tell her you want to see her art!” Jayce goaded.

“Tell him he needs to wait for a real piece,” you threw back, wrinkling your nose at him as he stuck his tongue out.

“You’ve been drawing us?” Viktor’s voice seeped with awe and innocent curiosity. “May we see?”

Jayce bounced his eyebrows at you, all too smug. “Told you.”

“Fine—fine!” you sighed, throwing your hands up and wiggling out of his hold as you went to grab your canvas notebook. “Don’t gripe when you see your half-finished faces.”

The tap of Viktor’s crutch intermingled with Jayce’s footsteps as they met you by the couch. As you handed over your work, Viktor was the one to accept it as Jace stood over him. Both their eyes went wide at the current page and your hand went straight to your arm as you shuffled in place.

“Those are just warmups, so…”

“Warmups?” Jayce breathed, looking up from the notebook. “These are amazing!”

“I have to agree, the detail is astounding,” Viktor hummed, looking to turn back a page. He caught your eyes before he did. “Is this all right? Tell us if we’re overstepping.”

“No, it’s okay! I’m used to people watching me draw on the street, it’s just… I don’t know.” You shrugged, bringing a hand up as Viktor’s lumen rubbed against your neck. Jayce’s was just settling on your shoulder again. “I care about what you guys think. It’s not anything big like you do, but…”

“Big?” Jayce echoed, both of their sights set on you.

“Well, it’s not as important as what you both do is what I mean.”

“Of course it’s important,” Viktor argued, expression stern.

“But it’s art!” you laughed, waving off the sudden seriousness growing from them. “It’s helping a bunch of people like your creations do. That’s much more important.”

“Art is just as, if not more, important,” he continued, passing the notebook to Jayce. “We are helping people in different ways, but do not do yourself the disservice and think what you create is anything less than what we do.”

“He’s right,” Jayce agreed, holding up your work. “This? This speaks to people. Your work can bring life to a room and lets people save a special moment in time.”

“Okay, don’t butter me up so much or I’ll melt!” you squeaked, too embarrassed to look at them as they chuckled and continued flipping through your sketches. It wasn’t long before the three of you were on the couch, both of them pointing out their favorites.

“Is my hair truly that messy?” Viktor grumbled, raising a hand to it. “Perhaps I should cut it.”

“No, I like it,” you said, grabbing his wrist. “You twirl it when you’re thinking! It’s so sweet.”

He blinked at you. “I do?”

Jayce whistled and you turned and gasped, completely forgetting the drawing you’d done of him in the forge. It was more from memory so your imagination had left it a bit more detailed than the rest.

“Okay, that’s enough!”

You swiped for the book, shutting it as Jayce laughed. Viktor rolled his eyes, smirking as he nudged your shoulder.

“Should I be worried of any scandalous pieces of me in there?”

You pouted, holding the notebook tighter to your chest.

“Oh?” Jayce breathed. “She didn’t say no!”

“You two are the worst!” you groaned, unable to help yourself from smiling as they both laughed in tandem.

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lordofdestructionm · 1 year ago

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Viktor and Elsa

A secret passion?

Viktor Vasko and Elsa Bastion (formerly Arbogast) clearly share a connection. This has been clear since the Defiance flashback

This perhaps shouldn't be that much of a surprise. They are both veterans of the Great War, they have both experienced and still bear the inner scars that come with the tragedy and brutality of war and the suffering it brings.

Elsa in her capacity as a nurse, who no doubt saw all manner of mangled and broken men, and Viktor the muddy, bloody, living hell that was the front line of the trenches. It only makes sense that such people would be able to understand each other in ways others wouldn't.

Elsa has no doubt spent plenty of time treating wounded soldiers and seen the emotional anguish, and so would be able to see through that sour intimidating facade that keeps most people at arms length. While Viktor could find reassurance in the company of a kind and compasionate woman like Elsa

But many fans have found themselves wondering if there could be more to it than that.

Viktor spent some time staying at the arbogast household, and it seems in that time Elsa got to know Viktor very well, learning more about his life than even Ivy, someone that can approach Viktor much easier than most as a stand in daughter to him, and even to the extent she knows Viktor would never have agreed to let her put herself in danger

Viktor for his part may also feel more than just friendly towards her, if the face he makes when she is finally able to get through to him by phone to inform him about Ivy putting herself in danger is anything to go by.

Having been in a pit of deep despair over the memory of his far away daughter, plus the poor state of his health with compromised knees and a hole in his chest, hearing from her seems to make that normally scowling face soften

But before we all jump on that bandwagon and "Viktor x Elsa" become our new Lackadaisy otp, we have to consider the jolly British elephant in the room.

Bobby Bastion

Bobby is another war veteran and it was though their service that they met just after the war and later married.

He appears to be a very jolly and affable chap (relative to most bootleggers anyway), which may well be what drew Elsa to him in the first place. Someone who could counter her melancholy from the dark times they went through

He seems to be very aware and considerate of his wife's relative melancholy, by Elsa's own admission leaving a very lucrative funeral trade in the big city to move too a small quiet community that offered little business but gave Elsa the peace and quiet she needed (like Viktor it seems she hates "noise, noise, noise" thanks to the war).

Their involvement in bootlegging in the first place it seems was to compensate for this and provide the income to sustain this relative isolation

But despite this, perhaps their diffent mindset has become more of a barrier between them rather than something that compliments each other?

As the family illustration suggests, Bobby is relatively content and able to smell the flowers, while Elsa remains haunted. Bobby's humour also seems to have little effect on Elas's mood

Could it be that Elsa would be drawn to someone like Viktor, someone who suffers from the same trauma as her and may be more willing to admit to the pain, than a husband who despite the best of intentions is trying to just smooth over the problem? Quite possible

But even with that strong connection and bond between them, even if there is a mutual spark, does that suggest an actual affair? That's the big question here.

While arguably not handling his wife's troubles in the best way, Bobby seems to be a loving husband doing his best for his wife who he cares for deeply. Is Elsa the type of person who would cheat on her kind husband for helping in the "wrong way"?

Plus Bobby not only shows no sign of concern about Viktor staying with them and being around his wife, but, (despite his brother in laws interuption) mentions that he was very grateful for Viktor's help and actually saw him as almost "part of the family"

Is this a case of "ignorance is bliss"? Does he simply blindly trust his wife so much that the possibility doesn't even occur to him, or does he know her well enough to be certain that infidelity is something she simply would not do?

But this is all speculation at this point. What do you think?

Is poor Bobby blind to what happened under his own roof? Is it a matter of two people feeling an attraction but tragically unable to act on it due to circumstances? Or is it just an innocent matter of two wounded souls with shells and screams still ringing in their ears recognizing the scars on each other and offering some understanding?

Thanks to @ursiday whose Viktor and Elsa art got my over analysing brain juices flowing again ;)

#lackadaisy #tracy j butler #lackadaisycats #elsa arbogast #bobby bastion #elsa bastion #viktor vasko #viktor x elsa #bobby x elsa #hey look at that i posted a Viktor analysis that doesn't involve Mordecai!#I must be fatally ill #Mind you wouldn't it be funny if Viktor was hopelessly longing for Elsa while Mordecai “repression” Heller quietly did the same for him hah #and by “funny” I mean tragic as all hell

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soulren · 1 year ago

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Go spend some time on male pattern baldness or male(AMAB) balding forums/subreddits and such. I did after realizing it is happening to me and the ammount of people who truly don't realize how BRUTALLY it tanks people's confidence and mental health is insane.

There's no cure to baldness by the way, and it can start at any time and there's no way to predict how fast or slow it will go. The only real working option is a daily pill that usually just halts it, but it can stop working or just slow it down or cause major side effects. To regrow you have to use a daily topical solution, or use a roller to wound your scalp. None of these are surefire by the way, and if you stop them you'll just lose your hair and whatever you regained. It's a daily involved thing that might not work and often at best just retains. The best drug, the one that occasionaly gives regrowth, also causes shedding at the start, and can have side effects from growing breasts to brain fog to EDsyfunction(sorry, censoring cause tumblr). Now, those are INCREDIBLY rare and almost never happen but it weighs heavily on the mind of those already spiraling.

But that's just background. What I'm here to talk about is the pure woe you'll see on those forums. People speak as though their lives are over, as though they've lost every chance of finding a woman(predominantly, there's a running idea in such places that women don't like bald men or like them less) or doing anything. You can read countless stories of people who describe that they no longer go outside, are now filled with anxiety and self-hate, have gone from extroverted to never showing their face. And some of these people are kids who lost their hair in high school or even before, or are holding as best they can to a very receded hairline and feel like there is nothing they can do.

And then there's something touched upon far less in those communities, but is important to bring up here; baldness and masculinity. There's the horror of knowing so much of society sees a bald guy as a very masculine guy, at seeing that the best advice for being hot and bald is "grow and beard and big muscles bro". Imagine now you're AMAB balding and nonbinary, or a trans woman who doesn't want to be on hormones.

Just genuinely take the time to look at those forums no matter who you are. Understand what these people go through, what I am currently going through. It is soul-crushing, spiraling, brutal. I have the dream of one day being like Brennan Lee Mulligan or Matt Mercer and starting to lose my hair made me feel like I could never. I felt like and still feel like I would have to be masculine, have to be a bro-y dude, have to look older than I was(I'm fuckin 22). It was the feeling that I could never dress feminine again, never present as a woman when I wanted to again, that I'd always be viewed as a bald guy before anything else.

This is an incredibly vulnerable post for me, and I hope it reaches you all as well in a kind and understanding mood. There's a tendency online for people to joke about baldness, to make fun of it, to treat it as a playfull silly thing but it fucking ruins lives, and it shouldn't. It happens to half the population's sort of bodies and very often. It should just be a neutral thing. You don't need long hair to be feminine, you don't need hair to be feminine. You don't need hair for anything. I guess I'm just saying in general that everyone should be kinder about balding, more understanding, and view it with as much import as they'd view the pixels between this sentence and the next. None at all, I mean.

And for those like me, very feminine guys who wanna keep that and don't want a beard and are terrified of balding, here's some names and I do hope others that see this will add more; Mr. Bruce (also in The Correspondents(band) Alex Ward in LA By Night Jason Carl in LA By Night Cecil Baldwin of Welcome To Night Vale Bob The Drag Queen RuPaul(in looks alone, I know about the whole fracking stuff but this post is about looks) tananasho on instagram Also your mannerisms and style of dress will convey femininity far more than your hair. Yea sure a front-on neutral shot of you may not and maybe you need makeup and stuff, and hell maybe a lot of people might reject you more but it'll just filter down to the people for you.

And to all you artists and writers and creatives; make more bald characters. Try it out. Feminine ones, masculine ones, all sorts. None of the copout nonhuman sort, just dudes and girls and mates and individuals who are all sorts of things and also bald. It might make a few of the people going through the various vortexes of pain that balding causes feel a bit better.

And to those noticing I did not adress female hair loss much here, that was intentional. I am AMAB and currently a nonbinary guy who goes by any pronouns but often likes to present as fem. I learned I was possibly losing my hair and lost two months of my life, no work or going or anything, to male hair loss forums and research and spiraling. Checking my hair twenty times a day, unable to sleep, unable to eat, unable to think. And my situation was NOT unique, but it also did not give me any experience or understanding of female hair loss and what AFAB people may go through with that, so I don't feel knowledgeable enough to speak on it. Also living with baldness WILL get easier and you will find something that works for it, by virtue of simply living with it. Things get easier with time.

#bald #balding #hair loss #hair #hair care #minoxidil #dermaroller #baldness #bald and feminine #bald fem #using a lot of tags due to this being triggering for many and cause I want it to be seen #and because I want those who went through what I did to be able to find it #mpb #androgen alopecia #also I know this post is long but I'm not sorry cause it's important. If even one person has a bit less stress then that's good.#feminine bald man

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yeonjuns-beanie · 20 days ago

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In Odio Est Amor

warnings: 18+, smut, unprotected sex, descriptions of blood and violence, some exhibitionism, lustful/cathartic sex, angst, mutual pining, talk of death, oral(f receiving), think that’s it

summary: in a trade gone bad, you’ve been sought out by macrinus due to your animalistic combat skills. stuck in the camp of gladiators, Hanno is assigned your sparring partner. your existence is a bitter reminder of what he lost but in hate we find love.

a/n: saw gladiator for a second time and i felt compelled to write, seeing as i CANNOT stop thinking about lucius/hanno. he’s just too hot. considering the historical timeline, this is a little inaccurate, seeing as gladiatrices were banned in 200 AD. hopefully, this will be up to par with the rest of the amazing writers in this tag. hope you have a great day!

lucius verus x female!reader

word count: 7.4k

Being the only woman in the camp of gladiators left you feeling like a chewed piece of communal meat that was too tough to swallow. Stuck in a loop of forever being spit out, only to be soon placed in the mouth of another slobbering animal.

Anything beat the damnation of being a courtesan.

The life you lived before was that of sexual servitude, left to your own meticulous devices of survival. Even with your promiscuous occupation, you found ways to be exceedingly picky. It was the only way you could save the last bit of dignity that you had left. Caracalla, saw a means to see an end to your persnickety nature when you denied him of the favors he requested. After the exile and potential murder of his late wife, most of the other courtesans never denied his requests, but when you were placed between his legs and met with unsightly sores as the base of his shaft; you couldn’t find the gall to risk your health. Especially, not for some entitled tyrant who was destroying Rome for all that it was worth.

You told yourself that this would be one of the few clients you’d swallow your pride for but instead, you forced him to vomit his. Your refusal birthed a mirage of embarrassment and shame shrouded in anger and a battle cry for your death. After being whisked away by his servants, you were foolish to think that this would be the end of the interaction. As you walked the path home, you were overcome with wilting anxiety. In the moment where you felt you might be able to make it safely back, you were bombarded by royal guards.

Pummeling you to the ground, your fists connected with as many faces as possible. When your coiled hands of fury and fright failed you, you resorted to more primal behaviors. Using your teeth to stall your enemies, shreds of crimson skin stained your mouth, but alas–you were severely outnumbered. One man struck the back of your head and covered your face with a burlap sack. Feeling metal cuffs being placed around your wrists, you allowed your bones to relax in your defeat, understanding that you were once again shackled to the fall of Rome.

They tossed you around like garbage. You knew that’s how they saw you and could only imagine what Caracalla had said about you for them to be so rough. Dragging your body across the gravel, you fell limp in their grasp not caring where you ended up next. Soon sleep draped over your body and you hoped that your eyes would fight fluttering open, leading you to an everlasting sleep.

When you awoke, you were in a stone cell clad in your dirtied stola. The ends of the dress were speckled with dirt and the low, modified neckline was frayed as if someone tried to tear it open. Sitting up on the bed you peered through the bars of your royal cage, your eyes landing on sweaty, shirtless men across the way. Walking to the bars, you could see that a few guards were patrolling the area, but you couldn’t help to notice that it seemed you were the only woman in these cells. Before you could find the strength to call out to someone, a brown-skinned man costumed in elaborate robes and jewelry came up on the other side of the cell.

“Ah! You’ve awakened. And just in time, I must say, you get to prove your worth to me this morning.” “Excuse me?” “Apologies, suppose it would be a common courtesy to inform you what your new duties are. I have to admit, I saw you last night, tearing into those guards like a feral banshee; very similar to my barbarian.”

Barbarian?

Your face contorted in confusion, wishing that the antics of storytelling would be removed from the conversation; however, judging from this man’s outward appearance you doubted you’d be awarded the luxury.

“A gladiator of mine likes to eat monkeys. Proven to be one my best fighters, and seeing you behave as equally inhuman if not more than him, especially…after hearing what you did–I have to say I’m overjoyed to have a barbarian of beauty to bet on as well.”

Your face soured, realizing you were slavery bait. No better than cattle waiting to be slaughtered.

“I’m not fighting for you.”

“Ah, my banshee, you see–you aren’t fighting for me. No…but rather your freedom. Fight for me, and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

Your hand struck the metal bars of the cell. The ringing of the bars reverberating off the chambers of the stone prison. It was equally as haunting as the shriek of a banshee in the dead of night. Frustration and agony rushed through you, demanding a destination for its release, the rusty bars alchemizing the brunt of your fury. The only way out was through. Through blood, through agonizing pain, through the tears of what was left of your family name, through ruin. You let your mind wander about what could possibly satisfy the seething, bitter ache that now resided in your soul.

The fall of Rome? Its mighty walls finally crumbling due to its horrific excuse of the ruling. A damning plague? Disease wiping out all of those who were destined to meet the divine in some display of retribution? Or perhaps, the death of Geta so that Caracalla could choke on the verity of his despotic rule? Each thought seemed chaotic enough to satisfy the storm of rage within but there was only one thing that would snuff the flames.

“Caracalla’s head.”

You stormed to the cell gates, fire breathing out of your nostrils and rage swimming in your irises. If he were to fall headlong, a bloody trophy for you to display, your hunger would be satiated. You fought tooth and nail your entire life, to be something more than a slave and here you were being pawned off for entertainment. Justice demanded her dues.

“There she is. Now, put these on and follow their orders, I’ll be with you soon.”

The cell gate opened and you were handed an olive green tunic, strophium, and subligar. Sighing as you looked at the fabric in your hands, you braced yourself for the long road ahead. Nodding to the man you realized something before he walked off.

“What was your name?”

“Macrinus. Yours?”

You hesitated, the weight of your given name threatening to roll past your lips. This couldn’t be your legacy–a woman discarded for the entertainment of others, her last shreds of dignity wrung dry and tattered. No one would seek the truth, nor would they care for the details of your defiance toward Caracalla. They would crave the story spoonfed to them by a diluted man.

A savage.

A wanton woman who was too picky in her own right in a poor attempt at survival. A woman who denied a royal the spoils he believed to be his right.

A whore. Nothing more.

That would be the glorious legacy, at least that would be the emphatic story the town would cry if this were to result in your untimely death. And yet, as you bored your eyes into the man on the other side of the bars, something about his presence loomed like a shadow too wicked to trust. The unsettling dissonance was difficult to ignore. Should he ask for the truth of your life, you’d give it willingly, but something in his gaze served as a warning: this truth would bear no fruits for you.

“Nero.”

“That’s not your birth name, is it?”

“My birth name will die with Rome, if I see it fit.”

Macrinus nodded a knowing smirk painting his lips before he walked off.

In your new robes, you sat on the bed, waiting for your cell gate to be opened. In your dissociative state, you noticed all the different colors in the dirt and the different sizes of the rocks and pebbles. Wondering how long it took for these fragments of eternity to be reduced to small scraps of their original form. The squeaking from the gate tore you from your thoughts and a man dressed in typical gladiator armour greeted you with something mixed with disdain and pity.

“Come. Time to train.”

You rose, the stretching of your limbs and the movement towards the man wrought with apathy running through your marrow. Was the struggle ahead worth the anguish that came with it? Would surrendering your life and facing judgment by the gods to everlasting torment bring a sense of solace in its finality? Would there be any reward in this life or the next for a soul being unmade by its own hand to escape imprecation?

Your head hung as you followed the man outside, leading you to a gathering of burly men in tunics with all love for life stripped from their faces. They were bruised, scabbed, and jaded by the torment they’d been subjected to; but of course, the entrance of a woman breathed some vitality back into them. In the time spent in your cell, you had braided your hair away from your face, leaving your imminent beauty on display despite the rags they clothed you in. It was as if the world silenced around you as you walked in, your head now held high in the presence of others. A ringing filled your ears as your eyes landed on a ragged man, a cold detachment surrounding his aura. He was staring. A jaded expression tracked your every move as you took the open seat next to him, not uttering a sound.

You hung your head again, hoping to ignore the invasive and curious gazes of the other men. Clasping your hands together, you prayed to the Gods to give you the strength to survive. Your prayers were cut short as you heard Macrinus’ voice echo over the various sounds of the training camp.

“As you all can see, we have a new barbarian joining our ranks today. She is destined to earn her place in the arena just as all of you. Her late arrival means her trials begin in full. No. Mercy. Since my barbarian, Hanno, claimed victory in the hand-to-hand combat two days ago, perhaps it’s only fitting that you, Nero, show us the skills that spared you your life. After all, they chose to throw you in the gladiator pit instead of severing your head. Hanno, Nero, up!”

Macrinus clapped his hands together to urge haste in movement from you and whoever Hanno was. As you stood, you realized the body next to you was also rising in stature. Gazing in his eyes this time, there was an emptiness that stirred. For a moment you saw a flash of sorrow in his eyes and you furrowed your brow in response. He was built and you began to wonder what your limitations were for combat. You stood in between the benches of men and the elaborate chair Macrinus was sitting in, planting your feet in the dirt in a fighting stance. You waited for Hanno to reciprocate the stance but every time he leaned his body down, he stood back up in apprehension. Shaking his limbs in rejection, he turned to Macrinus.

“This is not right. To fight a woman in these…in any conditions. Pick someone else.”

“You will fight her or all deals are off. Who’s to say she’s not a worthy opponent?

Your shoulders lifted lazily, dropping them with a defiant slouch as your face cast a dismissive look. Without hesitation, you settled back into your stance, surging at Hanno. You landed a jab straight to his jaw before drifting around his ankles, creating a tornado of dust that wove through his defenses. A storm of grit and determination fueling your fury. When he fell, the sorrow in his eyes was swallowed and replaced by vexation. You dodged his punches with precision, though his fist made home in your gut, dropping you to the ground. You hobbled up slowly, coughing out the bitter dust in your throat before lunging at him again with savage resolve.

He was an equal opponent, but you were determined to win. Tapping into the same energy from the night before, instinct ravaged your body as you lept on his back, raining blows of rage down on his chest. His attempts to rid you of him only fueled your fire of wrath more and you grabbed a fistful of his hair. You let loose a scream that was sharp enough to sear the air, a blistering echo to the ears. Baring your teeth you were disposed to bite.

“Stop!”

Macrinus’ voice bellowed through the camp ceasing the dog fight in front of him. You hissed at him, an animal seized mid-hunt. Hopping off of Hanno’s back, you stood in front of him and bowed in tense submission before walking with your head hung low back to your seat. Macrinus stood and gave a calculated, smug look towards the man clad in leather armour that brought you down here.

“Hose her down and cell her with him. Balance already hangs by a thread in this camp. We must keep vigilant. I believe two invasive species, separated, will incite chaos. Keep them together and maybe those who resist them will have enough strength to endure”

You raised your head slowly, turning to look at Hanno seated next to you, commiseration flooding your features. You were surprised to see the same look staring back at you. Pressing your lips in a fine line, you rose and followed the guard to the bathing chambers.

~*~

Your muscles ached, the hot water soothing the pain radiating through your limbs. You assumed it was Macrinus, but there was folded fabric at the edge of the bath. Stepping out and drying yourself off, you draped the clothing over your body, only to find that it barely reached your mid-thigh. You knew you’d be asking for too much to be treated with some note of decency, but at least you were able to clean yourself. The guard walked you back to the cells and as you passed your previous one being occupied by another man, you realized the orders from earlier were not a bluff and you’d have to face Hanno like a fool.

As you walked down the corridor, men in the other cells were whistling, catcalling you to come stay in their cell instead. Claiming that they could show you a better time than Hanno or the emperor.

The word spread like wildfire. Once a whore, always a whore.

You hung your head, hoping that somehow if you wore your shame on your sleeve you’d disappear from all the madness. The squeak from the cell bars ripped you from your thoughts and you looked at Hanno apologetically before seating yourself on the bed across his.

“By Gods, why do they have you in here?”

You shook your head, trying to will away the tears that were welling up in your eyes. His first words to you weren’t vulgar or accusatory, they were forged of concern and despondent curiosity. You licked your lips, caging them in between your teeth in an attempt to swallow the burning ball of emotions that was bubbling up your throat. You turned to face him finally, swallowing your fears and accepting your fate. Something about him told you that you could trust him. Sighing, you found your strength to speak.

“I assume you’ve heard the echoes of what I’ve done?”

Hanno nodded slowly.

“There is some verity to the words but not all. I know you may find it difficult to see truth in such a claim, especially as I stand before you clad in garments of odium, bestowed so graciously upon me. But know this– I am more than a mere cyprian. Indeed, I am Rome’s poorest excuse for one, and that very deficiency is what has landed me in the arena.”

“What is this deficiency you speak of?

“Being too particular in whom I offered services to. I only did what I did to survive…and now, I must survive for sport–entertainment for eyes who would care less if I lived or bled out in the dirt.”

Hanno looked down at his hand, fiddling with the ring that adorned his pinky finger.

“I also…I want to apologize for my behavior earlier today. He christened me a ‘barbarian of beauty’ –figured I needed to give him a reason to keep his favor. I do hope you understand, but still, the animalic behavior was unjust.”

“No need. We must survive, by any means necessary. I only wish the Gods decided a different fate for you.”

Hanno’s breath became heavy but sparse. He seemed to be reminiscing on something but wouldn’t dare let the words fill the air between you. He mumbled something you couldn’t quite catch and you were about to inquire but his low voice painted the silence first.

“Your name, it’s not Nero, is it?”

Your body separated itself from your mind and you stared at Hanno with fear and uncertainty. Your birth name was shallow on your tongue but heavy in your throat, begging for someone to see you for more than just your flesh. To attach an identity to the body more than an insult. You shook your head and turned to the makeshift window toward the ceiling, seeing a navy blue begin to stroke the sky in its image, hoping that something would give you the strength to share yourself the same way you had done when it was at the expense of others. Hanno’s hand encased your own and brought you back to the conversation as the gesture startled you.

“I’m not your enemy. Remember we’re ‘barbarians’, only the two of us.”

Sighing, he swallowed his pride and revealed his belly to you.

“Hanno is not my name, and I’ve not always been Rome’s favorite beast. I’ve come to know I bore a name that mattered. Lucius Verus Aurelius. The Prince of Rome. A name I may never be able to reclaim in glory.”

He paused tightening his grip around your hand as if seeking comfort.

“There was a dream of Rome, one that my father fought for. But through slaughter and slavery, power won over the people and now we wade in the remnants of what once was. In search of the hope that someone or something will restore the honor.”

Lucius let go of your hands and brought one of his calloused ones to his face, Rubbing the stress-ridden features away as the scratch of his beard caught your ears. You watched him attentively, waiting on bated breath for him to speak his next words. He leaned closer, the gap between seeming to never have existed. He gazed into your eyes, searching for something you knew not of until he uttered them in the next breath.

“You remind me of her.” His voice was nearly a whisper. Something you’d miss again if you weren’t so focused on him. With more chest to his tone, he admitted.

“My wife. She burned like you do. A flame that never quit dancing. A warrior who refused to bow–they stole her spark. The same day they made me a slave. A bitter goodbye, I shared, but when I look at you…I see her ghost.”

There was a touch of venom in his last words. They seemed to have meant good will but the taste was sour in your mouth. A moment fleeting once again. Even in your vulnerability, your search for someone seeing you for you, you were a reminder of something else. You paused, taking a deep breath in before you spoke. Removing your hands from Lucius’, you stared at him with the cracked concrete resolve that you walked through life with.

“Y/n. Y/n L/n is my given name. My father was once an accredited soldier here in Rome, but he tried to overthrow the twins. With that political betrayal came familial shame and poverty. Sinking deeper into poverty I couldn’t watch my mother fail. My beauty had always been prominent, so I exchanged my virtue in an effort to clear our debts and save what dignity my mother had left.”

Tears began to well in your eyes as you thought about the orders that were carried out against your family.

“They slaughtered her.” you began, voice trembling like a frayed string.

“As I spent hours severing my pride, they cornered her. There was never a debt–only a performance of humiliation, a spectacle of shame to the so-called traitor.”

You stood, staring out the cell bars before turning to face him again, your shadow stretching across the stone from the torch on the wall.

“My father raised a viper. A soldier to bear his name in honor. But those tyrants–these incompetent rulers–they’ll soon choke on their arrogance. I will have his head.”

“Who?”

“Caracalla. I may have sold my poise for survival but I will not suffer my health for the pleasure of a rat.”

You sat beside Lucius, your words heavy in the air.

“I carry the guilt, a constant companion. I reminisce the fragments of life I had before all of this and now I reminisce of what it felt like to live a life unspoiled by the fear of death. The scars of my servitude are my food for that arena. This isn’t about freedom it’s about reclaiming a dream they stole.”

You felt Lucius staring but you didn’t dare return the gesture. You were naked, said too much about yourself, you only hoped that you could keep his favor.

“We should get some rest. God knows the entertainment we’ll be performing tomorrow.”

Standing up you settled back into your bed, curling your body into a fetal position with your back facing the wall. You tried your best to maneuver the fabric of your dress to cover yourself but soon gave up on the endeavor and just stared at the ground covered in shadows of yellow and orange.

~*~

Sleep evaporated in a single breath as the cacophony of clamoring metal and gruff voices jolted you awake. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you dressed in the olive garments from yesterday, the scent of sweat and earth still clinging to the fabric. In the corner, a pile of gladiator armor taunted your peace. With a heavy breath escaping you, you braided your hair, coiling it into a bun. Every strand you attached a prayer of strength to. The weight of Lucius’ gaze bore into you, his presence going unnoticed until now. He lingered, his eyes flickering between your own and the twisted knot of hair at your nape.

“Something on your mind?”

“You mirror her as if she’s still here.”

You noticed where his eyes were landing and gently touched the bun. A tight-lipped, bitter smile cracking your face. Rolling your tongue around your teeth, you spoke.

“Whoever your wife was” you murmured, unspoken and unintentional venom in your tone, “do not look for her in me. Whatever regard you hold her in, I could never–honor the shadow of her memory. I am a poison.”

You meant no harm but your words were dripping in acrimony. You hated that throughout your life, you were always seen for something other than yourself. The epitome of you, torn to shreds and left screaming. Y/n was never seen and how could she be? A family name forgotten in a smear campaign and a life lived of shame, what was there to be reveled in? You abhorred that he saw someone much more valuable in you than you deemed yourself worth. You were a ghost. A shallow reminder of what he once loved.

The cell thickened with unsaid words, Lucius opened and closed his mouth, betraying the storm of thoughts that swirled within him. He walked toward the cell door, grabbed your blade, and passed it to you with care.

“I see you, Y/n, and your strength. Fight for your name today and do it with intention.”

You nodded, swallowing the bubble of hatred and sorrow in your throat. Standing you grabbed the grip of the blade, steadying its weight in your fingers. You heard the other cell gates opening and you waited to be released. Adrenaline and ferality coursing through your veins.

The walk to the arena was short but brutal as the sun scalded your skin. As you stood in the shaded maw of the tunnels, you felt water sloshing at your feet. The rays of the sun blinding your eyes in its reflection. You watched Lucius walk to the front of the group, a commanding presence blanketing the air.

“This is about survival! Survive!”

You followed his lead, wildly unprepared for what was to happen next. The feeling of the water squishing between your toes made your skin crawl but a shiver of fear soon took over as you saw the vessel you’d be fighting on today. Suddenly, the water made sense. You took a seat towards the front awaiting Lucius’ command. Your hands gripped the ore tightly and you looked at the bearish man next to you who greeted you with mockery.

“Hope your teeth come in handy in the water.”

You stared forward, fire in your eyes. You separated from your body feeling an unknown level of rage sear your being. You heard an announcer on the other side and the gates were released open, water rushing underneath the boat. Quickly scanning your surroundings you noted with disgust how the arena had turned into a spectacle of chaos. Floating vessels on either side filled with poor bastards, desperately seeking a second chance at life in this gauntlet of survival for the entertainment of nameless faces.

Lucius commanded the ship valiantly, some men perishing to the sharks or arrows from the opposing side. As the boat was steered to demolish the other ship's ores, you felt a surge of rapid excitement run through you as you watched the shards of wood penetrate their skin. Leaving them in either complete agony or to bleed out amongst their crew.

In one more calculated steer, Lucius’ ship barreled into the side of Roman’s warship, debris shooting into the air and clanking back down on the deck. All hell broke loose. You watched Lucius hail down from his post, sword in hand as he slaughtered two men with unusual ease. You’d seen a rage poor out of him that you never seen actualized in anyone but yourself. Your eyes caught Caracalla’s as he sat in his imperial chair watching with glee as your limbs froze in anger. You were one of the last to flee the boat and the game announcer made sure everyone saw your unease as you comprehended your reality.

“It seems our newest gladiatrix hasn’t earned her sea legs.”

Unbridled fear and rage soiled you as you stared at the crowd with wide, brazen eyes. You growled, tightening your grip on your sword, and ran into the chaos with reckless abandon. Your resolve didn’t care who your sword struck, just as long as your bloodlust was satisfied. Helmets adorned with hideous plooms made your targets easy to strike and you made it worth your while. Your blade was stained crimson and you clawed at their exposed skin just to ensure their death was agonizing. Flesh caked under your nails, the dried blood becoming sticky in your palms.

Baring your teeth, your back was hunched and heaving in the air. You snarled seeking your next victim within the chaos. A blade slashed your arm, leaving fresh garnet to ooze from the wound. You looked up into the emperors’ box seeing Caracalla leaning forward in his seat pouting at the outcome in front of him. Macrinus was behind him, hands steepled together as he hid a smirk from the rest of his peers. Hearing the announcer’s grating voice echo in the Colosseum, you stalked your next target.

“What an animal! She’s worse than our sharks. Perhaps, we should have put her in the water instead!”

Laughter erupted in the area and you looked around feeling a sense of helplessness begin to wash over you. You were giving them exactly what they wanted. Stomping around on the deck, you were planting your sword into already dead soldiers just to feel the destruction of their flesh through your blade. Your eyes landed on a lone bow with a perfect arrow clattered on top of it. You dropped your blade, the metal clattering against the wood of the ship. Blending in with the chaos around you, you picked up your new weapon and drew your arrow back. Slightly hidden by the tattered sails, your attack was camouflaged by those in front of you. Lining up the point with the emperor’s box you let the arrow spring free. When you dropped the bow and stepped from behind the ragged sail you were defeated to see that the arrow had lodged itself in the side of Caracalla’s throne.

“TRAITORIUS!” Emperor Geta cried. His yell acted as a death knell for the arena.

Lucius whipped his head around from where the arrow hailed and when his eyes landed on yours he stormed to you shaking you to bring your spirit back from the brink. You heard nothing he said. They would remember you if it was the last thing you did. Your eyes were locked in on the imperial daises relishing in the fear that briefly flashed their faces.

~*~

Retired to your cell, the air was thick between you two. You avoided his gaze and didn’t dare to speak. You had cleaned yourself prior, but you were still picking at flecks of dried blood under your nails.

“That was heedless what you did today.”

“I said, I’d have his head. I missed. The fear he held filled me well. Tomorrow is a new day.”

“And what if they saw the attack, what revenge have you then?” His tone grew more accusatory as he stood, his figure imposing. You spoke to the ground, not having the strength to fight with him.

“Then at least I died trying. Something my father wasn’t granted the courtesy of.”

Lucius paused, trying to find the right words.

“You fought like a storm.”

You raised your head to face him, surprised by his change of tone. You silenced the flutter of happiness you felt from the praise, but your small smile didn’t go unnoticed.

“A storm drowns as easily as it conquers. I was blinded by rage today. They got exactly what they wanted.”

Lucius’ frame softened as he sat next to you and you traced the stitches of your battle wounds. It suddenly became usually silent within the camp, the crackle of a fire pit out in the quad of the prison, the burning bark of the torch, and the occasional shuffle from a guard were all that echoed through the halls.

“You’ll ruin your skin if you keep at it like that. Leave it be, y/n. You’ve endured enough today.” The flicker of care that painted his words was the antithesis of his rough exterior. It challenged you and your vulnerability.

“And if I don't?” your breath shaky in its opposition. “What would it matter?”

“It matters to me,” he spoke quickly. A note of something raw in his tone. You turned to him, the silence that filled the cell now was an entirely different energy. Startled by the vulnerability etched into his face and the weight of his gaze, you were stripped of your defenses. The shell you encased yourself in crumbled to dust, exposing the fragile girl beneath. Your body moved before your mind and you scooted closer to him, your shoulders brushing feeling the heat radiate off him.

Lucius exhaled, a sound that harnessed the weight of everything unsaid. His hand came to rest on yours, the gesture done out of harmony rather than dominance. The scruff of his beard tickled your forehead as you raised your face towards his. In the soft glow of the torchlight, both of your eyes said a thousand words in complete silence–then your lips met. Not with haste but with an aching tenderness that your soul burned for. The outside world ceased to exist, enraptured with one another in this moment.

The kiss started soft but your breaths soon became heavy, vacuuming air through your nostrils out of fear that if your lips disconnected this moment would disappear. Lucius moved his hands to capture your waist and slotted his hand under your thighs to move you into his lap. It was then that you broke the kiss, uncertainty filling your being once again.

“What’s wrong?” Concern laced in his tone, afraid that he made you uncomfortable. You sighed, feeling unwanted emotion rise viciously up your throat like heated bile.

“I want this to be more than just a fleeting moment. I don’t wish for you to see me as the whore they’ve so harshly crafted, nor to feel like a conquest for you–a prize so easily won.” Your voice was shaky as you spoke, unable to hide the waves of emotion well. Lucius caressed your sides, soothing you as you sat in the pit of regret and sorrow of what you had done in life. Your head hung, but not for long as Lucius’ thumb and forefinger raised your head to look at him.

“Do not tether yourself to that title. It is not chains of eternity that shackle you to it. Y/n–it is a false truth whispered through the minds of shallow men to make you small. To me, you are no more a whore than a flame is a shadow. Your light burns through the weathering of rain, igniting your strength.” He paused, his eye contact unwavering to show that every word he spoke held the weight of complete veracity.

“If you wish to stop, say the word. But know this–my desire is not conditional, no debts or games to be played. What happens here is your command.”

Lucius’ hand came up to wipe the tear that you hadn’t realized fell. It was overwhelming to feel such acceptance. You believed every word and let yourself soften into his embrace, wrapping your hands around his neck and playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Thank you–I…Iwant this. I want you.”

His lips found yours, this kiss more searing than the last. Your hands tangled themselves into his hair and your hips rolled in rhythm against his own. His hands trailed down the sides of your curves before finding refuge in the fat of your ass, squeezing the flesh with zeal.

His hips stuttered as he squeezed your flesh and you could feel the bulge beginning to form underneath his tunic. You rolled into the feeling, both of your breaths labored in wanton desire. You pulled your lips away only to pepper kisses down the length of his neck, swiping your tongue up before you bit the lobe of his ear. The faint taste of sweat fired you up even more and you couldn’t get close enough to him.

Curling your fingers into the fabric that clung to his chest, you pulled him close suffocating his lips to yours. In a moment, he had positioned your body so that your back was laid down on the bed and Lucius hovered over you. Taking in your form for every strand of beauty you were worth—a dangerous hunger flashing in his eyes.

Your hair was splayed underneath you and Lucius moved a few strands away from your face before placing kisses on the length of your jaw and down the column of your neck. Lucius placed a lingering kiss upon your lips before resting his forehead against your own. His breath mingled with your own as if to rid you of all the pain and uncertainty you had felt throughout your life. He wanted to replace all those negative feelings with something raw and unbreakable.

You trailed your hands down the front of his body before looking back into his icy eyes, seeing a new emotion swirl in them. Your actions were no longer reigned by caution but falling victim to a deep, unspoken yearning.

“Let us be whole in this moment,” you whispered, the words dripping in true desire. “Let our bodies tangle and relish in the ecstasy.”

Lucius didn’t answer with words, but instead captured your lips in a kiss that stole your breath. It devoured and soothed you in one fell swoop. His touch was firm, but tender, massaging your body with something more than lust. This was a testament of humanity amidst the terror of your world.

With ease, Lucius removed you from your clothes, leaving your body to be painted by the distant flames. When he stared at your naked form without saying a word, you soon grew self-conscious and wanted to cover your body from his raking eyes. Catching your hands in his, he gave you all the reassurance you needed.

“Don’t hide from me. Let me see. One should feel so blessed to lay their eyes on you, like this.”

Lucius kissed down the trunk of your body, leaving flowers to bloom in their wake as he made a path down the valley of your breasts. When he reached the area above the mound of your sex, he paused and looked up at you for permission–eyes showing you a hunger you’d never seen before. You nodded as you gently spread your legs wider, giving him complete access to you. His eyes were blown wide as he dipped his head to meet your petals. His nose teased the top of your clit and the anticipation was driving you mad. Before you had the chance to beg him to touch you, his tongue swiped up your folds, collecting a puddle of arousal on his tongue.

Your body shivered in shock and pleasure, your hips jolting forward and your back arching slightly. You threw your head back, shuddered air falling past your lips. Your hands immediately found solace in Lucius’ hair, gripping the strands as he lapped at your garden. Soon your hips were rolling in rhythm with his tongue and you could feel the heat begin to pool in your lower stomach. Your muscles tighten and release with each passing second of foretaste.

“...Lucius…I,” he lifted his head only for a moment to shush you. “I’ve got you. Cum for me y/n.”

You let the feeling of pleasure swallow you whole as he dipped two fingers into your cavern, your walls sucking him in greedily. The added stimulation brought you over the precipice of your rapture and your body wriggled with euphoria against Lucius’ mouth. When your spirit settled back into your body, you giggled breathlessly. Second nature soon taking over as you lifted yourself from the bed.

You moved forward, your hand feeling his cock through the tunic and you felt a salacious urge brew rapidly within you. Lucius quickly rid himself of his clothes, his sculpted body on display for you to indulge in. When you moved yourself to your knees and began to return the oral favor, Lucius’ hand stopped your head from its descent and guided you to look at him.

“No,” his voice was laced with desire but thick with command. You could see his resolve crumbling a bit in front of you. “This is not about me. It’s for you. You’ve done more than enough in this life, let me return a fraction of that and allow me to give it all to you.” Lucius pushed you and laid you gently back down. His face rested against your own, his lips grazing the shell of your ear as he whispered into it.

“I want to hear your pleasure, not just give into mine. You owe me not a thing,” he paused feeling a bit of his dominance morph into a teasing leviathan.

“You want this?”

You nodded rapidly, your hands wrapping around his arms just needing to feel his skin against your own. You looked down between your bodies. His cock hanging heavy off of his frame, tip flushed with desire. Your mouth watered at the sight of it, needing to feel his length somewhere inside of you. Lucius swiped his tip against your folds, soaking his shaft in your arousal just to show you exactly who was in control.

His tip pushed at the entrance of your heat, your brow furrowed in ardent zeal as you squeezed around the small bit of length that was inside of you. Lucius held the base of his cock guiding it to the hilt until your bodies clapped at the connection. He brought his arms down to rest on his elbows, bringing his face closer to yours to watch your expressions contort in fervor. You couldn’t help the sound that escaped you as he buried himself inside of you and on instinct you covered your mouth to muffle the sounds.

Lucius removed your hand from your mouth, his smile wicked as he shoved his tongue in his cheek.

“Let them hear. Serves them right for locking us in a cage together.”

He began to move, his thrusts deep and slow. Closing your eyes, you felt every ridge and curve of his cock. Dragging out your pleasure in the most beautiful way imaginable. The clap at the end of each thrust was unmistakable and you couldn’t quite bring yourself to care. You almost wanted everyone to hear the lustful wreckage he was throwing you in.

Opening your eyes, the closeness of his face caused you to writhe against him and moan out. The sounds amplified by the stone in the cell, leaving everyone else outside at the mercy of your cries.

“Lose yourself in me.”

Lucius pushed himself up so that he could grab your hips and deliver more calculated thrusts. Each time he pushed in, you could feel his tip kiss your cervix with pure carnality. Your moans were low in timbre but grew more frequent as you felt the knot in your loins begin to tighten at the new speed.

There was a sheen of sweat across Lucius’ chest, a bead dripping down his brow. He brought himself back down and tortured you with the same bruising pace.

“Cum for me. Cum with me.”

He captured your lips in his reminding you that this was more than just lust at work. Your sounds were swallowed by his mouth as the heart of your wanton need contracted around his length in lascivious rhapsody. He fucked you through your orgasm before pulling out and painting your stomach in his alabaster drippings.

Lucius hovered over you, taking in what just happened. As you held eye contact with him, you snuck your hand down to the milky portrait and scooped up some of his salty sap. Bringing it to your mouth, you sucked on your finger, savoring the taste. He groaned at the sight and you smiled at him when you released your finger with a pop sound.

Lucius stood up, grabbing the poor excuse of a blanket off his bed, and used the corner to clean you of him. Wiping the stain of his cum in the dirt, he threw the sheet back to his bed. Grabbing your robes and motioning you to stand up, he covered your body.

“No one else needs to see you like this.”

The gesture was warm and his words held a sense of finality to them. As if he were counting on the fact that you’d never go back to the life you lived before. Lucius covered himself in his tunic. Pheromones, and earth flying off the fabric as he lay down on the bed. He opened one arm and nodded his head toward himself to motion you to lie down with him. The fit was tight but that didn’t matter at this moment.

The quiet lingered, heavy with everything you hadn’t said. Lucius’ breath came slow and steady as you traced patterns over his body, his hand soothing your arm—an unspoken promise in such gentle touches.

“You deserve more than survival. I’ll fight for that. I’ll fight for you.”

The weight of his words settled in your chest, and you allowed yourself to believe for the first time in a long time. To believe that the life ahead could be yours. Not stolen or dictated. With the warmth of his steady presence, you curled into him. Letting the moment take root in the deepest parts of you. Whatever lay ahead, you knew you wouldn’t face them alone.

please don’t forget to like and reblog if you enjoy my writing! :D

#lucius verus smut #lucius verus x reader #lucius verus x you #lucius verus fanfiction #gladiator ii #gladiator ii smut #gladiator ii fanfiction #lucius verus aurelius #paul mescal gladiator #paul mescal smut

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draconic-desire · 10 months ago

Text

A Dance With the Dragon III — Opera

Yandere Neuvillette x Reader

[Part I] [Part II] [Part III — You are here] [Part IV]

Neuvillette enjoys bringing you to the Opera Epiclese. You, not so much. The result; a clash of tides.

Warnings: Implied past NSFW, typical yandere tendencies and obsessive behavior

You had grown to loathe the opera.

When Neuvillette first suggested it, you had perked up immediately. You ignored his rare smile at your excitement, knowing he believed to use this as a stepping stone to winning you over. You didn’t care; the Chief Justice was delusional if he thought you wouldn’t abuse this opportunity to escape.

Your plan, of course, was a complete failure.

Neuvillette kept a firm, guiding hand on your lower back the entire night. Even the slightest movement on your part would earn you a warning glower. He wasn’t even challenging you to act out; no, he was demanding your compliance. Bastard.

And Archons, the stares you got for it.

You knew that Neuvillette had worked his way up to being a well-respected and renowned figure, but you never expected the fanbase he had acquired. He was barraged by women and men alike, all hoping for a chance to woo, interview, or befriend Fontaine’s Chief Justice. He responded to all of their inquiries with aplomb, though you noticed his grip on your waist tighten every time an individual would glance your way, whether out of curiosity or envy.

Standing off to the side, you swirled the champagne glass clasped in your hand, opting to remove yourself from the conversation. Honestly, you were shocked he had allowed you to indulge in any alcohol with his obsession over your health. Such regulations included eliminating certain foods from your diet (“Why would anyone ever eat food that’s been deep fried?”) and drinking an ungodly amount of water each day, usually with a long conversation about its flavors.

Oh, and the physical activity, too.

With a scowl, you tipped the flute back to imbibe the rest of the champagne. Maybe if you got drunk enough, you’d have some respite from both the spotlight and your memories with him. He already seized every moment of your reality; you didn’t need him plaguing your thoughts, too.

But luck was never on your side these days.

A particularly nosy group of women had been giving you the stink eye all night, until one of them strutted up to your “date”. Despite being multiple paces away, you could hear their entire conversation. She curtsied, batting her long lashes flirtatiously. “Good evening, Monsieur Neuvillette. I am Trudaine, daughter of the Duke of Romaritime Harbor. I’ve been meaning to approach you for some time now, for who could resist such a handsome and powerful man?”

You rolled your eyes and kept chugging as Neuvillette beckoned you towards him. Before he could answer, you reluctantly closed the distance between the two of you, feeling his hand caress your lower back. Trudaine sneered as she looked you up and down. “I must inquire, who is the lady you’ve brought as your accompaniment tonight?”

Neuvillette tipped his head politely. “Greetings, Lady Trudaine. While I appreciate your flattery, I must decline your advancements. You see, Lady (Y/n) here is my wife.”

You choked on your drink.

While Neuvillette rubbed your back in a concerned manner, believing you had simply had too much to drink, Trudaine’s lip curled in disgust. “Her, a Lady?” she barked in disbelief. “Come now, Monseiur. She’s clearly nothing but a commoner, and not even one from Fontaine.”

Neuvillette’s judgmental gaze flicked down to the woman with a dangerous flash. “Lady Trudaine, I suggest you take your leave before I lose my temper.”

The Judicator’s expression must have spooked her, for she quickly shut her mouth and scurried to the safety of her friend group, no doubt to continue the gossip about you.

“My dear, are you alright?”

You waved Neuvillette away, coughing up the last bit of alcohol. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” You placed the empty glass on a nearby table; alcohol had been ruined for you for the rest of the night. “Though I don’t recall accepting your proposal, husband.”

Neuvillette ran a gloved hand through his bangs. “Ah, forgive me. Your human customs sometimes elude me. If it is a ring you seek, I’m more than happy to oblige.”

You gaped at him. “You seriously think I’m upset because you didn’t buy me a damn ring?” You pressed yourself against his chest, jabbing a finger into his robes. Neuvillette sucked in a breath, marveling at the proximity. You were actually touching him. He didn’t care in what context; he could feel your warmth, sense your heartbeat in tandem with his own. It took every ounce of his might not to rip that dress off your form and bury himself inside you.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” you whispered so as not to draw attention, “I am not, and will never be, your wife. I do not, and will never, love you. You may think us a couple, or mates, or that what you feel for me is love, but you have seaweed for brains. You have taken everything from me—my freedom, my career, my family, my vision. You have forced yourself on me and molded me into some hollow version of myself.” You gestured to your attire, all lace and frills to replace your preferred pants, to emphasize your point. “Delude yourself all you want with titles like ‘wife’ and ‘dear’ and ‘mate’, but they are nothing but empty monikers.”

The enamored look on the Justice’s face only served to prove your point. Stretching his cane horizontally behind your back and cupping your chin with the other hand, he trapped you against his form. “All in good time, my darling. Rocks may appear unbreakable, but the sea erodes them all eventually.”

~*~

Then there was the most recent time he had taken you.

Neuvillette’s idea of a ‘compromise’ was to forgo the formalities of chit-chat for simply sitting in your (private balcony) seats until the opera began. This development saved you from the crowd, but at the cost of being alone to fend off his intimate touches. You practically snarled at him when his hand snaked up your thigh.

“Try that again in public and you’ll lose that hand.”

“Later, then.” He muttered the promise as the lights dimmed.

The opera’s plot centered on an ancient monster rescuing a sacrificed maiden. Instead of devouring her, the creature took her into his care, and their love led to the creation of the Melusines. You nearly throttled Neuvillette at the climax, when the maiden denounced the humans who sent her to die in favor of becoming an immortal with the creature. The so called “monster”, then, transformed into a handsome god of the sea.

As the curtains fell and the lights rose, you glimpsed his subtle smile. Standing abruptly from your seat, you moved towards the exit without sparing him another glance. “Don’t even fucking start.”

~*~

This time, however, you found an opportunity to turn the tables.

This time, Neuvillette had permitted you to mingle alone within the crowd in the Opera’s foyer prior to the show. Pointless chatter with the other opera goers was preferable to being alone with him, though you really knew that Neuvillette had agreed as a test of your loyalty. Although it seemed you could roam as you pleased, you knew the Iudex kept one eye on you at all times. A note slipped into a hand or a whisper for help into an ear would be detected immediately.

While you refrained from approaching others, that didn’t mean you could prevent others from approaching you.

Others like the exceptionally handsome individual striding towards you.

His azure irises soaked in your form as he ran a gloved hand through his fiery-toned hair. Once before you, he delivered a playful bow, lips pulled in a smirk. “Ah, and might I ask why a lady as stunning as yourself is standing by herself?”

You lowered the champagne glass from your lips, taking in the man’s appearance. Based on the thick fur coat slung over his shoulders and the single red earring flashing on his left ear, he certainly wasn’t from Fontaine, though he clearly possessed a good deal of wealth nonetheless.

Your eyes shifted towards the hydro vision on his hip. Your hand instinctively went to your neckline, where your own vision would have been. The only reason you hadn’t gone mad from its absence was because it was never truly far from you—that is to say, because Neuvillette was never far. Your heart ached, and somehow the fact that this man shared a hydro vision made you trust him. “And might I inquire as to who’s asking?”

The man offered you a coy smile. “Call me Tartaglia.”

Returning the smile, you sketched a brow cheekily. “That’s quite a unique name. You aren’t from around here, are you?”

“Am I really that easy to pin?” Tartaglia chuckled, blue eyes sparking mischievously. “Seems I’m losing my touch.”

“Not at all. If you ever need someone to get you acquainted with Fontaine, I’d be more than happy to oblige,” you shot back with a wink, your implications clear. Of course there was no world in which Neuvillette would ever let that happen, but you missed how fun it was to flirt—or just to even talk with—someone who wasn’t the Iudex. You’d take your fun when you could.

Tartaglia’s grin only grew at your suggestion. He offered you the second glass of champagne he held. “I noticed you might be needing another one of these, though really I just took whatever excuse I could to talk to you. Are you really here all by yourself?”

Before you could respond, your gaze subconsciously flicked around the room until it landed on the one who had brought you here. And it was then you noticed the Chief Justice glowering at you, his knuckles turning white around the goblet in his fist. The group of officials around him, though they kept prattling on, went completely ignored as his silver glare flicked between you and the mysterious redhead.

Oh, this would be good.

As Neuvillette excused himself from the conversation, your eyes met his own and a wry grin graced your lips. Blame it on the alcohol, but you were feeling bold and invincible. Like you were the one in power for once. Maybe that’s why, before Neuvillette could reach you, you leaned towards Tartaglia and purred, “It’s just you and me.”

Then you tilted your face up and kissed his cheek, the barest hint of your lips brushing against his porcelain skin. And yes, it was petty in every sense of the word, but you reveled in the furious spark of Neuvillette’s lilac irises.

No more than a second later, a shadow loomed over the two of you. Neuvillette stepped between you and Tartaglia, forcing the other man to take a large step backwards. You, on the other hand, were now partially hidden by the Chief Justice’s large frame, his left arm out to hold you behind him. His cane cracked against the floor in front of him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Tartaglia quickly recovered, looking more entertained than anything. “Woah, comrade! We were just having a bit fun! No need to spoil the mood,” he laughed.

Neuvillette’s eyes simply narrowed as he maintained his calm facade. “You will stay away from my wife.”

The redhead tipped his head, trying to get a better look at you past the Iudex. “Didn’t know I was chatting with the Chief Justice’s lady! Any chance I could convince you to share?” He laughed again, flashing sharp teeth.

Neuvillette was far from amused. “You should hope to never cross paths with me in court, Harbinger.”

Wait. Did he just say Harbinger?

You may have been locked away for four hundred years, but you’d still been informed of the Snezhnayan group of Delusion bearers and their influence (whether for better or for worse) across Teyvat in recent years. You barely had time to process that revelation as Neuvillette firmly clasped your wrist and dragged you outside.

Heavy rain had started to fall, battering the Court with its relentless downpour. Both you and Neuvillette were quickly soaked to the bone, and while you were shivering in your light gown, the Iudex whirled on you. “What exactly did you think you were doing?”

You gave a nonchalant shrug, knowing it would twist the knife even further. “What do you mean?”

“With that man,” Neuvillette said, gritting his teeth. His composed, human mask was slowly slipping, and you were in the mood to provoke the dragon beneath.

“What, I’m not allowed to talk to other men? You were the one who said I could mingle tonight.”

Neuvillette’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Talking? You kissed him, (Y/n). In front of your husband.” His tone slipped into a deep growl. “Your mate.”

Anger flaring, you went in for the kill. “Despite what you keep telling yourself, we are not actually married—”

“Silence!”

Thunder rumbled across the court so violently you swore you felt the ground shake. You gasped as the leviathan tattoo on your arm resurfaced, illuminating your face with blue magic. The authority in his voice cascaded down your spine, soaking your entire being as if you had been submerged into the depths of the darkest ocean. But no, it wasn’t just that—the rain had started to fall even harder, accompanied by gusts of wind that threatened to knock you to your knees. You could barely see five feet in front of you, but the visibility didn’t matter, since Neuvillette’s figure was as clear as day.

He was glowing.

The Hydro Dragon’s horns sparked with blue light, and his robes seemed to have expanded to create flowing waves on either side of his form. Tendrils of azure power snaked through the air around him, forming intricate patterns that resembled water droplets spiraling around one another. Blue seeped from the bottom of his cane and formed cracks through the ground that pulsed with raw energy, threatening to unleash the waters below. His irises burned as bright and silver as moonlight on a midnight sea.

Neuvillette might have been the most composed individual in all of Fontaine, but when his anger bubbled over, it was no mere flood—it was a tsunami.

You gaped at his appearance, the closest to his true draconic form you had seen to date. You suddenly felt like provoking him was your worst idea yet, but that wasn’t what scared you the most. “Did you…can you control…?”

“I am no mere water nymph or Melusine,” Neuvillette replied curly, power dripping from his body as smoothly as water. “I am the Hydro Dragon Sovereign. Water of the earth and the skies bows to me. As will you.”

You weren’t sure when you had started shaking. For the first time in a long while, your anger was doused. You looked between your tattoo and his matching glow and realized just how powerless you were without your vision and within this dragon’s clutches.

Despite all his flaws, after all your years together, Neuvillette knew how to read you. He immediately stilled, a look of panic contorting his handsome features. The ethereal glow around him faded, and the rain began to subside into a dull mist.

He wrapped you in his arms, squeezing you with desperate abandon. “My love, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me—please, forgive me.” Another shiver wracked your form, which prompted him to hold you tighter and bury his nose into your hair, exhaling deeply. “I have made a grave transgression by frightening you so dearly, but I pledge to never lose my temper in such a manner again.”

Neuvillette caressed your cheek and tilted your chin up to gaze longingly into your eyes. “You are my entire world, and I just couldn’t stand the thought of losing you.” He swiftly picked you up bridal style, placing a chaste kiss on your forehead. “Come. I’ll draw you a warm bath with fresh sea salts. I believe we’re done here for tonight.”

Wordlessly, you let him take you home. You can’t argue with a dragon.

#yandere neuvillette x reader #neuvillette #yandere genshin x you #yandere genshin impact #reader insert #yandere #opera epiclese #fontaine #guess who makes a surprise appearance #childe #tartaglia

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sirfrogsworth · 2 months ago

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Early voting to beat the lines... the best-laid schemes of mice and men often go awry.

So... yesterday was quite the day.

After being stuck in bed for the past 6 weeks with some mystery slump, I was finally feeling better. So I decided I would try to cram as many errands into my day as possible. That works better for me when I drive out into the world because I end up only having to do one big recovery instead of a bunch of little recoveries.

My to-do list...

Go to the doctor

Vote early

Return oxygen machine to FedEx store for scammy eBay guy

Return Amazon package to the UPS store

Get gasoline for my whip

Go to Discount Tire to get my tires filled for free

Drop a check off for my lawn guy

Mail a secret package to Katrina at the US Post Office

It would have been nice if I could have gone to just one shipping place instead of all three, but the universe has a sense of humor and likes to do shit like that to me on a regular basis.

So, I get my checkup, it goes quick, no long wait, I'm feeling good.

As I get in my car, it starts to rain. It was an ugly day and it actually has not stopped raining to this very moment a day later. Just gray, windy, chilly, and wet. I look up the voting place and start the GPS.

Wipers and music on full blast, it's time to get my vote on.

When I reach my destination, I realize early voting is at some kind of private golf club. And at the center is a recreation center—which is a public building.

So it's like this private/public turducken situation.

I was expecting this errand to take 20 minutes. Because early voting always seemed like a way to get in before the crowds of election day for a more convenient voting experience.

But the parking lot was packed and I feared my expectations were about to be subverted.

As I walk through the parking lot I see a bunch of signs in the ground.

And a particular one caught my eye.

This is bullshit.

Like, just a straight up lie. No truth to it whatsoever.

Amendment 3 in Missouri basically restores abortion rights in the state. And Republicans have taken issue with the following language...

"The Government shall not deny or infringe upon a person's fundamental right to reproductive freedom, which is the right to make and carry out decisions about all matters relating to reproductive health care, including but not limited to prenatal care, childbirth, postpartum care, birth control, abortion care, miscarriage care, and respectful birthing conditions."

They claim the phrasing "but not limited to" means you can give an 8-year-old kid "sex change surgery."

This is how their online flyer puts it...

It could also include a free puppy.

Or a zillion bucks.

Or a clown will come to your house after the abortion and honk your nose.

It's ridiculous and desperate. I honestly don't know how it is legal for them to put a lie like that outside of a polling location, but here we are.

The organization "Missouri Stands with Women" is run by... a man.

It was set up by a lawyer named "Edward Greim" on behalf of the Federalist Society.

His law firm has a lovely biography about him. And a bunch of publicly available contact information. I say that for no reason whatsoever.

The Federalist Society funds all kinds of shit like this. Their main thing is installing conservative judges all over the country who will reinterpret or negate legislation. And they do it all to "stand with women" by taking away their reproductive rights.

Here is the board of directors of the Federalist Society.

Ya know, before I looked this up, I said to myself, "I bet it's going to be a sausage fest." I am psychic.

I think it would be more accurate to say they stand with A woman.

Just one.

And she sucks.

Nicole is a law professor at Notre Dame. She chose her Catholicism over her right to choose. The Catholic Church will fuck your rights and your children and Nicole will help them do it.

Anyway... back to my quick and easy voting experience...

So as I'm walking in to vote I keep passing a ton of these awful signs. I notice an older woman standing next to the aforementioned "child sex change" sign and she says, "Can I talk to you about Amendment 3?"

At this point, I'm pretty angry. I look her dead in the eyes and say with my most assholish tone, "NO." as I walk past her.

And then she finishes her sentence...

"...to protect the reproductive rights of women."

Ah, dammit.

I thought she was an old Karen but she was cool as heck. Standing out in the rain telling people the sign is bullshit. I wanted to turn around and apologize but I was stuck in full social anxiety mode so I just kept walking.

If that old lady happens to have a Tumblr and follows me and is willing to read this giant story... I just want to say I am sorry. I thought you were awful and I should have let you finish your sentence. You're super cool and I'm happy there are folks like you fighting for what is right.

I get inside and a young woman greets me. She tells me the line is in the next room and points. I still wasn't quite sure what the situation was. The parking lot being full gave me pause, but I was still hopeful I could have a swift early voting experience.

But I walk through the doors and into a huge gymnasium and my heart sinks.

It's hard to represent in pictures how long this line is.

It goes all the way to the end of the gym, loops around, and comes back. At first I was not too discouraged, because there was a nice gentle ramp at the start of the line.

But then I notice several sets of stairs at different stages of the line. And I'm just thinking how hard it would be to stand in this line and then also having to go up and down several sets of stairs.

So I go back to the young woman working there and ask what their accessible voting options are. And she told me I could do curbside voting and points outside. I then notice a line of cars wrapped around the parking lot. I don't know how I didn't see them walking in, but I guess I was too busy being a jerk to elderly progressive women.

My biggest concern was time.

The longer this takes, the more energy I use up, the longer my eventual recovery will be.

They tell me the car option is the slowest. And I could be in line for 2 to 3 hours. And then an old man who seemed to be in charge walks over and tells me the fastest option is to stand in line.

So I walk back out to my car and grab my cane and decide to try the long serpentine gynasium line.

I start walking up the ramp and some of the other folks see how slow and labored I'm walking and they start encouraging me. "You can do it! You got this!" Which I suppose was meant to be a positive helpful thing. But I found it to be embarrassing.

I get to the end of the line and notice most of the line has bleachers directly next to it. So I decide to sit down and rest and figure out how I am going to survive this experience.

It took me a while to recover from the long walk to this spot. I watched a bunch of people pass me by and the line was actually getting much longer as I rested. I was not really sure what to do. I was trying to problem-solve this situation but the answer that kept popping up in my mind was just... "go home."

But I felt this was too important and that wasn't really an option.

My best idea was to ask someone if they would hold my spot in line. Perhaps I could just sit in the bleachers and follow them around in the line, staying as close to them as I could. But my social anxiety was set to maximum and I was not finding the courage to ask someone.

After about 10 minutes of sitting, resting, and thinking, I basically say, "Fuck it, I'll try to stand in line."

I get up and start walking to the end of the line.

Then I hear a voice yell out to me.

"Hey, man! Come over here! This is your spot!"

A young man was waving at me. He was accompanied by his wife. Both of them were dressed in black and they had a sort of goth skater aesthetic going on. He had a competitively bushy beard, but with less gray. And she had very vivid purple hair.

I was a little confused and still processing what was happening. Then they both started waving at me to join them in line. They remembered I got there just before and told me I should be in front of them. I walk over and thank them. Then he suggests...

"Hey, why don't you just sit in the bleachers and follow us around the line."

He suggested my idea!

Without me asking!

I felt like he read my mind or something.

Can bearded people read each others' minds? Was this some beard skill I was unaware of?

"I got you, man. You just sit and we'll keep your place."

And his violet hair'd significant other agreed. "Yeah, we got you."

The kindness of strangers was more accessible than my polling place and I was just so thankful in that moment.

So I sat in the bleachers and watched them traverse the line. In the middle of the gym there were some teenagers playing basketball. And so I just rested and watched them play.

That young man in the red pants was like a goddamn Harlem Globetrotter. He was just embarrassing the others. He was bouncing the ball behind his back and through his legs and then he just danced around his opponents like a figure skater. It was such an unbalanced matchup. He might as well have been playing 4th graders. Not only was he significantly faster and more maneuverable, but he was consistently hitting 3-pointers.

And then during a break, he ran towards the hoop, jumped from the free throw line, flew all the way to the net, grabbed onto the rim, and proceeded to do several pull ups as if they were the easiest thing in the world. I don't think I've seen anyone jump that far and that high in real life and it was just a bonkers display of athleticism.

I spent the entire wait watching him humiliate the others—hoping he would get a full ride scholarship to some prestigious university.

And I hoped the other boys paid attention in school and got straight As, because basketball was not going to work out for them.

As my new goth skater friends progressed through the line, I would make sure to keep sight of them. Every once in a while I'd give them a head nod to acknowledge we were in this together. After an hour and a half they were at the final segment of the line, so I sat next to the wheelchair folks.

I probably could have argued to sit with them in the first place. But I really did not feel like making the case that I was just as disabled as them and needed that level of consideration. The old man running things seemed quite stressed and was putting out 8 fires at once. And my anxiety wasn't really cooperating enough to be assertive in my needs.

But it worked out in the end, so I'm not going to dwell on the lack of accommodation for people who weren't *visually* disabled.

My new bearded friend neared the end and waved me over. I thanked him and his wife profusely.

I joked, "Thank you for adopting a voter."

They seemed confused by my joke.

"No problem, man. Happy to help."

I told him and his wife they truly saved me. "I honestly don't think I would have made it through the line." And then I looked back...

I said, "As crazy as this is, I do find this kind of turnout encouraging." His wife agreed and said, "We were saying the same thing!" And then I thought, "Can the wives of bearded people absorb the mind reading ability? I hope she can't read my mind right now. Although, I'm mostly thinking that her hair is a really cool shade of purple, so she'd probably find that complimentary."

As I waited to get my ballot I could hear the happy couple behind me. They were very cute. They were making fun of each other in a very lovey-dovey fashion. I had high hopes they were going to grow old and gray and purple together based on their chemistry. And I was just so thankful they were able to recognize that I needed help without me asking. Because I probably would have just caved to my anxiety and not asked for help otherwise.

I got my ballot and sat down to fill in all of the appropriate squares. Thankfully I had prepared a cheat sheet on my phone.

It was an exact replica so I was able to copy it and finish quite rapidly.

Then I fed my votes into the vote-eating monster and they gave me a sticker.

My quick 20 minute adventure to vote early only took 2.5 hours!

And because I didn't want to buck tradition, I stood outside in the wind and the rain and took a voting selfie.

Yep, that seems about right.

Ah, crap... that was only the second thing on my to-do list.

Let's speedrun the rest of this story, shall we?

I drove to FedEx. I hauled a 40 pound box inside. I plopped it on the counter and said, "Man, this thing is heavy!" as I tried to catch my breath. The 20 year old working there then lifted it like it was a feather and I felt great about that.

I drove to the gas station because I was nearly on empty—that is both a metaphor and not a metaphor. I filled my ride with go juice.

I noticed I was a mile from the tire store and they fill up tires for free. So I did that and the guy was super nice and complimented my tires. I felt both weird and proud about having my tires complimented. Like, I had nothing to do with my tires being nice. But I accepted the praise on their behalf.

I drove to the UPS store. The last time I was there I made a scene. They refused to box up a return and I got upset and wasn't feeling well and they had to find a chair for me to sit in because I was going to faint. So I was hoping the same woman wasn't there, but she was. She didn't recognize me, so it was fine.

I drove to my lawn guy's house. He wasn't home. I dropped a check in his mailbox. My checks have corgis on them. My checks are cute.

I drove to the post office. I sent a secret package to my bestie, Katrina. I'd tell you what is in it, but it is an inside joke and you wouldn't get it. The woman noticed my voting sticker and I couldn't help thinking about what I just accomplished to get that sticker.

On my way out I noticed a miracle.

2 of the 4 doors were fixed!

I mean, I don't know why they couldn't fix all 4, but now the employees won't freeze in the winter. So I take that as a win. It only took a year and a half to accomplish and I'm sure all of my phone calls and emails did not help at all. But I'm going to pretend I saved the day regardless.

And then... I drove home.

5 hours of errands.

I was so fucking tired. My back was on fire with pain. I immediately collapsed into my bed. I passed out. And I slept for 14 hours.

The End

#long post

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watsername · 2 years ago

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oky it’s fucking TIME to talk about mcc misogyny we are NOT dancing around it anymore .

the community fucking hates women . especially the subreddit but also the general community . i can’t talk about every women bc i haven’t watched the pov of every woman in mcc .

tina kitten. her entire mcc experience was being treated as a nerf tool by the community. she only played in a handful of events but her teams routinely credited as some of the lowest ranked teams in the history of mcc in pre-game prospects . they’ve had the LEAST chance at winning and the community commonly rests that blame on tina’s back . is tina a great mcc player? no, she hasn’t had much opportunity to learn from it or practise much. but the constant backlash she faces for being a “bad player” and a “nerf” is demotivating . and after treating her like shit people treat her like shit MORE to tell her she’s overreacting if she is upset or has a problem with anything .

but scar has similar stats . he’s a relatively new player who hasn’t had much chance to learn from the event yet and hasn’t placed top 20. but nobody ever complains about scar being teamed with anyone as a nerf . nobody complains scar is dragging the team down . same goes for people like quackity and karl who don’t regularly place well. nobody complains they’re nerfs or that they’re ruining the teams chances . and evryone is quick to comfort them if they feel bad for ‘letting their team down’

niki nihachu is a similar situation . she’s been playing in the event for well over a year now and is routinely shunned by members of the community for not playing good enough . you can argue ‘she ranks x out of 40 on average’ all you want but does that warrant the way people treat her in her chat and in the subreddit?? does that warrant the immense pressure she feels to improve and the fact that he feels she’s let so many ppl down if she doesn’t?? does it warrant people talking shit talking her and laughing at her for getting emotional due to stress over the event on stream? the fact that she’s so stressed over the event should tell you everything . people has treated her like shit since the beginning for being ‘too emotional’ .

jojosolos. girl. she came into the event as an extremely strong player. she’s placed top ten 6 out of 9 times she’s played (canon and non canon) . for canon events she has 5/6 top ten placements one win and a first individual placement . purpled has 6/7 top ten placements, one team win and one first individual placement . they have extremely similar track records . so why is it that the s tier committee is trying to hard to designate purpled as an s tier but are adamant that jojo doesn’t deserve the same treatment because she’s yet to prove herself as being an s tier player . they have roughly the same stats .

hannahxxrose . she’s faced criticism for her competitiveness over her entire streaming career . to the point where she recently pointed out that people have been calling into question her mental well-being because of her competitive attitude and loudness. some men in the community (specific ones that are hated before the game even starts) are given similar critiques but not once has their mental health been called into question. but the majority of competitive men in the community haven’t been called out on their ‘bad attitudes’, only the ones that specific mcyt communities don’t like to begin with . typically if a man gets loud or starts screaming during the event it’s funny to you . but for a woman she’s taking it too seriously and needs a wellness check .

both jack manifold and karacorvus have an average placement of 26 . kara has one win and jack has lost every dodgebolt he’s been part of . but kara faces harsher criticism bc she doesn’t have the same following as jack manifold so she doesn’t have ppl who will defend her as being a good addition to the team for something other than her ability . bc ppl will defend jacks bad placement because :o !!!! he’s playing with his friends!!!! despite having the same ability as the women that are routinely shit on .

my point is that you can say what you want about certain mcc players . you’re not gonna like everyone . but the double standards between male and female mcc competitors is very much real and a problem in the fanbase. more people are fans of the male streamers and i get that’s why you want them to succeed. but to overlook the flaws you degrade female plaster for in the creators you admire is to have an internal bias against them . if you’re going to have criticisms they’re gonna have ti be for EVERYONE who uses that kind of behaviour . and i think if we see that enforces you’ll realise that a lot of the critiques were bullshit to begin with .

and this can NOT be chalked up to the behaviour of the dsmp community alone . you’re all just as bad, this focuses primarily on dsmp examples bc i watxh primarily dsmp streamers. ALL of this happens on the mcc subreddit .

#mcc

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wosoamazing · 5 months ago

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‘Bass Boat’

Lucy Bronze x Bronze!R Leah Williamson x Bronze!R | Barça Femeni x Bronze!R

Your Bass Boat was your first gymnastics academy, the one you went to when you didn’t even understand what gymnastics was, when it was all about fun and friends.

Warnings: Abuse by coaches (verbal)

Notes: Inspired by Bass Boat Zach Bryan. Let me know what you think about it and what you want in a part 2 (if you want a part 2). 1.6k words

“Teeny,” Lucy said as you opened the door to her apart and you sprinted towards her before jumping into her arms, clinging on for dear life. Keira trailed behind you, rolling your suitcases into the apartment. You didn’t want your sister to pick you up from the airport, the risk of you breaking down in the airport was all too high, so you employed Keira, your sister’s ex to pick you up.

“I’ve got you, you’re okay,” Lucy told you as she held you tightly, waiting for you to break down, “it’s okay,”

“It’s not okay Luce, she-she-she-” you tried to get it out but you couldn’t, sobs wracking your body, Lucy sat on the couch, placing you in her lap, still holding you tightly, as you shattered in front of her, your whole world crumbling around you.

She had been by your side for a lot of disappointment you’d face, however this was different. This wasn’t disappointment, this was years of bottled up frustration, and anger boiling over due to the addition of the current rage you had.

To think that she was there when you were 8 and you’d missed out on your first states competition. When you were 15 and told you were too young to go to the olympics, but a boy on the men’s team was the same age. When you were 19 and told you were too big to go to the olympics, yet you were the skinniest kid up for selection. To think that you’d never actually missed out on states. To think that you were never too young. To think that you weren’t too big. To think that one woman had managed to pull one of the biggest power plays seen in gymnastics, and that you were at the centre of it all. It boiled her blood and she couldn’t even begin to understand how you would feel. To have dedicated your entire life to one sport, to then find out that you never had just missed out on qualification. But that one woman, the person you trusted, the person who was meant to have your back, was sabotaging you. To know you could’ve gone to 3 olympics plus the upcoming olympics, the number of states and nationals and worlds you would’ve gone to. Should’ve gone to.

Your coach was harsh, but so was every other elite gymnastic coach that got their gymnasts to win gold. It was the norm, still is to a degree.

You were a star, and how do you make a star shine even brighter?

You berate them. It’s not acceptable, but it’s accepted. To go to the olympics you needed to be verbally abused, belittled, told you weren’t good enough. It worked, it was known to work. Yeah it wasn’t good for mental health, but as long as you stuck those landings and hit your skills, it didn’t matter, right? Of course it didn’t, all the abuse washed away when you won a medal, or made it into a major tournament.

But what happened if it went too far? What was too far? Where was the line? What was the punishment? No one knew.

They never got that far, the athletes always having cracked under the pressure, or given up, or injured out. No one had survived that amount of pressure and criticism until now. And what for? To find out it was all fake. No one had been this badly affected by a coach's actions until now. And for what, what did one, as a coach, gain out of the situation.

The biggest question that was floating around was how does a coach get away with something like this? How does one manage to fly so far under the radar whilst doing something so corrupt? They had done many rounds of coach investigations during your time, starting with the suspicious coaches and working their way through them all with a fine tooth comb, obviously it wasn’t fine enough.

You woke up the next morning completely disoriented, you’d obviously fallen asleep at some stage and Lucy had put you into the spare bed, your head felt heavy and your eyes sore, meaning despote how much you wanted to forget last night you couldn’t. In an attempt to forget about the fact you cried an ungodly amount last know you rolled over and picked your phone up off the bedside table before opening it and started filtering through the hundreds of notifications, most of which you just scrolled straight past, but there were roughly 5 you hovered over. They were from Leah, your relationship with Leah was… complicated. You’d had a few flings here and there with her over the years, however after the last one it was different, you both continued to message each other, almost every day, you’d seen each other since then, going on weekend trips together, you’d even shown up at one or two of her matches. But you didn’t really know what it was you had, and neither did Leah. It was so much the fact that the messages were from Leah but more what she had asked.

Are you okay?

That was a loaded question. Would you ever be okay? How does one recover from such an event? How does one begin to get their life back and come to terms with the fact that they could be a three time Olympian but because of one person they weren’t. Gymnastic GB, England Gymnastics and London City Gymnastics were all bringing cases on your behalf, but how does one even begin to quantify the past 20 years of one's life, what does one expect from a case like this.

Tears were about to start falling out of your eyes again when you heard a knock at your door, “come in,” you said, voice breaking slightly.

“Oh Teeny, I’m sorry, what can I do to help?” Lucy said as she sat down on the bed next to you, pulling you into her side.

“Distract me,”

“You could come to training, I’m sure they’d understand,” you nodded, it was a good distraction, “okay, well we’re going to leave in 15, you can eat breakfast there, or there is an up & go in the fridge for you,”

“What am I wearing?”

“Something comfortable and not hot. Activewear?”

“That I can do,” you smirked at her before pushing her out of your room so you could get dressed.

“Vamos Chicas,” Ona yelled as she walked ahead of you.

“We’re coming,” you grumbled before quickly following after her.

“I could’ve sworn that it was you, Lucy. She sounds so much like you,” Ingrid laughed as Mapi tried to slink off from beside her, “I can see you María, you may go talk to little Bronze but you will not, and I repeat will not, ask her to teach you how to backflip, you will get injured or Alexia will make you do laps or if you’re lucky maybe both with happen” Ingrid grilled her girlfriend, who nodded before continuing to seek you out.

“She isn’t going to listen to that you know,” Lucy laughed

“I know, but at least I can say ‘I told you so’ when she complains,” Ingrid admitted as Alexia joined them.

“Bon dia,” Alexia chimed.

“Mhmm, Bon dia,” Lucy said, slightly less enthusiastic.

“Com és ella? (How is she?)” Alexia asked, the team knew you were coming and Lucy made sure to tell them, well more like threatened them to not mention it to you.

“That’s a bit of a loaded question. I don’t know, she’s okay, trying to just distract herself from it, they still have no idea what they are going to do about it,”

———

“Mapi, què dimonis estàs fent? (what the hell are you doing?)” Alexia asked as she joined you and Mapi on the pitch.

“Aprendre a retrocedir, (learning to backflip)” Mapi replied back

“María Pilar León, what did I tell you?” Ingrid shouted from the tunnel before Alexia could reply.

“No pedirle a Little Bronze que me enseñe a hacer una voltereta hacia atrás (Not to ask Little Bronze to teach me how to backflip),” Mapi stated guiltily.

“Seriosament (seriously),” Alexia rolled her eyes, “voltes ara (laps now),” Mapi groaned before she set off running, leaving you standing there confused, “laps now,” Alexia repeated herself this time in broken english.

“But- I-,” you tried to argue back.

“Això t'ensenyarà a no confiar en Mapi, ni tan sols a escoltar-la” Alexia said.

“This will teach you not to trust Mapi, or even listen to her,” Ona translated for you.

—

The team sat on the sidelines as they did some Strength and conditioning work, whilst they watched you and Mapi do your laps.

“Vamos Chica,” you smirked as you lapped Mapi for the second time, it was the one Spanish phrase you knew the meaning to.

“She’s fit,” Frido said, slightly stunned.

“Well she is an athlete,” Lucy snapped at her Swedish teammate slightly, however Frido took no offence, knowing how stressed Lucy would be at the moment.

“És gimnasta. Les gimnastes són com màquines (She’s a gymnast. Gymnasts are like machines),” Alexia said and it was safe to say no one ever expected a sentence anywhere near the one Alexia had just said to ever leave her mouth.

#woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso x reader #awfc x reader #lucy bronze x reader #lucy bronze imagine #lucy bronze fanfic #leah williamson imagine #leah williamson x reader #lionesses imagine #lionesses x reader #barca femeni imagine #barcelona femeni imagine #barcelona femeni x reader #fc barcelona x reader

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totowlff · 3 months ago

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many fade, but i'm still here

➝ you kept your side of the street clean. they will never know what it means.

➝ word count: 2,2k

➝ warnings: mentions of health issues.

➝ author’s note: you can read the part one here.

The young man sitting in front of the reporters looked uncomfortable. Watching him from a corner of the Mercedes motorhome common area, you could tell he wasn’t at ease in that position. However, he needed to get used to the flashes, the clicks, and especially the attention directed at him.

After all, Andrea Kimi Antonelli was now a Formula 1 driver.

— Kimi, how do you feel being officially a Mercedes driver? — a journalist asked.

— It’s an incredible feeling to be announced as a Mercedes driver alongside George in 2025 — the young man replied in a measured tone — It’s a dream I’ve had since I was little, and even though I’m still learning a lot, I feel ready for this opportunity.

“Of course you do”, you thought to yourself, crossing your arms over your chest. The tests with Kimi had been numerous, with various types of single-seaters, all to make sure of what you had known since the day you first saw him in Lonato del Garda, back in 2018.

— I want to thank the team for the support they've given me in my career so far and for the faith they’ve shown in me — the young man added, scanning the crowd of people present. His eyes finally landed on you — If it wasn’t for the trust Y/N and Toto placed in me, I wouldn’t be here, living this dream.

Your lips curled into a smile as you nodded in acknowledgment of the new driver’s words. Handing him over to Mercedes had been a desperate move on your part, made in the face of Ferrari’s stunning refusal to bring Kimi onboard, contradicting everything discussed in the previous meetings before his visit to Maranello.

However, you couldn’t live with yourself knowing you had crushed the dreams of such a talented boy like Kimi. He deserved that chance, and if you couldn’t give it to him, let Mercedes be the team to do so.

— Toto, what are your impressions of this new duo, which we could say is the first composed of athletes from the Mercedes academy? — a blonde woman asked.

— Our new pairing is perfect to open the next chapter of our history. It’s also proof of the strength of our junior driver program and our belief in homegrown talent — the team principal replied, turning to the young man next to him with a smile — Kimi has consistently demonstrated the talent and speed necessary to compete at a high level in our sport.

Placing a hand on the driver’s shoulder, you noticed there was a certain pride in Toto’s voice, as well as in his expression. And, in a way, it was justified, considering all the energy and resources invested in Kimi’s development. Toto was seeing, right there in that room, that he had made the right choice once again.

— George, could you share your thoughts on your new teammate? — an older journalist asked, hand raised — What can we expect from this partnership?

— I’m excited to have him as my teammate. His results in junior competitions are impressive, and his promotion is completely deserved — the Brit responded — He’s a fantastic young talent and has also been part of our driver academy. I hope I can use my own experience to help him in this step into Formula 1.

“I have no doubt you will”, you thought, searching for Kimi with your eyes. It was impossible not to notice how anxious he seemed. His attention shifted between the two men beside him and the beaded bracelet on his wrist, almost tiny compared to the team watch. It was easy to forget that he was just an 18-year-old boy — newly turned 18, in fact — taking his first steps into adulthood.

The press conference continued smoothly, with the occasional light-hearted comment from Toto, clearly trying to help Kimi relax in front of all those people. But you knew it wasn’t easy, even for someone older and more seasoned in these environments, like yourself.

When Bradley wrapped up the press conference, you noticed Kimi exhale in relief, as if trying to release all the tension. As the journalists left the motorhome, you approached the young man, who was listening attentively to Toto.

— Nice answers, kid — you said, placing a hand on his shoulder. When he realized it was you, he smiled.

— Did I do well?

— Really well. A true Mercedes driver.

A little chuckle escaped his lips.

— I’m glad you liked it, Mrs. Wolff — Kimi replied, making your cheeks warm up.

— For you, it’s Y/N, okay? No ‘Mrs. Wolff’.

— Is there something wrong with my last name, Mrs. Wolff? — Toto asked, raising an eyebrow.

— No, I just think he should call me the same as always.

— Kimi’s just being respectful to my wife — he retorted, moving closer to you and slipping a hand around your waist.

It was still surreal to you. The night after the unexpected meeting you’d had at the hotel bar, you two had gone out for dinner. But, unlike what you had expected, Toto had turned the supposed negotiation for a position in the driver academy management into something more intimate and personal. The exchanged glances and suggestive comments had eventually turned into a kiss at the end of the night, as well as an invitation for another dinner, this time in Monaco.

It didn’t take long before you ended up in his bed, as well as on the Mercedes payroll. Maurizio had tried, but Toto had already convinced you to leave Ferrari behind and dive headfirst into his project, both for the young drivers and for your lives together.

The marriage was a natural step, taking place in an intimate ceremony in Sardinia two years later. Before Toto and a dozen guests, you became Y/N Wolff to the world. But that didn’t mean you had stopped being responsible for the boys and girls in the junior categories.

— Before that, I’m the development advisor for this team’s young drivers.

— Well, it was more or less at the same time — Toto muttered, making you shake your head.

— You’re not helping, Torger.

— Damn — he replied, causing everyone around to burst into laughter.

The conversation went on for a few more minutes before Bradley invited the four of you to head up to the terrace of the motorhome to take some more pictures and record a few interviews for the company’s official channels. However, while Toto was being photographed talking to Kimi, you felt your phone vibrate.

"Your results are available," read the subject of the email you had just received.

Pressing your lips together, you unlocked your phone and clicked on the envelope icon on the screen. There was a strange tension building in your shoulders, a sense of anticipation you knew you shouldn’t have, especially considering what the tests you’d taken were about.

The discomfort you had been feeling over the last few weeks had led you to schedule an appointment with your general practitioner before leaving for Monza. It seemed to be just a severe cold, likely due to the sudden temperature changes during your travels. However, he had you take some basic blood tests to ensure there was nothing wrong.

As you read through the sequence of complicated names, "normal levels" and "negative," one title made you roll your eyes. "Why a pregnancy test?", you wondered as you scrolled down. It was obvious that would never happen — the malformation in your uterus, discovered when you were a teenager, had ended any possibility of you having your own family.

Until a single underlined word made your heart skip.

You felt the blood drain from your head, leaving only the echo of your pulse pounding in your ears. Air seemed not to reach your lungs, no matter how hard you tried to breathe. Your legs felt weak, as did the rest of your body.

— Y/N! — you heard someone shout before everything went dark.

When you opened your eyes again, there was no sun or clouds above you, only a gray ceiling and a fluorescent light. On your left side, a man in a white coat, apparently a circuit doctor, was checking your blood pressure with a serious expression, while someone outside your line of sight was stroking your head.

— Where... I — you mumbled, trying to get your bearings.

— I’m here, my love, I’m here — Toto said, leaning in to look at you. His eyes were filled with concern.

You blinked a few times as your husband murmured something you didn’t pay attention to. The words you had read on your phone’s screen were burned into your mind, echoing back and forth in your head.

The doctor removed the blood pressure cuff and slung it around his neck.

— It seems to be due to the heat — he said, looking first at the team principal and then at you — It’s important to stay hydrated and avoid being outside during the hottest hours.

You opened your mouth to respond, but Toto was quicker.

— Yes, we’ll be more careful about that, won’t we, my love?

You couldn’t speak. You just nodded, still a bit dazed. The doctor also recommended getting you something to eat to help you recover, which Toto assured would be done right away.

After the doctor left the room, you stared at the ceiling for several long seconds in silence, trying to process everything that had just happened. Sitting beside you, your husband brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his worry still evident.

— Are you feeling better? — Toto asked softly.

— Yes — you replied — Did I faint?

He nodded.

— Everyone was scared. No one realized you weren’t feeling well before — the team principal said — If it hadn’t been for Rosa, you might’ve hit your head on the ground, and it could’ve been much worse, but the doctor said it was the heat...

Toto’s words were lost in the whirlwind of thoughts swirling in your head. Seeing him talk about what had happened, the care he was taking with the situation, filled your chest with something warm and familiar.

— It wasn’t the heat — you murmured.

— What? But the doctor said...

— Toto, I got the results from those tests I took on Monday.

He blinked, processing the information for a few seconds.

— Is it serious?

You smiled gently.

— We’ll find out in nine months.

The concern on Toto’s face turned to shock. His mouth dropped open, and he hesitated for a few moments before asking the question you had been waiting so long to answer.

— Are you... Pregnant?

— Yes — you finally said, with tears streaming down your temples.

A disbelieving laugh escaped his lips, his brown eyes shining with emotion.

— But how? You told me about your malformation, the nearly zero chance of conceiving naturally, the whole issue with treatment and risk...

— I know, I know, but I did the test and... Oh my God — you paused, trying to take in the enormity of the moment. After years of dreaming about something you could never have, trying to heal that pain with your work in junior categories, you were going to fulfill the desire that had so often brought you to tears before sleep.

— We’re going to have a baby, Y/N — Toto said, as if he knew the affirmation that was repeating itself in your mind.

Nodding, you placed your hands on your husband’s face and pulled him into a sweet kiss, just like everything that was about to come into your lives. A life of diapers, toys, and a love you had never stopped wishing for, not even for a second.

You were still hugging when you heard a knock on the door. After being invited in, a pair of familiar brown eyes peeked through the gap.

— Toto — Kimi said quietly. When the team principal looked at him, the young man hesitated — Are you crying? Did something happen? Is Y/N okay?

You smiled, sitting up slowly on the sofa.

— Yes, I’m fine — you replied, wiping your nose, sniffling.

— You’re both crying — he noted.

— It’s just that we got some news — Toto began, sitting beside you.

You noticed Kimi’s expression shift to something resembling concern, his lips pressed into a thin line.

— And what is it?

You and Toto exchanged glances with a shadow of a smile on your lips.

— Well, we weren’t supposed to say anything just yet, but I guess it’s okay if it’s you...

Kimi moved closer and crouched in front of you, resting an arm on the side of the sofa.

— Is it bad?

— No, dear, it’s not — you replied, looking to the team principal, giving him a cue to continue.

— It’s just that Y/N is expecting a baby.

His eyes widened.

— Sei serio? — he asked in Italian.

Nodding, you confirmed the news.

— Cazzo, that’s amazing! — Kimi exclaimed, breaking into a wide grin before pulling you into a tight hug.

— No swearing, Kimi — you said, pulling away from him — You know you can’t say things like that, especially now.

— Sorry, mamma — he replied playfully. Your nurturing attitude toward the junior drivers had never gone unnoticed by them. Your care and attention, even off the track, had made you a safe harbor, not to mention a maternal figure. It wasn’t unusual for one of them to be at your house, whether for a quick visit or a weekend before competing at a nearby track.

— She’s right, Kimi, you need to watch your language. You have to be a good example for the younger ones — Toto said, placing a hand on your belly — Especially now.

— I will, you can count on it — the young man replied, with the enthusiasm of someone who had just found out he was going to have a younger sibling.

And you couldn’t wait to see him embrace that role.

#toto wolff #wlffog #formula 1 fic #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #toto wolff x reader #toto wolff fluff #toto wolff fanfic #formula 1 one shot #f1 one shot #formula one fic #formula one fanfic

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ratskinsuit · 10 months ago

Note

Hiii!

Would it be okay to request a Lucifer x Imp!fem!reader? I was thinking something about the reader being insecure about dating Lucifer (either due to the vast difference in social ranking and/or the fact that the reader is short while Lilith was a tall woman) and he comforts her? If not, that’s okay!

Thank you!

My Other Half

Lucifer x Imp fem!Reader

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A/N: I’m so so sorry this took so long to get out. Yk the usual depression and writers block and adhd blah blah blah blah blah. I wrote the end to this at like 3am and was tryna not cry because random depression go brrrrr. Hope you enjoyed though and arnt go mad this took so long!

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Every year, since Lucifer’s falling from heaven, He has hosted a gathering of the finest and most powerful beings in hell, of eating and socializing, a sorrei. Filled with gorgeous women and handsome men, the delicious aroma of hundreds of plates of food wading through the area. Demons laughing and chatting with one another. dressed in the fanciest of suits and gowns. All of them having some high status of power compared to the other, more common folk of the streets.

Even in his depression, Lucifer had still continued to host these parties, yet he had enjoyed none of it. However this was the first time in 7 years that he had someone to bring to it, you, his girlfriend.

You two originally met when you started working for him as an advisor. His work preformence dwindling with his mental health. So Charlie hired you to go help him with his work and choices. And eventually you tow became closer, the relationship no longer being boss and employee.

When hell found out that the Lucifer, the king, started dating an imp, people had some… mixed opinions. The lower class saw it as Lucifer possibly trying to be inclusive, or making fun of them, while th uppers saw it as an embarrassment. Lucifer payed no mind to these comments, and you tried your best not to, but sometimes they got to you.

Your infront of the mirror in your shared bedroom, adjusting your dress. Your weaning a short sleeved red dress with a slit in the side and a V neckline. It goes down to your ankles. Your wearing fishnet stokings with a pair of dark black heels and a matching obsidian necklace.

You brush through your hair with your fingers, and see in the mirror Lucifer entering the room. He looks you up and down and smiles, walking over to you. He’s wearing a white suit with red accents, his red tie, darker than the accent, not yet done. His hair slicked back in a professional manner.

“You look absolutely gorgeous darling,” He coos, wrapping his arms around your waist, hugging you from behind and looking in your eyes in the mirror.

You smile, turning around to look him in the eyes, stroking his cheek. “Not so bad yourself Mr.Devil.” You smirk, fixing some fo his smudged eyeliner on the corner of his eyes . “Only for you my love.” He replies.

He blushes a bit, and you lean forward to give him a quick kiss. It lasts a couple seconds before you pull away pulling a disappointed whine from Lucifer. You snicker, reaching at his chest to do his tie. You smoothly tie it up, adjusting it once done and taking a step back “Perfect.” You smile.

Lucifer positions himself next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist, intertwining his right hand with yours. “Ready to go darling?” He asks, kissing your hand, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

The walk down to the banquet hall was pleasant. Not to far from your rooms. Making sense as it’s in the same building. As you two approach, the sound of laughing and conversing grows louder.

At last you two arrive, Lucifer opening the big doors. Everyone turns to him, feeling slightly awkward you scoot a bit behind him. Everyone claps as Lucifer welcomes and thanks everyone for coming.

You study everyone around, feeling out of place surrounded by all these high-class demons. As he finishes his welcoming, you two begin to walk around, Lucifer greeting people as you stand there, next to him. Trying to ignore the judgemental stares of others around you.

As Lucifer chats with other people, they completely ignore your presence, making you feel invisible. You honestly don’t know whether or not to be happy about it though.

After a little bit you and Lucifer are approached by a fancy looking lady. She has bird like features and is wearing a beautiful long dress. Her top is short, white fading to pink, with short puffy sleeves. Her skirt is long and flowing, 3 layered with a feather like texture. The top an off white with a black trim, the second bright white, and the third black layer. All tied together with a bright yellow tiara on her head.

“Lucifer, darling! How have you been?” She comes up, and Lucifer turns to her with a smile as they hug. “Ah Stella, great to see you as always!” He says, pulling back, fixing his shirt.

“Marvelous party, as always my lord.” She smiles, her posture and appearance full of grace, subconsciously making you straighten your own back. “Thank you Stella, I try.” Lucifer laughs, turning to you.

“My dear this is Stella, one of the Goetia Royalty,” he says, waving towards at Stella. You give her a polite smile, ignoring the way her face scrunches up at you. “Very nice to meet you, I love your dress.” You say, complimenting her, but she looks you up and down, judgmentally.

“I didn’t know that the staff was allowed to attend these types of events,” She says slyly, turning to Lucifer. You frown at her comment, wondering if you did something wrong. Lucifer. however just let’s out a chuckle, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “Ah well no, but she isn’t actually a worker, this is my girlfriend.” He says, an unmoving smile present on his face.

Stella looks you up and down for a moment before bursting out laughing. She cackles for a moment before calming down and taking deep breath, wiping the tears from under her eyes. “Is..something funny?” Lucifer asks, raising an eyebrow at he behavior.

“You know, if I knew you were that desperate for a partner, I could have set you up with someone. I have loads of hot first-rate friends who you would just adore,” she says, shooting a quick glare in your direction, Lucifer didn’t quite catch; his smile faltering at her words.

“I appreciate it Stella but I’m very happy with who I am with right now.” He says, squeezing your waist. “Well if you ever change your mind just let me know.” She says, glancing at you one last time before wandering off to a group of other people.

As soon as she turns Lucifer looks at you, and you look at him, trying to conceal the sad look in your eyes. “I’m so so sorry about that, she can be a real drama starter sometimes, are you okay love?” He asks, searching you face. “Yeah, I’m used to it don’t worry.” You say, a smile on your face, trying to get past what happened. Lucifer squeezes your shoulder.

“Why don’t we go get some food for now?” He asks, and you nod, the two of you heading to get something to eat.

As you spent more time conversing at the party, you grew more comfortable, and tried to ignore the stares and whispering. Mainly from Stella and her friends, making comments about your class of imps and how you “unruly creatures” and how Lucifer should just ditch you beside it’s embarrassing.

Later into the night, you and Lucifer were chatting with a group of demons that run a large business, you can’t remember what it was about though. Lucifer turns to you. “Hey love, do you think you could get us some more drinks?” He asks sweetly, and when you agree gives you a kiss on the forhead before turning back to the conversation as you walk away.

You head to the table with the drinks, noticing Stella and some of her friends by it. She notices you and turn to her friends as they whisper and giggle, she sends a grin your way.

You choose to ignore it, probably just then talking bad about you again, beliving they won’t do anything.

You head to the table, grabbing two wine glasses about to fill them up, when suddenly you feel something spill all over the front of your dress.

You gasp and turn look down at yourself to see the wine spilled all over your new dress. “Aw, oopsie! So sorry darling, just bumped into the table. But don’t worry, I’m sure you have some clothes that… fit you better right? Like those simple imo clothes?” Stella gives you a fake pouty look, cackling.

Lucifer rushes over to you as tears begin to pool in your eyes. “Oh my god, my dear are you al-“ he tries to reach for you, scanning to see if your okay but you swat his hand away. “I’m fine” you snap, wiping at the tears beginning to fall.

You don’t look behind you, but hear Stella and her friends laughing and the people crowding to see what happened, as you rush to a nearby bathroom.

You scramble into the restroom, slamming the door behind you, locking it. You go over to one of the walls, sinking down to the floor. You rest your face in your hands, as you sobs and cry, ruining your carefully done makeup.

You hug your knees tightly, sniffling and rocking yourself back and forth, your chests heaving with the heavy breaths your taking.

You internally curse yourself for ever thinking your worth the king of hell. You. A simple imp. Your choked sobs die down to sift whispers, yet the tears never stopping streaming down you face.

You bury your face into your knees hander when you hear the door unlock and open, muttering a small “go away.” But they don’t, and you hear the footsteps come closer, stopping infront of you.

“Dear, what’s this about….?” You hear a voice say, peeking up to see Lucifer looking at you, kneeled down. He has a sad look on his face.

“…why me…?” You ask, and Lucifer opens his mouth to speak, furrowing his brows. “Stella’s right, why pick me and not some other better prettier more powerful demon…” you interrupt him, and Lucifer’s face falls.

“Oh darling…” he whispers, holding you and cradling you in his arms. “Why would you think I want someone else..?” He murmurs.

“Because th-there are so many other people that would be better for you..” you cry, leaning against his chest as he holds you tight, the tears beginning to fall faster down your cheeks, chest heaving.

He just shushes you, wiping them away. “My love I chose you, not anybody else..” he says, turning you to look at him with a smile. “I don’t care how powerful you are, your shape, size, color, darling I picked you.” He says, and you start to cry harder, burying your face in his chest. “B-… but why…?”

He just smiles, rubbing hand through your hair, rubbing circles in your back comfortingly. “Because when I met you, you made me happier than I have felt for years..” he says. “And I don’t care about anything else because I love you, no other woman will ever have my heart as the way you have.”

You sniffle, and he rocks you back and forth, his hand going to hold yours. He brings your hand up to his mouth giving it a kiss, before continuing.

“I’m so sorry how Stella treated you, I should have warned you before hand she is very judgey, it’s my fault sweetheart, and I apologize.”

You wipe your tears with the back of your hand. You lean against him as he soothes you. He hugs you tightly, ignoring your wet dress against him, staining his white tux from the red rubbing off. But he doesn’t care and just holds you closer.

“M…I. I’m.. sorry…” you mutter, and he shushes you. “Honey there is nothing to be sorry about. The only people that should be sorry are Stella and the other people who judged you based on what you look like and where you came from.”

“For… ruining the party..” you say, embarrassed, but he just chuckles. “My love that was just a bit of spilt wine. Nothing to fret over. You ruined nothing.”

You two sit there in silence for a moment, embraced in a hug together. “…thank you…” you murmer.

“For what, sweetheart?” He asks. “For… st-staying with me, and dealing with my bullshit… and not judging me…” you say, and he lets out a laugh at your second reason.

“Of course my love, he says turning you head to him and he places a kiss on your forehead.

You two sit there, finding comfort in each others warmth.

After a couple minutes Lucifer speaks. “So, we have two options. One; I can take you up to the room and you hang out there and then when the party is over, I come get you.” He inhaled; letting it sink in. “Or two, you can go to the room and get changed and come back out to see my chewing out Stella, and have a good time at the party.” You laugh at his option 2.

“Two. Definitely two.”

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A/N: this took so long I’m so sorry I have ADHD and procrastinate. But figure out a not-really-kinda schedule. I do a request, then do Headcanons or a story I chose, then request and so on. If you sent a request and it’s in the rules and has not been done yet, it will be done eventually. This wasent as long as I would have hoped but I think it still came out good! Hope you enjoyed, make sure to know you are loved and take care of yourself!

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

#hazbin hotel #hazbin #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin x reader #hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin hotel lucifer x reader #lucifer magne x reader #Lucifer x reader #lucifer morningstar x reader #Lucifer comfort #Hazbin hotel lucifer #fluff #Ckmfort #hazbin lucifer x reader #lucifer hazbin hotel

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inkstainedheartbeats · 7 months ago

Text

Part three of this

It’s three days after the negative pregnancy test. Three days of Steve practically tiptoeing around their apartment. And Eddie knows that it’s not personal. That Steve doesn’t even realize how soft and meek he’s gotten. Like a solid seventy-five percent of Hawkins his parents were both Betas. He knows that things weren’t shiny and happy in the Harrington household. That habits are hard to break. Look at him and his food hiding habits he still has even after living with the god amongst men that is his Uncle.

Robin knows. Robin knew the moment that Eddie called to tell her she needed to find another ride in to work. The Beta woman hasn’t left Steve’s side. Stuck to him like a limpet.

They’re sitting at the table. Steve across from Eddie, their feet touching, with Robin resting her head on Steve’s shoulder. Breakfast is growing cold in front of them.

“You said some of it was me,” Steve starts off before cutting himself off. He takes a big bite out of his eggs. Robin makes an encouraging sound from next to him.

“Look, I slept through most of health class. But when we got serious I went to Uncle Wayne.”

Admitting this gets him small smiles, Robin even reaches a hand over to place on his. He knows she’ll always take Steve’s side, that to love one means to love the other so this act of kindness is… it makes him brave.

“One of the reasons that Alphas don’t tend to bare children isn’t just society being fucking sexist. It’s because Alphas produce a hormone that neither of the other secondaries can. And like, normally it doesn’t matter. But it makes pregnancies harder on Alphas. Wayne gave me all sorts of pamphlets on Alpha health, got me in contact with an Alpha ex of his.”

He’s squeezing Robin’s hand.

“I can’t loose you, Steve. I know we’re waiting to Mark each other, I understand why we’re waiting but even without the physical evidence of it, you are my Mate. And if I lost you?”

It was the threat of losing Steve to Vecna that had him breaking the control the bastard had on him. It was the sight of Steve bleeding yet again, standing in front of El, head tilted back like Chrissy’s that had him snapping. Steve was it for him. His heart knew it before his head did and he knows Steve is much the same. He saw proof of it in how skinny Steve was. How rumpled and ill kept he was.

“I am open to children. I would love to see you round and waddling with my pups inside you, Steve, but I am a coward.”

“You’re not. You’re not a coward, Eds.”

Steve’s pushed back his chair from the table. Clambered up onto his lap. Wide hands are buried deep in his hair. They’re not kissing, not yet. Not with Robin in the room. Because kissing like this never stays kissing and while Steve tells her everything she doesn’t want a front row seat to it all.

Steve pours out his own fears. Of his father. Of his mother who tried but still failed in the grand scheme of things. His health.

“I’ve had so many concussions, Eds. Literal brain damage that will some day come and bite me in the ass.”

They’re honest with each other with Robin as their witness. It feels like confession. It feels like marriage. Like a divine oath.

“You make me feel brave, Eds. I’m not scared of this with you at my side.”

“Lady Buckley, might I advise you to flee this luxurious castle for… a couple of hours? I need to show my King just how brave he makes me feel.”

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He’s still scared shitless when they test again. It’s been six months and Eddie has fucked Steve on nearly every available surface at every opportunity he can. His stomach rolls and breakfast threatens to make a reappearance. But Steve is in his lap while they sit in the tub.

He’s not quite sure why they have to be in here but something about bathrooms makes Steve feels safe so this is where he sits. He squeezes Steve tight against him as they wait for time to move on by. When the scent of joy fills the bathroom he laughs.

“Thank fuck,” he breathes out.

“Yeah, thank fuck,” Steve echos.

And if they fuck like rabbits in that tub no one has to know.

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Hope you don’t mind me tagging you in the resolution @xxbottlecapx

#inkstained rambles #stranger things #steddie

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soullessdianthus · 1 year ago

Note

pls could you make a dating headcannon for Rudy? need to feed my delulu thoughts about him!!!

A/N: I love being delulu for Rudy. Especially because I feel so fckn bad lately.

Warnings: both sfw & nsfw

SFW

✧°. Rudy would be the most attentive and loving boyfriend you could ever imagine. Some of his colleagues would acrimoniously call him “too soft”, but they were just simple jerks who wouldn’t treat their woman properly.

✧°. He’s different from most men, Rodolfo is not afraid to show his “less masculine” side, expressing his emotions openly to his lover. If there would be any issue or disagreement between the two of you, he would rather talk it through then proceed with “quiet treatment”, ignoring the real problem.

✧°. Rudy is a great listener and his patience for you is infinite. He would never raise his voice at you in an angry way, like in an argument. Only when he gets worried about your emotions or health – then he would get adamant and help you out.

✧°. You are sick, a fever making you shiver and sweat? Your boyfriend is rushing towards you with a medicine box full of pills and a cup of warm tea with honey. He isn’t afraid to get infected, so he would pull you close to him while you try to take a nap in his arms – for your health of course.

✧°. He is the type of man that would bring you a bouquet of your favorite flowers every couple of days just to see your face glowing with joy.

✧°. Rudy is a great cook and specializes in traditional Mexican cuisine, thanks to his mother. He would be more than happy to teach you some of his family recipes in exchange for you sharing yours.

✧°. He loves your desserts – cakes, cheesecakes, cookies, anything containing sugar that you baked is his favorite treat through the day. Since the two of you started dating, Rodolfo might have gained some weight, but he swears to Alejandro that it is your fault! :((

✧°. Rudy is a kind of lover that won’t point out any of your insecurities or changes in your body that you might find “ugly”. He loves you, that’s what matters, right?

✧°. However, if it was you who pointed them out, he would take an extra time before bed to pepper the mentioned place with gentle kisses, his lips brushing over your tender skin.

✧°. Therefore, his love language would be words of affirmation. He would often tell you how much he appreciated you cooking, doing anything around the house or for you just being there for him.

✧°. If it comes to quality time, Rodolfo enjoys playing board games with you – in the living room, on the floor with some snacks on the side. Or reading a book together before bed, your form clinging to his torso under the sheets.

✧°. Rudy is also a clingy bastard. One of his favorite sleeping positions is to have his head buried into your chest, his arms wrapped around your waist. He secretly melts under your touch, when you massage his head after a long, exhausting day.

✧°. He is also a kind of body worshiper, you know? Do I even have to elaborate on that?

✧°. Rodolfo’s love is genuine and strong, taking care of his girlfriend better than himself. He feels responsible for your protection due to his work. If anybody would ever hurt you, he would go fucking feral.

✧°. But coming back to some more comfort with Rudy – he would gladly pull you into his chest during the night, when the storm was so loud that it woke you up, his girlfriend petrified with sudden noises.

✧°. “Es sólo una tormenta, cariño”, he would mumble through sleepy haze.

✧°. I can picture sweet dates with him, where he would take you on a picnic somewhere secluded, his hand rubbing your arms and thighs – especially trying to sneak under the hem of your skirt.

✧°. Or that he randomly took you to swim in the river on a Sunday afternoon. It was so steamingly hot in Las Almas that day, he had to chill somehow and the crystal clear water was so tempting.

✧°. And it was just another excuse to see you standing in the sunshine soaking wet, your underwear and bra drenched in water, clinging tightly to your body.

✧°. During the day, you would catch him staring at you countless times. But what is Rudy’s fault, that he loved his precious girlfriend so much?

NSFW

✧°. In the bedroom Rudy is mainly focused on service. Seeing your body flinching, spine arching just because of his touch (his fingers to be specific), makes him proud and a wide smirk twists his face.

✧°. For sure he makes the foreplay last long enough – caressing your body, squeezing the soft flesh of your thighs or breasts while sloppily making out. Rodolfo would try to suffocate you with his lips sealed over yours just to hear you little whimpers of struggle.

✧°. He is focused on seeing your face, therefore positions such as missionary, lotus or mating press are his first choice, always. I wouldn’t say he is strict on keeping eye contact all the time, but he adores staring at your glossy eyes, tears of pleasure collecting in the corners.

✧°. He won’t say it outloud, but please – ride him, on the couch, on the bed or in his car. Doesn’t matter where. Rudy will melt and moan, while sucking one of your nipples.

✧°. Rudy sometimes uses extra protection, even if you are on the pill. If you’re not, it’s a must for him most of the time to wear a condom. Rudy is not taking the risk, even though he really craves for a family of his own one day. It’s just not the right moment to start trying. Shit, you hadn’t even talked about it with him yet.

✧°. During sex he is very caring and attentive. Rodolfo takes pleasure from all the noises the two of you make – your whines and moans, especially the cries when you’re cumming all around his length.

✧°. In the aftercare the most important thing for him is to be close to you. To have your limp, sweaty body pressed tightly against his own, making you feel secure, protected and loved. Oh, how he loves you. <3

#request #reader insert #headcanons #rodolfo parra #rodolfo cod #rodolfo x reader #rodolfo rudy parra #rodolfo rudy parra x reader #rudy cod #rudy parra #rudy x reader

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dontloooknow · 11 months ago

Text

hungry, lonely, violent

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Days, months, years you spent hungry, yearning. How can a simple two weeks change what's been your life since the outbreak happened? How can one man mend the shattered pieces you never thought could be put back together? How can Joel Miller be that man?

Tags: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Caregiving, Recovery, Healing, Trauma, Oral Sex, Creampie, Size Kink, Size Difference, Older Man/Younger Woman, Hurt/Comfort, Porn with Feelings, No use of y/n, Protective Joel

Word count: 22k

Read on ao3

The sunset is a blaze of orange over Jackson, Wyoming.

You’ve been all over the country at this point, a nomad by choice, who escaped the Atlanta QZ as soon as you had the ability and supplies to do so. There have been rumors of a safe place, a town out west where people live in a harmonious peace behind sealed walls. No infected breaking in, no raiders to rob you or do worse. No corrupt FEDRA agents to gun you down for looking at them funny.

As it turns out, it’s a lot fucking harder to find a place like that, than it is to imagine it.

You know you’re close; you saw the Welcome to Wyoming sign days ago. Your best guideline is an out of date map that you’d killed a handsy FEDRA guard for. It’s gotten you this far though, so you can’t be too frustrated.

Of course, it’d be nice if it wasn’t the dead of fucking winter, but you’ve never really had the best luck.

You know you don’t have long before you need to give up on this insane venture. No one ever actually believed the talk about somewhere safe hidden in the mountains; somewhere that life was meant to be lived and not merely endured. Somewhere that a person could feel like a person again, by way of basic dignity and small decencies.

You can almost feel it now, if you close your eyes and let yourself imagine. The steam of a hot shower; water beating down on sore muscles, wet hair plastered down your back as soap bubbles cascade across slick skin. A mug of coffee, or tea, hell you’d even take hot chocolate at this point. Something to soothe the coldness of your palms; something to warm your throat and belly. The crackle of a fireplace underneath a mantle; hardwood floors, a rug nestled underneath a sofa.

You were so young when the outbreak happened that you’ve never really gotten to experience these things. But you know them well. Stories from your parents, wishful tales of a life once lived in comfort and peace. An expanse of opportunity, safety to explore, create, enjoy.

In a world like that, there’s room for all sorts of things you haven’t been able to have. What’s always been a quick meal of ration blocks scarfed down in a hurry, could be a slow-cooking stew, complete with fluffy bread and a glass of clean water with ice. Maybe even a wedge of lemon for flavor, if you’re lucky. A slice of hot pie for dessert, an unneeded expense of greed and hunger, nothing beneficial for your health really except to make you happy. Socks without holes, pants without inner thighs so worn you can feel your cold skin chafing between them.

In a world like that, there’s room for things like delicacies. Things like…romance.

You have no illusions that this could ever be your future. Since you lost your family, things like safety and stability have been mere fantasy. You can’t remember what a home cooked meal might taste like, or a hug from someone who genuinely cares about you. The men and women you’ve been with have all been quick, dirty fucks, going through the motions to make eachother cum and breathe hollow noises of pleasure that are more for show than anything.

In a different world, maybe it could all mean something.

You take quick stock of your rations. A half-empty water bottle with a screw-on filter that’s quickly becoming unusable from strain. A can of green beans. A small pack of bandages that have lost most of their adhesive strength from time. One pair of underwear that’s hanging off your pack, wet from a wash in the creek. There’s nothing worse than going commando in sub-zero temperatures, but it’s a necessary evil for hygiene.

From your place currently hiding out in an abandoned gas station nestled in the mountains of what surely used to be some sort of thriving backwoods community, any hope of that fantastical world really does feel out of reach. For most of your life it felt that if dreams were enough to keep you alive, you’d surely be immortal. But lately, that negligent bit of hope is starting to seem like the flicker of a candle about to blow out.

And it’s funny, for someone who claims to have given up hope, how quickly you jump into gear when you hear heavy footsteps behind you. Your hands fumble; cold and nearly frozen from the frigid temperatures outside, clasping the grip on your gun. You only have a half-mag left, and with your hands as shaky as they are from the weather, you aren’t feeling confident about your ability to aim as well as needed to make that half-mag worthwhile.

Still, you have little other choice. In your condition, a hand-to-hand fight would be your undoing.

“I hear someone in there, breathing,” a gruff voice says. It’s low and careful, a slow southern drawl that you recognize as Texan, most likely. You met a few of them in the Atlanta QZ, and they all had this gentle drawl to them, the same way this man does.

It would be almost a calm, reassuring sound, if his proximity didn’t surely mean imminent death for you.

“A runner?” another voice asks, this one is younger. A man, or a boy maybe, a teenager.

Fuck. You’re outnumbered, even if these are the only two out here. You’re outnumbered by two men. You’re hungry, and half-frozen, and struggling to think of what to do next. It’s like your brain isn’t functioning at full capacity. Who could blame it, with the months of neglect on the road? When was the last time you even had fucking protein?

You try to listen, try to hone your ears to follow the footsteps of the man coming toward you. Surely he knows where you’re hiding, if he heard you breathing and assumed you were an ill infected. You must really sound like shit. You sort of knew that your lungs had a rattle from the cold and your nose was sniffly, but clearly it's worse than you thought.

Okay, okay, think. What can I-

Your train of thought is immediately interrupted by a large, thick arm circling around your neck from behind. You gasp as your body is wrenched into the air, a sturdy mountain of a man behind you. In your panic, you drop your gun and reach for his massive forearm, trying to pry it off your neck as your vision begins to go fuzzy.

Holy fuck, you’re going to die at the hands of some random Texas giant in this abandoned gas station.

“Shit, Joel, she’s not infected!”

“Wh- Christ!”

In a flat second, you’re on the floor, coughing and gasping as you clutch at your neck, trying to fill your icy lungs with desperate air. The floor is more like concrete, and with the layer of ice spread across it, there’s damn near no cushion for your fall.

The large man reaches out, you can hear his jacket shuffle and his body move, but you scramble away, reaching frantically for your gun.

The other one, the younger boy, comes into focus and reaches out to pluck up your gun before you can even make an honest grab for it.

“Hey, we aren’t gonna hurt you,” the boy says, looking down at you earnestly. It’s big talk from the teenager holding a revolver on you, but his eyes are genuine enough. “I’m sorry we scared you. We thought-”

Your vision whites out as you feel a large hand grab your arm. The big man, the giant Texan has grabbed your bicep and is trying to pull you up. Pure instinct takes over; reflex causing you to lash out with your free arm.

Your knife makes a decent slash in the skin of his hand, and he pulls back with a shouted curse of pain.

“Whoa whoa!” the boy tries again for a calming tone, still attempting some sort of diplomacy.

Ignoring his pathetic excuse for a ceasefire, you launch yourself at the large man, wielding your knife like it’s your last chance.

With him momentarily disoriented, it’s easy to hop on his back, effectively putting his body between yours and the boy with the gun as a human shield. And a gigantic one, at that. His shoulders are stocky, easy handholds for you as you settle your legs around his large waist. You press the tip of your knife against his throat, feeling the vibrations of his grunted breaths against your thumb bone.

This close, you can smell a soft aroma of lemon soap wafting off his wavy hair. It’s dark with streaks of silver dancing down through the ends, matching a well-groomed beard on his jaw. His jacket is thick brown leather, it looks heavy and surely adds bulk to an already impressively large man.

“Walk out, now!” You warn the boy with the gun, still pressing the blade into the man’s throat. “I won’t kill him if you leave me alone.”

You think it’s a pretty fucking generous offer, considering this giant just tried to choke you out.

The boy glances at the man, sighing. He shakes his head, holstering his gun. “Joel, just be gentle.”

Frowning, you look between them in confusion.

The man, whose name must be Joel, chuckles dryly. It’s a nice sound, a steady reverberation through his chest. In another circumstance, you think it might be a soothing noise. One of those laughs from a person who seems like they know the answer to every question, who's figured everything out. Someone who’d take care of you.

Then, he grabs your wrist so hard you feel bone press into flesh, wrenches the knife away from his throat as if you’re no more than a pesky mosquito, and flips your body over his shoulder.

Being effectively yeeted into a frozen concrete floor by a man three times your size would most certainly be a death sentence.

You feel the wind rush out of your lungs, the world spin upside down, and you’re preparing to hear a deafening crack of your skull against the hard ground.

Before the impact radiates through your body though, you realize he’s slowed your momentum by sliding an arm around your lower back, stopping you just before your body would’ve crashed into the floor. He kneels forward, holding you just above the ice, and you get a good look at his face.

It doesn’t feel like the right time to be thinking this, and you hate yourself a tiny bit, but he’s really fucking handsome. His nose is large and stately, his eyes framed by thick, dark lashes that brush his cheekbones, eyebrows pulled together so his forehead scrunches up. There are lines of age on his face, flecks of gray in his beard, yet the flush to his tanned skin and the light in his gaze tells you he’s in tiptop shape. This is a man who eats well, eats often, and probably isn’t sleeping on the hard ground every night as you’ve been for weeks.

Considering he just tossed you over his shoulder like a tiny bag of flour, this isn’t particularly surprising.

“If you’d quit tryin’ to kill me, little miss, then maybe we can have a conversation.”

With a growl of anger, you swing your fist. He catches your wrist in his hand so easily it’s humiliating, and gives you a disapproving look.

“We ain’t gonna hurt ya’,” he continues, “stop swingin’ on me.”

“We should take her back to town,” the boy says, still standing beside the two of you a little awkwardly, “she’s not well.”

At that, you pause, something icy running into your veins. You’ve run into more than enough fucked up little “towns” on your trip west. They always ended up trying to kill you or indoctrinate you into some demented cult ideals. You’ve fought your way out of more than enough situations like this to know that if you don’t escape now, it’s not going to end well.

You’re unarmed, you’re starved, you’re half-frozen, and the man above you is so large you swear you could strap a pair of reins to his shoulders and have him pull a carriage.

In so many words, you’re fucked.

“Get the fuck off me!” you snarl, wriggling in his grasp and trying to free yourself.

“Alright.” The man releases you and you hit the cold ground, a surprised noise of pain slipping from your mouth as your head smashes into the ice.

“Jesus Joel,” the boy says.

“She told me to!”

This is your chance. You just need to get to your feet and run. Fuck the gun and the knife, you’ll find new ones. You’ve been without your supplies before. You can figure it out. You just have to get up.

An attempt to move into a sitting position proves futile, as your vision begins to swim and your head throbs. Your hands fumble weakly for purchase at your sides, but the ice is too slick to find a solid grasp.

“I think she’s gotta concussion,” the man, Joel, muses nonchalantly.

“I think she’s got a lot going on,” the boy replies, “should we put her on a horse? Seems like she wants to be left alone.”

“Ain’t the policy that we bring back injured travelers?” Joel asks.

“Yeah, but normally they don’t…resist this much, right?”

Joel hums thoughtfully. “Normally they ain’t women all by themselves surrounded by two strange men.”

“I guess not.”

“Let’s get her on a horse. Once she realizes she’s safe, maybe she’ll quit the murderin’ shit.”

“What if she comes to and tries to kill you again?” the boy worries.

At this, Joel chuckles again. “If she manages to kill me on the back of a horse with no weapon, then I goddamn deserve it, kid.”

“Is this how all patrols are?”

“Nah. They usually ain’t this exciting.” Joel leans over you then, and you smell the lemon soap and a faint whiff of pine oil. “Hey there, you with us?”

“No,” you groan, though you’re not actually sure what you’re responding to.

“Listen, m’gonna have to pick you up and put you on a horse. Try not to gouge my eyes out. Think you can manage that?”

“No,” you repeat sourly.

“Excellent. You ever been on a horse before?”

“No.”

He exhales. “You say anything else?”

“No.”

“Alright then. When we get you up, just hold on to my waist, don’t let go or you’re gonna go flyin’ and that won’t be good for neither of us. You hear? No ain’t an option.”

You narrow your eyes which does nothing to help your already blurry vision. You feel your consciousness slowly starting to slip away on a delicate string, at a great danger of snapping and disappearing in the distance.

“I think she bonked her head,” the boy says when you don’t reply.

“Good observation, son.” With that, Joel reaches for you. You tell your muscles to resist, to fight back, but they frustratingly don’t move.

He slides his arms underneath your prone form and lifts as if you weigh no more than a backpack. Surprisingly, his touch is gentle rather than rough as you’d expected. He moves slowly, gradually pulling your body into a sitting position. Your head spins and you let out an involuntary noise of pain.

“M’sorry honey,” he murmurs, “you got your bell rung, that’s for sure.”

“I don’t carry a bell,” you manage a weak reply.

He chuckles again, and you feel yourself being hoisted up. After a moment of adjusting, you’re lying in his arms bridal style, thick forearms underneath your body. He grips your thighs to keep you in place, shifting you upward to preserve the momentum as he gets back to his feet with a slight huff of effort.

“Do you need help?” the boy asks, hovering.

“Nah, she don’t weigh more than one of them kitchen chairs in the mess hall. Just grab her stuff, m’sure she’ll be askin’ after it when she’s up and running.”

“Okay, okay got it. You want me to lead?”

“Yeah, go ahead. Thanks Jesse.”

“Sure thing.”

You’re moving then, you think. The world shifts around you, and your head lulls to the side, pressing into a coat. You shudder once, and find yourself transfixed on the even breathing of the man holding you.

“Cold?” he asks gruffly, and then sighs as if that’s a stupid question. “Jesse?”

“Yeah?”

“Help me with this.”

There’s movement, and your body is shuffled a bit, before someone drapes a thick weight over you, wrapping you up like a burrito in what appears to be a giant leather jacket. It smells of lemon and pine oil, the scent wafting off it with each movement.

You’re confused, disoriented and overwhelmed. The weight of the jacket around you is enough to soothe the cold for now, even as you feel shuffling and adjusting and find your legs slung around the thick flank of a horse.

“Hold on tight,” says Joel.

What other choice do you have?

———-

Somewhere between the gas station and here, you passed out.

It shouldn’t surprise you, given the state you were in. It only makes sense your body would give up in some way. Obviously you wish it hadn’t been while you were pressed up against the large, broad back of a grouchy old Texan, but as you said you’ve never had the best luck.

When you come to, you’re supine on a couch. It’s odd though, because from first glance, the thing isn’t musty and dusty like they usually are. It’s soft, squishy, and smells clean. There’s a blanket draped over you, some sort of fuzzy wool that keeps your limbs warm. It’s heavy too, the weight of it soothing. A crackling sound alerts your gaze to a mantle with a fireplace underneath, heat flickering off the orange licks of flames, well contained in the brick casing. Atop the mantle are framed photos, a girl with choppy hair and freckles on a horse, the man, Joel, at her side, smiling.

It’s an odd expression on him, you think. Although handsome, it’s surprising to see the gruff man look so at ease, so happy. From your brief interaction in the gas station, you’d come to gather he’s a no-nonsense, quick-to-choke asshole.

Not unlike yourself, really.

And if there are photos of him and what looks to be his daughter, or a teenaged relative maybe, on this mantle, that means you’re in his house. That means you’re in grave danger.

Though...you are seemingly fine, wrapped in a blanket by the fireplace, clothing intact on your body. Beside you on an end table is a lamp, a glass of tepid water, and a few leaves of unfamiliar greens.

You move to sit up, pressing your hands against your thighs in search of any of your weapons. Nothing. Your pack is gone too.

As you adjust, you find that your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton, tongue swollen and dry. Your throat is aching, desperate for water. You run your fingers along the arm of the sofa, eyeing the glass of water longingly.

What if he’s done something to it?

Before you can decide if it’s worth the risk, footsteps pad in behind you, and you whip around to see him entering the room. You stumble off the couch, legs wobbling, knees threatening to give out as you try to stand your ground.

“Easy,” Joel says in that slow drawl, “you’re alright, little miss. You’re safe.”

Your hands clench into fists. As if you’re stupid enough to believe him.

“You know where you are?” he asks, like he thinks you won’t know.

For a moment, you fumble. Where...are you? You know it’s snowing outside the windows of this little, quiet house. You know you came from Atlanta. You know you found yourself a little turned around in the backwoods of somewhere in Wyoming.

“Wyoming,” you say, forcing the word to come out assuredly, even as your voice cracks around it like a frail twig under a boot.

He nods once. “Good. You’re in Jackson. You hit your head and it seemed like you haven’t had a real meal in a while. We brought you back to get you feelin’ better. You passed out on the way.”

Blinking, you take stock of the room around you. You’re in Joel’s house, in Jackson. Can it really be true? Have you really found it? The place where life can be lived peacefully amidst the horrors outside the wall?

“It’s real?” you find yourself asking. The crackling fireplace and framed photos seem evidence enough of a more content lifestyle than anywhere you’ve ever lived.

Again, he nods. “You’ve heard of it?”

“Just stories,” you admit, “didn’t believe them.”

“It’d be hard to,” he agrees gruffly.

You allow yourself a moment to look him over. Here in his home, he’s shed his winter layers in favor of a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt with an unbuttoned flannel over the top. His hair is tousled from the wind, gray-lined dark curls framing his face. His shoulders, just as big as you remember noticing, fill out the fabric of his flannel so well it’s a little hard to look away. A quick scan of his body does little to reassure you of any chance you have to fight back if this goes sour. He’s large; his chest thick, thighs sturdy in his jeans, a faint outline of a comfortable belly underneath his shirt. You can see a cropping of dark hair just poking out of his shirt collar and the ends of his sleeves. He’s rugged in every sense of the word. Rugged, and huge.

“I left you some water there,” he gestures vaguely to the end table, “some mint leaves to chew on, sometimes they help when I gotta headache. I dunno. Just in case. They didn’t have anywhere to put you yet, and the infirmary was pretty overrun so they-”

“What are you going to do to me?” you find yourself asking, hating the hollow note of fear in your words.

Joel pauses, hands on his hips, eyebrows screwed together. “Do to you?”

In lieu of a reply, you just nod warily.

It takes him a moment, you think, to register what you’re implying. When it hits him, his shoulders deflate, and his expression heaves into one of displeasure. He clenches and unclenches his fists before he speaks.

“You’re safe,” he says again, voice even and composed despite the clear discomfort on his face. “I ain’t gonna hurt you. Once they find somewhere else to put you, we’ll get you comfortable. But for now, if it’ll make you feel better.” He moves toward you, reaching for the waistband of his jeans.

Reflexively, you stumble backward, putting distance between the two of you. Your legs betray you, and you find yourself leaning against a table by the window with little wood carvings to stay upright. He halts instantly, expression neutral.

“I was just gonna give you this.” He removes your gun from his waistband, presenting it matter-of-factly. “Loaded the mag for you. Don’t shoot me.”

With that, he sets it on the end table by the couch, halfway between the two of you, and steps back.

“You got no reason to kill me,” he says, “I got no reason to hurt you. I wouldn’t. Ever. So take it. But I’d prefer not to have any extra holes by the time you leave.”

You swallow noisily, eyes tracing the line toward the gun. It rests neatly beside the water and mint leaves, his gifts to you, comfort and safety all in one little package on the end table.

Unsure of what to say, you slowly move toward the end table, picking up the gun. Hesitantly, you pull back the slide and see a round in the chamber. Then, you pop the mag out and see that he wasn’t lying. It’s fully loaded.

You eye him warily as you tuck the gun into your own waistband, safety on. “Thanks?”

“Don’t shoot me,” he repeats sternly.

“Don’t give me a reason to,” you warn him.

At this, he scoffs. “Lady, if I wanted to kill you, I woulda done it with my arm around your neck.”

Your eyes narrow. “I never said you wanted to kill me.”

His nose wrinkles at that, eyes going dark. “You don’t have to worry about that. Listen, I’ll stay outta your hair. But they want me to get you healthy before you get set up on your own here. So-”

“Wait, before what?”

Another sigh, like he’s exasperated. “You’ll get assigned a house and eventually work duties and patrol schedules. They’ll go over all that with you. I’m just the middle man here.”

You’re shaking your head before he’s even done speaking. “Who fucking decided that for me?”

His eyebrow arches. “Ain’t that why you’re out here?”

Torn, you struggle to think of a reply. It actually is exactly why you’re out here, but you’re confused and suspicious at the easy welcome and acceptance of another mouth to feed, another burden on the resources. You don’t even know if he’s telling the truth. Maybe you’re not even in Jackson. Maybe this is some fucked up murder cabin and he’s playing you like a fiddle.

“How do I know you’re not lying?” You demand, fingers itching to reach for the gun now that it’s safely holstered away.

Joel gestures to the front door. “Be my fuckin’ guest.”

Reluctantly taking your eyes off of him, you push off the table and move for the front entryway. You brush by him briskly, annoyed when he doesn’t move out of the way. Your shoulder nudges into his arm, and you’re struck by how thick and immovable he feels beside your feeble frame.

You hate it. It would be so effortless to overpower you.

You dislike having him in your rearview, but you move toward the line of windows that overlook the front lawn.

Your eyes take in a sight you could’ve only ever imagined. Snow-lined streets, little shops and markets with pleasant looking customers milling about. People with horses, waving to each other. Children running in the street and laughing loudly while gentle adults corral them back onto shoveled sidewalks. No FEDRA guards shouting about work duty or drills, no bomb warning sirens, no distant roar of infected outside the gates.

No weapons, no shouting or robbery, no children sobbing in the snow from hunger. Everything that had ever felt unattainable, apparently just outside your window.

In utter disbelief, you slowly turn back to Joel, who’s watching you with mild interest.

“Wow,” is all you can manage.

“Yeah, you found the promised land and all that.” He shrugs. “Now they said they oughta have somewhere for you to stay on your own by end of week, provided you’re physically up for it. You’d better start with some water, kid.”

You glance at the glass on the end table, ruminating on the possibility of it being laced with something.

“For Christ's sake.” Joel marches toward the glass, takes a few huge gulps, and then holds it out to you. “Where the fuck would I even get somethin’ like that?”

He has to know that these days finding drugs to crush up and ingest is infinitely easier than finding food. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe living here has made a soft, ignorant man of him. Maybe he always has been.

You’re suddenly so angry. All of the years you’ve suffered, your family dying, FEDRA raids and Firefly bombings and attacks from hordes of infected.

And here he is. Sitting by the fire, framed photographs smiling back at him, mint leaves between his teeth for a mild ailment.

It’s so unfair.

“You guys are pretty selfish, you know.” You ignore his outstretched hand with the water. “Keeping all this a secret. Keeping it for yourselves while the rest of us struggle.”

Joel rolls his eyes, and the flippant gesture is enough to make your teeth grind together. “Ah. We’re doin’ this? You wanna leave, go. Ain’t nobody holding you hostage.”

What are you doing? Your brain is screaming at you desperately. This is what you wanted. This is why you came. You’ve found it.

You hadn’t realized what it would mean, actually seeing this oasis. Actually feeling the warmth of a fireplace and the soft fabric of a clean couch. Having mint leaves and bullets a plenty. How could you have ever expected the gaping hole it would punch through your chest, seeing what you could’ve had all these years, laid out in front of you like a decadent buffet. What your family could’ve had.

What this man, Joel, is trying to offer you.

“It isn’t fair,” you manage weakly, talking to no one in particular, eyes searching around the organized decor. “It isn’t fair.”

“I know,” is all you get in reply.

You move away from the window, not exactly sure where you plan to go, but overwhelmed. Finally, your weak knees do give out, and you pitch forward.

Your arms shoot out to catch yourself, but as it turns out, you don’t need them to. Strong hands grip you under the armpits, pulling upward until your legs straighten out. You stumble into a big, warm chest, and Joel grumbles something you don’t catch under his breath.

“Easy,” he murmurs, “gonna get you back to the couch.”

You’re too overcome to argue, though it is your first instinct. You allow him to lead your trembling body toward the sofa, jellylike legs carrying you only as his strength pulls them along.

He slots you between two couch cushions, and you sink down in the fabric. Then, he picks up the water he’d set down in his hurry to catch you, and holds it out.

“This would be a start,” he says earnestly.

In shaky hands, you bring the glass to your lips, sipping delicately. The water is room temperature, somewhat warmed by the heat of the fire. It goes down your throat, soothing the ache there with much needed droplets of hydration. You finish the glass in record time, and before you can blink, Joel’s taken it from you. Your arm reaches forward pathetically, a plea to keep the glass as if you could suck the remaining moisture out from the bottom.

“Hold on,” he says, but there’s no note of impatience or annoyance in the words. He leaves the room and returns a moment later with a glass full to the brim.

Eagerly, you take it from his hands, too lost in the euphoria of fresh, clean water to consider the possibility of the first one being a trick. He’s got you comfortable. Now, he can do whatever he wants.

You hadn’t realized how thirsty you were until the pain was soothed.

It’s a funny thing, longing. You get so used to it that you start to grow numb. You yearn for something long enough, eventually you don’t feel like yourself without it. Hunger, thirst, pining, it’s all a part of who you are. Fulfilled, sated, you wouldn’t know who to be or how to move forward.

Still, you finish the glass as quickly as the first.

“Better?” Joel asks, his voice lacking warmth but not particularly unpleasant.

You nod hesitantly.

“How’s your head?”

You touch your fingers to the back of your head, roving the pads across your tangled hair. You feel no bump, no cuts, nothing more than a rats nest of unbrushed locks.

“Fine,” you say, though it does hurt. You’re sure it’s nothing serious, but you definitely gave it a good bump.

“You feel like eatin’?” He asks, and the prospect of food is enough to make your chapped lips feel wet with salivation.

“You have food,” you tell him, more of a statement than a question.

Quizzically, he nods. “Uh, yeah.”

“Real food?”

“I got some venison in the freezer,” he says, “and some broccoli.”

“In a can?”

His expression softens marginally. “No.”

Fuck. Real fresh vegetables?

“Tell you what.” Joel cracks his knuckles loudly. “You go on up and take a shower, get yourself sorted. I’ll get started on some grub. ‘Bout dinner time anyway. Then maybe we can get you healthy enough to get outta my hair. How’s that sound?”

“Okay,” is all you can think to say, surprisingly amicable. In your defense, it’s been a while since someone offered you a hot meal and a shower. And you do have your gun...just in case.

Joel holds a hand out, and despite every instinct in your body begging you not to take it, you slip your palm into his. His hand is warm, calloused from exposure and rough on the pads of his palm, but there’s something familiar about his hold. It’s oddly comforting. It feels like a hand that knows hard work, not unlike your own, which you’re sure are twice as rough right now.

He offers you a small, barely perceptible smile before he releases your hand and says, “second door on the right.”

Then, he heads into the kitchen.

If you wanted to, you could quietly sneak in behind him, gun drawn, and put a bullet in his head. Right now, it would be so easy. He’s foolishly left you to your own devices in his home with a loaded gun. Who could blame you for second-guessing his motives and intentions?

But he’s also offering you a meal, a hot shower, the prospect of a life. And you’d come a very long way to find him. To find this, you mean.

You lean down and grab a mint leaf, sticking it between your teeth to chew as you ascend the stairs with a careful hand on the railing. It’s surprisingly tasty, the leaf, though it has a bite of burn that stings your tongue in an unfamiliar way. You press it between your teeth and tongue, feeling the sharp sting of the mint and breathing in the relief. You aren’t sure why, maybe it’s all in your head, but it feels like it is soothing your pain.

Your fingers trail along the wooden banister. It’s clean, well dusted, organized. There’s traces of life here, in the haphazard way his boots are strewn by the door, in the crumple of towels on the floor in the corner of the laundry room you pass by, in the photographs on walls and more tables. That girl with the freckles and choppy hair is all over his life, alongside a man with a beard and scrappy bun. A brother maybe? You can’t tell, but what’s clear in the multitude of photos is that Joel likes to keep his loved ones close. He likes tangible memories, reminders of those he cares for.

You find yourself in a large bathroom standing in front of a shower with a pastel yellow curtain. You grip the material in your fingers, pulling back on the curtain, enamored with the way it glides back and forth on the rod. The closest thing you had to this in the QZ was water boiled and poured into a tub for bathing. On the road, it was a nice cold creek when you could find it.

Curiously, you slide your fingers down the wall until they bump into a strange knob, delicate rounded designs poking out of the glossy finish. To the right, a little blue circle, to the left a little red one. You deduce they indicate the temperature of the water, and twist the knob until it’s halfway in between.

The water shoots forward out of a head at the top of the wall, spraying you in the face. You splutter, pulling back and coughing water out of your nose and throat. It’s a powerful stream, the droplets hitting your face with a velocity you hadn’t expected. You know the currents of lakes, oceans and creeks can be unpredictable. Waves are something otherworldly, a force to be reckoned with, never tempted.

You had no idea something so small could be so powerful.

You check once more that the door is locked, then you peel off your tattered jacket and undershirt. Your bra is barely held together by a stitch you keep doing and undoing in the back. The clasp broke a year ago. You slide your old jeans down your legs, face blooming red when you remember that your underwear was hooked onto the back of your bag to dry after a wash.

Where is it? Did they leave it in the gas station? It was your only pair.

Somehow worse...does Joel...have it?

Hesitantly, you step over the ledge of the tub into the stream of water, surprised at the feeling of the droplets crashing into your skin. It hurts a little, the pressure at which the water shoots out at you.

For a moment, you languish under the stream of water, feeling dirt and muck slide off your skin. It feels like you’ve been encased in a layer of grime for so long, you’ve almost forgotten what clean feels like. Though, you’ve never been clean like this.

You see a little sponge in a rack on the wall, and grab for it. There’s a bar of soap beside it, and you take that too, sudsing up the sponge as much as possible. It smells like lemon, the same faint aroma you’d noticed on Joel.

Then, it strikes you that this must be the sponge he washes his own body with.

You hesitate. Surely this violates some sort of acceptable hygiene norm. But also, your hand’s not gonna do the job. And you’d only be dirtying up his soap if you used that on its own.

In a confused moment of transfixion, you squeeze the sponge between your fingers, running the pad of your thumb over its gristly base. It wafts lemon, that enticing smell that Joel carries with him from a good wash in the morning.

You know it’s odd, and certainly not the time to be having these thoughts, but it’s a little distracting that this is his sponge. The same one he rubs all over himself when he’s naked, when the water is drizzling down his thick body, his sturdy chest and his soft stomach and the unmovable width of his thighs. You imagine he must like the way it feels after a long day, hot water sizzling on his skin, the sharp edge of a sponge cutting through dirt on his body, the smell of lemon in his nose and lingering on him.

You douse the sponge in lemon soup, and carefully slide it down your arm. The feeling makes you shudder; the rough texture of the sponge grating down your filthy skin. The sponge that Joel rubs on himself. The sponge that’s nestled itself between the bulging muscles of his chest, down the lines of his abdomen, all over his large arms. Down further...between his legs, maybe.

It’s been so long since you thought about a man this way; since you thought about anyone this way. On the road, there was no time for luxuries like sexual fantasy.

But now, safe and comfortable beneath a thick and steady steam of hot water, you allow your mind to wander a bit.

How thorough must Joel be, when he washes himself with this rough little sponge? To smell as good as he does even in the midst of a fight, even with adrenaline pumping, testosterone brewing, sweat surely slickening his underarms and legs. Still, he wafts pleasant aromas, the kind that make you lean into him, rather than pull away.

He must touch himself often, in depth. He must scrub the soap in between places on his large body that only he can see, only he can touch. Dripping little droplets of sweet-scented soap on to parts of him that would be so difficult to get to, unless he were naked in front of you.

Your fist clenches tightly around the sponge, expelling a myriad of soapy bubbles that drip down your legs into the drain. You blink, shaking your head, trying to come back down from those inappropriate thoughts.

Jesus. It’s really been too long. You’re gonna have to figure out something to do about that before you find yourself biting into this lemon-scented sponge.

Get a grip, you tell yourself. You have one hot shower and all of a sudden you’re ready and willing for the first person who will have you?

You’re sure it won’t be Joel, gruff and solitary as he seems, but maybe someone in this little safe haven is interested in relieving this ache.

Though, you’re no stranger to longing. It’s not as if you can’t take care of yourself.

Right now, you focus on washing. You scrub every inch of your body, including between your toes and in your belly button. You fight the layers of grime and grit until your skin is rubbed raw and red. Then, you take the syrupy bottle of liquid that’s labeled in marker “shampoo” and drench the crown of your head with it.

Scrubbing your hair takes more energy than you can expend. By the time the bubbles are rinsing down your back, your vision is swimming and you’re seeing black spots at the corner of your eyes. Your legs wobble, and you press a hand flat against the wall to steady yourself.

How long have you been in here?

Instead of tipping over and falling out onto the bathroom floor like an idiot, you slowly lower yourself to the shower floor. The tile is hot underneath your legs, and you realize you’ve turned the water all the way to the little red circle.

It burns, droplets of acid shooting into your skin like knives. It’s so hot, hotter water than you’ve ever felt cascading over your body. It burns nicely, melting away the road like you’re shedding skin to grow anew. The steam fills your nostrils, and you take a big breath, your lungs still rattly and weak from the cold outside, but soothed slightly by the thick warmth in here.

You lose track of everything on the shower floor. The water is so hot, the smell is so sweet, the confines of the tub feel safe and secluded. The door has a lock, the shower has a curtain, each sliver of a barrier between you and everyone else feels like more security than you’ve had in months. Or maybe ever.

Your knees press against the sides of the tub, knobby and thin, too sickly for anyone to desire. You don’t like the body you’re in, don’t like that you were mistaken for an infected today, don’t like that you’re more survival than person at this point.

And you can’t help but wonder, Jackson, Joel, this life here, would it be enough to change that? He says he can get you healthy, you can get your own place, a home. If you do as he says, follow his lead, can he really make that happen?

A place where you could lock the doors whenever you want. A place where you didn’t have to keep a loaded gun on you to feel safe. A place where you could drink the water without worrying it’s been spiked or it’s unsuitable. A life, a home, something meaningful.

All you have to do is get off the floor and go downstairs to it.

With a huff of effort, you shove your body forward, bracing yourself on the side of the tub for momentum. You clumsily yank on the knob and crank it until the water stops flowing. There's a fresh towel on a rack by the shower, and you reach for it feebly.

You avoid your reflection in the mirror as much as possible; your skin is a mapping of cuts, bruises, scars. A lifetime of suffering delicately traced into lines on your body. There’s no hiding what you’ve been through, it plays out across your limbs like the scenes of a movie. Each moment of misery, each near-death experience, each trauma, a little piece of it left within you and etched into your physicality for everyone to see.

Some people are born whole and become broken. Some are born whole and never lose enough pieces to say they aren’t complete anymore.

You were born with missing parts, already deficient in a world that ensured it would hack every last bit of you away. You don’t know how you stand, how you breathe, how you live, without lungs to fill your throat with air or a heart to pump your blood. Your chest is a cavern, all your missing pieces scattered across the trails you’ve walked, and mirrored in your scarred flesh.

Reminders. Everything is fleeting, everything is futile, and contentment is an undeserved fantasy.

Body wrapped in a towel, the cold air dimpling your flesh with goosebumps, you reach for your tattered clothes. They’re filthy, murky and bloodstained. You suspect Joel is going to need to thoroughly disinfect the couch you were lying on.

You don’t want to put them on. You don’t want to slide your clean, scrubbed raw skin into the folds of clothing littered with horror.

All you have is the cleanliness of your skin, and the mint leaf ground up between your teeth. Your first taste of comfort in...well, forever.

Reluctantly, you scoop up the pile of clothes and peer out into the hallway. You’re struck with a delightful smell; not the lemon soap, but something more tantalizing. Cooking meat, vegetables, the sizzle of smoke on a stovetop. You lean forward almost in a trance, your stomach growling ravenously, as you begin to descend the stairs.

Your footsteps are featherlight on the stairs, toes carefully pressing forward down the cold hardwood. It squeaks underneath the pad of your foot, but you ignore it, moving languidly toward the enticing smell.

He’s there, Joel, standing at the stove with his large back to you. He’s shrugged out of the flannel, leaving him clad in only his black t-shirt. The thin confines of the material give you more insight into the shape of him, the large, hulking physique of the man cooking vegetables.

He doesn’t seem to notice your entrance, either too enthralled in his task, or you’ve been in the shower so long he’s forgotten you’re here.

Carefully, you edge your way in a wide circle until you think you’re in his peripherals. He glances sideways, eyebrows shooting up as he observes you standing in his kitchen, only a towel around your body.

“Do you have my underwear?” You ask, before something less humiliating can come to mind.

Joel falters, something between embarrassment and amusement dancing across his expression before it smooths out. “Uh, yeah. I threw ‘em in the wash with some other stuff. Hope that’s okay.”

“Oh. Yeah it’s okay. Thanks.”

“I can take those too?” He jerks his chin toward the bundle of tattered clothes in your arms.

“I have nothing else to wear,” you admit.

At that, the corner of his lips twitch sideways. “I got somethin’ for ya’.”

He sets the pan down on the stove and gestures for you to follow him. You trail behind as he makes his way down the hall toward the laundry room you’d passed by earlier. He pauses in the doorway, looking around thoughtfully, before he spots a big tub in the back corner and reaches for it. It’s labeled with the same marker his shampoo was.

Ellie Winter Clothes

Joel brings the tub out into the living room and cracks open the lid, waving a hand for you to come in and examine the options.

You peer into the tub, surprised to find several neat stacks of folded up clothing. Jackets, pants, long-sleeved shirts and flannels. You look at Joel curiously.

“My kid,” he explains, “she just left last week to go on this tour of the west coast with her girlfriend. They just turned eighteen, all about gettin’ that freedom.”

You stare at him blankly. “You let your eighteen year old daughter leave on her own?”

Joel smiles wryly. “You ain't met Ellie. Anyway, she’ll be back at the end of next month. Just don’t lose nothin’ and I figure she won’t mind.”

You pick up one of the shirts. It’s soft fleece, navy blue, thick and warm to the touch. You purse your lips, doubtful it’ll fit you if it’s something a teenage girl’s wearing.

“I think it’ll fit just fine,” Joel tells you carefully, “‘least until we get some food in ya’.”

Warily, you slide the navy fleece over your head, keeping the towel upright with one hand and rolling the shirt down over the front of it. With dismay, you find the shirt fits nicely. It’s barely even snug.

And it’s so unfair that you almost cry in his living room. Because a girl ten years your junior shouldn’t be wearing the same size clothes as you. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep the emotions from swelling to the surface, blinking rapidly.

Joel clears his throat. “Hey, why don’t you throw them clothes on, and meet me in the kitchen? Grub’s almost up.”

You’re quick to nod, scooping up a pair of leggings and socks before you shuffle across the floor into the downstairs bathroom beside the kitchen. You allow yourself a moment to let the tears race down your cheeks as you dress in the teenage girl’s clothes, sniffling while wiping at your red eyes. You hadn’t realized, alone on the road all those months, how much you’ve shrunk in on yourself. You’ve never been as big as you should be, stunted by lack of food. But at least in the QZ you had ration blocks. It’s been a lean few months of scavenging.

You feel like something inhuman, something wrong, something unworthy. You don’t belong in this well-decorated, well-loved home. In this safe little town.

Finally, you wipe the last of the liquid from your eyes and exit the bathroom, heading into the kitchen. Your footsteps are careful, cautious, each one placed with delicate intention.

Joel’s just finishing up as he sets a plate down on his circular kitchen table. There are two settings, each with glistening silver utensils and a mason jar full of liquid beside them.

Joel spots you entering, and smiles hesitantly. He pulls out one of the chairs, which you assume is your cue to sit. You place your bottom in the chair, surprised when he pushes it in for you. He sits in the other chair and begins to eat unceremoniously.

Taking in the sights on your plate, you find a well cooked slab of meat, seared delightfully. The broccoli is steamed to a crisp, but not burnt, and there’s a slice of fluffy bread sliced beside it. You even see Joel dip a knife into a slab of light yellow paste and spread it over his slice.

“Is that...” your voice trails off in disbelief.

“That’s right,” he replies, “want some?”

You nod eagerly and hold out your bread. He smooths some butter over the top. He takes a sip from the mason jar beside his plate, and you can’t tell exactly what’s in it but, from the smell you think it’s alcohol.

You glance down at your own jar curiously, picking it up with a delicate hand. It’s a faded orange-ish brown color, but smells sweet when you bring it to your nose to inhale. No traces of booze, you don’t think. You’ve never been much of a drinker.

Tentatively, you bring the liquid to your mouth for a sip, eyelashes fluttering with surprise. It’s sweet to the taste, tangy and thin as it drenches over your tongue. The flavor is familiar, though you’re certain you’ve never had this drink. It’s tart and sweet all at once.

“You ever had apple juice before?” Joel asks, watching you make love to the mason jar as you eagerly sip more.

Frowning, you shake your head. “Maybe when I was a kid, before the outbreak. I don’t remember it though.”

“You like it?”

Nodding, you tip the glass back and finish it off, exhaling with pleasure. Then, you get to work on the meal.

It’s been so long since you used silverware you’ve almost forgotten how to properly position the fork and knife to cut into the meat. It’s tender though, and easy to slice into. You spear a piece with your fork and take it between your lips, eyes going wide at the burst of flavor breaking in under your teeth.

It’s like nothing you’ve ever had before. Juicy, tender, flavorful. It fills your mouth, satiates the hunger radiating through your teeth, goes down your throat in a smooth gulp. It settles in your empty stomach, a small portion of relief restored within you.

It’s as if a switch has flipped. Once you get a bite of the meat, you think you need to have more or you might die. It’ll be impossible to stop.

You start cutting into the meat like your life depends on it, ravenously shoving pieces into your mouth in a manner you’re sure Joel finds unladylike. You supplement it with bites of well-seasoned broccoli and soft, buttery bread.

Joel refills your apple juice and you wash down bites with it, practically moaning at the taste. When your bread disappears another is set on your plate, buttered and soft, ready to go.

You barely look up to breathe before the plate is clean, the glass is drained for the second time, and Joel is still working on his first helping of it all.

He smiles at you when you meet his eyes, suddenly feeling something like shame wash over you. You don’t remember much of what your parents taught you about manners, but you’re pretty sure coming into a stranger's house and eating their food like a feral dog doesn’t fall under the umbrella of polite dining.

“Um...m’sorry,” is all you can think to say.

Joel arches an eyebrow, taking a hefty bite of his own and chewing thoroughly before he asks, “sorry for what?”

“It was really good,” you reply hesitantly.

At that, his smile grows, and he looks down at the plate to smooth his expression over. He nods once. “Good. M’glad. Glad you liked it. How’re you feelin’?”

“Like I want more,” you admit, though your voice is sheepish, “is that bad?”

He clears his throat, readjusting in his seat, and your face falls. Oh dear god. You’re humiliated. Clearly he’s uncomfortable with your gluttony and your request, you’ve made this weirder than it already was. Further proof of your fears; you aren’t made for a place like this. You’re wrong, broken, not-

“I’m real glad to hear that, darlin’,” Joel says, “maybe give it a few minutes. I bet you ain’t eaten that much in a while.”

Your face feels warm at the casual use of darlin’, but you ignore that and ask, “wait for what?”

“For it all to settle, make sure you still feel okay.” He shrugs, taking another bite of the meat on his plate, which you’re now noticing is much larger than the one you’d had. “Goin’ from as hungry as you look, to eatin’ like we do here...s’gonna take some time.”

It’s an interesting concept, the idea that there could be too much to eat, when all you’ve ever known is the opposite. You struggle to see how that could be a problem, but it’s his house, and his food, and you don’t want to make a scene.

“Okay,” you agree quietly.

Joel chews on his bottom lip thoughtfully, eyeing you as you wrap your arms around yourself, feeling as though your mere presence alone takes up too much valuable oxygen.

“Here.” He hands you another slice of buttered bread, holding it out in his large hand like a peace offering. “Can’t let you sit at my table hungry, darlin’. Just, take it easy, or you ain’t gonna feel too hot.”

Tamping down the glee that springs into your chest at the opportunity for more food, you accept the bread from his outstretched hand with a quiet thanks. You eat quickly, greedily, closing your eyes and letting out a small moan of delight at the taste.

Something funny happens as you eat that bread, a change in the way your stomach feels, a change in the way your body feels. A warmth, pooling in your belly, swelling through you up into your chest, softening your throat and relaxing your shoulders.

You’re full. For the first time in you don’t even know how long, the emptiness doesn’t persist.

“Wow, that’s a sight,” Joel says, and you look over at his face to find a surprising expression of amusement there.

“What?” you demand, voice going sour.

He shakes his head, rueful. “You, smilin’ like that. Didn’t take you for the type.”

A scowl immediately overtakes your features, and your jaw clenches. “I’d have plenty to smile about if-”

His low, dry chuckle cuts off your train of thought. Your eyes narrow, and he shakes his head again, looking a little too amused by all of this for your taste.

“Will you settle down?” Joel teases lightly. “It’s just nice, is all. Glad to see you lookin’ happy about somethin’. We’ve made a lotta progress from you holding a knife to my throat earlier.”

You regard him with cautious eyes. “And you trying to choke me to death.”

“Ah. Yeah.” Sheepishly, he rubs the back of his neck. “M’sorry about that. I didn’t realize you weren’t...”

“A disgusting mushroom monster?” you fill in, lips twitching.

“I wasn’t gonna say that.” He frowns.

“It’s fine. I know I look like shit. It’s been a rough couple of months.”

“I wasn’t gonna say that neither,” Joel replies dryly. “What I do wanna ask is…well, how’d you end up out there on your own? Ain’t you gotta family? Young woman like you-“

“I’m not young,” you bite back immediately. And it’s true. In this world, at your age, you’re considered lucky to still be here

“Alright,” he concedes, “woman like yourself, alone. How’d that happen?”

“Everybody’s got dead people,” you reply, running your finger along the thin glass around the empty mason jar. It’s cool against your skin, sticky with juice remnants. It gives you something to focus on besides Joel’s scrutinizing expression.

You don’t want to do this; pry open this bleeding wound in your empty chest and claw at the flesh until the pain subsumes you. Your family is dead, you’ve never had anything close to a friend, you’ve never been safe enough to slow down in the way you’d need to fall in love. What is the point of rehashing this? What is the point of saying aloud all the scars he can see written plainly on your body?

“Where is your daughter’s mom?” you ask, hoping desperately to shift the subject off of yourself.

Joel clears his throat, sitting up a bit in his chair. “She’s dead. I actually adopted Ellie.”

“Oh, you aren’t her biological father?”

“No. I uh...I was though. My older daughter. Sarah.”

You look at him, the plains of his face, the aged lines around his deep eyes, the flecks of gray in his beard. His use of the word “was” needs no further elaboration. It’s clear, probably should’ve been since even before he showed you Ellie’s winter clothes, this man is someone’s father.

You suddenly realize you’ve left your loaded handgun in the bathroom upstairs, abandoned with your discarded clothing. You suddenly realize, that’s alright.

“I’m sorry,” is all you can muster in reply to such a harrowing admission.

Joel nods once, a brief acknowledgement of your condolence. “Thanks. Was a long time ago. M’alright, these days. Life’s good.”

“Everybody’s got dead people,” you offer up again, a limp shrug to your shoulders.

Arching an eyebrow, Joel replies, “that’s true. Your parents, then?”

“Mhm. Yours?”

He chuckles. “Long before the outbreak, honey.”

“How old are you, anyway?”

“Old. Yourself?”

“Not old. Not young, either.”

Nodding, Joel’s eyes dart up to meet yours. It’s quiet then, the sort of quiet that lingers between two people when they aren’t sure what the next move is. When they aren’t sure where to go from here, what the future holds, what they are to each other.

“How are you feelin’?” He breaks the silence, of course, with a concerned glance at your empty plate.

You hesitate. How are you feeling? It’s been so long since someone asked you that question.

Yesterday, the answer would’ve been something as simple as an eye roll and a gesture to your ruined body. How are you feeling? Fucking bad. Is there any other way to feel in a world like this one?

Good feels like a stretch. Your head hurts from where you banged it on the floor, your stomach is so full now it’s starting to feel uncomfortable, your body aches and groans with each movement, and your mind is a torrent of uncertainty and confusion.

But...you’ve certainly felt worse, haven't you?

There’s food in you, and something delightful called apple juice. There’s a fire in the living room. There’s utensils, and plates, and warm clothes, and a shower with-

You suddenly remember something you forgot to tell Joel.

“I used your sponge,” you say abruptly.

Joel blinks. Once, twice, then his brow furrows. “Pardon me?”

“Y-your sponge,” you splutter like an idiot as you realize this was not an appropriate time to bring up the sponge. “In the shower. I’m sorry I didn’t…it was the only one, so- ”

“Oh.” Understanding passes over his face, and he looks taken aback for only a split second before he speaks again. “Oh, no. S’alright. I didn’t think about that before I sent you up there. Sorry. You’re good.”

“I rinsed it clean,” you tell him.

He laughs a little breathlessly, and you think you see the tips of his ears hueing a bit red. Clearing his throat, he swipes his used silverware onto his empty plate and stands. The chair squeals across the floor with his sudden movement.

“I ain’t worried about it,” he says, and moves to deposit his dishes in the sink.

Urgently, you scramble to your feet, collecting your own plate and following him. It’s your immediate instinct to take over and begin scrubbing the dishes; so long living on your own that every responsibility fell to you.

You’re stopped by his gentle arm brushing yours, and he shakes his head. “I got the dishwasher workin’ last month. No need.”

“Dishwasher?” you ask, confused.

Joel gestures to a large white door embedded into the cabinets. He reaches down, smooths his large fingers over the material, and pulls. The door draws down, opening to reveal peculiar little rows of racks and baskets.

“Whoa,” you breathe, kneeling down beside it with fascination, “that’s what these things do?”

“You were young when the outbreak hit,” Joel notes, not a question, but more of an observatory reminder. “I’ll bet there’s a lotta shit we used to have that you don’t remember.”

“We had one of these in the QZ,” you say, still transfixed by the inner workings of this dish washer, “but I didn’t know it opened. I thought it was just a weird design thing.”

At this, he bursts out laughing. It’s a bit more vivacious than the dry chuckle he’s been giving you all day, a genuine, pealing laugh that comes from deep within his belly. It’s nice, rumbling in your ears and soothing to your tense shoulders. The timbre of his pleased noises does something odd to you, something calming.

“It takes running water to use,” he explains once his laughter has died down, “that’s why yours never worked. If your QZ was like ours, that is.”

“You were in a QZ?” you look up at him, struck with how massive he seems standing above your kneeling frame.

“Boston.”

“Atlanta.”

“Heard that one ain’t a cakewalk.”

You shake your head. “No, we didn’t have cake.”

His lips twitch. “You don’t know what-”

“I’m fucking with you.” Rolling your eyes, you get to your feet and cross your arms. “I’ve heard of expressions before.”

“Just not dishwashers.”

Annoyed, your hand flies to your waistband, an instinct. You remember your gun is upstairs.

Joel follows the movement of your arm with a disbelieving noise of contempt. “You’re a violent little thing, ain’t you?”

“I didn’t-“

“Where’s the gun you were just reaching for?”

“I left it upstairs,” you admit.

Joel nods approvingly. “I’ll call that progress. Let me load the dishwasher here and I’ll take you up to your room.”

“My room?”

Your room, indeed.

After the dishes have been loaded into this bizarre machine, Joel walks you up the stairs, past the bathroom you used, into a spare bedroom. It’s nice and clean the way the rest of the place is, neat lines and vacuumed rugs. There’s a dresser, and a bed with four posts, a colorful quilt, photos of horses on the walls. It smells like pine.

You haven’t slept in a bed in a very long time.

You tell him as much, stroking the quilt beneath your palm as you approach the bed. It’s sort of itchy, the kind of fabric that has grit to it, but thick enough to keep you warm.

Joel watches you as you investigate the room, perched in the doorway with his ankles crossed and his arms pressed into the frame. “So you made it all the way from Atlanta, to here, on your own?”

“Mhm.” You vault yourself up experimentally on the bed, feeling the mattress dip beneath your slight weight. It’s aged, squeaky springs and lumpy spots here and there. The quilt scratches your raw skin and you pull back slightly.

But it’s a bed.

“Must’a been hard,” Joel notes.

You nod in agreement. It was hard. Now it’s over. No use rehashing it.

“Well, m’sure you’re exhausted.” He clears his throat and backs off the doorframe, nodding in your direction. “I’ll be just down the hall if you need...if there’s anythin’ at all...just, I’m here, alright?”

“Thanks.” You offer him a small, unsure smile.

He returns it with ease. “That’s two.”

“Huh?”

Holding up two fingers, he moves from the doorway. “Two smiles. Bet I can get three outta you tomorrow.”

With a scoff, you walk up behind him and place your hand on the door. “Good thing there’s no money for you to lose.”

He grins at this, crooked jaw and curled lip all wicked and teasing. There’s something mischievous about this expression, something so out of character for this stern, fatherly presence that it almost takes your breath away. You can picture him, twenty years younger, a rough-and-tumble young man with a teasing sense of humor and a sharp wit. It’s no surprise at all that someone loved him enough to give him a child, someone loved him enough to make him a father.

Joel is confusing, but he’s also quite simple.

He’s a man who cares, fiercely, for those he loves. He cooks, he cleans, he folds his daughter’s clothes up in a neat little bin in the laundry room. He scrubs with lemon soap and stokes a soothing fire in the mantle. He chews mint leaves when his head hurts, he washes dirty undergarments without being asked.

He also laughs, teases, chokes and leaves you to your own devices if you get on his nerves. Though, his patience seems admirable. He loaded your gun, handed it to you with a live round, even after you’d held a knife to his throat. He’d cooked you dinner, caught you when you fell, walked you to the bedroom so you could get proper rest.

You guess, if you were gonna end up getting choked out by some strange man, you’re glad it was Joel. Joel...huh.

“Hey,” you stop him before he can make for the staircase.

“What?” he asks.

“What’s your last name?”

Joel regards you curiously. “Miller. Joel Miller. What’s yours?”

You tell him your name, and he nods. It takes a quick beat of silence for you to continue, “it’s nice to meet you, Joel Miller.”

He smiles again, softer this time, more genuine. “Likewise, darlin’. Get some sleep.”

With that, he turns his back on you and descends the staircase.

______________________________________________________________________

The days go like this.

You wake up in a bed, scratchy quilt wrapped around your sore, aching body. You hadn’t realized how badly you hurt until you stopped pushing forward.

You climb out of the bed, and pad downstairs in the cold morning brisk of Joel’s house. He’s always up before you. He has a fire going in the mornings, heat wafting off the flicker of orange beneath the mantle, and you curl up beside it with the quilt dragging behind you. He’s out of coffee beans for now, but he makes the both of you a mug of hot tea with roots infused into it, and it’s close enough.

You hold the steaming mug to your chest, itchy quilt pulled up around your body like a coat of armor, and watch the fire. Joel asks why you sit on the floor when there’s a perfectly good couch right behind you.

You tell him you want to be warm. You’ve been cold for so long. He seems to understand.

You help him make breakfast, mystified by the seemingly endless supply of fresh produce he has available. He likes breakfast, says it’s his favorite of the day.

You watch as he cracks fresh eggs into a buttered pan; hear the sizzle of heat against runny yolk and whites, watch as the pools of liquid become firm and strong under the duress. Something soft and pliant, made durable through the forges of fire.

It’s so silly, but you relate to those tough little eggs.

You eat at his kitchen table some days, sometimes on the porch in the cold morning, waving to Jackson residents as they begin their work shifts. It seems like fair trades, a barter system built on community where everyone is taken care of in some way or another. It’s bizarre, unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. Joel’s brother lives here too, with his wife Maria who runs the council. It’s all very quaint, picturesque.

Joel says it works. He explains patrols, explains the work shift rotation, explains the mess hall and the greenhouses and the bountiful supply of food from gardening and hunting. He likes it here, you can tell, and why wouldn’t he?

He tells you about his life before, little bits at a time delivered while passing you a plate or tucking the corner of your sheet back down on your mattress. The damn thing insists on whipping up everytime he sits on the end of it to talk with you. He tells you about Ellie, how they came together, how she healed his broken parts.

You’re envious. Not of their relationship, but of the fact that his missing pieces somehow came back when you know your own are doomed to be lost forever. You don’t tell him about your past.

You eat. You eat like you’ve never eaten before. Eggs and bacon in the morning, fresh fruit and squeezed juices. Sandwiches for lunch; chicken and lettuce and tomato between thick slabs of bread that Joel makes in his oven. Cold, tart lemonade that tingles on your tongue and smooths down your throat. Hearty, tender meat with potatoes and veggies and soft baked bread.

Joel watches you eat with this look on his face that you can’t quite decipher. It’s an interesting mix between what you think is some sort of pride, tangled up with another confusing emotion that makes him watch you carefully. He eyes the fork as it slides between your lips, watches you sigh in pleasure, adjusts in his seat when you ask for seconds. You aren’t sure if it’s discomfort with you eating all his food or...something more confusing. Though, he says there’s no rush to get into your own place. The council will check in soon and see if you’re ready. But he says there’s no rush.

Either way, you’re full every day now, so full and satiated that you’re starting to forget what hunger feels like.

Well...not completely.

Days turn into a week, and a week to two, and it’s on this two week marker that you walk into the bathroom without knocking.

It’s your fault. The door isn’t locked, but why would it be? Joel’s been living on his own since Ellie moved to her little shed apartment in the backyard. Your presence is a recent one, two weeks not enough time to get out of a routine of comfortability in his own home.

And you, so many months alone on the road, any semblance of privacy was a lost venture. You’ve peed behind trees, bathed in streams, found yourself naked by the fire on late summer evenings while your clothes air-dried. Knocking on doors has taken some time to get used to.

So when you push it open haphazardly, not expecting to see the fully naked man stepping out of the shower, it’s a slight surprise.

Joel freezes, hand on the towel he’s reaching for, body dripping with warm water. It’s a split second, just a moment before you fumble out a frantic apology and slam the door shut.

But not quick enough that you didn’t see everything. Everything.

You stand outside the door, hand on the knob, eyes wide, chest heaving. You try to clear your head of these thoughts, but there’s only one thing you can really focus on.

Joel.

Naked. Droplets slowly dancing down his weathered skin; clinging to the dark hair on his chest, the slope of his full belly, gliding down toward his pelvis. His thick legs, muscled and bulging, arms the same. All of him, wet, breathing hard, and...and not just breathing hard.

God, you’ve never seen one so big before.

Everything about Joel is big. He’s a massive presence. His shoulders are broad, hips wide, thighs sturdy. His neck is thick and lined with veins, same as his wrists and hands. His stature towers over you, and his form exceeds yours in every possible sense.

But...well, you’ve never seen one so big.

It had been too quick, to really be able to tell if he was truly sporting a post-shower boner. You think, maybe a little. But you also think...maybe it’s just that big.

The hair was well groomed, you noted that, though you aren’t sure why. It makes you feel...feral. You haven’t had a shave in months, legs thick with coarse down, the slope of your pelvis protected by a soft bush of hair. Razors were hard enough to get in the QZ. On the road? Non starter. You’re a fuzzy decoration of body hair. Joel’s not exactly smooth, but he looked...groomed.

Why are you self conscious? Why do you care what he might think of the haphazard way you look naked? Why are you comparing your road-torn body to his strong, healthy one?

Why are you imagining what his might feel like against yours? How the scruffy beard on his jaw might scratch and tickle yours like that stupid quilt. How his hands, thick and massive, would cradle your flesh, the pads of his rough thumbs leaving lines of desire down each tendon. How his voice, low and gruff, a buttery drawl, would whisper in your ear. Tell you you’re beautiful, tell you he likes having you here, tell you this is permanent.

That’s enough to snap you out of your stupor. You release the door handle like you’ve been burned, stumbling back away from it. Your breath hitches, eyes feeling warm and wet.

Before you can make a hasty exit, the door opens, and Joel appears under the arch. He’s fully dressed now; dark washed jeans and an olive green t-shirt that clings to his large chest and arms in a way that’s almost unbearable.

For a beat, there’s this silence between the two of you that feels almost tangible. Your throat sticks with it, clogging up any pathetic attempts at breaking the tension. You look at him, fumbling for something to say, something to do, fuck to even move.

“M’sorry,” he begins, averting his eyes, “uh, I-”

“My fault,” is all you can squeak out.

“I shoulda locked the-”

“My fault!” you repeat, like a real eloquent genius. You force a laugh out of your lips, but it sounds more like a manic cry than anything.

Joel’s brow creases, his eyes settling on you with clear concern. “No, s’okay. M Sorry, again. Are you...alright?”

Another manic laugh. “Joel, you’re not that special, I’ve seen naked men before.”

His jaw tenses. “You look upset.”

This is too much. This is all too fucking much. He’s got you all twisted up, all confused. Eating his food, using his sponge, sharing tea with him in the mornings and a leaf of mint at night. Letting him worm his way into your mind, make you feel safe and secure.

This is how pieces go missing; get hacked off. This is how a person becomes whole, and then utterly incomplete.

“I’m… fine,” you manage, “gonna… actually, was just going to tell you. I’m gonna talk to Maria today. Let her know I’m ready to be on my own.”

And it shouldn’t affect you, the way his face falls completely at these words. The way his shoulders deflate, his eyes go soft, his lips draw down and his eyebrows flatten.

You’ve hurt him, you’re hurting him. You don’t know why or how, but this hurts him. Despite the quick composure he sweeps over his expression into one of neutrality, you know. And you shouldn't care. It’s two weeks of nothing. You’ve been on your own most of your life.

“Alright,” Joel says, voice rough.

And it shouldn’t hurt you, the way he easily accepts this. The way he doesn’t fight. You don’t own him, he doesn’t own you, you don’t belong to each other.

Two weeks of meals, late night talks, healing. It’s nothing. To either of you, clearly.

But it does hurt. And that’s exactly why you have to leave.

“Okay,” you reply, swallowing hard.

“Council’s closed today, Sunday,” he explains dryly.

“Then I’ll do it tomorrow,” you snap back, voice going a little defensive. “I can find somewhere to sleep for tonight.”

At that, he rears back like you’ve hit him. “What?”

“To get out of your hair,” you explain, gesturing vaguely.

Joel rolls his eyes, crosses those big arms over his chest, and looks down at you disapprovingly. You shrink a little under his stern gaze, hating yourself for doing it.

“You ain’t in my hair,” he snarls, “I told you there’s no rush. Talk to her tomorrow. Sleep in your bed tonight.”

“It’s not my bed.” You don’t even know why you say it, why you’re arguing. You’re just afraid, angry, at yourself more than anything.

His eyes darken. “Do whatever you want, then.”

He brushes past you and heads down the stairs, not bothering to look back up.

__________________________________________

You do in fact, sleep in your bed that night.

The quilt is scratchier than ever, an incessant discomfort that has you tossing and turning all night. It’s never stopped you from sleeping before, but for some reason, tonight is unbearable. You roll on your side, roll on your stomach, bury your face in the pillow and try not to scream.

You’d skipped dinner tonight, for the first time in two weeks. You didn’t want to see Joel, even when he knocked on the bedroom door to tell you it was ready. Even when you said you weren’t hungry, and his worried voice came through the wood.

“Look, you gotta eat, alright?”

“Not hungry, Joel. Thank you though. Really.”

“Is this about-”

“No, I swear.”

“Please?”

It had been hard to say no to that one.

Now, you lie in a suffocating mess of pillows, stomach growling, feeling utterly pathetic and weak. You used to go days with this feeling, gnawing, desperate hunger in your belly, and you persevered. Now, you’re so fucking spoiled you can’t even go to bed without dinner.

You don’t recognize this person you’re becoming. She’s a stranger, a woman of luxury, of contentment, dare you say happiness. She is not you, but some foreign intruder who’s taken over your body in an attempt to finally rid you of your last intact pieces until you’re nothing. Floating in essence, vanquished into an eternity of emptiness.

You rely on him, you depend on him. He feeds you, worries about you, watches you from the corner of his eye to make sure you’re alright. And you don’t know what to do with that. It makes you feel small, futile, like a burden. You know how to take care of yourself. It’s all you know.

So, you toss and turn.

When sleep comes, it brings with it dreams. Haunting memories, things you’ve tried to keep buried deep inside that small little cavern of your brain where bad things go.

The men come, late at night, in a group of six. You’re young, twelve you think. The outbreak has been going on for four years, and you think you’ve got it all figured out now. You’re going to get to this quarantine zone in Georgia, since your own fell. It’s all gonna be fine. Mom and Dad and your big brother Andrew, they’re here and it’s okay.

You’re trying to sleep, burrowed and shivering cold in your thin sleeping bag. Andrew is sitting beside you, one hand on your upper back, shushing your whimpers quietly. His sixteenth birthday was last week. Mom and Dad couldn’t do much on the road, not like you all used to when there was cake and candles and Spiderman gift wrap. Still, he seems older somehow, the last four years have aged him far more quickly than regular life did before the outbreak.

You’re close to the border, your parents say nearly out of South Carolina. It’s southern here, supposed to be warm, but the nights are brutal and unforgiving in the winter. You’re so used to the cold now you’d think you wouldn’t mind, but it aches your bones, freezes your limbs into a stunted position curled around yourself. You hate the cold, always have.

“You’re okay,” Andrew murmurs quietly, trying not to wake Mom and Dad. It’s his turn to watch. They’ve done rotating shifts for days now, until he put his foot down and demanded they both sleep substantially.

“M’cold,” you whine. You know you’re being a crybaby, and maybe once upon a time he would've teased you for it, but not now. You’re bundled up in your layers and sleeping bag while he sits upright against a tree, his thin windbreaker the only barrier between him and the cold. His gun is laid on his thigh, safety on, facing the opposite direction. Guns are a permanent part of your family’s accessorizing these days.

“I know,” he whispers in reply, “it’ll be warm in Atlanta. Just try to sleep.”

“I’m afraid,” you say, even though you’re embarrassed to admit it.

“Me too,” Andrew says, “but we’re all gonna be fine. We’ve made it this far, hm?”

You nod half-heartedly. “Yeah.”

“As long as we’re together, we’ll be okay. Alright?”

“Okay, yeah.”

“Get some sleep.”

“Okay.”

That’s the last thing you ever said to him.

They appeared from the trees, too quiet, too well hidden for Andrew to spot them in time. By the time one of the men got close enough to reach out and yank your sleeping bag up with you in it, he was out of time.

Andrew shot, blindly. He nailed the man who’d scooped you up, and you both fell to the ground. He cried your name, rushing toward you, and then another shot rang out. Andrew hit the dirt with a spurt of red liquid that splattered across your face.

You remember screaming. You remember your parents waking up, frantic. You remember fumbling around on the ground and grabbing Andrew’s gun, only to feel a vice grip on your arm. One of the men grabbed you, while your parents shot and fought off the others. Your mother screamed, and a body hit the ground. You struggled against the man’s hold as his greedy, chapped hands combed your adolescent body to see what of value you had.

“Nothin’ on this one!” he’d shouted, tossing you to the ground like you weighed nothing. Your head hit the hard dirt, and you found yourself even with Andrew’s face. Well, what was left of it.

“The lady had some ammo, there’s some stuff in these packs,” another man replied.

“What do we do with this one?” asked the man who grabbed you.

“Eh, she’ll die out here on her own anyway. Might as well put her out of her misery.”

That was the moment you knew you were going to die.

“Hold it,” another man said, “she’s a fucking kid, just leave her. We got what we needed.”

“Yeah she ain’t worth the bullet,” chimed in another man.

“I’ll choke her out,” one suggested.

“Just leave her,” a more commanding voice ordered, “grab this shit and let’s get going.”

You remember lying there in the darkness, watching the bits of chunky red substance leak from Andrew’s eye socket, waiting for someone to tell you what to do. Waiting for your parents to sit up and give you an order.

The night grew colder. You weren't strong enough to bury them, even move them on your own. For a long time, you just lay there, staring at Andrew. The image burned into your brain forever.

By the time the sun rose, your bones were so cold, lips blue, eyelashes stiff, you felt like you’d died right with them. Four corpses lying unceremoniously on a campsite. Rigor mortis set in early for you, a paralyzing terror of the next steps rendering you utterly immovable.

After a while, you got hungry.

Isn’t it funny, how that’s what motivated you to push your small body away from your brother’s hollowed face? Your own selfish need, your own emptiness, always threatening to swallow you whole.

The walk to Georgia left you breathless a lot. You stumbled, more than walked. Drank from streams the way your parents taught you, foraged for food as best as you could with no weapon besides the little knife holstered in your sock. You hid from infected and more raiders, using your small body to your advantage as much as possible.

When you finally made it to the giant cement wall of the QZ, it felt like you’d lost your breath forever. Your lungs rattled, air came in short, quick bursts, your throat ached from dehydration. Your legs didn’t work, not how they were supposed to.

You remember the FEDRA guards holding guns at you, a scanner to your neck, shoving you through the gates roughly. You remember telling them your family was gone. You remember lasting a week in the orphanage before you ran away, doing odd jobs for older QZ residents in exchange for places to stay.

Mostly, you remember Andrew’s face. You remember the biting cold contrasted with the warm splatter of blood on your face, you remember his insides leaking out, you remember wishing you could scream, but not having enough power in your lungs.

As long as we’re together, we’ll be okay.

You remember knowing that you would never be okay again.

The remembering hurts, restricts your lungs into a tiny little ball in your chest. You struggle to inhale, struggle to fill your sternum with necessary oxygen. It burns, the hunger for air with no satisfaction. The emptiness consumes you.

You gasp, you see Andrew’s face, it hurts, everything hurts.

Alone on a campsite, alone in the woods, alone in the QZ, alone on a cross-country trek, alone in a cold gas station.

A warm fire, mint on your tongue, tart lemonade down your throat, food in your belly. A dry chuckle in your ears, a steadying hand on your back, a comforting presence beside you.

Alone. Afraid. Broken. A burden. Couldn’t save your family, could barely save yourself-

A burden.

Alone.

Broken.

“Hey.”

A voice, low and urgent. Familiar, gentle but concerned.

You gasp.

Alone.

Burden.

Broken.

“Hey,” more insistent this time, “hey, wake up honey.”

You gasp, your body freed from its rigor mortis as you bolt upright, air circulating through your lungs like a broken fan blade. Your hands fly out, a desperate attempt to shield your face from whoever is currently saying your name.

“...breathe, breathe,” he’s saying to you, a little frantic, “s’okay, you’re okay, breathe.”

“Please,” you wheeze, but you don’t know what you’re begging for. There are tears in your voice, a fragile broken blossom of desperation.

“I know, I know baby, s’okay,” he’s touching you now, delicate fingers tracing up and down the protruding knobs of your spine. “Listen to my voice, darlin’. Take a deep breath for me, s’gonna be okay, I promise.”

You try to follow his example, try to steady your breathing to an even pace. He’s doing it for you, showing you how, patiently inhaling in a slow motion and letting it go in one soft exhale.

“I-I can’t,” you gasp, feeling hopeless, helpless, pathetic and like a burden in every sense of the word.

“Shh, yes you can honey. In, with me now, in.”

He inhales, slow, lowering himself to look up at your trembling frame perched on the bed. The sheet’s come up, the fading cream color of the mattress almost too bright in the dark room. Pale moonlight illuminates Joel’s face, scruffy beard, wrinkles around his gentle eyes, broad nose. His lips part, and he breathes in, keeping gaze with you.

You follow suit, inhaling in a choppy, half-hearted attempt at the smooth breath he’d accomplished.

“That’s good darlin’,” he nods at you, even though you know it wasn’t good. “You’re doin’ so good. Breathe out.”

You exhale in a stunted whoosh.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, “keep goin’.”

With his hand on your back, rubbing slowly, delicately, you fight to steady your breaths. Your eyes are wet, your lips trembling, his voice soothing in your ears. He’s saying all these things, all these nice, lovely, wonderful things that people don’t say to you.

“Attagirl, good job.”

“S’okay honey, you’re doin’ good, just breathe.”

“You’re okay, you’re safe, promise, I ain’t gonna let nothin’ hurt ya.”

Mercifully, you come back into your body, chest expanding the way it’s supposed to. Your fingers unclench from the tangled up sheets, aching from how tightly you’d been gripping.

Through a curtain of hair, you draw your eyes to him. He’s still there, rubbing your back, murmuring sweet nothings, keeping his own breathing steady.

Still there. He’s still there. You aren’t alone.

“Joel,” you gasp, and he moves toward you in an instant.

Large, warm arms pull you in. His chest, thick through his t-shirt, the steady thrum of his heartbeat a rhythm in your ear. His chin at the crown of your head, his breath in your ears. You curl up like that useless little girl in a sleeping bag, and cling to his shirt.

“M’here,” he whispers, “you’re okay, honey. Was just a dream.”

He’s here. He’s warm. He’s here and you’re safe and not alone. Four walls around you, a quilt underneath your cold legs, a kitchen full of food just down the stairs.

Panic leaks into your veins, memories of the road, cold and lonely and frightening.

As long as we’re together, we’ll be okay.

You want to tell him you’re afraid. You want to admit it; be forthcoming about just how damaged you are. You want to tell him just how heavily you’ve come to rely on his steadying presence, his warm food, his laugh, the way his eyes crinkle up and his teeth show when you make him happy.

You’re so, so scared. So alone, so petrified, not at all as tough as you’d like him to think.

But the last time you admitted you were afraid, you lost everything in the blink of an eye. Your own weakness, always your undoing.

“You’re okay,” Joel says into your hair, not realizing he’s speaking empty words into a hollow recipient, “I gotcha. You’re safe. I’m here.”

You can’t tell him how badly you want him to stay. That will only make him leave.

“Joel,” you repeat, breathless, unsure of what else to say.

“M’here honey.” He reaches down with one hand, cups your face in the rough of his palm, strokes his thumb over the delicate line of your cheekbone. And you feel safe.

Desperately, you lift your own trembling hands, taking his cheeks in them. He seems surprised, but doesn’t pull back, allowing you to explore with your own frail fingers. You trace the bridge of his large nose, the slope of his full lips, the broad jaw and stern forehead. His eyelashes flutter, and you move yourself closer, cradled in his arms, faces only inches apart.

“M’here,” is all he says. And you must be tired of hearing it, surely you must, but you can’t find that anywhere within yourself. All you feel is safe.

You don’t know exactly how it happens. Your face moves, his does too, hurried breaths and warmed air between you. His lips press into yours, soft and lush and tender. You don’t know who leaned in first, but you feel his caution, his carefulness as you deepen the kiss from something superficial to something that has meaning.

He allows you to part his mouth with your tongue, falling into one another as your noses bump. His grip tightens around you, and you’re awash in the smell of lemon soap and mint, the itch of the quilt beneath you, the squeak of a mattress underneath your combined weight.

After a few seconds, your lips part. Your noses touch, the frame of your foreheads making a heart against the shadows of moonlight through your window. His hands cup your face, rough and calloused, yet unbelievably gentle all at once. It’s as though his grasp is a shield, impenetrable and solid. You’ve never felt so safe, so cared for, so protected.

And so, so scared.

Now that you’re here, safe and cocooned in this warm house, this gentle society, the arms of this incredible man…

How can you ever let yourself love something that would hurt so badly if it were lost? You’ve done it before. You can’t do it again.

“D’you wanna talk about it?” Joel rasps, thumb still soothing small lines over your cheek.

You shake your head quickly, but the words spill out as if in spite of your body’s intentions. “Just… mm. My parents. My brother. Just-that’s all.”

“Oh,” he murmurs, “what…can I ask what-”

“Raiders. I was twelve.”

At this, he looks down at your face, brows furrowed. “You saw it?”

“Yeah, I got away. They let me go, I mean. After some debate.” You clear your throat, breathing settled and eyes drying with each word. You’re feeling grounded enough to be utterly humiliated. “Um, I’m really sor-”

“I know you ain’t about to apologize for havin’ a nightmare,” he interjects dryly.

“More for what happened afterward,” you mutter.

Joel’s fingertips tuck a lock of hair back behind your ear, even though it falls right back out again. “Now why on earth are you apologizin’ for that?”

Because I can’t stay.

Limply, you shrug.

He laughs, that low, dry sound. It smooths from his chest like a bass drum, reverberating in your ears. And you smile in spite of yourself, a small, gentle pull of your lips. You love making him laugh.

“Sorry I barged in,” Joel says, even though he’s still holding you in his lap like a stray dog.

“S’okay. Thanks for…thank you.”

“Don’t gotta thank me.”

“Be kinda rude if I didn’t.”

His lips twitch. “Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Okay.”

“Did you do that just now…kiss me…’cause you wanted to, or ‘cause you were upset?”

Swallowing thickly, you reply, “can it be both?”

“If it’s both, it’s both.”

“That’s fucking vague,” you grouse.

“Pot, meet kettle.” He smirks down at you.

“I’m sorry I kissed you,” you say.

“Don’t be,” he responds, “I’m not.”

You have nothing to say to that.

“You oughta get some rest.” Joel squeezes you once, then moves like he’s going to get up and leave.

Your fingers dart out to clench his shirt, gripping the soft cotton in vice like digits. Wild-eyed, you look up at him, terrified of being alone, terrified of seeing Andrew’s face again all night.

“Hey, easy.” Joel pries your fingers off his shirt. “You alright?”

“I-I-“ you stumble over the words, throat choking up. It’s all so confusing. You need to be away, pull back, stop this before it goes too far. At the same time, you’ve never needed to be close quite this badly.

“I can,” he answers a question you didn’t ask, “if you want.”

Limply, you nod.

“Go on then, scoot.” Joel gestures for you to make room on the bed, and you do. He adjusts the pillows and lies flat, opening his arm for you. You curl up at his side, cheek on his chest, listening to the steady heartbeat underneath the cotton shirt. He smells like lemon soap, and a faint musk of sweat from sleeping. It’s enticing, the mixture, and you don’t know why.

You press your face into his shirt, breathing in the security that this strange man somehow brings. You don’t know when the shift happened from him being a man you wanted to stab, to this, but it’s happened now. It’s too late to deny this: Joel means something to you.

“I’m sorry about what I said earlier,” you tell him quietly.

He hesitates. “You…didn’t say nothin’ bad. That was always the plan, for you to go out on your own darlin’.”

He’s right of course, that was the plan. For the past two weeks, all you’ve been doing is letting him take care of you. The end goal, ultimately, to help you become a functioning Jackson resident.

“But can I ask?” He continues, voice low and soft in the dark bedroom.

“Yeah?”

“Do you…do you want to leave? S’okay whatever you wanna do baby, just… that is what you want, right? To be on your own?”

As long as we’re together, we’ll be okay.

No, no, no I don’t want to be alone. Ever again. I want to stay with you forever.

“Yes,” you lie. It’s a lie. You’re so afraid. Why can’t you just tell him the truth? Why can’t you just let someone in? If it’s gonna be anyone…well, it’d be someone like Joel.

No. Not someone like Joel. Just Joel.

“So all that time on the road,” he adjusts your body slightly, tugging you up higher on his chest so that his chin rests on your head, “didn’t make you lonesome?”

An ache in your chest, sharp and spearing overwhelms you. “It-it did.”

“N’you like bein’ lonesome?”

The lie is on the tip of your lips before he says, “be honest, honey.”

“No,” you say, shoulders deflating.

“It’s hard,” he whispers, “lettin’ people in when you lost so much before. Believe me darlin’ I get that.”

“Then you know why I have to leave,” you tell him, desperate that he’ll understand, but also hoping that he’ll argue against it.

“I know why you think you gotta leave,” he corrects.

“This isn’t good for you anyway,” you’re shaking your head as you speak, fingers splayed out on his chest, “I’m a burden to you.”

At that, he manages a small, dry chuckle. You look at him, confused by what’s made him laugh.

“Honey, havin’ you here…well, I think I needed it just as much as you did. You got no idea how much I like watchin’ you eat what I cook, listenin’ to you hum in the shower ‘cause you’re too shy to sing, watchin’ you curl up by the fireplace with that damn quilt around your head like a sherpa.” His fingers come down to cup your jaw, tracing the line of bone that leads to the curve of your chin, up to the bow in your lips. “How nice it is havin’ a pretty girl around to talk to, someone smart, someone funny, someone who’s like me.”

“Like you?” you inquire.

“Mhm.” He presses the pad of his thumb against your lips, parting them slightly as he uses his finger to study the contours of your mouth. “Someone hurt, someone who thought they had no chance in this world. Someone who can get better, if she lets herself.”

Your throat feels tight. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You’re already doin’ it, baby.” He tilts your chin up with the meat of his palm, looking down at you through the silver streaks of moonlight. “Every day you get up, eat breakfast, and keep goin’. That’s all it is. Takin’ it one day at a time. Takin’ care of yourself. Letting yourself get better, slow n’ steady.”

You blink up at him, trying to process his words. You guess he has a point; two weeks ago you barely felt human, didn’t feel like you could ever belong in a place like Jackson, or somewhere like Joel’s home. But lately, through these routines of care, you’ve begun to feel…alive again. Still agonized by loss, still hopeless and confused and frightened, but something more than that too.

“You don’t gotta stay,” he assures you, “not if you don’t want to. But don’t go just ‘cause you’re scared. Ain’t no reason to punish yourself. Not when I like havin’ you around so much.”

“What if you get tired of having me around?” you ask weakly. It’s no far stretch; every other short term partner you’ve ever had got sick of you after enough time. Every adult you roomed with in the QZ kicked you out sooner or later. Nothing is permanent, especially not people.

“You think I could at least get a chance to prove myself ‘fore you go ahead and write me off?” He smiles down at you, hand still cupping your cheek. “I actually ain’t all that bad a guy.”

“No, no,” you’re quick to reassure, “Joel, you’re the most amazing man I’ve ever met. You are- you are a good guy. It isn’t that, it’s-”

“It’s not you, it’s me, honey, that one’s a little played out.” There’s gentle amusement in his voice.

With a groan, you start to pull away. “You’re impossible.”

“Hey, m sorry.” he pulls you back in, gentle but demanding, and you concede, all too eager to lay against his warm chest. “All I'm sayin’ is, no one’s asking you for your hand in marriage or nothing. Just…stick around for a while. Let me make sure you’re real healthy, ready to go. Get some meat on these bones. Get you feelin’ good. Might take some time. Two weeks ain’t much.”

“I’ve got meat,” you defend.

He snorts. “Me too.”

“Joel-”

“S’gonna take time, that’s all I’m sayin’. Just, stay, alright? Let yourself…have this.” Joel presses a firm kiss to the top of your head.

Finally, you exhale and find yourself nodding. Although it’s against your instincts, and better judgment, you know he has a point. How can you ever get better if you don't give yourself the opportunity?

“I don’t really know how to do this,” you admit, “I’ve never really…been a person before. Y’know what I mean?”

He makes a quiet noise of consideration. “Gimme an example.”

“Like, the apple juice,” you explain in a rambly sort of voice, “or the dishwasher. I don’t know how to do things like you do. I mean, fuck, I walked in on you in the shower today.”

At that, he clears his throat. You must be imagining it, but you’re sure you can hear some sort of…something in the noise.

“That kinda stuff takes time,” he replies quietly, “s’okay.”

You arch an eyebrow. “What else am I missing then?”

“You’d have to tell me that, honey.”

Abruptly, you remember his body, naked and wet from the shower. Something about him is so desirable; whether it’s simply the masculinity of his form; hairy and strong, the impressive endowment between his legs or something else, you aren’t sure. Could it be that he’s simply an attractive man, who’s kind and thoughtful and funny? Of course.

Could it be that everything about Joel represents what you’ve always wanted? The security of this home he’s created, the warmth of his fireplace and the way he’d thought to set out mint leaves for you to chew on? The heft of his body; his large shoulders, his thick thighs, his soft stomach, well fed and dense with nutrition. He is whole, broken pieces glued back together painstakingly to build back up this incredible man. This beacon of recovery, healing, strength and happiness.

What are you missing? Everything that Joel has, it would seem. The chance to finally become the way he is… to be okay again.

And…well, it’s also been a while since you had a good fuck. That wouldn't hurt either.

The thought is so ridiculous, so sudden and inappropriate, that it makes you laugh. A real laugh; a genuine, deep-chested sound of amusement that has Joel pulling back with surprise.

“Somethin’ funny?” he inquires, arching an eyebrow at you like you’ve lost your mind.

“No, m’sorry.” You press your fingers against your lips in a pathetic attempt to stifle the laughter. “So stupid.”

“What?” he demands.

“No it’s- god Joel it’s so ridiculous I can’t-”

“Oh, just tell me damnit.”

“I was just thinking, you know, what might help make me feel normal again. Haven’t had it in a while…” you look up at him expectantly.

It takes a moment for the message to land in his brain, and his eyes widen slightly. “Oh. I-I see.”

“Yeah…” you clear your throat quietly.

“Well, shit honey. All y’had to do was ask.”

Your eyes widen. “Pardon me?”

He takes your face in his hand again, tilting your chin and gently pulling your body until you’re face to face, noses brushing. His lips twitch, eyelashes sweeping over his cheekbones as he studies your face.

“Like I said,” he murmurs, “ain’t nobody proposing marriage or nothin’. But there’s no reason you can’t…enjoy yourself. If you want to, that is.”

“You…we…are you sure?”

“Ain’t nothin’ you haven’t already seen,” he quips.

You groan. “Joel.”

A low chuckle in his chest. “Sorry baby.”

“If you’re just gonna tease me the whole time, then you can go fuck yours-”

Your retort is cut off by his lips pressing into yours, and you startle a bit, though you don’t pull back. Your body melts, tension leaking out of your shoulders at the feel of his gentle mouth on yours.

And you’re consumed. There’s nothing else in that moment except for Joel.

His mouth on yours, his tongue pressing forward until it parts your lips. His body, thick and warm against your chest. The tangle of his graying hair, the way his breath grows more heavy when you intertwine your fingers with it and tug. His hands, one cupping your cheek, keeping you close, the other delicately beginning to roam your body.

And maybe it’s wrong; hooking up with him on the heels of a horrific nightmare about losing your family, or doing it after you told him you were going to leave, or doing it at all considering you barely know each other outside of these serene, isolated two weeks of eating and sitting by the fire and laughing.

But you want him, and he’s good and you want to be a person again. You want to eat meals and drink tea and sleep with a quilt and fuck often. You want to ride a hard dick, suck on a thick, veiny cock, be caged in an embrace of big bulging arms, hear the guttural moan of a man in your ear as he cums.

It’s a hunger, like any other. The way your stomach growled and gnawed for the relief of a hot meal, your body yearned to be filled too. That warm, wet space between your legs, at times so empty and vacant you thought you might just die from the need. Fulfillment, desperate for it in all its forms. Yearning, hunger, pleas to live a life where such simple pleasures are not only permitted, but taken with ease.

It won’t make you whole, it won’t heal your scars or fix your wounds. It won’t change what’s happened or secure your future.

But for a while, no matter how fleeting, it’s going to fill you up.

Isn’t that enough for someone who’s spent so long being hungry?

“C’mere,” he murmurs, so gentle, so soft, that it’s impossible not to do as he asks. You let him readjust you so you’re sitting on his lap, slender thighs spread around his thick ones, arms hanging off his neck, foreheads pressed together as he hungrily meets your lips again. He’s warm, heat radiating off his large body, and you instinctively lean in.

“Gonna make you feel good,” Joel’s words are muffled by the skin of your jaw as he leaves lingering kisses there, slowly traveling down to your neck. His tongue flicks delicately at the column of your throat, eliciting a small moan from your lips.

It’s been so long since you’ve been touched…

“God, you’re so pretty baby.” His fingers slide into the neckline of your nightshirt, which is really just one of his. It’s so large on you that you wear it as more of a dress, the only thing guarding your intimate areas from the outside world is your solitary pair of underwear, that’s been washed to death as you wait for more fabric to come into Jackson’s seamstress to make more. You’ve been going commando a lot.

It’s your immediate instinct to argue; you haven’t been pretty for a while, you’re not sure if ever. Survival is all you know; not caring for yourself or putting effort in to appear beautiful.

But what’s the point, anyway? He’s here, he’s seen you for what you are, and he wants to make you feel good. What does it matter if you’re pretty?

Though… you do like the way it sounds coming off his lips.

“Can I…” his lips explore the small patch of skin on your neck that’s exposed above the shirt, “can I take this off, honey?”

He’s tugging lightly on the shirt, asking your permission, even though in every way you’ve really already given it. You hesitate only briefly, concerned about the state of your sickly body. Then, you nod.

Calloused hands moving with a practiced tenderness, he bunches the shirt up at the hem and carefully slides it over your head, exposing your breasts and abdomen. You hear his sharp intake of breath, feel the warmth of it washing over your skin, and for a moment you’re paralyzed with fear.

He doesn’t like what he sees. How could he? You’ve become something inhuman. Scars, bones poking through flesh, discolored bruises. You’re something so ugly and unsightly that-

“Jesus, baby, you’re beautiful.” The pad of his hand smooths out to cup your breast, his thumb brushing elegantly over the bud of your nipple, which is rapidly coming to life from the sensation. “Lookin’ so healthy these days, so so pretty. You feel better?”

Robotically, you nod. “Y-yeah.”

“Love gettin’ to feed you, baby. Watchin’ you eat my food, gettin’ healthy n’soft.” He leans in, cradling your back to keep you upright as his warm lips explore the expanse of your chest, kissing down your sternum until he replaces his thumb on your nipple with his mouth.

And he’s right, you think as you look down critically at your form. You’ve put on weight, surely not enough, not yet. But… you’re softer now, edges rounded out to a more gentle plush, knobby knees more full, bony hips more tender, slender thumb joints smoothed out.

And you do feel better. Not dizzy or aching all the time, not sore or struggling to sleep from the pain, not burning from dehydration or growling from hunger.

You’re almost there, almost as full as a person can be. So, so close.

“I like it too,” you breathe, the last word pitching up with a surprised noise as his teeth graze across your nipple. A pleasant, but unexpected motion.

“That okay honey?”

“Mmm…yes…”

“Gonna make you so soft n’happy,” he murmurs, almost more to himself than you, you think, “gonna take care a’you.”

“Okay,” you whimper, pliant in ways you’ve never been with a partner before.

You aren’t sure why, because he’s just sitting there, kissing you and holding you and telling you all of these kind things, but you feel the pooling of tension in your lower belly and the beginnings of a wet patch on your panties. It’s bizarre; other than teasing your nipple he hasn’t done much in the way of sexual advances, yet from his touch and his words alone, you need him.

And you didn’t imagine it, that his cock was big. You can feel it beneath your spread thighs, through his boxers and sweatpants, the thick girth and diamond hard weight of it pressing into the fabric.

The heat between your legs feels almost unbearable now, the growing need and tension from his ministrations of your nipple spurring you on. Your fingers tangle in the wavy hair atop his head, and you feel his lips curve into a smile around your breast.

“Mind if I take this off?” he asks, removing his lips from your skin to tug at his own shirt. You nod quickly, eagerly, watching him slide it over his head.

In the soft glow of moonlight, the contours of his body are illuminated like the artful scenes of a movie. The tendons and muscle in his large arms, bulging and pulsing each way he moves, the clench of his jaw beneath his well-groomed beard, the mapping of dark hair over his thick chest. His stomach is full, wide and round and healthy, a sturdy man in every sense of the word. A big, meaty body to match that huge cock in his pants. It’s only fitting, you think as you admire the large score of his body. He’s scarred too, like you are, the lines and wrappings of a survivor beaten into his flesh.

“Ain’t as trim as I used to be,” he remarks offhandedly, though you think you sense a beat of hesitation in his words.

Your delicate fingers trail between his pecs, smoothing the hair down there until you reach the place beneath his belly button where the hair connects to his boxers. You tug experimentally at the hemline of his pants, eyeing the desperate thing there that begs to be freed. You watch his breathing pace up, his stomach and chest moving in synchrony with each hurried breath.

So big, so full and warm and secure. Solid and strong, an impenetrable wall around you.

“You’re perfect,” you tell him, and you don’t just mean his body.

He ducks his head then, surely embarrassed by the praise, and buries his face in your neck once more. His lips and teeth graze the skin there, sucking and biting and kissing, leaving little wet spots as he moves along.

His large hands grip your hips then, lifting you with such ease it’s almost startling. He heaves you upward and then gently lays you on your back, head against the mound of pillows pushed up on the headboard. Your legs splay out before you and he positions himself above, careful not to lower his weight on to yours.

His lips return to your neck, dancing slowly down between your breasts, kissing the scarred flesh of your stomach and hips, teeth bumping into the cotton of your panties. His eyes dart up to you when he reaches them, eyebrow quirking. A question. He’s asking for permission.

You nod, too eager you’re sure.

“So pretty…” he breathes, pressing his lips to the wet fabric of your panties, eyes closing as he tastes the flowing liquid through the cotton. “‘Bout lost my cool when I saw these little things hangin’ off your pack, darlin’. Wondered what they’d look like on you, wondered what they’d look like off you…” He kisses the wet patch again, which makes your legs tense up, and slides his finger into the hemline, murmuring thoughtfully.

“Don’t fit so good anymore,” he notes, and you realize he’s right. There’s a pinch of fabric at your thigh that wasn’t there before, the mark of underwear too tight. It leaves little indents on your skin when he pulls at it, angry red marks that line the contours of your body.

“You’ve been feeding me too much,” you manage.

He chuckles at this, deep and throaty. “I think we can do better, even.”

With that, he carefully glides the panties down your legs, the stickiness of your arousal clinging to the cotton until he finally separates it from your ankles. He holds it up, admiring the damp fabric. He balls it up in his hand, and then presses it to his nose with a deep, hungry inhale.

You blink, surprised. You’ve never had a partner…do that before.

Joel’s eyes open, underwear still pressed to his nose and mouth. You can see the twitch of his jaw, the smile on his lips even though it’s hidden by your wet underwear, and it does something odd to you.

He wants you so bad, is so hungry for you that he’s taking in every piece he can, breathing in your smell, your taste, even where it clings to the underwear that used to fit you and no longer does.

It makes you need, the way he wants you. It makes you ache desperately, makes you yearn and hunger for him too. Being wanted, being desired, it’s not something you’re used to.

“Smell so nice, honey,” Joel mutters, “bet you taste even better. So sweet, so wet.” He lowers himself between your legs, grabbing your thighs in his large hands, fingers pressing into the meat.

It’s a reflex for your legs to tighten up, tension pooling at the sight of a relatively new man between them. He pauses, noticing your trepidation, and glances up at you without moving forward.

“Hey, you okay honey?” his voice is measured, composed.

You nod.

“You sure? Talk to me baby, I gotta make sure you’re alright. You here with me?”

“I want you,” you manage, “please, Joel, I want it.”

“I’ll take real good care of ya’,” he promises you in that low, sultry drawl, “be real gentle. Treat you real nice.”

You’re nodding, already lost in whatever it is he plans to do to you. You feel a brief stab of insecurity for the state of your body hair, and you want to tell him as much, but you’re afraid it’ll kill the moment.

He doesn’t seem to mind, either way, lips pressing into your inner thighs, seeming completely heedless of the thick hair there. He pulls your body closer, gripping your hips in his strong hands, bringing your dripping cunt closer.

Joel’s head drops down, lips covering a delicate pattern on your lower belly, gliding easily over the soft hair on your pelvis, finding his mouth at your lips. Experimentally, he smooths his tongue over the wet slit there, glancing up when the action makes you inhale sharply.

His eyes are teasing, mouth quirked up in a small smile. Teasing, cocky, mischievous.

“You’re g-gonna have to do better than that,” you tell him with a small curve to your lips.

“There’s that smile,” he muses, before burying his face between your legs again.

And there’s no ability to think of anything else, because he’s there. His tongue, expert and well practiced, running whirlpool motions over the bud of your clit, sucking and kissing and licking hungrily at the dripping bellow of your opening.

Every sense is alight, each breath you take heavy with elation. The bundle of nerves between your lips is in overdrive, tensing and pulsing with desperate need as he gets you closer and closer. His tongue works miracles, the speed altering at just the right moment, switching his motions at just the right interval, lapping up your sopping liquids with his tongue like a starving man at a buffet.

“Taste so fuckin’ good, baby girl,” he groans into your wet folds, “such a pretty little cunt, so wet and soft for me.”

“For you…” you echo in a whine, fists gripping the sheet that’s come up off the mattress again.

The noises are obscene, the wet squelch of his tongue against your body, the almost frantic way he devours you. Hands holding your trembling legs in place despite the way you tense and move from the sensations, face buried against your wet center, the mess of liquid dampening his face and your thighs and the sheets underneath.

You cum with a whining cry, a noise you didn’t know a person like you could make. It’s an innocent sound really, despite the debaucherous context. A noise of pure, primal pleasure, ripped from deep within your chest, a release and elation you haven’t felt in…you’re not sure if ever.

Knees clenched around his head, you’re expecting him to pull back now that you’ve gushed more fluid onto his face. But dutifully, he keeps eating. He drinks you in, the overstimulated, swollen clit beneath his lips is begging for relief, pleading to rest, but he doesn’t let it.

Joel is hungry, and he won’t leave until he’s satisfied. Until you’re both satisfied.

“Taste so good when you cum for me,” he breathes when he pulls his lips back for air, “so sweet n’wet. Cum on my face, darlin’, do it again. Wanna eat you, all of you. So wet f’me baby.”

You think you cry his name, you aren’t sure, but you rip your fingers through his thick hair, tighten your thighs around his face, tears budding at the corners of your eyes from the ruthless sensation between your legs.

Then, a thick finger, gentle and careful probing at your entrance. He slides it in just a bit, moving with caution and curiosity. You buck your hips toward him eagerly, the desperate clench of your wet cunt around nothing is almost too much to bear.

Slight relief as he glides his finger in all the way, pumping it gently in and out, back and forth to get a feel for the tightness of your slick walls. It’s been so long since anyone touched you this way, since you had anything substantial inside you, and Joel’s got the biggest fingers of any man you’ve ever met.

“That feel good baby?” he grunts as his lips ghost over your pulsing clit and his index finger smooths inside of you, “hurtin’?”

“No, good, good,” you pant.

“Good girl, attagirl.” He kisses your clit again and your hips buck once more, but he pins them down with his other hand. A second finger inside of you, matching the pace of his first, stretching you around the thick width of his digits. Preparing you for what’s to come, the massive, hard cock that’s going to spear you against the headboard.

Fuck, fuck.

“Joel,” you groan his name, feeling his fingers curl up in a crude little gesture inside you, coursing against your walls, brushing up against that place that makes you feel like you’re going to erupt. “Joel, Joel….”

He hums a low sound, lips and tongue still violently, rhythmically devouring your wet cunt. Between the pulsing thickness of his fingers, and the circular motions of his tongue on your clit, it’s not long before you white out. The pleasure is too intense, too sudden and overwhelming. It’s too much, too much, more than you’ve ever had before.

Tears track down your cheeks against your will, your chest heaves with desperate, panting breaths. Your fingers have gone numb from their vice grip on the sheets, legs aching as they spread around his head to give him easier access, not a shred of resistance in your body as you submit to his expert touch.

And it happens again, more intense this time. A black film teases the corners of your eyes, a devastatingly intense pooling in your stomach and through your cunt, a pulsing, thready explosion of pleasure bursting through you.

You soak his face, legs jerking, hips convulsing, voice raw from crying out. The feeling is so intense that it dizzies you, your head floating off your body and spinning into a whirlwind somewhere in outer space.

Joel licks it all up, tongue dragging across your drenched inner thighs, gliding across the shimmering wet slit of your lips, sucking on the raw skin until it’s nearly unbearable. Then, his wet mouth is moving, kissing up your thighs, the slope of your hips, your stomach and your breasts, sucking on your nipples and cupping them in his rough palms.

Once he reaches your ear, teeth grazing the lobe, voice gruff, he whispers, “you with me, baby?”

You whine a small sound, feeble and needy. You feel the curve of his lips into a smile where they’re pressed into your ear, and he kisses your temple, lingering there.

“M’gonna take these off, hm?” he slides a hand down toward his sweats, where you can see the large, intimidating shape of his hard dick outlined.

God, you need it, you need it like you’ve never needed anything in your life. So many years spent hungry, never realizing just how painful it could truly be to want something and be empty of it.

Your pulsing, desperate pussy aches for him, dripping with the evidence of his prowess. Your thighs clench around nothing, pleading, begging, needing to be filled with whatever he can give you.

Joel slides the pants off, boxers following suit, and your eyes widen a bit at the sight of his large cock springing forward. There’s a well-groomed crop of hair at the nape, heavy, even balls framing the thick protrusion of his shaft. The tip, angry and red, dripping with his need.

“Joel, let me-” you make a move to take it in your mouth, but he stops you with a gentle shush.

“No baby, just you tonight.” He lowers himself back above you, the hard tip just barely brushing your sopping cunt.

A synchronized moan fills the air, both of you shuddering at the teasing contact. Holding himself upright on his thick, powerful arms, he lowers his forehead to yours, noses bumping. His lips ghost against your own, and you kiss him greedily, whining into the touch as his dick presses against you once more.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, “you wan’ me to fuck you, honey?”

You nod desperately.

“Talk to me, honey.” His lips press delicately right beside your mouth, smoothing his large nose over the supple skin of your cheek. “Tell me what you want, hm?”

“I-I want you,” you croak, voice frail and shattered, “want you inside me, Joel. Want you to fuck me. Fill me up, fill me with you. Please, please. I need it.”

He smiles down at you, no trace of teasing or mischief there, only a genuine, earnest warmth. Gradually, his hips roll into you, pushing just the slightest bit of him inside. You shudder, gasping at the beginning of the stretch.

“Gotta go slow, honey,” he breathes, eyes closing as if in concentration, “don’ wanna hurt you.”

“N-no, I don't care,” you insist.

“I do, baby. Gonna take care of you, promised. I got you. I got you. You’re safe with me.” His lips warm against your collarbone, kissing wetly there as his hips inch forward, shoving more of himself inside.

The stretch is intense, painful despite how wet and glistening you are for him. The head of his cock, fat and dripping, grunts into you with restrained desperation. His thighs push forward, hips moving slowly, slowly, giving you time to adjust, giving you all the focus and care and attention.

Finally, mercifully, he bottoms out, both of you groaning out a noise of agonized want. Your thighs are speared apart by his wide body, balls of your feet digging into his lower back. His arms cage you in, one hand flat on the mattress to prop himself up, careful not to put any of his massive weight on your light frame, the other touching you. Your breasts, your cheek, your hair, your lips, every part of you he can see he explores while he allows you to adjust to the heavy weight of his dick inside of you.

It’s huge, spreading you and stretching you so intensely that you’re grateful for his godlike patience. You feel it bumping up inside, tip scraping the mouth of your womb, almost enough that you swear you could touch it through your belly.

“So big, Joel,” you tell him, your voice a thready imitation of your usual cadence, “so big n’strong…so nice…”

“I got you baby,” he cups your cheek, bending his body down to kiss you lightly. The movement sheaths his cock forward inside, and you both groan.

“Please,” you beg, “please fuck me…please fill me up. Want you to fill me with your cum. Keep me full forever.”

“Fuck, fuck, honey girl,” he bites at your lip, pulling hard between his teeth until he draws blood. He licks across the soft pink flesh, taking more of you into him; the thin red line decorating his tongue before he swallows it up like a good boy.

Then, his hips grind into yours and you let out a shrill noise, a wounded animal crying out. He moves, slowly at first, allowing your body to stretch around him, getting used to the impact of his impressive girth.

Quickly, he picks up the pace.

You’re begging at this point, nails raking down his thick back, teeth gritting into the hot meat of his shoulder, feet forcing his hips into you. He grunts your name, spits curses into the soft flesh of your neck, grinds and pounds his hips against yours so hard it feels as though he really could split you in two.

But split, you do not. Rather, you become more. Full, whining and screaming his name, sated and hungry all at once. Desperate and satisfied simultaneously. A hungry, soaking little mess underneath this massive man. This man who at first glance, had tried to kill you, a favor you quickly returned.

A man who’s done nothing for the past two weeks but try to make you whole. A man giving you all the pieces of himself he can spare to try and mend your broken ones. A man who knows what it’s like to fall apart and be put back together again.

He sees you; scarred flesh, fear, loneliness, all your worst, all you have, and he takes you as his own.

“Goddamnit,” he growls into your skin, “so fuckin’ tight baby, so good…so wet f’me…so tight, fuckin’ gripping me baby.”

Your nails dig deeper into his back, which only seems to spur him on. His hips somehow continue their breakneck pace, pounding against your deepest point so hard that it makes your head feel floaty all over again.

“Feel so good, you okay baby?” his lips against your skin are slurred, sloppy and greedy.

You nod, nod your head so fast you feel dizzy, and he laughs a little breathlessly. Then, you feel the rough pad of his thumb move from your face down to your clit.

You do white out then, with the combination of his hard, massive dick spearing you against the pillows, and the grind of his thumb against your swollen clit. The sensations are overwhelming, so intense, too intense. Your legs clench around his waist, and you let out a low, guttural scream.

“Fuck,” Joel gasps, eyes shutting as his rolling hips grow sloppier, less rhythmic, “fuck baby, fuck, fuck you just came all over my cock. God, so fuckin’ tight, so good so good honey, m’gnonna-fuck-”

And you’re full. The hunger, the emptiness, it all fades away in that instant.

Joel empties himself inside you, cock jerking and pulsing against your throbbing walls. He groans deep in his throat, cursing and grunting as he fills you up, liquid gushing out over your pelvis and thighs.

It takes a few moments for both of you to come down, his spent cock still sheathed inside your warmth. He hovers over you, and you feel one of his hands cup your cheek, fingers tracing slow lines across the bridge of your nose.

“Baby,” he breathes raggedly, “talk to me.”

“M’fine,” you assure him, though you feel like you’re on another planet.

“You sure? Everythin’ okay? Didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“You’re stupid,” you tell him.

At that, he snorts. “Yeah, you’re fine.”

He moves to detangle himself from you, but your legs clench around him, arms clasping desperately around his neck. He’s so warm, so solid and safe, and you’re so full.

“They used to have a word for this,” he muses quietly, jerking his chin toward the cage of your legs around his waist, “think they called it baby trappin’.”

“As if you couldn’t get off right now if you wanted,” you mutter.

“Already did that, sweet.”

“Okay, you know what, get the f-”

He presses into you again, and you’re silenced by the low moan that slips from your mouth at the pressure of his heft inside you, even soft and spent. He smiles, teeth digging into his lower lip as he looks down at you with admiration.

“M’gonna make you a real nice breakfast tomorrow,” he says matter-of-factly.

“That so?” You arch an eyebrow, amused at the ridiculous attempt at conversation he’s making with his dick literally still inside of you. “What’s the Joel Miller Morning After Special look like?”

“Waffles, homemade batter ‘course. Blueberries, the ones we been savin’. Big ole jug of apple juice, just for you.”

“Just for me?” You smile faintly at him.

“Just for you,” he confirms, “whatever you want, just for you.”

A small laugh drifts from your lips. “Well, that’s very nice of you.”

“So you ain’t leavin’?” he asks, a note of hope in his voice.

“No.” You shake your head. “Think I'll stick around and annoy you for a while.”

He brushes a lock of hair behind your ear with the pads of his fingers. It stays put this time.

“I’d like that, darlin’.” His teeth flash white in the darkness again. “Think I could go for a little somethin’ now actually. You need anything? Some water?”

You nod, fighting the instinct to get up and get it yourself. Maybe, just maybe it’s okay to let someone else take care of you once in a while. Even if it’s something as simple as a glass of water.

“Sounds great,” you admit, wincing slightly at the pull as he finally slides out of you with a sopping noise. You don’t even want to look at the mess on the sheets.

“How about a snack?” he asks. “You hungry?”

And you look at him, sliding his t-shirt on over his sweat-slicked body, reaching for a towel on your rack to pass toward you. So gentle, so caring, so tender and pragmatic all at once.

You aren’t alone. You’re warm, and full, and for the first time in a long time, you’re happy.

“No,” you tell him in earnest, “I’m not hungry.”

“You sure?”

You nod, managing another smile for him. Surely, he’ll add it to his annoying internal tally.

“I’m sure. I actually…I actually feel pretty full.”

What a wonderful feeling it is.

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