#and I don't got Ao3 or anything like that

[compress1repress]

i feel like i never read abt patrick getting aftercare 😭 i feel like it's usually regulated to bottom art fics since he comes across as more in need of affirmation? but we all know pat is just as hungry for that shit, probably on an even deeper fear-rooted level. like i think he's usually a yapper and bounces right back but once in a while gets super quiet and it freaks artashi out. he makes me think of that daredevil tweet that's like "[patrick zweig] cries before and after sex but never during. during sex he has a fucking JOB to do"

yasss boy loves to be smacked around and degraded by the ppl he loves! boy has also been alone for 12 years! boy has mad abandonment issues! boy probably has sexual trauma from being on the road! in conclusion: boy needs to be squeezed and headscratched and loved on 🙏 artashi im beaming you a mission from god

AO3 VERSION

ok sorry I wrote a 4k+ word fic (that got a bit dark) in response to this 😭 but let me ramble first:

I think about this a LOT (my throuple fic that I'm in the process of writing gets into this a little, and artashi will be giving him that aftercare 🙏) but yeah he has been SO lonely he needs to be hugged so bad but he would never say that.

i think safewords would be such an issue for him because he would be terrible at using them. or if they don't have specific safewords he's just bad at expressing when something is too much for him. Because he loves to be degraded and he's a masochist so he loves pain even when it hurts too much because it feels good... mostly. but when it gets to a point of not feeling good or he's just not in the mood for it that day, he refuses to say that

it's partially an ego thing, that he wouldn't want to admit that he couldn't take something but also i think it ties up with him needing to sleep with people for a place to stay and the weird power dynamics of that

Anyway I got struck with inspiration so here's the fic :)

art x tashi x patrick

cw: nsfw mdni, consent issues, rough sex, blood

***

1.

It had been a particularly rough session, like it often was. The way Patrick loved. Having them shoving him around, pushing him down, humiliating him, degrading him. It was working for him until it wasn't.

He was laid out on his back, Tashi was riding him as Art made out with her. They often did this, a punishment for him when he'd been annoying (on purpose). They'd fuck him but basically ignore him, only focusing on eachother. Like he was a toy for them to use however they liked. It was fucking hot.

Today though it made nausea swirl in his stomach.

Did they even want him here? What's to stop them doing this with any random guy off the street? What if they got bored of him, replaced him, and then he was on his own again?

He tries to shake it off because he's into this, and they don't always ignore him. They only do it when he's purposefully driven them to it, because he wants it.

He tries to grab at Tashi's waist even though he's not allowed. Neither of them look at him as Art pushes his hand off and Tashi brings a hand across his face, the sound of the slap echoing.

She does it a lot, it gets him off, except because she's not looking she hits slightly off, catching his nose with her wedding ring.

The pain radiates and he brings a hand up to his nose. Blood. Shit.

His dick twitches at first but then the pain gets worse, a deep aching. That combined with the fact that it was her wedding ring, identical to Art's. The wedding rings they have because they are married to eachother. That Patrick doesn't have because he's not part of that. Not connected to them in any meaningful way.

He feels wetness at the corner of his eyes, willing it away because it's fucking stupid. And Art and Tashi haven't finished yet so he's got to hold on. He can handle a bloody nose, he's not a pussy.

They haven't noticed so he doesn't say anything, trying to just focus on the feeling of Tashi warm and tight around him, of the sight of Art's back, his muscles flexing as he rubs at Tashi's clit.

He can almost cope but then because he's lying down, he feels the blood block his nose, starting to unpleasantly drip down the back of his throat. He's trying so hard to hold on, doesn't want it to end, doesn't want to look weak.

Suddenly the feeling of it at his throat is too much and he starts to cough, sitting up and spluttering.

"What the fuck," they both say in unison turning to him.

Then they take him in properly. He probably looks a mess, blood around his nose and now coming out of his mouth as he spits it out.

"What happened?" Art's asking, his eyebrows drawn together as a vaguely horrified look crosses his face.

"Was that me?" Tashi's sliding off him now, worry in her voice.

"We don't have to stop, it looks worse than it feels," he assures, even though it feels pretty fucking bad, "it's fine, I think you just clipped me in the nose with your ring."

He's smiling at them but they just look more concerned.

"Patrick, why didn't you use the safeword?" Tashi asks, more confused than angry.

They did have a safeword, even though Patrick didn't feel like he needed one. It was more for Art and Tashi than it was for him.

He'd suggested something tennis related but Tashi had vetoed saying it might be confusing in case they were just using that word normally, not in the safeword way.

Patrick had asked why the fuck Novak Djokovic would come up naturally during sex but Art had just agreed with Tashi.

They settled on bumblebee in the end, which felt a little ridiculous but he figured it didn't matter since he wouldn't be using it.

"I didn't use the safeword because I'm fine, a little blood isn't going to keep me down," his insistance is undermined somewhat by the way his voice sounds, so he coughs a little more to clear his throat.

Then he's having a coughing fit which just makes everything worse because his eyes are watering like crazy now. It might look like he's crying or something.

"Shit, Patrick," Art is scrambling over to tap him on the back, "are you okay?"

Once he stops coughing, he responds, "yes, let's get back to it."

"I don't think any of us want to carry on, you don't have to-" Art starts but Patrick interrupts.

"I'm not doing anything, I'm being serious, I think it's hot," he grins at them but it comes out strained, "I can be into blood."

"No one's asking you to be into it," Tashi tells him, an edge to her voice.

Art's rubbing his back and Tashi's staring at him intently, probably looking at the way his eyes are still damp.

"I know, I just mean I'm not crying over a slap or something," he feels the need to say, "I like it."

"No one would think you're a pussy for using the safeword," Tashi tells him, "we have one for a reason."

"Especially if you are literally choking on your own blood," Art jokes, before getting solemn, looking deeply at him, "Patrick, seriously, it's fucking scary."

"Alright, in the future I'll try to have less scary sex injuries," he teases.

"No, in the future you'll use the safeword," Tashi cuts in, tone stern

"Alright," he holds his hands up, smiling.

"I mean it, Patrick, it's not funny," her face is absent of anger, that's how he knows she's being earnest, "you've got to promise me you'll use it."

He doesn't say anything so she continues.

"I won't fuck you if you don't," she threatens.

"Sure," he nods, trying to keep some levity, and because he knows Tashi couldn't keep that promise. She can tell what he's thinking.

"Fine, I'll make him stop fucking you," she points to Art. Oh, she's serious.

He looks to Art who just shrugs.

"Fine, I promise to use the safeword," he sighs but looks Tashi in the eyes, hoping that she'll know he means it. She must because she nods at him satisfied.

"Oh thank god, I was really going to miss fucking you," Art whispers in his ear.

"Yeah?" Patrick smirks trying to lean in to Art but he bumps his nose sending a shock wave of pain, "shit."

"But we're definitely not doing that today," Art gives him a kiss on the shoulder instead.

Before Patrick can call him a killjoy he sees Tashi glaring at him, so he adjusts his answer, "yeah ok, no more fucking today."

"Good," Tashi stands up, "now I'm going to get you a towel, and you better hope none of that blood got on my sheets."

He smiles to himself. She's looking after him. It's very sweet.

As she heads to the bathroom, Art moves to sit in front of him, "you look crazy."

"Wish you'd been the one to do it?" He can't stop himself saying.

"Patrick," is all Art says, pleading, warning and exasperated all at once.

"I was joking," he tries but Art just sighs.

He reaches a hand to the corner of Patrick's eye, swiping with his thumb, he doesn't say anything more except, "I'm getting you a painkiller."

When they both come back they work together to clean him up, it's really not that much blood, and he spat most of it into his hands. Still, Tashi is precise in the way she dabs the towel at his face, avoiding pressing too hard or too close to his nose.

As Tashi rubs his hands, Art uses his forefinger under Patrick's chin to tilt his head up, putting two ibuprofen on his tongue. He even holds the glass of water to Patrick's mouth.

He swallows the pill, and Art rubs his back again, softly. Tashi keeps cleaning him, even when he knows the blood must be gone, inspecting his hands, holding his face to make sure it's all gone.

He thinks this might be the most they've touched him without fucking him. Well, since he'd 'moved in' at least. Might be the most anyone's touched him, non-sexually, in the past decade. He tries not to think about.

Doesn't want to ruin how nice this is. Maybe using a safeword wouldn't be so bad.

***

2.

Patrick hadn't been in the mood today, it was a rare occurrence but it happens. Art and Tashi clearly had been, so Patrick had gone along with it.

On the couch watching some bullshit home renovation show that Tashi put on when she wanted to pretend like they were actually going to watch TV. Patrick had observed the way they got closer, Art rubbing at Tashi's thigh as she kept directing his hand up further.

He liked watching them like this, it was still nice this time but he just couldn't find it in himself to get horny. They kept looking over at him and he felt the need to insert himself, joining in at Tashi's other side, kissing at her neck. He's sure it will come to him soon.

It doesn't, even as they all stumble into the bedroom, making out, getting each other undressed until they were all naked. Patrick lay out, enjoying watching them, being close to them, but he just wasn't horny.

He could just watch them fuck, he's done it before, but the fun of that is that Art and Tashi get to see how bad he wants them. How he can't have them. He'll sit watching, dick straining through his pants if he's tied up, or furiously jerking off if he's not.

But that only works if he's hard. They're not going to want him sitting there, flaccid and not interested in fucking them. He's no use to them like that. What's the point of him being in the room? He'll probably have to go sleep in the guest room while they fuck it out.

What's the point of him even being here at all, if he's not going to fuck them? Isn't that why they're letting him stay? Isn't that why anyone lets him stay?

"Patrick," Art snaps him out of his thoughts, "are you okay?"

"Yeah, just zoned out," he looks up at them.

"Right," Tashi says, slow.

Before they can think about it too much he pushes himself up to join again, make himself useful, prove why he's here. He grabs the back of Tashi's head pressing his lips to hers, letting Art come up behind him, his front against Patrick's back.

Tashi pushes at him, wanting him to turn to Art, meaning she wants them to kiss for her. He can work with that. He's not getting hard but he can work with it.

Tashi's at his back now, kissing his neck, he connects his and Art's lips, trying to make it good. He wonders how long he can get away with it.

"I want you to fuck me," he whispers to Art.

"How bad?" Art asks, but then, shit, he's reaching his hand down his body, "Patrick?"

"Yeah?" He pretends not to know what Art is asking.

"What's wrong?" Tashi rests her chin on his shoulder.

"He's not-" Art starts but Patrick stops him.

"That's why I said I wanted you to fuck me, don't need my dick for that," he tries to lean back in but Art pulls away. Patrick tries not to let it sting.

"I don't think he's going to want to fuck you if you're not into it," Tashi interjects.

"We can do doggy style, that way he'll never know," Patrick attempts but clearly it isn't funny to them, "I just mean, I'm sure little Patrick will perk up after some action."

"Don't fucking-" Art starts before adjusting himself, "if you're not in the mood it's okay."

"I'll get in the mood, or" he has an idea, slipping off the bed, getting on his knees, "I can blow you, let you use my mouth."

"Not the point Patrick," Tashi narrows her eyes.

"Don't worry I won't leave you out, you can sit on my face after," he grins at her.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Tashi's suddenly snapping, desperation tinging her words, "of course we don't want to fuck you when you're not into it, who do you think we are?"

"I know," he gets out, voice small.

"Then why are you so insistent?" Art cuts in.

"It's what I'm here for."

What I am for, in general. He wants to say.

"Is that what we're for?" Tashi raises an eyebrow at him.

"It's your house," is all he can think to say, but it's clearly wrong because both their faces drop.

"What and you're paying your way here with your body or something, is that what you think?" Tashi's angry, and all he can do is stay knelt, "we're your fucking pimps?"

"Well technically you'd be Johns, since you're the customers," he jokes.

Tashi just stands up and starts getting dressed silently, before walking out, closing the door behind her. Then he's just left kneeling, staring up at Art.

Art turns away, reaching for his clothes too. Patrick can't even move, just left naked and alone.

"Get up here," Art speaks, shaking Patrick out of his thoughts, "and put some clothes on."

He finally gets up, grabbing his boxers, pulling them on silently before taking a seat next to Art on the edge of the bed.

"I don't get it, since when would you sleep with someone, not for your own pleasure?"

"Are you calling me selfish?" Patrick smiles.

Art finally returns it, "yeah, I am."

Tashi comes back in, standing with her hands on her hips but she looks on edge, "Are you ready to be serious now?"

You came back. He doesn't say that.

She looks between them both, "why are you smiling?"

"Art was telling me how selfish I usually am," Patrick explains.

Tashi's lips twitch at that and she moves to sit on the bed with them, on Patrick's other side.

"That's why I'm confused, it's not like you to be like this," her voice goes softer, "you really think we're that awful?"

"It's not a big deal okay, it's not about you," he just wants to move on.

"Do you actually think we'd kick you out for not fucking us?" Art looks nervous, fiddling with his fingers.

"I don't know," Patrick does know, but he's not going to say. Not going tell Art he's scared of being alone again, "it happens."

"What do you mean?" Art asks.

Patrick groans, falling back and throwing an arm over his face, "nothing."

It makes him feel like a child.

"Patrick, you know when I saw you at the hotel with that woman, how often do you do that?" Tashi pushes not letting him off, and shit, she's too smart.

"What woman?" Art questions.

"Don't be jealous," Patrick interjects but they both ignore him.

"He was using a date to find a place to sleep," Tashi answers and Patrick peeks out from under his arm to see his reaction. Art actually grimaces.

Ugh.

"So what? Sorry I can't afford fancy fucking hotels every week," his skins itches with the feeling of their eyes on him, "you can't be mad at me for sleeping around, it's none of your business."

They were married to eachother, and they're mad at him for sleeping with a few (many) random people? It's not fair.

"I'm not mad, I'm concerned," Art tries to stroke his thigh, probably in comfort, but it makes him feel worse.

"Fucking prudes," he mutters to himself, "you expected me to celibate for a decade? Me?"

"Did you ever do this with them? Having sex when you weren't hard?" Tashi won't let up and he hates how she's picking him apart.

"Well if I'm on a date with a complete stranger and asking to go back to their place, it's kind of expected, I can't just not have sex with them" he says trying to prove how ridiculous it would be but they just look more worried, "most of the time I was into it, I like to fuck," he shrugs.

"But not all the time?" Art presses.

"I guess, but it's not like I could just be like oh sorry I don't want to have sex right now but can you just let me stay in your house anyway?" He laughs but it's a hollow fake thing.

It really wasn't often but sometimes when he'd been staying at someone's for a few nights, and he was tired from a match he wouldn't really want to have sex that night. Or when someone didn't look like their picture. Or when they were into something that he wasn't. Or he was into it but didn't particularly trust the person.

Sometimes he would leave, just sleep in his car instead or find another date if it wasn't too late. But other times he really needed a place and it felt worth it, it's not like he was being forced or anything. There just weren't that many options.

"Patrick you have to know that's kind of fucked," Art is moving the arm off his face, trying to look him in the eyes.

"I don't want to talk about it," he can't get into it now, not with their faces looking like that.

Art tries to say something else but Tashi saves him, "we can stop for tonight."

He knows they'll have to talk about it another time but he's grateful she's finally letting him off the hook.

"But you can't do that with us, ever again," she continues, sharp and serious, "we're not random strangers from a fucking dating app. You have to tell us if you're not in the mood."

"I know," he replies, looking at the ceiling.

"We're not going to kick you out for not having a boner," Art says it so sincerely that it makes Patrick laugh.

Art glares at him.

"I believe you, man, it's just the way you worded it," Patrick holds his hands up in surrender, Art smiles, and he thinks even Tashi does a little.

"Alright, let's just go to sleep," Art taps his leg.

They let him sleep in their bed that night, the first time he's been allowed to do that outside from when they pass out there after sex.

It's nice. Really nice.

***

3.

This time had been great. He'd been in the mood. Really in the mood. Grabbing at Tashi and Art desperately, touching himself even when they told him not to. He knew how to get what he wanted.

Laid out on his back with his hands above his head tied to the bed post. Art was fucking into him, tight grip on his thighs, and Tashi was riding his face.

It was perfect, he couldn't move, all his senses completely overtaken by them both. They'd teased him, got him close to the edge a few times but not let him over, he couldn't see but he could feel his dick straining, probably bright pink and leaking.

He could barely breathe as Tashi used his mouth to get off, grinding against his face until she was shaking with her orgasm. She slides off him and he takes in a deep breath.

Now his mouth is free he's immediately asking, "touch me?"

"You're so impatient," she's out of breath too.

"Art?" He's pleading with his eyes.

"Don't go running to him for help," she grabs his face turning it to her, "you never fucking learn."

God it's getting him off, his brain fuzzy, not working right, "can't think."

"Can't do anything right," she spits at him.

He wants to remind her he just got her off but he's too desperate, just wants somebody to touch him.

"Sorry," he gets out, moaning as Art thrusts into him somehow faster.

Tashi's smirks, like she always does when he's too fucked out to fight back anymore. When she's won.

He fucking loves it.

She takes mercy on him, "guess I can forgive you, not your fault you get so stupid on his dick. Not your fault you're such a slut for it."

He's whining, trying not to beg.

Tashi knows what he wants, she turns to Art, "what do you think, baby? Has he earned it?"

Patrick squeezes around Art making him moan, "fuck. So tight."

"Art." Tashi scolds.

"Yeah, yeah he's earned it," he rambles out.

Patrick looks up at Tashi, begging with his eyes, she's in a good mood today so she nods in agreement.

"Alright, you've earned it," she moves her hand on his face, prying his mouth open with her fingers, "but you haven't been good, this is still a punishment, so I want you choking around my fingers, okay?"

Patrick nods the best he can with her hand in his mouth like that. She does this more often now, warning him before she does something.

Then she's shoving her fingers in, without hesitation to the back of his throat. He gags around them and it makes Art fuck him harder.

"That's right," she smirks at him, then addresses Art, "only touch him when you're about to come."

It turns out that's pretty soon because Art's hips are stuttering and he's reaching for Patrick's dick. He's so close too, with Art stretching him, the ache in his arms, and the burn of the restraints on his wrists. The way Tashi is relentless with her fingers, basically fucking his mouth.

It doesn't take much more, the feeling of Art's cum spilling inside him and a few clumsy strokes pushes him over the edge.

As he finishes his hips jerk up and he instinctively takes Tashi's fingers deeper, cutting off his breathing for a moment.

When Art pulls out, and Tashi removes her hand he feels dizzy, on a different plane of existence.

He thinks they're asking him something but he can't hear, just lays there breathing.

Suddenly feeling awash with dread for some reason.

"Was I good?" He says, but it gets caught in his throat. Not sure anything actually came out.

He's vaguely aware of one of them untying his wrists, and he finally relaxes his arms at his side.

"Patrick," Art's shaking him by the shoulder, and he's finally able to hear again.

"Sorry, my ears were ringing," he gives a weak smile.

He doesn't want to get up but he knows it's time for him to go to the guest room. Tashi's mom is coming over early in the morning which means he can't sleep in their bed.

"I'll just clean up in your bathroom then go to bed," he mumbles out, on autopilot.

He gets up, aching all over. Aware of them watching him.

Was I good? Echos in his head but he keeps his mouth shut.

After cleaning the cum off himself he leaves their en suite, ready to walk past them silently to go to the guest room.

Tashi's standing there, "get in the bed," she orders.

He crawls in reluctantly, knowing it's only going to make it harder when he has to leave,"I can't fall asleep here remember, your mom's coming over early."

He's got Art on one side of him as Tashi slips in on his other side, "we'll just wake up early, she won't come to the bedroom anyway."

"You can sleep in though," Art chimes in, "you must be tired."

"Not too much," Tashi adds, pausing, "but yeah, sleep in a little."

"I can sleep here?" He still sounds out of it, half wondering if he's not hearing correctly.

"You've done it before," Tashi chuckles, all warm and soft.

"I know," he breathes out, "but never when other people will be here."

Tashi just hums, stroking his bicep, "how do your arms feel?"

"They ache a bit," he says carefully, she doesn't normally ask about that.

Art's touching him too, inspecting where the restraints had been, "and your wrists?"

"Sore, I guess," he answers.

Tashi keeps stroking him, and Art is kissing at the red marks on his wrist.

"Was I good?" Spills out of Patrick finally, and actually audible this time.

Art's face crumples a bit, but he regains composure, "yeah, you were good."

"Really, good," Tashi adds, kissing his shoulder, "so good for us, right Art?"

"The best," Art's pulling him in, cuddling him as Tashi presses up behind him.

If he had asked why they were being so nice to him Art and Tashi would've said something like this: because after you finished you went basically unresponsive, and didn't reply when we asked if you were ok. Then when you finally did, you got up like a fucking zombie, walking to the bathroom with this horrible look on your face. Felt like you needed to be treated gentle. Even if you'd never say that.

He doesn't ask though, doesn't say anything else, just lets them kiss at him, telling him that he did a good job.

Art pushes himself further up the mattress so that Patrick can fall asleep tucked into his neck, and he can kiss the top of Patrick's head. Tashi spoons him from behind, an arm draped over him.

He falls asleep pressed between them, they hold him tight, covering every part of him, squeezing out the last drops of loneliness.

***

an: not proofread but will probably be cross posting to ao3 soon, thank you for reading :) (more Patrick being treated nice in other fics, i promise 🙏)

[scary-grace]

Enough to Go By (Chapter 25) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

Your best friend vanished on the same night his family was murdered, and even though the world forgot about him, you never did. When a chance encounter brings you back into contact with Shimura Tenko, you'll do anything to make sure you don't lose him again. Keep his secrets? Sure. Aid the League of Villains? Of course. Sacrifice everything? You would - but as the battle between the League of Villains and hero society unfolds, it becomes clear that everything is far more than you or anyone else imagined it would be. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

Chapter 25

Your phone is ringing from a number you don’t recognize, and you wouldn’t pick it up at all if it hadn’t already rung four times. Either this is one persistent telemarketer, or your mom’s changed her phone number again and you just haven’t noticed. You step out of the high command meeting with an apology and raise it to your ear. “Hello?”

“This number is listed as the emergency contact for a patient who was just admitted to Yokohama General,” the person on the other end of the line says, and your blood turns to ice. “Am I speaking with —“

She says your name, and you nod, your mind spinning. Yoshimi? Why would Yoshimi list you as her contact? She was in remission. What happened? Why — “Miss,” the nurse on the other end of the line says, “I need you to confirm your name.”

You confirm it. “Thank you,” the nurse says. “The patient’s name is Kiyohara Kazuo. His advance directive —“

“His what?”

“His advance directive requires that I share a message with you,” the nurse continues. “The message is this: SAVE YOURSELF, all caps.”

Save yourself? “That doesn’t make any sense,” you say. “What happened? How is he?”

“That’s protected health information. I — ah, it appears he’s signed a consent to release information,” the nurse says. You need to sit down. Your head is spinning worse than before. “Kazuo collapsed at his workplace with a grand mal seizure, believed to have been brought on by overuse of his quirk. Stress may have also been a factor — eyewitnesses state that he was in a contentious discussion with his supervisor at the time.”

Kazuo wouldn’t have used his quirk by accident. He knows where his limit is. Did he push himself past it on purpose? Why? Your eyes are burning beneath your veil. “Do you know what they were fighting about?”

“I wasn’t there,” the nurse says, like you’re stupid. You swallow hard around the lump in your throat. “If my boss could read my mind like his apparently can, I might have a breakdown, too.”

Kazuo’s boss can read minds. Kazuo overloaded his quirk on purpose. Kazuo set you up as his emergency contact and set an advance directive ordering that a specific message be given to you. You ask the nurse for his room number, ask about visiting hours, and all the while you try to figure out what he was thinking. There was something in Kazuo’s mind he didn’t want his boss to see. Flooding his mind with information would have obscured it. And then there’s the message to you, which he prepared ahead of time. Which he must have planned for. Kazuo’s always told you that you can’t save he and Tenko both, or you and he both, or something. But this time he was brutally direct. Save yourself. From what?

Foreboding crashes down on you. You launch to your feet, lose your balance, knock against the wall, and stumble back into the meeting in the middle of some soliloquy from Geten about convincing the average citizen to rise up and join the cause. Re-Destro spots you first. “Saintess?”

“Something’s going to happen,” you say. “My contact at the HPSC — he just —“

“False alarm,” Hawks says at once. Spinner and Skeptic sit bolt upright in their chairs. “I’ve got contacts there, too. None of them have said anything. If your guy’s some mid-level guy —“

“He’s not mid-level!”

“Sure, sure. I’m just saying, I talk to the top brass,” Hawks says. “They’re building up to something, yeah, but they aren’t anywhere close to being ready to move. And when they are, we’ll have plenty of warning.”

“This is the warning,” you say. You see Dabi ignoring you, Re-Destro dismissing you, Geten and Twice and even Compress leaning to Hawks’s side of the story. But that doesn’t matter. There’s only one person you need to convince. “Tomura —“

He never met Kazuo. You know that even the idea of Kazuo bugs him a little bit — it’s a reminder that there was someone before him, someone you loved, even if you never loved them like this. But he trusts you, and when he meets your eyes, you know you’ve won. “Your contacts could have found you out,” he says to Hawks, whose jaw drops. “Better safe than sorry. Activate everybody. We’re starting now.”

You still dislike Re-Destro on principle, but you’ll say this for him — when Tomura gives the order, he snaps to it, and Geten follows suit. Skeptic was already in motion before Tomura spoke, and Spinner catches you by the arm and pulls you out of the room, dragging you down the hall. You’ve gone over plans for the start of the war multiple times, and at no point do they involve Spinner kidnapping you. You speak up as soon as you’ve got your feet under you. “What are you doing?”

“Getting you out of here.”

“Why?” If there’s going to be a fight, you have to stay close to Tomura. You try to wrench your arm out of Spinner’s grip, but he’s holding on too tightly. “Let go. I have to —“

“Hawks just got made. He knows you’re important. Shigaraki’s not leaving you anywhere Hawks can reach.” Spinner’s expression is grim. “Twice is going to make a clone of you. It’ll do the same thing as you, but nothing bad will happen if he kills it.”

Except that Tomura will have to watch you die. “And what am I supposed to do while this is going on? Watch helplessly from the sidelines?”

“No,” Spinner says. “Do what you did during the Deika thing. It’ll work better if no one knows you’re doing it.”

He’s right. You’ve kept the existence of the deleter rounds fairly quiet — after you and Spinner agreed that Hawks was the spy, you started dropping hints about how the production was harder than expected, and the compound didn’t work as well as Overhaul’s. In actuality, you’ve got dozens of bullets, a specially modified gun to fire them from, and a lot of practice while Tomura was in stasis. Next to Tomura, you’re a target, and your ability to do anything other than reinforce Super-Regeneration is limited. At a small distance from him, hidden, you can do a lot.

You stop fighting Spinner, and he breathes a sigh of relief. “Go get your gear. Stay out of sight. And don’t worry about him. We’ve got his back.”

You believe that, now. You didn’t before, but now you see it — the League wants Tomura to survive, too. No matter how else they feel about the new world, they want him in it. You nod, and Spinner lets go of your arm, leaving you to run back to the room you and Tomura share. Everything you need is hidden under the bed, and as you put it on, it occurs to you suddenly that Hawks doesn’t know what you look like. How likely is it that any of the heroes know? Right now, the biggest identifying feature you have is your costume. If you take it off —

When you step back out of the room, joining the flood of PLF members headed to their battle stations, you’re dressed in civilian clothes, and no one pays any attention to you. Word is spreading that Hawks is a traitor, that heroes are headed here right now, and while you’d expect the members of the PLF to be frightened, they aren’t. Some of them are angry with Hawks, angry with themselves for being taken in. But even the ones who are angry seem excited, too. They believe they can win. And with the advance warning Kazuo’s given you, combined with Tomura’s near-omnipotence, you think they might be right.

You don’t have an assigned battle station — everyone assumed you’d be with Tomura — so you go looking for the intelligence center instead. Skeptic has cameras everywhere. He’ll be able to see exactly who’s come to fight, and you’ll be able to see exactly who you need to hit in order to turn the tide of the battle in the League’s favor. When you get there, Skeptic’s not alone — Dabi’s there, too, in the worst mood you’ve ever seen him in. They’re arguing about something you couldn’t care less about. You wedge yourself past them to look at the screens, and your stomach drops.

There are so many heroes. You’ve never seen that many in your life, all at once, all converging on the PLF headquarters. You know Kazuo gave you all the warning he could, but you’re suddenly convinced that it wasn’t enough. This looks like every hero in Japan, from the top ten to people you’ve never seen, from heroes who have been around forever to students. A slow twist of anger works its way through you as you notice kid after kid from Toga’s YouTube playlist running across the screens. What the hell are the heroes doing bringing kids to fight a war?

Ultimately you know who you want to hit, but you don’t have nearly enough bullets for every hero. And you’re not exactly a hero expert. You turn away from the screens and step right into the middle of Dabi’s argument with Skeptic. “I have quirk-canceling bullets that actually work. Who should I hit?”

“Endeavor,” Skeptic says at once.

“No,” Dabi snarls, and you flinch. “Not him, and not the little brat he bred to replace him. They’re mine.”

Skeptic argues, but you talk over him. “I don’t care who deals with them as long as someone takes them out,” you say. “Who else?”

“The only way Shigaraki loses this is if his quirks stop working,” Dabi says. “That fucking traitor will have told them what he has, so they’ll have brought Eraserhead. Get him and the heroes are screwed.”

“And how did the traitor know what the Grand Commander has?” Skeptic hisses. Dabi snarls. “You told him. This is your fault.”

“Twice was friendly with him!”

“Not half as friendly as you!”

Maybe this is what they were fighting about when you came in. It doesn’t matter. You need to find Eraserhead and take him out of the fight, and you won’t need to kill him to do it. All it will take is one shot. The building rumbles around you, but you don’t flinch — it’s just Gigantomachia, waking up, just like Tomura’s plan calls for him to do. You keep watching the screens, looking for Eraserhead, and you find him fast. He’s not hard to miss, not when he’s running alongside the numbers one, five, six, and ten heroes, plus three or four others.

That concentration of firepower can only be aimed at one person. They’re headed for Tomura, and with Eraserhead there to cancel Tomura’s quirks, his ability to fight back will be limited. The only way to stop it is to make sure to cancel his first. You slip out of the room while Dabi and Skeptic are still fighting and head for the front lines.

Most of the fighting is happening outside the building. Tomura’s game plan called for keeping the enemy forces from breaching the building, although you’re not sure why, given that Gigantomachia destroyed part of it already with his emergence. The ground is shaking with his steps, and there’s already one hero struggling to hold him back. As you watch through a shattered window, you see a shadow lift from the ground, wings extended. You’re not a hero expert, but you’re pretty sure that’s the number ten hero, Ryukyu. That’s one less person against Tomura. One less person shielding Eraserhead.

You can’t see Toga or Twice — or Compress, now that you think about it. If you had to put a bet on where Spinner is, you’d say he’s by Tomura. Which is where you should be. You can’t see the clone Twice supposedly made of you, but you’re sure it’s around somewhere. Not dead yet. If it were dead, you’d know. Not because you’d feel it, but because you know what Tomura would do.

You’re not on anybody’s list of important targets, which means you go largely unnoticed as you duck and weave through the fight. Without your veil, not even the members of the PLF can recognize you, and you keep your gun close to your side, out of sight. At one point, though, you make eye contact with a familiar face — bright-eyed, dressed in pink, a pink-shaded visor down over her face. Uraraka Ochako, hero name: Uravity. You duck out of her eyeline, your heart hammering. She won’t remember you. Even if she does recognize your face, she won’t know where she remembers you from, and she definitely won’t link you to the League of Villains. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

Except it’s not her you should have been worrying about. There’s somebody else staring down at you — a kid, too young to be a pro hero, must be a student. “Hey,” he says, frowning. His voice sounds strangely familiar. “Are you okay? You look —“

He doesn’t see you as a combatant, or any kind of threat. You can’t count on that to last. You bring the gun up from your side, flip the safety off, and drill a quirk-canceling bullet into his shoulder.

The student staggers, frowning — but he’s clearly confused, particularly when the bullet falls away, spent, the needle exposed. “What was that?” he asks, as you get back to your feet – and finally, you realize who you’re looking at.

It’s your brother. One of the twins. Shinji, you think. A student at Ketsubutsu Academy, called up to fight a war. And now he’s quirkless. You should feel something. He’s your brother. But all you can think of is the number of times he practiced using his quirk on you. Shinji’s frown deepens. “What did you do to me?”

You need to get away from him before he figures it out — and before he can let anyone else know. He’s got an earpiece in one ear. You snatch it out of his ear and run, jamming it into yours instead. He’s pretty obviously dressed as a hero. If he runs into anyone from the PLF, they’ll fight him, and he’ll have to fight them without his quirk. Shinji’s not going to be able to follow you. And without his earpiece, he can’t call for help, either.

The channel the earpiece is tuned to is a mess. There are directives coming in from somewhere, but they’re drowned out almost entirely by the heroes trying to coordinate, trying to counterattack, trying to adjust to the fact that the PLF, who was supposed to be caught unawares, seems to have been ready for them. You recognize Endeavor’s voice from TV broadcasts, and you know he’s pursuing Tomura, so you try to listen for him specifically as you pick your way around the edges of the fight. You promised Dabi you wouldn’t go after him, but if it comes down to destroying his quirk or letting him hurt Tomura, you know what you’ll choose.

You’re not a strategist, but as you draw closer to the battle, you try to think like one. Eraserhead’s quirk is like yours — it affects somebody else rather than doing anything for him. It would make the most sense for him to stay out of sight, like you’re doing, in a hiding spot where he can see Tomura but Tomura can’t see him. It occurs to you how likely it is that Eraserhead is doing the exact same thing you’re doing, a split second before you make your way around a piece of rubble and find Eraserhead crouched behind it, peering up and over at the fight between Tomura and the heroes.

For a moment you’re frozen, but you shake it off fast. The range here isn’t as close as it was with the student you shot, but it’s still well within your abilities, and all you need to do is tag him. You feel an odd squeamishness about shooting someone who isn’t hurting you, who doesn’t even know you’re there. Then you think about it. Eraserhead wants to hurt Tomura. Eraserhead’s also a hypocrite — calling himself a hero, defending his psychopathic student while disallowing any possibility that villains could be anything but irredeemably evil. He deserves what you’re about to do, as much as anyone can be said to deserve it. You raise your gun and aim for his torso.

“Hey!” Something skids into your field of vision, blocking Eraserhead completely. It’s the student the League abducted, the one who acts like a villain, as if you’ve summoned him just by thinking about him. He has his arm pulled back, sparks flying around his hand. If you don’t do something soon, you’re going to take an explosion to the face. “I don’t know who the hell you are, extra, but if you think —“

You don’t need to think. You pull the trigger, and the bullet you’d marked out for Eraserhead hits the hero student instead.

His hand drops, like you’ve cut the muscles in his arm instead of canceled his quirk, and you see confusion on his face, just like you saw on the other student you hit. Unlike that student, he reacts fast, raising his other hand, his face screwing up in concentration as he tries to call up a quirk that’s long-gone. With no quirk, he’s not your problem — or so you think. “Sensei, cut it out! I wasn’t going to hurt her —“

That’s an enormous lie, and it’s cute that he thinks Eraserhead is the one doing this. You cycle another round into the chamber and lean out around him, just in time for Eraserhead to look towards his student. The two of you make eye contact. You see his face shift, see that he’s registered something’s off. He’s not watching Tomura any longer. His attention is on you, and his hair falls around his face, and you’re in the act of pulling the trigger when the student tackles you from one side.

Your shot goes wide, and you put an elbow into the student’s face as you fire another. You get lucky with this one. Eraserhead’s coming towards you, hand held out, and the bullet sinks into the palm of his hand.

He must know what it is. That’s the only explanation you can think of for why he reacts the way he does, and how fast he does it. Eraserhead draws a knife from his utility belt, raises it, and amputates his left hand with a single stroke.

Was he fast enough to keep his quirk? You’re not sure. Whether he was or not, he’s toppling sideways, blood pouring from the stump of his hand, and the student lets go of you, racing forward to catch him. “Sensei —“

Nobody’s holding onto you, so you run. As you vanish around a corner, you hear Eraserhead’s voice, tight with pain and anger. “Leave it, Bakugou. Stop her!”

The student’s going to be after you. That’s fine. Unlike him, you know how to fight without a quirk. Your clip is almost empty. You fire the last bullet into the crowd, hitting a hero at random, then load the next one. The thought of circling back around to try to put Eraserhead down for good crosses your mind. Even if you canceled his quirk on the first try, you can’t be too careful. At least, you don’t think you can. You hear the distinctive sound of warp sludge spewing and look to your right, just in time to spot one of the high-end Nomus unfurling its limbs and rising to its feet. It reaches for you, hand closing around your waist, and pulls you in close. “Master’s orders,” it rumble as you fight. “Keep her safe.”

“Let me go,” you order, and it loosens its grip on you — but it doesn’t let you go entirely. Your authority must be subordinate to Tomura’s, somehow. The Nomus will follow your orders only if they don’t contradict Tomura’s. You try desperately to think of a workaround. “He said to keep her safe? He meant Toga. Go get Toga.”

“No,” the Nomu says. “Her.”

It says your name, and you curse yourself. Of course Tomura would have gotten specific. Of course he would had made sure. After what happened in Deika city, you should have guessed that he’d have set up multiple backup plans to keep you away. The Nomu repeats the order again, like you didn’t hear it the first time, this time with your name firmly embedded in it. “Master’s orders.”

“Then come with me,” you say. “I have to go fight. Come with me and keep me safe.”

This time, the workaround has at least some effect. The Nomu loosens its grip completely, but draws close to you, shadowing you completely. It says your name a third time. “Keep safe. Master said —“

“So that’s your real name,” a voice says in your ear, and terror rips down your spine. “I liked Saintess better.”

The Nomu lashes out, but Hawks is too fast. He yanks you away, splitting the Nomu’s head open with a massive, razor-sharp feather. You try to get the gun around to the right angle to shoot him, only for him to grab your wrist and twist it hard enough to shatter it. You yelp in pain, and worse, you drop the gun. Hawks lets your wrist fall, twists the other behind your back, and clamps his free hand over your mouth. “I have to hand it to you and your friend at the HPSC. You two really screwed things up,” he says. You try to bite his fingers, and he curses. A moment later you feel the sharp press of a feather against your throat. “Skeptic got a message out before we jammed communications. PLF cells are activating across the country. How does it feel to be the cause of a civil war?”

“I didn’t cause it.” Your voice is muffled, but you get the words out. “You’re the ones who made it possible.”

“And here I was thinking you could be reasoned with.” Hawks laughs, low and dark. “Tell me something. Did you ever buy it? Me as a member of the PLF?”

You throw an elbow backwards and try to bite him again, and this time, the feather that bites into your throat bites deep enough to draw blood. “Never.”

“Then you should have said something about it yesterday,” Hawks says. “Now it’s too late.”

He lets go of the hand behind your back and wraps it around your waist instead, and suddenly your feet leave the ground. His wings buffet the air, hauling you both upwards. Your backpack falls from your shoulders, and you grab for it desperately, trying to salvage something, anything. Your hand closes around a single clip. Six bullets, no gun, and the Number Two hero holding what amounts to a sword to your throat. This is worse than Overhaul’s attempt to capture you, worse than facing down Re-Destro. Hawks has you, and you can’t get out. What is he going to do with you? Take you up to a height and drop you? Drag you back to the heroes and throw you into Tartarus? Make you disappear entirely, so that no one ever finds you?

No, you realize. Hawks is carrying you towards the battle, not away from it. He wants everyone to find you. Or maybe not everyone. Just one person.

He raises his voice, shouting into the wind. “Hey, Grand Commander! I’ve got something of yours!”

From above, the battlefield is a wasteland. The PLF’s headquarters are mostly in ruins, and the woods and gardens surrounding the compound are scorched black or still in flames. There are bodies on the ground, but from this height, you can’t tell who’s dead or just wounded, who’s a hero or a member of the PLF or a student who should never have been here to begin with. You know where Tomura is, though. You can see Re-Destro in his giant form, the light glinting off of Spinner’s blades, shreds of Dabi’s blue fire clashing with Endeavor’s red flames. You can see that the heroes are in trouble, that Tomura’s quirks are enough to hold them back almost single-handedly. And you can see that Tomura comes to a stop at the sound for Hawks’s voice. Everyone else keeps fighting, but Tomura freezes, and Hawks drops a few feet in altitude. “That’s right. Take a good look. I’ve got her.”

You hear Tomura’s response loud and clear. “You’ve got a clone.”

“I dealt with the clone already,” Hawks calls back. You see someone strike towards Tomura, only to be deflected by Re-Destro. Tomura doesn’t even look. “Twice’s copies are pretty good, but he always leaves one thing out.”

A smaller feather slices through the chain of your necklace, and it drops into Hawks’s hand. He tosses it down towards Tomura, and you see Tomura’s hand flash out to catch it. You can’t see his expression from here. “All right then,” Hawks says. “Now that we’ve established that I’ve got your girlfriend, here’s what’s going to happen.”

“No, this is what will happen.” Tomura kicks off from the ground and launches into the air — Air Walk, one of the quirks you and the doctor transplanted into him. Now he and Hawks are facing each other. “You’re going to give her back, and maybe if you do I’ll kill you myself instead of letting Dabi do it!”

“Come near me and I’ll cut her throat,” Hawks says, and Tomura stops. You see his expression contort in a way that’s unfamiliar, but it smooths out a split second later. “See, we could just beat you into submission — we’ve got numbers — but the problem is the big guy, and that army of yours that’s just started acting up. Not to mention all those Nomus. Killing you isn’t going to put them back in the bottle, so I’m going to need you to tell them to stand down.”

Hawks is smart. Too smart. The part of you that’s not writhing in terror realizes that Hawks has solved a problem that the rest of the heroes haven’t even thought of. If Tomura dies, there’s no one to give Gigantomachia the order to stand down. There’s no one to put the brakes on the PLF, a PLF that will be enraged by the heroes’ attack. If the heroes want this to stop, they need Tomura to stop it himself, and Hawks has pinpointed the one thing that’s always swayed Tomura, ever since this started — threats to people he cares about. He got into it with Overhaul because Magne was killed and brought back, sought out the fight with the Meta Liberation Army to rescue Giran. All that is true. You still don’t think there’s anything that will make Shigaraki Tomura stand down when the stakes are this high.

But he’s never been just Shigaraki Tomura. And ever since you both were children, you’ve never seen Tenko accept losing you even once.

You have to get out of here. You have to get free of Hawks before Tenko’s love for you ruins everything. You thrash, and both Hawks and Tenko snap at you to hold still. Your mind spins uselessly. Hitting Hawks hasn’t worked. You can’t bite him without moving your head, without pressing the feather against your throat. You don’t have a weapon on you. The only thing you have is the clip of quirk-canceling bullets in your hand.

Your right wrist is broken, but your fingers are okay. You switch the clip from your left hand to your right, trying to lock your fingers in place around it, and begin prying it open with your left hand. Hawks is still talking. “If you don’t order them to stand down, then I’ll kill her. It’s pretty straightforward. Do as I say or your girlfriend dies.”

“You’re going to kill an innocent person so you can get an easy win?” Tenko’s voice sounds as strange as the expression that contorts his features a second time. “What kind of hero are you?”

“One life for the whole country? I’m the kind of hero who makes hard choices,” Hawks retorts. “Your girlfriend might be innocent by your standards, but she’s a criminal just like you. I don’t want to do it, but I’d be doing everyone a favor.”

Tenko’s expression contorts again, but you recognize part of it this time — horror. You haven’t seen him look that way since you were children. His hands come up, clamping down on either side of his face, fingernails biting deep. “No —“

“Then this will be a really easy choice. Order them to stand down,” Hawks says. You pry open the clip and the bullets fall into your hand — and then out of it. Out of six in the clip, you’re only able to save one. “I’m going to give you fifteen seconds to comply. Fifteen — fourteen —“

He keeps counting down, and below you, you see a flaming figure break away from the fight. Endeavor. He’ll be here sooner than Hawks’s countdown will end, and Tenko will be trapped. You can’t let that happen to him. You can’t let his dream fall apart because of you. You flick the protective cap on the bullet hard, trying to shatter it and expose the needle, and feel it break away beneath your nail. You break the action down into the simplest possible steps, the same as you did when you were learning stitches or shooting a gun.

Shift your grip. Lean back, away from the feather. Keep looking at Tenko. Don’t look away. Bring your hand to your side. Think about where you’ll hit. Take a deep breath — your last one ever, if this goes wrong — and shout to Tenko, playing the role of his sidekick one more time. “Behind you! Look out!”

Tenko looks. Hawks curses at you, shakes you, and you bring your left hand up, stabbing the bullet into the back of his hand.

Hawks jerks back, but it’s too late. The feather at your throat goes limp and falls away, and a moment later, Hawks’s wings cease to beat. The two of you remain aloft for another second before gravity catches up to you, and then you fall. You’re falling together at first. Then Hawks shoves you away from him, hard. He wants to save himself. Fine. You know it’s too late for both of you already.

Hawk’s shove flipped you from falling facedown to looking up. You have a decent view of Tenko up above you, locked in combat with Endeavor and whichever other heroes can fight in the air. He must be taking damage — you can feel your vision blurring, your heart racing, as your quirk siphons your strength and sends it to him. Maybe that will be what kills you. Maybe you’ll die before you hit the ground.

That’s okay with you. You decided it could end like this, a few months back or forever ago. The thought settles over you as your vision goes black for the last time. You’re a sidekick. No good sidekick would let her hero lose.

<- Chapter 24

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[nekoannie-chan]

“4 times you planned Bucky and Steve's Birthday; 1 they planned yours.”

Title: 4 times you planned Bucky and Steve's birthday; 1 they planned yours.

Fandom: Marvel, Captain America.

Ship: Stucky X Reader.

Word count: 698 words.

Square: 2 & I4: “Happy Birthday”

Rating: Teen.

Summary: You planned their birthday party, but what will happen if they plan yours?

Major Tags: Surprise party, fluff, party gone wrong.

Additional tags: My entry for the @avengers-assemble-bingo Bucky Barnes Birthday Bingo (Card 4B015) and @stuckybingo Stucky Bingo Round 6 (Card SB6066).

Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.

@saiyanprincessswanie

My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my writing skills in English. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.

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Bucky's birthday.

For Bucky's birthday, you decided to do something different.

“Let's do something he likes,” you told Steve as you set up the surprise. “What he likes best is a good home-cooked meal and quiet music. But I want him to feel how important he is, too.”

Bucky didn't know anything. You and Steve took care of everything from cooking to decorating the place with little lights hanging from the ceiling. At first, Bucky was surprised to get home and see everything set up, and the look on his face was enough to know it had all been worth it.

“This is...unexpected,” Bucky murmured, touching the decorations.

After dinner, when everyone had relaxed, Steve got up to make a toast. “To Bucky, the man who, even if he doesn't say it, always deserves more than we give him. Happy birthday.”

Bucky raised his glass. “Thanks, guys. I don't have many words; I just know...tonight makes me feel lucky.”

2.  Steve's birthday.

The first time you organized Steve's birthday was a challenge. However, you and Bucky knew he deserved something special.

“It's just a quiet dinner, right?” asked Bucky as he leaned back on the couch, watching you set up the decorations.

“Sure, quiet...a small dinner,” you replied, even though you knew deep down you were planning something much bigger. When Steve walked in that night, his eyes lit up as he saw the decorations. Bucky brought some old photos from his time in Brooklyn, and together, they relived the old days, the days when there was no war and no worries.

“Thanks, guys,” Steve said as the three of them sat down to enjoy the cake. “This is more than I could ask for.”

Bucky raised his glass and toasted. “To Steve, for always being the guy who doesn't need a birthday to be the best but still deserves it.”

The night ended with you guys hugging him.

3. Bucky's birthday.

For Bucky's second birthday, you decided to do something even simpler. A picnic in the park.

The day started well, with everyone buying the ingredients and organizing a picnic basket full of sandwiches, fruit, and a bottle of wine. But when they arrived at the park, strange things began to happen. The wind started blowing hard, blowing napkins around and messing everything up. A dog approached and, at first, seemed friendly but ended up stealing one of the sandwiches from the basket. Steve slipped on a rock and fell to the ground while you were trying to save the wine, which almost tipped over.

“Well, at least it's not a rescue mission,” Bucky said with a chuckle, looking at the whole mess that had occurred.

4. Steve's birthday.

Steve's second birthday was even more special. This time, there were no excuses: it would be a surprise party.

You and Bucky took care of the planning without Steve's knowledge.

The surprise was a success. Steve, at first, was puzzled to see all his friends and colleagues gathered in the apartment. The decor was filled with war memorabilia, old uniforms, flags, and photos. And, of course, the food he loved so much.

“This is bigger than I imagined,” he said, almost overwhelmed by the number of people who had joined him that night.

“It couldn't be less for someone so big,” you replied.

The night ended with Steve hugging you, grateful for the effort, as Bucky joined in the hug. 

5. Your Birthday

For your birthday, Bucky and Steve tried to organize everything themselves, but they couldn't avoid the problems. The cake burned, the decorations were chaotic, and they couldn't agree on anything.

You arrived at the apartment and at first didn't understand what had happened. The lights were off, the tables were in disarray, and the air was thick with smoke from the burnt cake. You looked at both of them, and they, embarrassed, sheepishly approached you.

“Sorry...we thought we could handle it,” Steve said, with a guilty smile.

Bucky laughed. “Maybe we're not the best party organizers.”

They both came over and hugged you.

“Well,” you said, hugging them back, ”if this is the worst they can do, I'm happy.”

[zoloft3]

the man i assume to be god

☆彡hitoshi shinso x gn! reader

tags—> weed use, nickname use (sweetheart), no use of y/n, first person pov (i'm sorry this is unlike me), childhood friends to weird ass situationship to lovers, it's sappy :| don't be mad,

a/n : this is technically a cross post, since i originally posted this on ao3 years ago, but i wanted to rewrite it for a character i like better and relate to more now. i also changed a bunch of the writing to what's more my style nowadays. so if you've seen this before... no you haven't. This is also the start of me officially beginning my tumblr writing career :] so if you like this lmk and i might do more

-------༚☆༚-------

We made a bad habit of falling asleep in the car.

Hitoshi was always calling me late at night to go for a drive. He'd pick me up in the car he spent too much money on and make some mean comment about my sweatpants and 1 AM eye bags, all before smiling like it hadn't been weeks since he texted. I would get in the car, let the scent of him envelope me, and immediately forgive him. He’d been dealing with the weight of a quarter life crisis, and apparently needed me and some weed to take a load off. Being best friends and head over heels in love since high school made it difficult to say no to him.

We’d fallen into a bit of a routine, unfortunately. Driving out till we found a good place to stop, and then rolling down the windows to watch the few stars that were out. By the time I had shot-gunned him a few times, per his request, my eyelids would droop and there'd be that stomach settling feeling. The kind that makes it so easy to sit perfectly still and never move a muscle. Being so close to him was dreamy, and the buzzing smoke inhalation never failed to take it out of me.

The weed didn't do much to curb my mind though. Whatever we were, whatever racing thoughts I would think all day about him, didn't stop at the car door. The whole thing was messy and so fucking complicated. I tried not to think too hard about it. Most of the time I’d just focus on how pretty he was and how lucky I am to be able to love him.

When he says my name, I swear-

I don’t even know what it does, it kills me so badly.

This one saturday night in particular, Hitoshi didn’t seem as interested in lazy, open mouthed kisses. He seemed fixated on looking at me.

“Hey, you okay?” I nudged his shoulder, attempting to stir awake the Hitoshi I knew. The man only I got to see.

He was a famous work of art, but only I got to hang the framed canvas on my wall. Only I could stand close enough to see each and every brush stroke. No post card or photo could ever compare to the real thing. He was mine, even if he wasn't my boyfriend, he was mine.

“Sorry,” He seemed to snap out of whatever trance he was under, “Just doing too much thinking lately.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that,” I smirked, tilting my head to get a better angle of his moonlit face.

“You think we could, just, I dunno,” He looked out the open window, lost in the open air and pine trees, “Maybe talk? About this? Us?”

My heart did a 180 in my chest, so, as per usual, I relied on attempted comedy and a smile to take the anxiety away, “Talk about us? I was beginning to think you’d never ask.”

“I’m serious, you know." The look on he gave me dropped the smile off my face. He was serious. This was officially bad. My brain wracked itself for every possible negative outcome.

Until he spoke again.

"I’ve been thinking we should try something.” He shifted his hands off the steering wheel to take another hit, then tap the ash out the window. The whole scene was far more attractive than I’d ever admit. The way he put his lips together as he exhaled the smoke in my direction. It was fantastical. Sweet, sappy memories I’d lick off the floor of this car to remember.

I’d do anything to keep him on my mind.

“Try… what?” I asked, genuinely curious and anxious for his answer.

This seemed to bring him all the way back to himself, there was a sly smirk on his lips, “I dunno, sweetheart, what do you think?”

There was that sinking feeling again and my back was glued to the seat, eyes stuck on his face. My mind knew what was coming, but my heart couldn't accept that the thing I'd been dreaming about since I was fourteen, was really coming true. In this very moment. Oh, lord.

He turned to face me fully, and the spell broke. This definitely wasn't a dream. Both our arms resting on the center console brought our faces incredibly close.

We’ve always been this way, together and apart, near, yet so far.

Noses almost grazing each other, I pushed myself to speak in the presence of the man I assume to be god.

“You want me to guess?” I raised an eyebrow despite my aching, heavy heart, “Or will you just kiss me already.”

One thing I loved about Hitoshi, is one way or another, he always did what I told him to do.

He kissed differently than I expected, not so commanding or competitive but slow and compassionate. I knew only then, that everything would be fine. We were together, finally, as one.

We didn’t fall asleep in the car that night.

-------☆-------

a/n : if it was terrible, don't tell me.

i will walk into the ocean and never come back.

thanks to @saemeret for being such a good little beta (annoying baby talk voice) smooch <3

[summerpearlpen]

I felt the same! I understand Bridgerton is an ensemble show, but Colin got something like 20 minutes less screen time in his own season than any other Bridgerton male lead. The mirror scene was only 6 minutes and communicated so much. Sooo much could have been done with 20 more minutes of Colin screen time.

Imagine if we had gotten three more 2 minute Polin scenes showing how Colin makes Pen feel confident and Pen makes Colin feel worthy:

Colin telling Pen she is not just anything + to come along

Colin telling Pen to be brave my darling before the Butterfly Ball

Pen and Colin happily editting Colin's journals in bed

Also four more 3 minutes scenes of solo Colin fleshing out his character arc:

Benedict making an observant snide remark about Colin being a good husband for Penelope some time during S3E2 because Ben had been clocking the Polin tea since S1

Francesca and Colin talking about what love feels like to them e.g. Francesca loving comfortable silences and Colin loving bitchy banter. Or they could talk about being sensitive or their communication differences to the majority in society.

Colin telling the Lord Squad to fuck off when he arrives at the Queens balls

Colin advocating for his wife to Violet when Violet receives the LW reveal letter

The fact that the past male Bridgerton leads got more time means they could have given Colin this same amount of time. But they didn't. Because they prioritised the dramatic tension of making the audience believe Colin and Pen were on the edge of getting an annulment. And for me personally, that wasn't necessary because the LW plot already had enough dramatic tension with the Queen's reward and Cressida's blackmail.

Look, I love Bridgerton S3. Love, love, love it. These things I listed are simply wishes. And I think to deliver these things they would have had to rework their women's empowerment and annulment plotlines, which I don't think Shondaland would've done. At the end of the day we got a fun, sexy TV show and I get to read and write fun, sexy fanfic on ao3.

I am looking forward to Polin working as a team in S4. I think there will be a lot of Polin in S4, more than in the books, so I am excited for S4.

Just thinking out loud.

I don't think there's too much Penelope in Season 3. I think the Lady Whistledown story was really well done and the way it unfolded worked really well and felt narratively satisfying. I don't have complaints about it - nor would I want less.

That said, I do think there isn't enough Colin in Season 3. Colin had been on a journey of self discover since Season 1 and while I feel like it is a thru line of Season 3, they could have done more with it.

It's a shame that Colin didn't have more time with his family, if I'm being honest. The Eloise stuff is great and I loved it. But it's a damn shame that Colin and Francesca, both of whom have a somewhat outsider POV going at times, didn't share a single line of dialogue between them. The ABC brother scenes were great, but limited (I'll always want more of these) and Benedict is all but absent from the main story, which is a shame.

Also, it would have been interesting to give Colin more interaction with Gregory and/or Hyacinth. What bond(s) are there? And it's criminal that we didn't get a Colin/Violet scene when she receives Penelope's letter.

It's a shame, in general, that post LW reveal to Colin that he's nearly isolated within his own angst and because they're stretching out the conflict he almost has to be isolated for it to work.

I also kind of think there could have been way more Polin every step of the way. Their scenes feel almost too few and far between, and it's a shame because the story could have dug in deeper and explored more.

I'm at least grateful that they'll be in Season 4 in possibly a meaningful way. They've been (I wouldn't say important, since their story has never really intersected with the others) such a feature of the show that their story has had the most build up and the most development. It'll be interesting to see if the show continues to do that.

But yeah - I just wish there was more. Hmmm.

[scarapanna]

Calm before the storm [Wavering Lies!AU]

After having faced the first half of his sentence, Shadow Milk Cookie reflects on what transpired days prior. Alone with only himself, his confinements, and his thoughts.

This, unfortunately for the beast, is not bound to last for long.

clank…clank…clank

Absentmindedly, the captive beast would play around with his restraints, letting the chains keeping his wrists close to one another clash together repeatedly.

It had been a few days after his capture, he still recalled everything. The fight, the unfair odds against him, the sheer luck those crumbs had been blessed with…and his embarassing defeat.

What happened after? A good chunk of it, he didn't recall. He was down for who knows how long before waking back up in a cell similiar to the one he was currently held in.

The past week? Went by quickly, in all honesty. He remembered his multiple attempts to break out during those council meetings, back when he still had all of his power…

…back when that MAT hadn't convinced everyone to forcefully snatch it away from him.

Now? He had been sentenced to a seal. No, not like that rotten old tree..but somehow just as, if not WORSE that it. Thanks to it, he couldn't accest his power, he couldn't shapeshift NOR summor anything. He couldn't access his other-realm anymore…he just

couldn't

do

ANYTHING.

He HATED it.

The beast would look at his hands, then at his wrists..before violently yanking his whole body forward in frustration.

His magic was like a part of him, something he had since his baking. It felt just as important as lifepowder to a beast, it was part of him. A component now crudely ripped out of his dough.

Without it he felt severely impaired. So…weak. Frail. Defenseless..

He never wanted this, it was the worst kind of dreadful….

HE HATED IT

He'd yerk forward once more, at full force…but to no avail. To ensure his stay, those rotten pests had put him in chains. CHAINS! Around his legs, his neck, his wrists…the last he dreaded he most, considering those restraints served two functions.

That of keeping him here AND prohibiting his access to magic.

He felt like he was some sort of cakehound.

However, before he could thrash a third time in frustration, the beast would be alerted by some chattering outside of his cell door. At this hour? How strange…

The noise seemingly came from two or three cookies conversating…one voice was freakishly familiar.

it was HIM..

"Oh no no, I'd rather be alone this time. Thank you for the offer."

Soon, he'd hear two of the figures leave, signaled by faint footsteps growing farther and farther..

..next, someone would turn the key to his cell door, which would would creak open, bringing with it that dreaded confirmation.

He stiffened, narrowing his eyes at the figure.

That THIEF.

..___________________..

"..Shadow Milk Cookie."

The beast would look up, stiffing his posture at the one before him.

"What do you want?"

He'd bark out, irritated. Pure Vanilla knew the reason why.

"I just wanted to pay you a visit."

The ancient carefully closed the door behind him, snuffing out the noise coming from the outside all over again.

"How are you faring?"

No response.

"..hm, I see."

He'd walk closer, before searching for something inside his cape. Pure Vanilla would then find what he had been looking for after a small struggle, and would pull out something from a small pouch.

The sweet, easily recognizable smell would manage to catch his predecessor's attention. That frown remained…yet his eyes quickly locked on the unexpected "gift".

A small victory for the healer.

"I've brought some jellies with me, would you like any?"

Holding one of his hands out, he'd offer a few to the cookie of deceit…He might have been hungry, he figured.

He only recieved a glare.

"…I suppose not."

The healer would retreat his hand, putting back those few jellies in that pouch.

Tension was only rising the more they stayed inside, just the two of them.

Usually, Shadow Milk was notorious for his chatter. It was an aspect Pure Vanilla's been told about many, many times during the week he'd spent imprisoned in the republic. Outside of council meetings the jester's behaviour would have been reported many, many times as well. Mostly by guards venting out their frustrations with him.

Now, the atmosphere was much much different. Both had fallen silent for a good while until the ancient decided to resume their one sided "discussion"

is there an--"

"Shut up."

Though it seemed Shadow Milk wanted to hear none of it.

"…just answer my question, and scram. I don't want to be interrogated by the likes of you."

The beast bared his teeth, his words oozing pure hatred and venom from each and every letter.

With his magic gone, Pure Vanilla figured anyone wold be upset. But this had to be done to ensure everyone was safe. He didn't want to risk the lives of many by letting a beast loose.

He'd sigh, turning to the ground.

"Well….I was wondering if you'd reconsider my proposal."

No response.

He'd turn to Shadow Milk's face, returning his stare.

"Do you still want to keep this incessant fighting…or would you rather settle this once and for all?"

The beast looked at him, then at his souljam, and then back to the ancient. His eyes widening as he'd repeat his words.

"….once and for all..

you…

…YOU!!!--"

After a beat of silence, Shadow Milk sent him glare. And thightly clenched his fists. Shaking in sheer fury, he'd start stomping his feet to the ground, immediately rejecting his successor's offer…just like he'd done many times prior.

"HOW DARE YOU!!"

He'd spat, violently yanking the chains holding him in place.

"DO YOU REALLY THINK I'D ACCEPT YOUR PATHETIC TRICKS? YOU…YOU TOOK MY EVERYTHING! My other-realm, MY SOULJAM!"

Pure Vanilla frowned, retreating his hand..but not faltering in front of the beast.

Deep down, he doubted Shadow Milk really regretted any of his actions. That was certain. The way he boasted and congratulated himself for his victories, how prideful it made him..deception never really left this cookie, but meaning surely did. This scene before him was…sad, dare he say even pitiful.

However, it wasn't his turn to talk just yet.

That cookie of deceit, depowered and weak, had only paused to catch his breath. In fact, he still had the energy for more crude, unfiltered jabs at his successor.

He grit his teeth, glaring at the ancient in fury.

"And still..you weren't done tormenting me, oh no no no.. You still stole the last bit of freedom I had left! All that was ME ..my POWER, MY STRENGHT!! YOU.. YOU FRAUD!!!"

The sound of his furious yelling and clattering bindings would echo around the room, yet still failed to convey the full extent of the ex-virtue's thrashing. With all of his might, he'd push himself forward twice, as if trying to yank his body right in Pure Vanilla's direction. If he wasn't binded, he'd probably lunge at him.

Pure Vanilla didn't waver, and waited as the beast tried again and again to free himself. To somehow break those chains and get back his seized freedom.

The healer observed as he gradually started to tire out, his wild yanks growing weaker and weaker…until he nearly fell over, fatigued. With his head hanging low, that cookie would tremble and pant in exhaustion. The concept of not having that revoked power, the power to break free with little to no difficulty still appeared alien to the beast. Even from an outsider perspective.

"Once I get it back….you'll wish to have crumbled in my spire."

Despite everything, Shadow Milk still kept stubborn. He forced his head up, to look back at the ancient.

"Mark.

My.

WORDS."

Right after that one final threat, he'd collapse to his knees. In silence, he only kept trembling and breathing heavily. Clearly impaired by the lack of remaining energy to yell at his successor.

The ancient's gaze would soften.

"Stop overexerting yourself, Shadow Milk. You're tired. You'll risk hurting yourself that way."

Without hesitance, Pure Vanilla would step towards the restrained beast. The space between the two of them growing smaller.

He'd glance at him, with a glimpse of sympathy in his eyes..before shaking his head to finally speak the truth. His truth.

"I'm not trying to force you into a friendship, Shadow Milk. We still have our…differences. For the time being, I believe it wouldn't work out. We both, for our own reasons, are not yet ready…. but-"

He'd look away, facing the entrance to that cell. It felt much, much more distant than when he first entered…but he wouldn't care. He was here for a reason, and that reason was to try and talk. To fully understand what caused Shadow Milk's fall. To fully understand why he was so…lost compared to when he'd last seen him.

Just what transpired after he left?

"-- if we could stop this…constant back and forth, even just for a short while then.."

He'd take another step, closing the large gap between them just a little more.

Turning around, Pure Vanilla placed one hand on the bottom of his souljam's brooch. His gaze directed towards the item for a moment…before going back to the chained beast.

"…I could show you a better way. I want to show you a better way. A way that doesn't give short-term glee and satisfaction, or a short-lived escape…but true, long-term fulfillment."

He opened his eyes.

"This is why, back in that spire, I've offered you my friendship."

He'd take another step. Determined.

"We don't have to fight forever, we don't have to clash against eachother. War, revenge…it doesn't bring true happyness."

The beast didn't respond. He didn't, in fact, even try to look at him. And only kept facing the ground troughout his entire speech. His expression? Unreadable..

..until he'd crack a smile..

"…he…ha ha…. hahahaha.. "

Before Pure Vanilla was able to question him, he'd be interrupted by a burst of laughter.

".. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!! YOU HYPOCRITE!"

Shadow Milk would lift his head back up, still on his knees, and now with the word amusement plastered on his face. He'd keep giggling uncontrollably, driven to the point of tears by the sheer hilarity of what he'd just heard.

As he'd recollect himself, the jester would manage to wipe a tear with one of his restrained hands. A newfound grin plastered on his face.

"Do you really think anyone would believe you? If revenge brings "nothing but emptiness" …then I wouldn't even BE here! In fact, I wasn't even doing anything wrong!"

Pure Vanilla would narrow his eyes and shake his head. No, he didn't share the same sentiment.

"You've still harmed cookies, and that brings consequences. Even with understanding, those actions aren't justified."

The ancient spoke from his heart..yet the beast didn't seem to care, as per usual.

His smile dropped a little, and he'd glare at the healer.

If anything, all he seemed interested in doing was wearing down his will. And so, he'd make another attempt to do just that.

"Deep down, I know what you are. I can tell how much fear my mere presence instills in you, it is glaringly obvious! I bet you even have.. GASP n-n-n-n-nightmares? Oh you poor, poor thing. Otherwise, why would you sentence me to this?..Justice? Safety? HA! How utterly HILARIOUS."

He'd only keep going, just as his target kept not giving him the reaction he wanted.

"This idea of friendship you have is merely a ploy to get what you want, selfishness masked as selflessness…easy-peasy! Out of everyone, do you really expect me to fall for that? pfft.. HA HA HA HA HA!!

…You truthly are pathetic."

Afterwards, the room would fall in complete and utter silence once more. Both parties stared at eachother, undoubtedly, with no victory or loss. If anything, they'd reached not a conclusion..but rather a stalemate.

Pure Vanilla took the next move.

"…very well then."

Shadow Milk would jerk back, confused.

"what?"

He'd move backwards a bit, giving the weakened beast some space before taking on a more formal demeanor.

"I'm here to tell you something else. Other cookies refused to come…so I've volunteered to do so instead."

He'd move a hand on his mouth, clearing his throat before continuing.

"Tomorrow, you will be allowed outside…that is, without magic and under supervision, to ensure no one is hurt. These are the terms decided by the council."

Having informed that cookie, his duty was done, and Pure Vanilla would turn to start walking back towards the cell door. He'd gently open it, a soft creaking echoing trough the room.

Before leaving, he looked back at Shadow Milk for one last time.

"..if you want to change your mind one day, my offer still stands."

He recieved only a scoff...and a possible warning in response.

"Tch, you're just being delusional."

Of course, he'd expect the beast to still refuse his proposal. It was, arguably, predictable…but he woudn't give up just yet.

He gave him one small smile before closing the door behind him.

"..goodnight."

[direwombat]

listen. i'm always happy whenever someone leaves a comment because they enjoy my writing. whether it's a quick "love it!" or a longer dissection of whatever they've read, it warms my heart that they took the time out of their day, however brief, to let me know that they liked my work. i don't consider myself entitled to receive comments for posting my work, which makes every single one i get a gift!

but comments like these (particularly ones that come from profiles that haven't posted fic and are aggregates of bookmarks*) really do leave a bad taste in my mouth:

so, let me spell some things out for anyone who may be unaware:

I don't write for you.

I write for myself.

I am writing fic for free in the little spare time i have.

You are not entitled to my (or anyone else's) work

i haven't posted fic to ao3 since literally january of this year. i also wish i were posting fic more frequently, trust me. the only thing worse than writing is not writing. but asking "where's the rest????" and "part 2????" only activates my spite response to not post. you'll get updates to fics when you get updates. writing fanfiction is a hobby for me. i do it for fun. but i also take my craft (writing) very seriously. i want to write a good, compelling story and i take great care in the writing process. it's laborious to begin with, and on top of that, i am a meticulous planner. it takes me much longer to write a fic than it does for you to read it -- yes, even for the short ones and smutfics!

it's the famous "pick two: high quality, cheap, and fast", and unfortunately for all of us, if you want my "not bad"-writing and have it also remain free, then you're gonna have to be patient.

*i'm not saying that this is an incorrect way to use ao3. if you're using ao3 as a place to keep track of the fics you like, that's a valid way to use the site, and not what i'm mad about. it's the entitlement.

[teh-nos]

this is very petty but since i found out that some unknown number of people bookmark every fic they read on AO3 so they know if they've read it or not (since at the top you'll then see 'Edit Bookmark') i've been a bit annoyed that this makes bookmarks meaningless as an indicator of reader enjoyment and turns it into a smaller hit counter. except i think *most* are people wanting to bookmark fic they liked so they can find it again. so i can't even just dismiss it either. fandom has invented a new form of torment.

[vulpinesaint]

did 90 pages of my reading for three different classes is everyone proud of me :) finished the chapter on judaism for my sacred texts class, read "an apology for poetry" by sir philip sidney for my lit theory class, and did my two chapters of reading from the truth about stories by thomas king for my folklore and mythology class. and wrote a summary paper on that sacred texts chapter. and did my little writing assignment for my french class. all while sick. who is going to kiss me on the forehead and tell me i did a good job

[bookwyrminspiration]

i had 4 fics open on different tabs when the site went down so now all I can do is just. repeatedly read those 4 fics I guess. so long as I don't refresh the page or anything

[nekoshi13]

I thought I had my ship tastes figured out, you know? Since I was a teen the "two power houses that canonically want to kill each other but are more alike than they think" (Shizaya, Tojigo, etc) was my jam, I lived for that shit but then I fell head over heels for "I have canonically died for you and would do it again in a heartbeat" Destiel and like... WHAT??? How did I get here??? WHAT WAS THE PIPELINE???

[mrnnki]

anybody know any place a hobbyist writer can stick their original stories that isn't garbage?

[isaut]

Can I ask what’s the reasoning behind 20 being the cutoff age and not 18?

yes! i know it is a weird boundary so i am more than happy to elaborate.

irl i am a high school teacher. i have students who are 18/19 years old, and it makes me really uncomfortable to think that what if one of them is on my tumblr. i can admit that it's a bit paranoid of me, but it's a boundary that i need to have to stay sane. almost everyday of my life is me putting out fires with 18/19 year olds and i just need a break.

i also have a sneaking suspicion that not everyone who says they are 18/19 is 18/19. and while i cant do anything to keep you from lying about your age, i do see when people who are under 20 follow me and then change their ages. like i said, i work with yall almost every day of my life, i'm not dumb. and i was a kid on the internet once, too.

i understand that it can be really exciting to find lesbian works on tumblr, which is why i dont always block right off the bat and post a lil warning message. i don't have a long dni, my only requirements are that you're over 20+ and not a spam liker.

however, not to be a teacher, but it's important to respect other's boundaries even without a reason. if there's a dni on someone's page, it's part of tumblr culture to respect that dni even if you don't understand it or don't agree with it.

anyways! just please respect this boundary of mine. it makes me feel safe on tumblr. i like not having a lot of followers and this helps a lot too :) you are more than welcome to follow when you turn 20!

[whumptober]

WHUMPTOBER 2024: PROMPTS LIST

Welcome to Whumptober 2024 — Seventh Time's a Charm!

Please make sure to read the Event Info and FAQ below carefully, as most of your questions will be answered there already. For everything else, you are welcome to come to our ask box or ask questions in our Discord server here.

This year’s AO3 Collection can be found here.

This year's playlist can be found here.

The 'Anatomy of a Whumptober Prompt' post can be found here.

And our 'Resources for Writing Sensitive Topics' post is here.

We’re very excited to see the community come together for another year of Whumptober! Go wild with the prompts, and support your fellow creators - we wish you all the fun!

Best of luck and happy whumping,

Mods Vanne, Yenn, Kitty and Surro

(Text versions of the prompts, as well as event information, rules and FAQ are posted below the cut!)

Whumptober 2024 Prompt List

No. 1: RACE AGAINST THE CLOCK

Search Party | Panic Attack | "If only we could hold on.” (Icysami x Renegaderr, Strangers.)

No. 2: TRUST ISSUES

Amusement Park | Role Reversal | “You got away with the crime while the knife's in my back.” (Charlotte Sands, Rollercoaster)

No. 3: SET UP FOR FAILURE

Fingerprints | Wrongfully Arrested | "I warned you."

No. 4: HALLUCINATIONS

Hypnosis | Sensory Deprivation | “You're still alive in my head.” (Billy Lockett, More)

No. 5: SUNBURN

Healing Salve | Heatstroke | "If my pain will stretch that far." (Lottery Winners, Burning House)

No. 6: NOT REALISING THEY'RE INJURED

Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms | Healed Wrong | "It's not my blood."

No. 7: ONLY FOR EMERGENCIES

Unconventional Weapon | Magic with a Cost | "It's us or them."

No. 8: SLEEP DEPRIVATION

Isolation Chamber | Forced to Stay Awake | "Leave the lights on." (Coldplay, Midnight)

No. 9: OBSESSION

Broken Window | Bruises | “Frame me up on the wall, just to keep me out of trouble.” (Fall Out Boy, Irresistible)

No. 10: BLOW TO THE HEAD

Slurred Words | Passing Out from Pain | "I can't think straight."

No. 11: SEEING DOUBLE

Convenience Store | Loneliness | “Leave no trace behind, like you don't even exist.” (Taylor Swift, Illicit Affairs)

No. 12: STARVATION

Underground Caverns | Cannibalism | "Just a little more."

No. 13: TEAM AS A FAMILY

Familial Curse | Multiple Whumpees | "Death will do us part." (Set It Off, Partner's In Crime)

No. 14: LEFT FOR DEAD

Hunting Gear | Blackmail | “Because I want you to know what it feels like to be haunted” (tiLLie, kooL aiD mAn)

No. 15: CHILDHOOD TRAUMA

Painful Hug | Moment of Clarity | "I did good, right?"

No. 16: NECROSIS

Swamp | Wound Cleaning | "No, I can't feel anything."

No. 17: NOWHERE ELSE TO GO

Ruined Map | Shipwrecked | "We had a good run."

No. 18: REVENGE

Unreliable Narrator | Loss of Identity | “I see what's mine and take it.” (Panic! at the Disco, Emperor's New Clothes)

No. 19: BLOOD TRAIL

Abandoned Cabin | One Way Out | "Is there anybody alive out there?" (Bruce Springsteen, Radio Nowhere)

No. 20: EMOTIONAL ANGST

Shoulder to Cry On | Giving Permission to Die | "It's not your fault."

No. 21: BODY HORROR

Body Horror | Tattoo Gun | Spirit Possession | “Let the bedsheet soak up the tears.” (Apparat feat. Soap & Skin, Goodbye)

No. 22: BLEEDING THROUGH BANDAGES

Tourniquet | Reopening Wounds | "Oh that's not good."

No. 23: FORCED CHOICE

Public Display | Broken Pedestal | "I'm doing this for you."

No. 24: RADIATION POISONING

Collapsed Building | Equipment Failure | “I never knew daylight could be so violent.” (Florence + The Machine, No Light, No Light)

No. 25: SURGERY

Stitches | Being Monitored | "It's for your own good."

No. 26: NIGHTMARES

Breakfast Table | Parting Words of Regret | “I'm haunted by the lies that I have loved, the actions I have hated.” (Poe, Haunted)

No. 27: VOICELESS

Laboratory | Muzzled | “I have no mouth and I must scream.”

No. 28: DENIAL

CCTV | Exposure | "They caught me red handed."

No. 29: FATIGUE

Labyrinth | Burnout | "Who said you could rest?"

No. 30: RECOVERY

Hospital Bed | Holding Back Tears | "What have I done?"

No. 31: ASKING FOR HELP

Therapy | Making Amends | "I'm alive, I'm just not well." (Elliot Lee, Alive, Not Well.)

Alternatives List:

Body Swap

Communication Barrier

Finding Old Messages

Forgotten

Friendly Fire

Motion Sickness

No-Holds-Barred Beatdown

Regret

Secrets Revealed

Shivering

Survivor's Guilt

Time Loop

Used As Bait

Venom

Vermin

Event Info & Rules

WHUMPTOBER is a month-long, prompt-based creation challenge (think: Inktober, but whumpier). There are 31 official themes this year - one for each day of the month - which can be used, skipped, or combined in any way you’d like. They are meant to serve as inspiration without being taken literally (e.g. you don’t have to include the exact wording of prompts into your work). Feel free to run rampant on interpretation. For example, if the prompt is “flame", you could create something with reference to a candle/campfire, your character could have suffered a burn, or the flame could be a reference to an ‘old flame’ - an old relationship. It’s truly down to you!

In total, there are 4 prompts for each day. These are optional suggestions and can be used in conjunction with the theme, or as options/alternatives.  We want to give everyone as much creative freedom as possible, as well as increase event accessibility for folks with triggers and squicks. There is also a list of 15 alternative prompts that can be subbed in for any day, again to give participants as much creative freedom as possible.

Creators can PRODUCE work in any media they choose, including but not limited to: writing, visual artwork, photo/video/audio edits, paper crafts and elaborate recommendation lists (not just a list of links). Creators can PARTICIPATE as much or as little as they want (i.e. you don’t have to do ALL the prompts if you don’t want to) and prompts can be used in any order. They are also free to use even after the event ends.

When uploading Whumptober content to your blog, be sure to tag it with:

#whumptober2024 …..(the event tag)

#no.1, #no.2, #no.3, …..(theme number)

#bruises, #stabbing, …..(the theme or specific prompt you chose)

#altprompt …..(if you use an altprompt, tag the post with the number of the prompt you replace)

#fandom or #OC, …..(ironman, original content, oc, etc.)

#medium …..(gifs, fic, podcast, art, etc.)

#teeth, #etc …..(trigger warnings & any additional tags. Keep in mind not to add “tw” in front but only use the word/trigger itself)

#nsfwhump …..(only for nsfw content)

#your own tags go here

PLEASE BE DILIGENT WITH YOUR TAGGING. Only properly tagged posts are considered for archiving on the official @whumptober-archive blog. They must be tagged in the order above. An elaborate post about our tagging system can be found [here]

Unfortunately, due to the sheer number of participants in recent years, we cannot guarantee your work will be archived. A random selection of properly tagged posts from all genres will be reblogged each day.

Whumpers who produce content for 31 total theme days are considered event completionists and will be tagged in a masterpost at the end of the month. A form will be published at the beginning of November asking you to tell us if you completed. This is based on trust and we will not check this.

Frequently Asked Questions

Please read this before you send an ask!

TIMELINE

July: Trope voting form released. Late August: Prompt list is released for at least four weeks of preparation time. Tropes cannot be posted earlier than August 25th because of Moderator obligations in real life. (But, you know, go ahead and start writing/drawing, and add the themes in later, if you want!) September: Do as much or as little on your works as you want. You can prepare everything in advance or let September go by with vibes and start working in October. It’s up to you. October 1st: Challenge begins! A storm of whump breaks upon us all! During this time, some posts will be reblogged to the whumptober archive blog. We open the yearly AO3 collection for posting (optional). November 1st: The challenge is officially over! Completionist form opens for those who want to be included in the hall-of-fame. Early November: We release completionist and participant badges, solicit feedback, and post a hall-of-fame list of completionists by the 10th.

PARTICIPATION AND COMPLETION

Q: What counts as participation? Create or continue at least one work inspired by one of this year’s prompts. Q: What counts as completion? Creating work(s) inspired by at least one prompt from each day (or alts), for a total of 31 unique prompts. Q: Do I need to create 31 works? No. You can, if you want. Or you can create one work that you add to every day with a new prompt. Or several works that combine prompts. You can also update an existing work by adding new material with the current prompts. Q: Do I need to post my works somewhere to be a completionist or a participant? No. Q: How do you know I actually completed the challenge? We’ll take your word for it! Q: Do I have to finish my work(s) to be a completionist? No, you can post WIPs. And you’re not obligated to finish them in October, but if you want it to count towards being a completionist, you must have completed 31 prompts by the end of the month. So for example, if you’re writing a long fic and you fit 31 different prompts into the writing you did in October, it’s okay if that fic isn’t finished by the time October ends, you’ll still be a completionist. Q: Is co-writing/illustrating allowed? Yes, absolutely, and it would count towards being a completionist for both/all of you. Q: Is there a min/max limit on word count for written works? No. Q: Is there a min/max limit of quality for art? No. Q: Do I have to do something each day to be a completionist? No. You can skip days whenever you want, and as long as 31 daily prompts (or alts) are in your works done in October, you can be a completionist. For example, if you wrote a 1000-word ficlet that covers prompts in days 2, 3, and 17, you can check all three days off your list even though it’s only one work. Q: Is this challenge just for fics? No! Artworks, GIFsets, headcannons, rec lists, poetry, moodboards, or any other creative work is encouraged. Q: Can I combine Whumptober with other creation challenges? Absolutely, as long as the other challenges allow it too.

PROMPTS

Q: How do the prompts work? There are FOUR prompts per day: a theme and three ideas. You can use one, two, three, or all four prompts for each day. If you don’t like any of the daily prompts, you can substitute one of the ALT prompts instead. Q: How strictly/literally should we interpret the prompts? As literally or as figuratively as you want. For example, if the theme is WATER, that could mean drowning, waterboarding, raining, swimming, take place underwater, be lost at sea, construct a metaphor about a character’s mood that changes like a flowing river, crying, or whatever else you can think of that fits that theme. Q: Can I combine prompts? Is there a limit on how many? No limit and combine as many as you’d like. If you create a work that checks off multiple prompts, that work will count for a fill of multiple prompts. You need to address 31 different prompts to be an official completionist, but you don’t have to produce 31 separate works.

WORKS

Q: What’s whump? Hurting a character, whether that’s physically, emotionally, intellectually, psychologically, or any other way you can think of. Comfort afterwards is optional. Angst is emotional whump, so it counts. Q: How do I know if it’s whumpy enough? If your character is just mildly inconvenienced, it probably needs more whump. However, no participant has to prove whumpiness to the mods. Whatever you write is up to you. Q: What kind of characters can I create for? Anything. Generic “whumpee,” OC, PC, NPC, major characters, minor characters, or whatever you want. There are no limits. Q: Does it have to take place in a specific fandom? No, you can create works for your own worlds or for fandoms or for both. You can also create more generic or pan-fandom works. You can do cross-overs or use OCs, whatever you want. Q: Can I create AI-created works? We will not reblog or promote any works we know to be generative AI-created. Q: Is there anything we’re not allowed to write? As long as it contains whump and is based on our prompts, it’s fine. Please courtesy tag your works if you post them so people who follow the #whumptober2024 tag can filter according to their preferences. Q: What about sex, minor characters, and potentially disturbing content? You can create whatever works are legal in your country and post them accordingly. Please courtesy tag anything you think might be objectionable if you post to Tumblr so people who follow the #whumptober2024 tag can filter according to their preferences.

POSTING

Q: Where can I post my work? Post where and how you want. You don’t even have to (cross)post it to Tumblr. Just keep in mind if it’s not on Tumblr we will not be able to add it to the blog archive. There is an AO3 archive for Whumptober 2024, as well as the parent collection for works completed outside of the event. Q: Can I start posting early? You can, but this is an October event and wouldn’t it be more fun with everyone doing it at the same time? We won’t be reblogging any work predating October 1st. Q: Can I post late? Yes. For the sake of our hardworking Post Fairies, only a day’s themes will be reblogged to @whumptober-archive each day of October. But you can post whenever. Some of us are still working on and posting Whumptober fics from years ago. Q: Do I have to use your tags? Only on Tumblr and only if you want us to reblog your work on @whumptober-archive. Q: How do I have my works reblogged to the archive? Properly tagged posts will be reblogged to @whumptober-archive. If you want the official archive blog to reblog you, post on Tumblr and tag correctly (see this FAQ link for more info on tagging). Please note not all posts will be reblogged each day. Q: Can we @ you? For questions and comments, of course. We’ll be getting a flood of notifications, so if you really want us to see something send an ask. Q: Can I cross post on other blogs? Yes, multiple platforms and blogs are perfectly acceptable, as long as they allow cross-posting (to us). You can also post different works to different accounts under different names, without posting them everywhere at once. If you post some works under your main and others under an alt blog, that’s fine for completionist purposes. Q: Can I upload/repost my Whumptober content to other social media platforms? Of course! We’ve created an AO3 Collection to archive any fics posted there, which can be found here. The blog is the official archive, so please respect the personal boundaries of any whumpers in your social circle (don’t out anyone as a participant who would prefer not to be outed).

Most importantly, have fun, create, and enjoy all the whump posted this October!

[shellshocklove]

moanin' & groanin' | logan howlett

pairing/AU: lumberjack!logan howlett/wolverine x inexperienced!female!reader

summery: working for your father's timber business isn't what you saw yourself doing, but when the wolverine comes looking for work it's suddenly not so bad – especially when he can teach you a thing or two.

warnings: this is an 18+ fic so mdni! age gap (in the way that his mutant abilities prolongs his life), swearing, use of pet names, smut, car sex, praise, a little dacryphilia, logan's got a dirty mouth, soft dom!logan, a little size kink (basically logan has a big dick), handjob, fingering, a little manhandling, unprotected sex (don't do it!!), no use of y/n

a/n: um hi! this is my first ever logan fic. i really hope i got him right! not beta read, and barely edited so any mistakes are my own. happy reading! <3

main masterlist / ao3

The pages crinkled under your fingertips as you turned another page. Over the top of your book you could see your father's men milling about, getting the timber ready for another outgoing truck. Day in and day out they worked like flannel-covered ants. 

He wasn't here, your father, leaving you to hold down the fort, or office to be precise, as he  ran errands. "I'll be back before lunch," he'd told you, a hand passing through the sleeve of his tan Carhartt.

The office felt bigger when he wasn't here, like his neuroticism took up twice as much space as he did himself. You looked around the room. It was small, more like a hut than anything else, raised up on cinderblocks. A tiny kitchen lined the front wall, the refrigerator had given out once this month already and something smelled like it had died in there, the white florescent light under the wall cabinets gave you a headache, and the tap drip drip dripped. The table and the mismatched chairs, your father had found at a fleamarked years ago, before you were born most likely, and they wore the wear and tear of years of use. 

Every available surface was covered in papers, and the wooden shelves on the wall dipped in the middle from the weight of the binders. When you were little you'd been afraid the wood would break in two, but they were still standing (hanging?) – maybe they'd stay like that for the rest of eternity for all you knew. Your father's office had only one desk, which made your job as occasional office manager and full-time problem solver, problematic. 

Your father would sit in his chair on one side, while you'd steal one of the mismatched chairs and occupy the other end. If you'd had your way, you wouldn't be working here. The timber business interested you just as much as your father was interested in the disco they played on the radio. "If it ain't the king of rock I don't want to hear it," he usually said and switched the channel. 

But the town was small, and no one was hiring. The summer after you'd finished high school you'd dreamt of moving to the city, but the money had been tight and your father needed you. At least the work, if your father didn't meddle, was relatively easy: answer the phone, type out the invoices and salaries, keep an eye on logistics, and make sure whatever breaks gets fixed. 

The radio hummed at a low volume, one of the singles from Tapestry, as you turned another page of your book. Leaning back in your father's office chair, you glanced at the clock over the door. He should be back by now. Just as the thought crossed your mind, the door swung open.

"Did you need something?" you asked, your book dipping down in your lap. 

Logan raised an eyebrow at you as he walked into the office on heavy steps, that damn cigar hanging out the side of his mouth. "Nice to see you too, princess," he poked jokingly, tugging at his gloves, one finger at a time, and tucking them into his leather belt. 

He sported the same outfit he usually wore; bootcut jeans, a white t-shirt under his flannel and a thicker wool-lined jacket. He must've been sweating in here with that on.

Autumn had claimed the trees and ground months ago, but this morning the frost had covered the ground and bit at the apples of your cheeks. Your breath had come out in swirling plumes when you'd locked yourself in this morning; the first glints of the sun peeking through the windows as it rose over the mountains. The first thing you'd done was crank the heater, and now as you approached midday, you'd shed your sweater long ago while the windows had fogged with condensation. 

The smallest of frowns tugged at your brows, as a heat prickled up your neck to your cheeks. Logan made you a little nervous– not in a bad way, but in a way where your thoughts would wander in his presence, conjuring up scenarios of him and yourself in… comprising positions. Okay, maybe it was in a bad way. But who could blame you when he walked around like that?

He'd arrived only a few months ago, at the tail end of the summer, looking for work. He was strong, stronger than any of the other men working for your father, and although the work was hard, it seemed like he never tired. You didn't know much about him and he kept mostly to himself, hidden away in a cabin up in the mountain, but sometimes you'd see him down at the local bar, nursing a glass of whiskey in one hand and a lit cigar in the other. More than once you'd seen him chatting up Kayla Silverfox, and more than once you'd wished it was you in her place.

"Oof," Logan groaned as he opened the fridge, grabbing his packed lunch and closing it as fast as he could. You appreciated him for that; whatever had died in there should stay in there.

"Yeah," you said, "I'm not cleaning that again, not even for a million bucks."

"Can't blame ya." 

He looked to the table for a second where the guys usually ate their lunches, before he decided to take your usual chair at your father's desk. As he sat down, you pushed the ash tray to his side of the desk, earning you a short smile in thanks as he rested his cigar. It wasn't unusual for him to talk to you on his breaks. 

So, why did you heart beat so fast in your chest?

Because it was the first time you'd been alone.

"So, where's your old man?" he asked and bit into the sandwich he'd packed in an old newspaper.

"Running errands– he should be back soon…" you trailed off.

Logan hummed non-committedly. "So, you're in here sittin' pretty readin' your book while we're out in the cold slavin' away– maybe I should become the boss' daughter."

"Well, it's not easy," you sighed, feigning confidence, "and you gotta be pretty first of all," you front teeth dug into your bottom lip as you tried to hide your nervousness.

"That's true," he grinned, "I ain't got nothin' on you, princess."

Logan held your gaze with intent, and it was like something in the air shifted. It happened sometimes with Logan, like he had this power beaming from him that sucked you in. Erratic wings fluttered in your stomach, and you had to drop your gaze.

"So, how's the book?" he asked, taking another bite of his sandwich.

"Eh," you shrugged, dog-earing the page your were on, before throwing the beat-up paperback on the table. "Too many plot twists– first they're on earth, then there's this virus spreading– so they have to move all of humanity to the moon, but then there's this species that lives under the surface of the moon who they start a war with, but one of the main characters are in love with a moonie– that's what they call them– so, now they're in love and trying to stop the war and…" you shrugged again.

Logan chewed slowly as he nodded his head. "Sounds complicated," he decided, making you let out a small laugh.

"I guess so."

A grin washed over Logan's face at your small laugh, and you felt his gaze roll over you, over your exposed skin. When he looked at you like that, like a predator drooling for a meal, you felt a small damp spot stick to your panties. You watched as his nostrils widened, his jaw clenching shut as a pulsing vein protruded from his neck.

"So, science fiction," he started, clearing his throat, "Didn't know you liked that," he continued between the last bites of his sandwich

"Some kid at the library recommended it," you shrugged, "so I thought I'd try it out. And it's not like it's that far from the truth– we've got mutants."

Logan crumbled the newspaper hard and quick, the sharp sound making you jump. "Yeah," he said, and stood to his feet, "That's true."

He grabbed his burnt out cigar, and threw the ball of newspaper in the trash. You started to wonder if you'd said something wrong, but then he said, "Your father's back," and not even a second later you could see your dad's old truck pull up outside the window.

How did he even know that? 

"Logan– wait," the words just fell out of your mouth before you could even think them through. He hovered by the door, raising a questioning eyebrow at you. 

You could be brave– Just say it! 

"Come by later would you? Before you leave for the day– I have something for you."

A gush of cold air blew in with the arrival of your father. He almost crashed right into Logan on his way out, nearly knocking him down the wooden steps. You thought you could glimpse a small nod from Logan, but he was out the door so fast you couldn't be sure. 

The rest of the day went by slowly as a growing anxiety gnawed at your neck. With your dad back you slipped out to borrow the car, driving into town to pick up some lunch at the local diner. It was routine at this point, something you did without thinking, but today your thoughts couldn't stay still. You were pulling up outside the office when you realized you'd driven the whole way with the radio off.

What was even your plan? 

You wished you were better at this. You could pretend, sure, put on a brave face to hide the nerves from surfacing, but how do you get a man like that to go for a girl like you?

You felt non the wiser when the sun had dipped below the mountains and he finally knocked on the office door. Your dad had left thirty-minutes earlier, stranding you at work with no way to get home. 

If this didn't go well, you didn't look forward to walking home.

"What 's it you wanted, princess," Logan asked, leaning against the frame of the door with one knee popped. Your eyes couldn't help but run down the length of him – his broad shoulders, the bulge hidden below his big belt buckle, and the veins of his exposed arms as he slung his jacket over his shoulder.

"Oh, um," you tried to shake your thoughts, and you rummaged the desk for the envelope. "Here," you said as you found it, stretching your hand out for him to take it.

He pushed off the door frame with a raised eyebrow, the cold air from the open door taking with it the warmth of the office. "What's this?" he questioned, taking the envelope from your hand. 

"It's your check– for this month's work," you explained.

His raised eyebrow pulled into a frown, "This is a week early," he questioned, "and I usually get these sent in the mail."

"Oh, I-I just thought I'd give it to you personally this time," you lied, fitting a shrug at the end for good measure, trying to sell how completely normal and nonchalant you were.

Logan raised a skeptic eyebrow at you, and you suddenly felt really really stupid. In your chest your heart could compete with a hummingbird's.

"Really?" he said with a smile before he dropped his chin, "Can I appreciate a little extra something in here, or…?" he trailed off, waving the envelope.

Letting out a shaky inaudible breath, you tried in your flirtiest voice, "Maybe if you give me a ride home…"

...................

The lights from the town below looked like stars scattered over the night sky, the yellow light of the roads connected them like on a string. You knew that Logan knew where you lived; the town was small, and even with the short time he'd spent here, it wasn't hard to get familiar. He'd stopped at the lookout point, about half-way up the mountain road. It was nice in the daytime, with a nice view of the town, the mountain and rivers, but at night it attracted a different kind of crowd: lovers. It was cheesy, and cliché, but clichés were clichés for a reason. 

The Led Zeppelin tape whirled, and the music stopped. 

Suddenly you felt nervous, fingers picking at a loose tread on your sweater. Logan leaned forward to flip the cassette, and his truck filled with a sound of organ, like you were back in church. When he leaned back he slung his arm over your seat. You watched how he spread his legs, getting comfortable, as his eyes found your face.

Under the wool, your heart picked up its beat.

In a brave move you shifted closer, the leather seat moaning under you, as a pleased smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. His big palm snaked around your shoulder, curling you closer to him until his lips caught your own. You only hesitated for a second before your hand found his neck, where your fingers tugged lightly at the hair at the nape of his neck. 

A low growl huffed against your lips, and he deepened the kiss, pressing himself roughly against you as he licked into your mouth. You couldn't help the small whimper escaping you. His touch was rough, almost impatient, but tender all at the same time, and you felt yourself fall apart.

The air stuck to your skin, clammy and sticky with arousal and now you started to get impatient. With a loud smack you broke apart, your lips raw and spent from use as you caught your breath. A rough hand cupped your cheek, the pad of his thumb skated gently over your skin as he tilted your head towards him.

"Such a pretty little thing," he mused. His eyes had gone dark, pupils huge and filled with lust; yours must've looked about the same as they rolled down his body. He shifted closer to you, pushing you closer to the door, and you got a better view of the bulge hidden behind his jeans.

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, clogging up the sounds around you like you were underwater, pushing at your thoughts at the back of your mind. Logan moved with such ease, each touch natural and easy, like he'd done them a thousand times. Not like you, with only your short-lived high school boyfriend under your belt. 

"Hey," he shook your head gently, "Where you goin', bub?"

"I'm sorry," you whispered, a heat coating the apples of your cheeks. 

He shook his head, his face surprisingly tender for someone so rough, "Tell me, baby."

"I'm just…" you trailed of, trying to find your words, "I'm a little nervous– I haven't done this much," you said, avoiding his gaze.

"That's sweet, bub." The pad of his thumb rubbed the pet name into your skin as he leaned forward to catch your lips in a soft kiss, "But I wouldn't worry that pretty little head of yours 'bout it."

His breath was hot against your own, and an ache started to spread between your legs. The hand on your cheek travelled downwards to tug at your jacket, and you parted only for a second to rid yourself of it, but before you could lock your lips with his again he grabbed at your hands.

"I'll teach ya," he told you and guided your hands to his broad form. 

He let you touch him as he shucked off his jacket, your fingers dancing over the soft flannel. He was solid beneath your fingers, hard muscles from hard work. A patch of dark hair curled at his chest, peeking out beneath his white shirt, and you found yourself wondering where it lead.

Curling his hand around your wrist, he guided your hand lower; down over his chest where you could feel the solid form of him. His bronze belt buckle burned you like ice, but the heat of him as he pressed your hand to the hard bulge beneath the buckle burned even brighter.

"You feel that?" He looked you straight in the eyes. He pressed your hand down harder and you could feel the shape of him against your hand, hard and thick, and big. You barely managed a nod through the wave of heat coating your cheeks. 

"That's because of you, princess." His voice was low, almost like a growl, as he started to guide your hand to rub over the thick length.

"Me?" you questioned, breathless. 

"Yes, you," he chuckled, a heavy hand petting at your head. "D'you want to take it out? Stroke it f'me?"

"Please," you begged, looking at him with moony eyes through your lashes.

"So polite f'me," he mused, his hands tugging at his belt before he popped the button on his jeans. Slipping off your shoes, you crawled up into the seat, sitting back on your knees as you watched him pull at his jeans. Peeking out from under the denim, you could see a dark patch of hair.

Logan was in no rush, revealing only an inch at a time of the base of his cock, making a show of it as the tension rose. A wave of tickling arousal washed over you, and it made you brave, reaching a trembling hand forward, you helped him tug at the fabric.

At last his cock sprung free.

You felt your eyes widen at the sight, as you involuntarily squeezed your thighs together. Even with your limited experience, you knew he was bigger than most. The thick length of his cock bobbed from the weight, hanging heavy between his legs. At the tip of his fat head, a drop of precum pearled, almost invisible in the dark truck. 

"Come here, bub." He widened his legs as he reached out a strong arm for you, curling you into his shoulder. 

"Put your hand on it," he ordered, "like this," he grabbed at your wrist and guided you hand towards his mouth. You let him move you around, eyes blown out and wide as you couldn't take your eyes off his impressive cock. 

A wet blob of spit pulled you from your thoughts, it drew the slightest frown over your face until he guided your palm, now coated in his spit, to his cock.

Under your palm his skin was silky soft, but hard and firm at the same time. You found yourself mesmerized at the sight of your hand around him as you familiarized yourself with the heaviness of him in your hand. 

"There ya go–" he cut himself off with a groan as you formed a fist around the head of him. Your fingers struggled to reach around him, but it didn't seem like Logan minded much when you moved downwards smearing his spit over his shaft in an experimental tug. 

"That's it, good girl, just like that."

A warmth bloomed in your chest at the praise, wrapping itself around your heart. You wanted him to say it again– to be good for him. So, you reached forward with your other hand, wrapping it around the base as the other formed a fist around the head. Another pearl of precum beaded at the tip, and you took the opportunity to skate your thumb over it, massaging it into his spit.

A growl seemed to get caught in Logan's throat, and still riding off your high that the praise had sown in you, you started to pump his cock in slow strokes. A slick sound escaped under your fists with each stroke, and you watched how his head fell back in pleasure.

"Am-am I doing it right?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

At the sound of your voice, Logan sat up straighter, a heavy hand falling over your back to pull you closer. "You're a natural, princess."  

You couldn't contain the smile from coating your lips as he brought you in for another searing kiss. It was hot, and suffocating, and all-consuming, all at the same time. It clouded your mind, and you forgot what your hands were supposed to be doing. 

Logan's hand travelled down your body, his big palm grabbing at your ass. "Take of your pants," he ordered against your lips, "Panties too," underlining his order with a couple of light slaps to the flesh.

Shuffling out of his hold, you fingered at the button of your pants, pulling at them and your panties as quickly as you could. Goosebumps prickled over your exposed skin, the air suddenly frosty without Logan's touch – but that didn't last long.

The calloused pads of his fingers trailed up your thighs, pressing down into the flesh as he pulled you closer to him. "Come sit in my lap, princess."

He didn't wait for you to move, instead he manhandled you how he wanted. Spreading his legs wide apart he fit you between his legs, your back pressed against his hot chest with his hard and leaking cock caged against your ass. 

"I'm gonna touch you now, baby, okay?" his deep voice whispered in your ear.

"Okay," you peeped, heart pounding in your ears at this new proximity. 

He spread your legs, putting your wet and neglected cunt on display, hooking them over his knees. When his palms danced over your inner thighs, you felt yourself sink deeper into his chest, deeper into the safe scent of pine and man. 

"Need to get you ready f'me, bub– stretch this tight cunt out for my big cock," he cooed.

You ached for him, a sticky wet feeling between your legs as you wished so badly for him to finally touch you. His touch was light, but teasing, drawing circles along the thin flesh, circling closer and closer to where you needed his touch the most, before he pulled away. 

"Please," you whined, grabbing at his arm.

His breath felt hot against your neck, and you could feel the grin he pressed against your skin. He let you guide him upwards to hover his large palm over your mound, but he wouldn't let you have it. Instead, he pushed at your sweater. His hand spread across the skin beneath your belly button as prickled goosebumps followed the rough pads as they ran across your skin.

"Y'gonna feel me right here, bub?" he teased, "So deep inside your tummy?"

A whine caught in your throat and you felt like an exposed nerve. Arousal pulsated throughout your body, threatening to pull you apart unless he did something soon. Your neglected cunt dripped with an ache only he could sooth. 

"Yes, please, Logan," you whined, tears threatening to spill.

His thick beard scraped against your cheek, and you almost trembled from anticipation as he slid his hands downwards. He raked his fingers through the curls of your mound, and a gasp fell from your lips when he finally pushed at your clit.

A wide smile reached across your face when he started to circle his fingers, tight with the perfect amount of pressure. Your hips bucked to meet his touch, your cunt eager and dripping for more of him. His other arm clasped around your middle, keeping your still and steady in his lap as he had his way with you.

A bold finger dipped lower, running through your folds and teasing at you entrance. A slick sound filled the car as he played with your cunt, circling his fingers around your hole, dipping a teasing finger inside you just to the first knuckle, before withdrawing it just as quickly. 

"Such a messy pussy," Logan murmured in your ear, the deep bass of his voice vibrating into your skin. "Listen."

The sound as he played with your pussy was obscene, lewd, and so dirty you felt a heat crawl up your chest. A breathy gasp escaped you when he finally split you on his finger, and a satisfied smile coated your lips as he started to move it inside in a steady rhythm, prodding every so often at that spongy spot inside, the spot your own finger couldn't reach.

"F-feels s-so good," you managed to stutter out. 

The heel of his palm pressed against your clit with every thrust, teasing at your insides and conjuring moan after breathy moan from your lips. He guided you closer and closer to the edge, and you wanted so badly to fall. When he pulled out to slide another finger inside you, you felt a tear roll down your cheek with satisfaction.

"I can feel that pussy clenching me– you close, bub?" he poked, never stopping his fingers.

Your head rolled back, resting heavy on his shoulder as you nodded franticly, mouth parted slightly, humming out small breathy whines. You were so close, the tension in your stomach twisting and aching for release.

But then he pulled his fingers, dragging them up over your mound leaving a wet trail in your curls. You couldn't help the disappointed sigh as more tears pressed their way down your cheeks.

"Shh," he hushed you, "you're okay, bub." 

Under you, you felt him move, his strong muscles flexing as he shifted you on his lap. When you felt the blunt head of his cock slide between your folds, an eagerness came upon you. You grinded against him, making a small chuckle rumble from his chest. Logan slapped his heavy cock against your folds, coating his big cock in your slick arousal. 

The first stretch of him knocked the breath right out of you, the fat tip of him splitting you in half as he helped you guide yourself down on him. You had to remember to breathe, your hand fumbling for something to hold on to. 

"Fuck," you whimpered, eyes wide, "I-it's so big– it's t-too big."

His hand wrapped around your middle held you in place, keeping you still on his cock as you adjusted to the first inches of him inside you. 

"It's not too big, princess, you're doing so well f'me," he praised, "just a little more, bub– you can do it."

With a wet whimper you lowered yourself, taking a couple more inches of him, as Logan pressed more fluttering praise into your skin. He let you take your time, easing yourself down on him at your own pace. When your thighs were finally flushed with his, he was so deep inside you, you jolted, trying to move back up, but Logan's hands held you down. You felt him in your tummy, like he'd said, his cock reaching so deep you were shaking.

"Sit still, get used to it," he told you, as you tried to catch your breath, "You're being so good f'me."

And somehow the burning stretch of him soothed away into a pleasurable pressure, one you couldn't help but chase. With an experimental rock of your hips, you felt the fat head of him prod at your spot, making you mewl. And when you started to swivel your hips, Logan groaned in satisfaction, meeting your movement with small thrusts.

Slowly, he picked up his rhythm, strong hands shifted to dig into your hips, holding you in place for him to move you as he wished. In your ear, you heard him growl, deep and animalistic as he fucked up into you.

It didn't take long until your breath came out fast between moans as the pressure built, and built, and built. 

"Logan," you moaned, tethering right on the edge.

Another growl escaped his chest, as his strong arms hooked under your legs. He pressed them tightly to your body as he picked up his pace, bucking wildly into your eager cunt. You could feel him throb inside of you, and you couldn't help but clench at the thought of feeling him spill inside you, claiming you.

"Don't stop, please, don't stop," you begged, tears streaming down your face like two winding rivers, "I-I'm gonna come."

A hand slid between your legs to rub at your puffy clit, coaxing you closer and closer with winding circles. 

"Come on my cock, baby, come all over that big cock."

It was hot, and blinding. Euphoric shocks pulsed through your body, as you fluttered and gushed around his cock. Logan's grip on your legs tightened as you shook violently with your orgasm – a million stars exploded behind your eyes.

"Oh, that's it, bub, such a good girl," he praised between heavy wet pants against your ear.    

Fucking you through your ecstasy, Logan chased his own high at a relentless pace, and all you could do was take it, reduced to a ragdoll in his hands. In your ear he muttered nonsense interlaced with praise, telling you how good you felt, and how perfect you were for him.

With a deep groan he pulled out quickly, tugging at himself until he spilled his thick spend on the truck floor. With bleary eyes you watched how it pumped in quick spurts, dripping down his hand and soiled the knuckles in his own sticky cum. 

Behind you, Logan breathed hard, nudging his nose against the column of your neck to press soft kisses to the hot skin. 

A pair of bright headlights beamed down the road, pulling you from the moment with its blinding light. Logan helped you shift off his lap, reaching to hand you your discarded clothes before he tucked himself back into his jeans. 

The cassette whirled in the car radio, and you couldn't remember when the music had stopped. Logan shifted back behind the wheel and an eerie silence grew in the distance between you.

"How 'bout I take you somewhere to eat?" he posed.

You smiled, "I could eat."

...................

hopefully this was okay? a comment telling me your favorite part is always welcome, and my ask box is always open to chat <3 and thank you for reading!!

© shellshocklove, 2024 i do not give any permission to repost, translate, feed to AI or redistribute any of my writing, with or without credit!

[pedgito]

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 | Joel Miller x reader

↝ other fics | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

part one– summary | Two strangers and their internal loneliness attract like magnets. Joel is at a loss, stuck—and you are alone, terrified. In the forced, shared space you find that distraction was the easiest way to cope.

content warning | dddne — DUBCON (this is an ongoing theme for a while), coercion, selective mutism on readers behalf, graphic depictions of violence, injury tw, not quite kidnapping/stockholm but reader has nowhere to go, brief mentions of pregnancy (like literally one line), mentions of starvation due to food scarcity but appearances isn't deeply described, mentions of sa and other relating themes, mean!joel, girthy age gap (reader is 20, joel is 54), joel is riddled with guilt but what's new amirite, oral (m receiving), unprotected piv and creampies, if i missed anything please let me know!

author's note: guys this has been sitting in my drafts finished for almost a year and this new picture has sparked a fucking fire in my docs over this series (another one? yeah i know), this is probably the heaviest thing (for me) i have ever written? so just, be warned. i don't have a timeline for this, i'm literally just vibing it out as i am with most fics lately and if you see a tag you don't like. don't read. you're responsible for the work you consume. a full list of triggers/warning can be found on the masterlist.

word count —10k

part two | part three | strangers masterlist

“She’s a stray, look at her.”

Two pairs of eyes stare back, across the dimly lit room. You’re curled up in the chair, thick leather coat lined with wool draping your shoulders and your toes curled around the edge of the seat, hands balled up near your chest as you savor the warmth.

It was the first time in a month that you’ve seen a fire—sure, you’ve tried to build one. But, you never quite got it and usually ended up burning yourself in the process and added onto the litany of other scars left as memories and reminders on your skin.

Survival—while you weren’t good at it, you did what you had to. Pure, primal instinct. Find shelter, find food, get safe. Don’t die.

Your nose was bloody, lips chapped and cracking, running on a few hours of sleep over the last several days. Place to place, you had to keep running. If you didn’t, they would catch you, surely.

Your muscles ache as they had a moment to relax, legs sore from walking miles and miles, the lingering cuts and scabs that hadn’t healed from your own clumsiness and a mix of being at the end of a blade of a man with too much pride to allow you to damper the moment.

You licked your lips and your eyes flitted away, staring out the window and counting the string of illuminated, plastic orbs hanging on the house across from the one you were currently being interrogated in—the men were still looking at you. Your outer stoic expression hid away the trembling fear you kept inside. They were waiting for you to speak.

That never came.

“You got a name?”

You shake your head, eyes quickly averting in a different direction.

The two men were similar in build—tall and stocky, large and filled out bodies built of muscle and years of hard labor, older based on the grays littering their well-kempt hair and trimmed beards. One has hair that curls just beyond his ears, a warmer brown than the other mans.

They both pull the same expression—complete and utter confusion.

Nearly identical. Oh, they’re brothers.

If not, they sure did bicker like it.

“She’s pullin’ our fuckin’ leg, Tommy.” 

Your ears perk up, assigning the name to a face. He seemed softer than the other man, less weathered and guilt-ridden. It wasn’t like you knew anything about these men, but you’ve learned to identify as much as you could within a couple looks. 

Figure them out. 

What do they want? What can you give them?

Tommy rounds the table separating you from him, a safe, protective distance as he presses his palm into the chair pushed under the table, fingers curling around the top.

“Listen, you’ve gotta give us something.” Tommy explains, “Given the shape of you, I’m tryin’ to avoid the whole vetting process we go through. We don’t take kindly to raiders or tricks or people looking to cause trouble.”

“We ain’t even got space for her—”

Tommy holds his hand up to the other man, eyes still locked on you.

“Look at me,” His voice is solid, demanding.

But, he’s not yelling. You turn meekly, gripping for the jacket when it slips from your shoulders. Your clothes were torn, jagged edges barely hanging on in some places. Garments soiled and unwashed for weeks and god—you fucking reek. You can smell it, you know they can smell it.

You were a stray feral cat that had scurried up to their doorstep and passed out from exhaustion and while one was attempting to take pity, the other was ready to crush your skull under the weight of his boot.

“Can you talk?” He asks, eyebrows raising slightly in question.

Your tongue rolls against the front of your teeth and you switch your gaze between the two men before shaking your head, a barely noticeable gesture if they hadn’t been staring you down.

You were being truthful—you couldn’t speak. It wasn’t like you’d had your tongue cut out and were ridden with the choice, but quiet has been the only thing that has ever brought you peace.

Familiar phrases echo loudly in your mind.

Don’t speak, be a good girl.

Seen, not heard.

Speak and I will rip your fucking tongue out.

So, no—you can’t talk.

“We’ve got families comin’ in—men and women that are willing to be a hell of a lot more cooperative than this—”

“Joel,” Tommy warns with a voice that shakes the room, causing you to jerk in response and this time he is holding his hand out to you, palm raised as if to ease you down, “we can give her a fair chance, just like we do the others. Grab a piece of paper and pencil,” He points toward a desk tucked against a far wall and Joel's heavy boot stomps follow Tommy’s orders before he’s returning, slapping the items back down on the table and taking a similar stance to Tommy.

You were sandwiched between the two men as they surrounded you, shaking as you took the pencil in your hand and gripped it, fumbling for the paper as you used your fingertips to drag it close.

“Where did you come from?” Tommy asks.

You remember the dark room, chains and screams—blood-curdling screams. One meal a day, if you are good. Constant pacing in the halls, a building in the city holding a much darker secret in the quarantine zone you had been kidnapped and forced to take home in.

Bad place, you write in sloppy handwriting.

Tommy leans to look and his brow furrows, subverting toward Joel who shakes his head at you.

“No—state, city. Anything. Bad place ain’t gonna cut it, kid.”

Kid. 

They’ve never called you a kid before. 

Men like him—he wasn’t them, but they all start to look the same after a while.

Salt Lake? Old QZ in the city.

Joel knows that place had crumbled years ago and quarantine zones were nearly non-existent now. Taken up by people trying to start anew, much like Jackson, but more often than not it was raiders—the filthy kind of people who took without asking and killed first, asked questions never.

He couldn’t blame them, but the handful of years in Jackson has taught him a new approach. It wasn’t his favorite, but it allowed him to sleep easier at night, usually.

“You left on your own?” Joel asks, speaking before Tommy could, likely ready to ask the same question. His insipid tone makes your skin crawl.

You chewed at your bottom lip and your eyelashes touched your cheeks in a flurry of blinks as you scribbled out the one word onto the paper.

Escaped.

The alarm is immediate, Joel’s head snapping up as you push the paper toward the middle of the table and allow the pencil to roll with it.

“Tommy, can I speak to you for a minute?” Joel’s voice is harsh, not nearly the question he posed it as.

Tommy rolls his shoulders and walks around the back of your chair, following Joel into the hallway, hushed voices shocking the tension back into your body as you curl into yourself, crossing your arms over your chest and allowing your eyes to scan the room.

Memorize, categorize—this was one of the men’s houses, of whom you weren’t sure for the moment. 

But, it was stocked with personal items and supplies, a bassinet shoved away in the living room and as you turned that way you noticed a pair of eyes peek around the doorframe leading that way.

A girl, young—not much younger than yourself but she is noticeably more child-like, curious.

Her shoes squeak against the hardwood startling you both and suddenly Joel is reentering the room and directing his voice toward her.

“Go on home,” He speaks to her, his expression washed-out and tired, “don’t linger ‘round here, kiddo.”

“I’m the one who found her,” She seems to take an angle of defense, coming into view. Clothes that hung off her body, not well-fitting and clearly second hand but more intact than your own, “I was on watchtower duty with Dina—”

“Ellie, this doesn’t concern you.”

Ellie rolls her eyes, walking closer regardless of Joel’s words and tossing a knife on the table.

Your knife—the black-handled switchblade closed shut. It still had old, dried blood caked on the handle. It could have been your own, but that was just a lucky guess. That thing had been your lifeline for weeks, moments away from a terrible night of near starvation or a desperate attack on you, it helped keep you safe.

You instinctively reach for it but Joel is quick—unnaturally, as he curls it into his hand and gives you a look of warning.

“This,” He holds it up, the switchblade dwarfed between his large, calloused fingers, “ain’t yours.”

Your lips pull into a thin line, eyes falling to the floor.

Tommy’s tongue clicks against his cheek as he rounds the corner, fingers rubbing at his chin as he paces, his face deep in thought and contemplation as he back steps toward the edge of the table near you, leaning into it and crossing one foot over the other. His hands are tucked away in his pockets.

“That place you escaped—” He looks up toward Joel briefly before his gaze lands on you again, “they gonna come lookin?”

You could tell the truth—you weren’t sure. 

You weren’t the only girl that was locked away in the central tower of that city, the only person who was being used so inhumanely for the needs of others in the most heinous of ways.

Selfish, sick and demented, men who got off on that desperate need for power and control.

So, instead and out of self-preservation, you lie.

Shaking your head, Tommy takes a small breath and nods.

“Alright—I’m trustin’ you. Still, we’ll beef up security for a bit, and add a few extra patrols. You need a place to stay and we’re gonna give you that. But, we got rules.” 

“Rule number one–you earn this,” Joel holds up the knife again before it’s tucked away in his pocket for safekeeping. Your eyes drag toward his pocket, staring daggers into the material.

“You earn your keep—I’m going to give you some time to settle, but eventually we’re going to assign you to a station. You work or you leave, there’s no other way about it.” Tommy continues, “And while I’m more inclined to give you a space of your own, we’re all full up singles and giving you a townhome…well, I’m not so sure that is the best idea.”

You weren’t going to argue—not that you had the will to speak up for yourself now, not when both of their presence were so oppressive. You nod obediently and look over at Joel who is still lingering, like an ugly guard dog ready to bare his teeth at a moment’s notice.

“I’d keep you here, but with my situation I’m not putting anything at risk,” Tommy says and you suddenly realize that this was his home. You weren’t that slow-witted. He had a family, something you were never familiar with. 

But, you understood.

“So, you’ll be staying with Joel.”

It clearly wasn’t his choice, based on the way his teeth clench, jaw flexing as he crossed his arms, fabric stretching over broad shoulders and thick, muscled biceps. His piercing gaze makes you shrink into your chair, if that were possible.

Your nose scrunches slightly, in a faint show of disgust but you quickly collect yourself.

“I’m also gonna suggest you see our doctor, get those bruises checked out. Make sure you don’t have any broken bones and they can stitch up any—”

It forces you into a panic, heart beating rapidly in your chest as the jacket drops from your shoulders, fingers reaching out to wrap around Tommy’s wrist—and, like you had suspected, Joel is quick to grab at your own wrist, ready to tackle you to the ground. It wouldn’t take much given your size difference—he was just...massive, threatening in a way you've never felt. Joel could snap you like a twig, but his restraint is there.

Tommy notices the panic in your eyes—you weren’t trying to attack. You were attempting to communicate in a moment of worry, he nodded and waved Joel off, prying your hand from his arm gently and placing it against your knee.

“Alright, no doctor.” Tommy settles, “For now.”

You slump back and blink away the burning sting of tears that filed your eyes.

“Get her settled in,” He tells Joel, “make sure she eats.”

Joel doesn’t nod, but he moves, backing out of your way and giving you space.

You move slowly, shaking the jacket off your shoulders before Tommy is shaking his head and grabbing hold of the lapel, pulling it back up. You jerky slightly, averting your body from his sudden touch.

“Sorry–just…keep it,” Tommy tells you—it was a look of pure pity, his eyes softening around the naturally hard edges, “I’ll have my wife go searching for some clothes tomorrow, get you out of those and into something clean and better fitting.”

You follow behind Joel to the door, a careful distance as you linger, bracing yourself for the cold crunch of snow under your bare feet.

“And brother,” Tommy calls out—there it was. Joel twists the knob and looks over his shoulder, “don’t go scaring her more than she already is.”

You weren’t sure if it was even possible to feel true fear anymore. 

-

The walk is short, but painful. Small winces that get caught in your throat as you quicken your pace to keep up with Joel, a slight limp to your walk from the bruising on your ribs and the tinge of pain in your hips and pelvis—your body has relaxed for too long, it felt brittle.

You hurt all over, but lately, you could will it all to go numb if you tried hard enough. Disconnect, disassociate, and disappear from your own body.

Eventually, you do meet his front door and you’re enveloped with warmth in a matter of seconds, making your way inside hesitantly as Joel holds the door open. He hadn’t spoken a word since you left the other house, fingers gripping hard on the pair of gloves tucked into his left hand. You look around curiously, the house shrouded in darkness aside from the fireplace ignited and crackling in the far room to your left. Joel moves quietly behind you, placing his belongings on the kitchen counter, but the switchblade is still tucked away in his front pocket, you know that much.

He plucks at a note folded under a magnet on the fridge, reading it to himself silently.

“Come on, kiddo,” He mumbles to himself, realizing it must be from the girl—sounding exasperated as he balls up the paper and tosses it in the trash. He favored that word, but you can’t tell if it’s just a habit. 

You weren’t a kid, not even close. It felt patronizing when it was aimed your way. 

He eyes you carefully, sighing as he presses a hand against the kitchen counter.

“I’m settin’ you up in the basement—none of the other rooms are in good enough condition.” Joel explains, speaking to you in the most civil way he has all night, “nothin’ is off limits except my room. And Ellie’s. She’s out back but you don’t get to go snoopin’ around. Got it?”

You shrug the jacket off but hold it close to your chest, arms crossing over each other as you hug the thick material. You nod slowly.

“Really, nothing?” Joel asks.

All it takes is a look, eyes bleary and sorrowful.

“Go on,” He nods, “there’s a bed down there, a shower, a change of clothes—”

You quickly scurry off, overwhelmed by the intensity of his unwavering gaze and the sound of his voice as it becomes more and more muffled the deeper you trek down the stairs, careful steps on your torn up feet, he seems to finally give up when your feet hit the concrete floor.

It’s still warm here, but not nearly as much. A small rectangular window sits right above the old bed, a mattress on a rusted metal frame that looked like it barely had any life left in it. But, it was an actual bed. Not boxes and a bedsheet, a makeshift pillow made from your dirtied clothes to give the ache in your neck some much needed relief.

There was a small room in the corner, a bathroom that barely managed to fit the necessities you needed—but it was still something. A shower, a toilet, a sink. A mirror that you couldn’t even bother to look in, making your way around the room you find the stack of clean clothes and towels on the coffee table in front of a worn couch, threads pulling apart at the seams on the arms.

You crouch, despite the screaming protest from your body and sift through the pile. A clean shirt, a clean pair of sweats. Underwear—you haven’t had the luxury of clean undergarments in months, often finding that going without was easier. A lump burns in your throat.

You move slowly, tucking the jacket over the edges of the mirror to cover it and placing the clothes on the closed toilet seat as you struggle for a few minutes to figure out the shower, jolting at the touch of hot water when it shoots out from the spout above.

You strip carefully, shirt pulled over your head with a small wince before your fingers are dipping into the waistband of your bottoms, slipping them down your hips and allowing them to drop silently to the floor before you step out of them—the moment the water touches your skin you regret it, the dirtied water pooling at your feet. 

You cry, sob under the spray of water and scrub away every inch of dirt and grime and blood from your body–it hurts, it fucking hurts but you can’t find it in you to stop. You could scrub the skin raw, open up old wounds and make the fresh ones worse, but you’ll settle for red and welted skin. A mix of re-opened gashes and cuts flushed out by the stream of water and your maniacal scrubbing, but at least you didn’t smell like the stench of your own bodily fluids and weeks of built up dirt on your skin, nights of sleeping on wet ground in the woods.

There is a moment of running your fingers through your hair that feels nice, hair still slightly matted from the lack of care but it feels cleaner, as much as you could manage before your arms gave out from exhaustion. You savor the warmth until the water runs cold, heavy footsteps above you shaking the dust from the ceilings. 

Right. You’re not alone. Not anymore.

But, that didn’t bring you comfort either.

You turn off the water and reach for the towel, allowing yourself to get dressed at a careful pace—they must be Joel’s clothes, a plain white shirt that was soft to the touch but clearly worn and a pair of black sweats that had seen better days, the color warped and faded. You manage to slip the socks of your feet with one stumble, hand pressing against the sink to catch yourself.

The jacket remains hung and you flick off the light before taking space on the bed, palms pressed out against the clean, linen sheet, the comforter tucked away against the wall as you laid down, body protesting the entire way.

Eyes squeezed shut, you grit your teeth and pull the comforter over your shoulders.

You try to sleep that night, but it is futile. The light hanging above your bed flickers occasionally—every fifteen minutes to be exact, it had done it thirty two times that night.

–

It never fails—just as you feel yourself drifting off every early morning, Joel is awaking you with the sound of his heavy footsteps and a bag of food. Sometimes a tray or plate. It varied.

You’ve been here three full days now, not counting the night they had taken you in.

You hadn’t left the room, hadn’t asked for a single thing.

Joel was starting to believe that your tongue was cut out—that you were robbed of the ability to speak entirely, but he knows that isn’t the case when he watches your tongue peek out as you take a bite of the scrambled eggs he had grabbed from the town dining hall for you.

You haven’t seen an authentic plate of food in months, and with proper silverware—having half the mind to dig in with your hands before Joel passes you the fork. It was real, warm food. Your stomach growled with greed as you shoveled the food into your mouth quietly. 

Joel watches you with a strange look, not with judgment but a genuine curiosity that he doesn’t act on with questions or crude statements. He waits until you're done, leaning against the door that leads to the rest of the house, only coming near when you press the plate to the floor with a soft clang.

And it continues like that for a couple days—occasional Joel will bring more than food; a book, a magazine, a set of cards. He never explicitly acknowledges the items, but he does leaves it behind. You can’t bring yourself to leave the room, in fear of what you faced outside of here. Even just a few steps into Joel’s kitchen and it made your stomach twist and the bile stir.

Sometimes the food comes in only paper bags, a few at a time and things that didn’t need to be kept cold because when Joel had to go away on patrol he couldn’t watch over you, even if he felt the need to. 

He wasn’t sure if you were going to try and make a break for it, escape over the walls.

He wouldn’t stop you, wouldn’t blame you either. But, the state you're in, he can’t see you surviving more than a day. Bruises were healing, cuts were scabbed up and scarred over. He never tended to your wounds, always allowed you to do that on your own. At least, he assumed you were. You’ve learned to not scamper away as much, taking things from him with minimal contact and a small nod, sometimes allowing a small gesture of thanks with a hand on your chin that you bring downwards. 

Joel only scowls his brow and looks at you confused.

“You stink.” Joel says one day, out of the blue over dinner as he watched by the doorway.

You stop chewing mid-bite and look at him.

“Have you showered at all since the first day?”

Impishly you look away toward the bathroom.

It felt selfish, to overuse the hot water and indulge in the pleasure of the heat—always used to cold showers and the bare minimum of scrubbing yourself down in thirty seconds. It was routine: in, wash, out. There was no enjoyment.

You shake your head after a while and push your plate aside, feeling your stomach turn.

“Go,” He nods as he steps toward you, swiping up the plate in his right hand and leading the way toward the bathroom, noting the way the coat was still hung over the mirror. He doesn’t comment on it, but he nods his head in the direction of the shower.

You look at him slightly unsure, “If I have to force you in there I will,” He says, but there isn’t any real bite behind, although the look in his eyes tells a different story, “there’s plenty of hot water, use it.”

But…

The word lingers in your head.

“I’ll have Ellie grab you some new clothes, somethin’ that fits better.” Joel tells you, “Just get in the goddamn shower.”

You brush past him quietly, beginning to undress yourself without warning which alarms Joel.

“Oh—well, shit. I mean after I left.” Joel turns away and his descending footsteps eventually fade and despite how hard it is to get your body to work, or even move, you shower.

-

You grab the unused towel hanging over the barely clinging metal rack nailed into the wall, wrapping it around your body securely, bare feet pressing against the ground and for the first time in a while, it doesn’t hurt. It’s sore, but it doesn’t sting as harshly as it did.

There’s a suspicious lack of clothing—your dirty ones nowhere in sight, no clean ones either. In fact, the room was practically bare of all trash and old clothing. You ignore the dull pain at your hip, a wound still on the mend and step around the corner of the doorway carefully and hear the sound of footsteps above you, the soft hum of voices until one fades, a door closing following in the wake of the newly discovered sounds. 

The door is open. Joel left the door open.

You stop several feet away, staring out into the hallway, the house was dim aside from the bright glow of flames burning in the fireplace. You feel so strongly to run toward the door and slam it closed, clamber back into bed—fearful that if you left the room then this bubble of safety and protection would be broken. But, there was the small voice in the back of your mind screaming to take a step forward, and then another, until your fingers were lingering over the doorknob and pushing it open further.

You take a step out, only to be met with the chest of someone else running into your arm clutching at the towel wrapped around your body—it couldn’t be anyone but Joel, and of course, you’re right.

He’s staring at you emotionless, aside from the subtle acknowledgment that you had listened to him. 

“Got you a couple sets—something to sleep in, something to wear during the day.”

He doesn’t elaborate, handing the clothes over into your empty hand. You’re halfway in the process of dropping your towel before Joel’s hand is wrapping around your wrist, forcing you to stop.

“Stop doin’ that,” Joel commands, nodding toward the bathroom behind you, peeking over your shoulder in that direction before looking back at him with wide, startled eyes, “privacy—do you understand that?” His voice is slow, almost patronizing.

Privacy wasn’t lost on you—but it had long been a foreign concept. 

You nod.

“Then go, get dressed.” He reprimands, pointing down the hall, a different bathroom then you’ve seen before.

You scurry away with the clothes clutched to your chest, catching a quick glimpse of yourself in the mirror as you step inside the room—it was startling, having not seen your appearances in weeks, days and days of constant guessing, wondering how the time starved in the Wyoming forest had damaged you. 

Physically, mentally, emotionally.

It had taken a toll and it was even more visible than you expected.

You looked rundown, eyes tired and sorrowful. It was pathetic. You tried not to linger for long, noting the appearance of your body and moving on—having to look back at yourself in the mirror was far worse than being attached to it. 

The clothes Joel gave you were thin, fleece pajamas that felt soft to the touch and kind against your still sensitive skin. You exit the bathroom quietly and Joel is nowhere to be found in your immediate vicinity, half-expecting him to be waiting outside the bathroom door. You edge back toward the basement door before you spot him on the couch in the living room, the back of his head and broad, stocky shoulders the only glimpse of him you have.

He seems relaxed, staring off into space as he looks down.

You don’t know where the pull comes from, but it wraps around the ache in your chest and pulls you closer, toward him. The creak in the floorboard gives you away.

“Don’t sneak around,” Joel says, “makes people anxious ‘round here.”

Makes him anxious, clearly.

After a moment of silence, he extends the invitation to join him.

“If you’re cold, sit—got room if you want to sit somewhere closer to the fire.”

He did have quite the sizable living room, a couple couches and a few arm chairs surrounding the otherwise bare living space.

You can see the softness on his face under this light, his eyes drawing up to look at you while his head is still tilted down, his hands rubbing away at his stiff knuckle joints. He keeps flicking his eyes between the two—his hands, you, then back again. 

If he has something he wants to ask, he doesn’t.

You’re silent as you avoid each piece of furniture all together and quietly make your way between his outstretched legs, a perfect place to tuck yourself between as you kneel.

Thank him, he deserves it.

He didn’t strike you as a shy man, but you’ve done this plenty of times before—it was really no different, but this was more of a silent offer than the usual demands you were faced with.

Joel doesn’t move right away, doesn’t even react. 

Until you touch him, your hands gliding over his knees, his thighs, leaning forward to nuzzle your face against his thigh as you pull at his zipper—again, his fingers wrap around your wrist. But, no words follow. You make eye contact with him then, feeling at your most confident and bold when he looks so worried, frightened—the deep feeling of intrigue buried underneath it all.

You pull away from his grip and wrap your fingers around his waistband, pulling slowly until he moves, wordlessly he responds by using his thumbs to push his jeans far enough down that you can comfortably press your hands over the obvious bulge in his boxers—it wasn’t hard or straining, but the touch of your hand against his cock had it growing to that point quickly, his eyes downcast and half-lidded. 

It was like he didn’t want to look, but couldn’t look away. You took it in stride and pulled at his boxers until you could tug his cock free of the confines, watching it spring up against his stomach—thick in every sense of the word and large, much more than any man who’s ever claimed you. Pretty, almost, if you could consider it that. He’s well-kempt and clean which was nice, unusual given the time you lived in now. More importantly, you feel your mouth watering at the prospect of taking him inside, pressing your tongue flat against the tip and swallowing him down.

That has never happened before.

You settled between his legs more comfortably, raising up on scabbed up knees and dragging your fingers delicately along the shaft and down to his balls, watching them tighten at the attention you showed before you’re leaning down to take his cock into your mouth without much of a warning. Joel shifts slightly and you ancitpate him to push you away.

But, really, you just wanted to thank him. It was the only way you’ve learned how.

He breathes out softly, the first sound you’ve heard since you touched him.

You drag your tongue from base to tip, hand pressed his cock flat against it as you circle around the tip before dipping back down, slipping back into the motions so easily it feels mind-numbing.

Your eyes flutter as you force yourself to take him as deep as possible, nearly gagging before you pull away, catching a slight glimpse of him behind bleary, wet eyes. 

His own are wild, hands pressed flat against the cushion, mouth only slightly ajar. But, he won’t look at you. Only the action, your hand wrapped around his shaft, the other pressed against his thigh and he fights off that urge to touch you, tilting his head back against the couch as you continue with a sudden fervor you didn’t have before.

You bob effortlessly, taking him just near the point of impossible before you’re pulling away, repeating that until you can feel that faint throb, that familiar pulse as his balls tighten with his impending orgasm and just as he reaches for your hair, ready to pull you away, you fight against it. He comes in your mouth with a low groan, gripping onto the surface of the couch in desperation.

When the pulsing finally calms you pull away, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand and standing slowly, adjusting your clothes where they had shifted out of place slightly before taking a silent seat on the couch beside him, laying down and curling up into yourself.

You hear the dull sounds of him readjusting his pants, zipping them, shuffling slightly as he clears his throat and suddenly there is a throw being draped over you—a soft, sherpa lined blanket that immediately bathes you in warmth. 

Joel catches your gaze as you blink up at him, pausing briefly to acknowledge how lost you seem—in need of guidance. It settles in him then, dawns on his mind that this was what you were used to, wherever you had escaped from was far worse than anything he’s ever suspected. He tucks the blanket in gently and double checks the locks on the door. You’re already asleep by the time he passes by, leaning over the back of the couch to check on you.

Joel feels the guilt creep in slowly.

He should have stopped, he knows he should have. But, he didn’t.

Why? He couldn’t explain it.

The walk to his bedroom seems miles away and when he finally reaches it he’s closing the door with a dignified sigh, immediately making his way toward the en-suite bathroom and undressing his clothes—it was his second shower that day but he didn’t give a shit. 

He needed a moment to reconvene in his mind…or escape. 

Really, he just needed a distraction. It was selfish need.

The clothes pile up on the tile floor as he turns on the water, the stream shooting out of the shower head in quick spurts before it levels out and Joel steps inside, head first as the water soaks his hair, face, traveling down his body.

It wasn’t the first time he’s allowed his hand to travel to his cock within the privacy of this bathroom—a man with no one to keep his bed warm at night, or morning–or ever, really. He’s learned to cope, release some of the built up anger and frustration even if for a brief moment.

But, this was different. Because the only thing he could think of was you. The meek looks you offered, dumb-founded and lost, like a young gazelle lost in the woods. He can only imagine, suspect what you’ve been through, but the look you had given him while you took him into your mouth was something Joel couldn’t describe.

There was no clear acknowledgement, no hard line of yes and no. The lines were blurred and he doesn’t know why, but he was okay with it for a moment. Truly, you’d had all the power in the moment anyways—Joel was helpless under the touch of your mouth, a goner the second your hand touched his skin.

He tugs at his cock lazily and with no real purpose, knowing if he tried to come again so soon it wouldn’t happen, but for the brief moment of peace, he imagines you there, kneeling before him with the spray of water over your face and his cock buried in your mouth, puffing out your cheeks and how you would be so willing to do whatever he’d ask.

Obedience—that was the one thing that stuck out. You always listened when he spoke.

He could help you, he thinks. Heal you.

Or, he would fuck up and make it far worse.

He wasn’t sure if it was even worth the trouble.

-

The next morning you wake to the startling clang of pans behind you, shooting upright on the couch and snapping your head toward the kitchen to catch a glimpse of Joel’s back, shoulder blades stretched and outlined under the thin material of his shirt, clinging to his back snuggly. There’s a savory smell that breaches your nose–meat, potatoes, something of a near feast as you spot the few plates on the table stacked with various other foods.

Joel seems to sense your eyes, turning his body slightly to look behind him and your gaze quickly averting down, playing with a loose thread on the blanket as he plates the remaining food.

“Beginning of the month,” Joel explains, “usually the only time we get to eat like this.”

Joel swiftly decided that taking the route of pretending nothing ever happened was the easiest, brushing off the events of the previous night with a point to the seat near the kitchen island.

“C’mon, dig in,” He invites, “Ellie should be up soon and lord knows that kid doesn’t care about savin’ enough for the rest of us. Fill up while you can.”

Your footsteps are quiet and slow as you approach the island, the long sleeves tucked under your fingers mid-palm, crossing your arms over your chest as you look at the cacophony of items. Not sure where to start or end. Joel reaches for a plate and points to the items in order from left to right, plating a couple items with every nod you give him.

He was an enigma of a man—so brute and intimidating at a glance and he was when he needed to be, but this was a soft crack in a hard exterior, years of built up trauma intertwined with a rough world dependent on the strongest to survive. It had to level out at some point–and here that big strong man was, making up your plate and plopping a piece of bacon down before you impishly nod your head toward the pile of bacon.

“More?”

You nod quickly and Joel feels a subtle grin tug at his face, nodding in agreement with your choice as he gives you another piece. 

You eat in silence—chewing slowly and methodically as you listen to the quiet, roving chatter of people outside, neighbors readying for their day. It was a community, a town, well-oiled and rare in this world.

“Are you done hiding down in the basement?” Joel asks eventually, peeking up from his plate as he leaned against the counter adjacent the island, “Eventually you’re gonna have to talk to Tommy, get you set up with a job.”

Right. Work. Sustenance. You had to carry your own weight.

“You can talk here, you know?” Joel tells you, “You can talk, can’t you?”

Your eyes flick away briefly, avoiding the question.

“Let me try that again,” Joel clears his throat and tosses his empty plate behind him in the sink, fingers curling around the edge of the counter beside him, “Can’t?”

You shake your head.

“Won’t?”

A jerky nod as you push your own plate away.

“I’m not tryin’ to pry or force it—jus’ think it may cause problems eventually.”

You make a motion of writing with your hand shyly, hoping he’ll understand.

Joel nods jerkily and turns to rummage through a drawer in the kitchen, filled with a miscellaneous amount of junk, finding a pad of paper and a pencil and handing it over to you.

Not scared. Of you.

Joel watches as you scribble the words down and furrows his brow.

“No, I’m not sayin’ you are—”

You scratch out the words and start a new line.

If we talked, they hit. 

They?

Joel doesn’t voice the word but you see the confusion on his face.

They do nice things and we thank them. The men. If we didn’t, they would hurt us. Or kill if they were angry enough.

You scrunch your nose up slightly, looking disgruntled. Joel watches your hand shake as you continue—it didn’t help to be vague, but that fear they had instilled in you lingered like a dark, suffocating cloud.

I grew up in that place.

Bad place, Joel reminds himself. That was what you had told him and Tommy.

“People—they ain’t like that here—” Joel says, but you’re already scribbling before he can finish.

You don’t know that.

Ellie disrupts the quiet conversation with her loud entrance through the back door, looking tired as she tugged her jacket over her shoulders, pack already slung over her back.

“You’re up early,” Joel notes, preemptively handing Ellie a slice of bacon.

“Jesse wants to get an early start for the patrol since that big storm is supposed to hit tomorrow.”

Joel nods, noting how you looked between the pair curiously.

Ellie seems to notice you’re staring too, offering a casual, “Hi,” around the bacon her teeth tore into.

“Right, shoulda remembered to tell you,” Joel looks over at you, “we’ll both be gone for a few days, longer patrols with all the extra ones Tommy’s pushing at.”

“Seems pointless,” Ellie shrugs, “but…whatever.”

“You get goin’,” He tells Ellie, “I’ll catch up.”

Ellie chews at her breakfast indifferently, nodding in response as she departs, the front door closing gently behind her.

Joel gathers the dishes quietly but you feel the urge to move, helping him gather the rest of the dirty dishes and pile them into the sink. You don’t ask and he doesn’t either, but as he washes, you dry, and it feels normal.

Maybe the only normal experience you’ve had since you ended up here.

You couldn’t place your finger on him, though—Joel. One moment he was kind, talkative and curious, willing to take his time to figure out what he could about you. But, other times you felt like you were a stray dog that popped up at his doorstep and refused to leave. So, now he was forced to house you, feed you, take care of you.

So, obviously, it only made sense to take care of him.

He’d enjoyed it the first time.

Joel’s drying his hands on a towel you hand him before you’re reaching for his belt, metal clinking against metal and you tug, but you’re stopped short, his hand wrapping tightly around your wrist.

“The fuck are you doing?” Joel asks, shoving your hand away forcefully.

But, it’s the clipped, peaking anger in his tone that forces you back further.

You blink away the quickly forming tears in your eyes and retreat quickly, mouth hung open slightly in shock, frightened at the almost instantaneous shift in Joel’s voice. His face. His entire demeanor—you’ve crossed into dangerous territory, like mindless prey.

You’re amiss to the way Joel’s jaw clenches at his sudden outburst, internally shaming himself for the strain in his jeans at even just the thought of you touching him again—the willingness and eagerness of your actions, how long you’ve been conditioned into this.

He doesn’t call after you, though—only stopping by the house later that afternoon before he left to set you up with enough meals and changes of clothes to last you those three days. A knock on the door startles your timid heart, forcing you to your feet and by the time you reach the door he’s nowhere in sight. You’re thankful for that, actually. You weren’t sure if you could even look at him, fearful of the disappointment. 

There was a small note folded on top of the pile placed on the floor, unfolded with a careful touch, it read—House is all yours.

Three days, all alone.

You couldn’t bring yourself to leave that basement once.

–

When Joel returns home it’s late and he’s toeing his boots off at the door the moment he steps inside and notes the lack of warmth—a fireplace unused and the door to the basement closed shut. Ellie had already wandered off with Dina for the night, one less thing he had to worry about. He was more appreciative that she’d finally broken out of her shell and actually made a few good friends.

He ignites the fireplace, looking over his shoulder every few seconds waiting, wondering if you were waiting in anticipation—those curious eyes tracking every movement he made. He’d picked up some dessert from the mess hall on the way to his house, selfishly wanting to keep it for himself but he feels that tug, that push to extend the olive branch.

He needed to clear up this…confusion. Try—he could try, at least. 

“Sorry, I actually didn’t want you to suck my dick.”

“I enjoyed it but we shouldn’t do that again.”

“I know it’s wrong, but I didn’t want to stop you.”

Joel knows he sounds ridiculous in his head, but he was at a loss.

He’d stopped you because it was wrong–but not because he didn’t want you to.

Joel doesn’t even consider the idea that you may already be asleep for the night, pulling out the small box of dessert and a fresh pair of clothes he’d picked up alongside the food when he checked his horse back in at the stable, picking up a few other spare supplies. 

You hear him before you see him when he opens the door, those heavy boot steps thunk, thunk, thunk against the floor and you lie still, staring at him meekly as he approaches the couch adjacent to the bed in a near corner, resting the items on the table and taking a seat silently.

“You hungry?” He asks casually and your stomach growls on command despite your unwillingness to move, blanket tucked under your chin. 

He can see you shake your head slightly, easy to miss if he wasn’t staring you down.

“We need to talk,” Joel says, your eyes jolting to him suddenly, “about the other night.”

He jerks his head over, silently asking you to join him on the couch—he’s leaned back but not comfortable, his hands resting in his lap, much like the position you caught him in that night.

When you don’t move, he sighs. A deep, soft sound that has you turning over in bed to face the wall.

“I’m not asking.”

Heavy footsteps follow, the sounder closer and closer, his boots scuffing against the ground before they stop and you can feel him at your back, the whole of the bed shifting as he rests a hand on a decorative knob of the arched bed frame, creaking under his weight.

“Sit up,” He says again, “come on.”

There’s an irritation in his tone that tells you he isn’t leaving until you do, pushing up slowly and crawling to the side with your hands. The last lingering wound stings as you move, a gash on your lower back, toward your hip that you had haphazardly sewn up a few weeks ago with some sewing thread and a needle. It still hadn’t healed like the rest of your wounds. The last remaining physical memory of that time, aside from the scars.

Joel tilts his head to the side and back, noticing as you squeeze your eyes shut in pain and irritation.

“You’re still hurtin’,” It's a statement, he knows it—he can see it on your face.

You shake your head unconvincingly.

“Let me see.”

You shake again, backing into a corner but Joel is quick, he follows and leans down, pulling at the edge of your shirt that was already riding up your back, noting the red and fussed up wound by your hip—it was infected, there was no doubt in his mind.

“Does it hurt?” He asks now, “Don’t lie to me.”

Your eyes lock for a long, lingering moment before you nod, shifting away from his touch as it presses featherlight against the skin.

“I got some supplies upstairs,” He tells you absently, eyes examining the festering wound, “you need that cleaned and stitched up properly before you end up septic.”

Not that it sounded like too bad of a prospect anymore, you square yourself away as he retreats without another word, his figured disappearing out of sight as he turned the corner outside of the basement, your eyes following the sound of his footsteps and noticing the soft rustle of dust above—it took a while for you to realize his room was above yours at first.

He’s back swiftly, a trove of supplies in one arm and a wooden chair in the other, hauling them like they weighed nothing, sleeves already rolled up at his elbows. The chair skirts the ground, squealing loudly as Joel brings it near the edge of the bed and motions for you to turn around and face the wall. 

Again, not asking.

With shaky hands and fingers you move, slowly until you back meets Joel’s fingers at your shoulder, curled up into a fist and pressing gently into your skin.

“Lift your shirt,” You grab the edges, ready to strip it over your head before Joel grabs your bicep and stops you, “—that’s—that’s fine, alright? Just hold it there.”

Joel slowly cuts away the old thread and removes the old stitching with a careful hand. You bite at your bottom lip until it draws blood. It unsettles Joel with how quiet you are, even now. Not a word or a single sound or expression of pain, just white knuckles gripping the shirt bunched under your chest and your head tucked down as you shake with a silent cry.

“Stop movin’,” He says brutishly, cleaning up the wound with an antiseptic that makes you squirm away slightly, “I’m almost finished.”

He cleans, re-stitches and covers up the wound with minimal effort, like he’s done this a million times before. And you hear the shake of a pill bottle behind you, whipping your head around quickly.

“S’just antibiotics,” Joel explains, “we picked away at a pharmacy a few months back that had a decent supply,” He pours one into his hand before it rolls to his fingers and he’s handing it off to you—as he suspects, you eye it wearily, “look, your choice. I got enough here to clear that up within a week or you can continue to suffer, not my problem.”

Reluctantly, you take the pill from him and dry swallow it down with a small, nearly silent wince.

There was no reason to trust Joel, but you did.

At some point between the walk from your bed to the table, Joel realizes he’d bypassed the entire reason he had come down here–to talk. About it. That instance you were both dancing around, the one he’d fended off the second time with a barking, heavy voice.

His lingering presence is hard to ignore and you grip the edge of the bed, standing on your own two feet with his back turned to you.

He’d helped you again. Maybe you wanted to thank him.

Or you just wanted a distraction from the pain, the creeping loneliness. 

He’s so distracted he doesn’t hear your footsteps approach him, a newly found vigor as you pull at his forearm and turn him with a sudden strength Joel wasn’t expecting, sending him tumbling on his heels to the couch. He sees it in your eyes then, the task you’re focused on, already undressed from the waist down, the length of the shirt reaching a few centimeters short of mid–thigh to cover your naked down as you climb onto his lap and Joel allows it.

He doesn’t yell or scream, there is no apprehensiveness there. Not now.

He could sit in your eyes—this was coping with whatever you couldn’t bring yourself to face, unspoken trust that you didn’t want to voice. This was a distraction for him too.

He could fight this off, but Joel never considered himself a great man. Or, really even a decent one. And, as you work at his belt, he finds his hands joining your own, struggling for a moment before he’s yanking the leather from the belt loops and unbuttoning his jeans as you pull at his zipper, lifting slightly off his lap as he pushes his jeans down to his calves—there was a beauty to how easily your bodies worked against each other, your push to his pull. 

Wordless, he knew what you wanted. And you knew exactly what to give him.

He was like the bad men, but wholly different.

The wonder and admiration in his eyes told you so, even if they were quickly clouded by desire and lust, his face suddenly stoic as you grab at his cock, tugging it to full hardness within seconds before you’re dragging the tip of his cock down the center of your cunt before sinking down harshly—and the hands stilled at his sides finally act. 

He’s careful of the wound on your hip, dragging his fingers over your ass and to your thighs, fingers curling around the back of your bent knees to pull and tug you in, groaning quietly into the thick, thready material of your top as you curl into him.

He couldn’t bear the idea of looking at you, watching you as you moved so eagerly against his cock, soft breaths at his ears that made him wanton for the sounds you couldn’t make, the terrible vocal paralysis like a vice anytime someone looked in your direction, especially him. Your palms press into the wall behind him, dull fingertips clawing at chipped paint as you bounced your hips fiercely, quick and efficient in the process. It was clear you’ve done this before—detached and just a means to an end, a device of pleasure.

And Joel uses it, selfishly. One hand falling to the back of your neck to curl you in further, the other at your ass as he squeezes, guiding your hips down to the sharp, pointed thrust of his own movements and Joel can already feel that familiar cole in his groin—days of staving of his own need for release from the sheer amount of guilt he felt over this, somehow ending up here again. 

Using you—and maybe you could admit it yourself, it was just as much a distraction for you as for him, but the sudden warmth in your chest is startling. You could come like this, the drag of his cock hitting so deep inside of you with every thrust that your visions starts to white—a mix of delirium and pure euphoria, the gasp that leaves your mouth is broken and barely audible but Joel can hear it, feeling you tip over that cliff with a hand tangled in his hair, needing an anchor and finding that it was him in that moment.

But, you don’t stop either. Working through the crest of your orgasm with a reflexive squeeze of your cunt as you came apart and pulled him in, his balls tightening in warning as they slapped against your cunt with each drop of your hips and Joel tries to warn you, pushes gently at your hips but you don’t move—won’t. And he comes inside of you with a muffled, tired grunt as he pants into your shirt.

Whatever mutual agreement was made had become void.

“Get off,” He says after a beat, but doesn’t push. 

You listen, moving off of him and turning away immediately, arms tucked around your middle as you eyed the fresh clothes and still uneaten slice of dessert, one that Joel had offered to share.

A peace offering, an act of forgiveness. But, that was all shattered and swept away now.

“You stupid, girl?” Joel asks suddenly, turning to him at the harsh words and finding him re-dressed, brow drawn in as he snatches his belt in his right hand, gripping it tight. “That your master plan, here?”

You’re confused and Joel’s eyes drag to your legs, unseen but you can feel his cum dripping down your thighs, pushing out of your cunt as it pulses from the comedown of your own orgasm.

“Gettin’ knocked up and hopin’ that a baby will keep you safe here?”

You were safe nowhere and you knew that.

Joel had no idea, but you couldn’t even begin to explain how wrong he was.

Babies, even the prospect of that idea made your skin crawl.

So, with frustration evident on his face and already anticipating your answer, you shake your head.

“You try that shit again and I’ll—”

You brow raises in anticipation and Joel opens his mouth slightly before he clenches his jaw.

“Knew it was a fuckin’ mistake taking you in.”

And it feels like a gut punch, but he was right.

Joel tosses the pill bottle on the table and you watch as it lands, rolls before hitting the floor and stopping just at your bare toes.

He departs with a deep scowl, door slamming behind him and you wait, count the steps until you hear his footsteps above the basement and you wander over toward the table.

The remnants of the items he’d brought with the intentions of a one-sided conversation, a lecture, really.

It was pointless now.

Opening the container to the uneaten dessert, you sniffed it testingly before swiping a single finger over the icing on top, pressing the sweet, sugar cream against your tongue and letting your eyes drift closed at the flavor, giving yourself a few seconds to enjoy and savor before you’re ripping into the thing with your bare hands, a fuck you the peace offering Joel was trying for.

There was no peace to be had. You would never find peace here, either. 

A new emotion floods your body—not anger or rage, but jealousy, greed. You wanted him, and deep within, you knew he wanted you too. Even if just in a primal way, a means to distract. 

And in your sudden, newfound boldness and curiosity you linger toward the kitchen in a fresh change of clothes for that night, snatching up the notepad Joel had left out from your previous conversation before scribbling the rest of that out and ripping off a jagged piece of paper.

It was a thank you.

Flipping it over, you continue the message.

There is no plan. I trust you.

You fold the paper up and wander down the hall, counting the steps until you land at a closed door, one that you can only assume and hope is Joel’s and slip the paper under the gap at the bottom of the door.

There was a chance, the anticipation that Joel could convince Tommy to strand you out into the forest again, forced back into harsh survival, but something tells you Joel doesn’t have it in him, not anymore.

Joel catches the sight of your departing shadow as he retreats toward his bed, the paper flying across the floor with the sudden draft and landing right at his feet, he picks it up and readies to trash it without a thought before he catches sight of that simple phrase.

thank you – no plan —

Joel pauses, reading over the final set of words with a dangerous tug in his heart. 

I trust you.

That tug was guilt and the creeping sensation of doom.

Trust. You.

He’s really fucked up now.

divider creds: @/cafekitsune