#blood-drenched beard

[readerbookclub]

Hello everyone! This month I'm bringing back the "A Trip To..." series. Last time we went on a trip to Ireland, and this time we're going to Brazil! This is a list full of novels that take place in Brazil, and are written by Brazilian writers. Thank you so much to someone who suggested this to me in our last survey.

As always, don't forget to vote for our next book using the link at the bottom of the post. Onto the books!

Blood-Drenched Beard, by Daniel Galera and translated by Alison Entrekin

—So why did they kill him? —I’m getting there. Patience, tchê. I wanted to give you the context. Because it’s a good story, isn’t it?

A young man’s father, close to death, reveals to his son the true story of his grandfather’s death, or at least the truth as he knows it. The mean old gaucho was murdered by some fellow villagers in Garopaba, a sleepy town on the Atlantic now famous for its surfing and fishing. It was almost an execution, vigilante style. Or so the story goes.

It is almost as if his father has given the young man a deathbed challenge. He has no strong ties to home, he is ready for a change, and he loves the seaside and is a great ocean swimmer, so he strikes out for Garopaba, without even being quite sure why. He finds an apartment by the water and builds a simple new life, taking his father’s old dog as a companion. He swims in the sea every day, makes a few friends, enters into a relationship, begins to make inquiries.

But information doesn’t come easily. A rare neurological condition means that he doesn’t recognize the faces of people he’s met, leading frequently to awkwardness and occasionally to hostility. And the people who know about his grandfather seem fearful, even haunted. Life becomes complicated in Garopaba until it becomes downright dangerous.

Spilt Milk, by Chico Buarque and translated by Alison Entrekin

As Eulalio Assumpcao lies dying in a Brazilian public hospital, his daughter and the attending nurses are treated--whether they like it or not--to his last, rambling monologue. Ribald, hectoring, and occasionally delusional, Eulalio reflects on his past, present, and future--on his privileged, plantation-owning family; his father's philandering with beautiful French whores; his own half-hearted career as a weapons dealer; the eventual decline of the family fortune; and his passionate courtship of the wife who would later abandon him. As Eulalio wanders the sinuous twists and turns of his own fragmented memories, Buarque conjures up a brilliantly evocative portrait of a man's life and love, set in the broad sweep of vivid Brazilian history.

The Hour of the Star, by Clarice Lispector translated by Benjamin Moser

Narrated by the cosmopolitan Rodrigo S.M., this brief, strange, and haunting tale is the story of Macabéa, one of life's unfortunates. Living in the slums of Rio and eking out a poor living as a typist, Macabéa loves movies, Coca-Colas, and her rat of a boyfriend; she would like to be like Marilyn Monroe, but she is ugly, underfed, sickly and unloved. Rodrigo recoils from her wretchedness, and yet he cannot avoid the realization that for all her outward misery, Macabéa is inwardly free/She doesn't seem to know how unhappy she should be. Lispector employs her pathetic heroine against her urbane, empty narrator—edge of despair to edge of despair—and, working them like a pair of scissors, she cuts away the reader's preconceived notions about poverty, identity, love and the art of fiction. 

Captains of the Sand, by Jorge Amado translated by Gregory Rabassa

They call themselves “Captains of the Sands,” a gang of orphans and runaways who live by their wits and daring in the torrid slums and sleazy back alleys of Bahia. Led by fifteen-year-old “Bullet,” the band—including a crafty liar named “Legless,” the intellectual “Professor,” and the sexually precocious “Cat”—pulls off heists and escapades against the right and privileged of Brazil. But when a public outcry demands the capture of the “little criminals,” the fate of these children becomes a poignant, intensely moving drama of love and freedom in a shackled land.

The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas, by Machado De Assis and translated by Flora Thompson-DeVeaux

The ghost of a decadent and disagreeable aristocrat decides to write his memoir. He dedicates it to the worms gnawing at his corpse and tells of his failed romances and halfhearted political ambitions, serves up harebrained philosophies, and complains with gusto from the depths of his grave. Wildly imaginative, wickedly witty, and ahead of its time, the novel has been compared to the work of everyone from Cervantes to Sterne to Joyce to Nabokov to Borges to Calvino, and has influenced generations of writers around the world.

Please vote for our next book here.

[zae-heeyyy]

Boisterous

Summary: Arthur takes you to The Loft. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Word Count: 2,095 Warnings: 18+ MDNI Tags: rough sex, unprotected p in v, overstimulation, biting

a/n: I somehow ended up spending literal hours trying to perfect this drawing. I traced a lot and freehanded a lot too, but overall, I'm happy with the final product. TYSM for taking the time to read, like, reply, and reblog; I appreciate every interaction!

Boisterous: behavior that is loud, energetic, and often unruly. It describes a person or situation that is full of noisy enthusiasm.

When Arthur found "The Loft" two nights ago, he was grateful to sleep in a bed surrounded by four sturdy walls. The accommodation would've been perfect, but you were missing from it all. Lewd images of your past escapades together infiltrated his mind as he tried to sleep, and he made his best efforts to push them aside. Your pretty face lit up his brain, and he wrapped his hand around his cock, trying his best to imitate the ecstasy only you could make him feel. No grip was as delectable as yours, though, and despite a quick release, he was more pent-up than ever. He needed you there with him and planned to sweep you up and bring you back as soon as the sun rose.

The cowboy's sonorous voice roused you from your dreams about him, the early morning sun casting a golden glow on his face as he leaned over you. His beard had grown since the few days you'd last seen him.

"Get dressed. M'taking you somewhere."

Without a second thought, you joined him on the back of his horse within the hour. Arthur spared the details of this urgent impromptu trip, keeping you in suspense for the duration of the ride.

In a few hours, you'd passed through Valentine, went by Fort Wallace, and climbed up into the mountains of the Grizzlies East. As you rode on, the clouds grew thick and gray, and the smell of petrichor filled your nostrils. Arthur caressed a hand you had wrapped around his waist, reassuring you.

"Almost there."

But you weren't close enough; the atmosphere released a torrential downpour in the last fifteen minutes of your journey, leaving you drenched. A little after noon, you reached a towering outpost that Arthur coined, The Loft. Arthur ushered you inside, futilely shielding you from the rain and promising the heat of a fireplace as he closed the door behind you.

While you stood, rubbing your arms for warmth, Arthur checked for signs of other people, climbing a ladder and peaking over the top for a second before sliding down.

You two were all alone, finally.

When he got a good look at you, he realized just how soaked you were, the layers of your clothes sticking to you and showing every curve of your body. Arthur swallowed, mouth salivating from the view of your hard nipples peeking through your blouse.

All the blood left his head and traveled south, damn near making him dizzy. Maybe he should've been embarrassed, but he was just a man, and you were the most alluring thing ever.

Two large steps were all it took to get to you. One hand found the back of your head, and the other rested on your hip as he drew your lips to his, practically swallowing you in a scalding kiss.

You could feel the groan rumbling in his chest, and you giggled against his lips. The noise crescendoed as his lips separated from yours to find your jaw and neck. He rested his forehead on your shoulder, inhaling your scent while the hand on the back of your head traveled to the small of your back.

"Mmm," he hummed, eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head. "I missed y'so much."

And he had you all alone, truly alone, for the first time in your relationship. He'd been waiting to make love to you the way he really wanted. Your previous rendezvous were hushed, whispered, and sneaky, your moans muffled by Arthur's lips or hand. Even when he whisked you away to a hotel, he was keenly aware of everybody else around who could hear the two of you. Turning you into a whimpering mess filled him with fervent pride, but he wanted those parts of you, especially the sounds you made, all to himself.

The thought of finally hearing all those pretty little noises at full volume was enough to rile him up, and his hand groped your breast, kneading with a force he hadn't used on you before. You shivered against him; some of it was from your arousal, but the other part was the cold.

"The fire, Arthur," you said, shoving him off playfully. Grunting, he tore away from you, grateful for a log near the stove.

While his back was turned, you peeled the wet clothes off your body and dropped your blouse on the floor. Arthur spun back around right as you stepped out of your skirt, leaving you clad in your bloomers and nothing else. His breath hitched in his throat as if it were the first time your body had been bestowed upon him.

"Straight outta my dreams," he declared, his blue eyes shining with pure avidity. And just like that, Arthur strode across the room, dragging a chair with him and putting it against the door nob, just in case. You were back in his arms in an instant, his kisses emphasized with unadulterated sounds of pleasure. A rough hand slid into the waistband of your bloomers and grabbed a fistful of your ass, squeezing, letting go, and repeating.

You sigh breathlessly as he feels you up, leaning into his touch. Then without warning, he tastes you hungrily, tongue fucking your mouth.

His chest vibrates with titillation again, and you're hoisted up into his arms just a beat later, his hands cupping your rear. You squeal, wrapping your legs around his waist and holding on tight as he carries you across the room and dumps you on blue cotton blankets. Breathing heavily, you watch under eyes saturated with desire as he promptly removes his own damp clothes.

You were just as taken aback by his body as he was with yours. Brown curls adorned his chest and stomach and gathered in a carnal wreath around his manhood. Touching him was like running your hands over a textured map: his scars, old and new, like rivers and valleys, while his muscles, firm and hot, were mountains and volcanoes. You could spend eternity exploring that map. Arthur would never get used to you ogling him in such a way, but now your hungry eyes lured him to you.

He climbed on top of you, pinning you under his weight. Usually, he'd ask if you were okay, but you answered the question before he'd even asked by tangling your legs around his waist and crossing your ankles to bring him closer.

His hard-on brushed against your leg, making him shudder. You helped him remove the last garment of clothes between the two of you, lifting your hips to help him pull the bloomers down your legs and off your feet.

Arthur normally took his time meticulously exploring you, leaving kisses in his wake, but damn it, the thought of the sweet grip of your pussy had been on his mind for days, and he needed it now.

His forehead leaned against yours, and he clutched your jaw, holding your face still to gawk at it. If someone saw him this way, they'd think he'd just completed a full sprint, every exhale coming out in a loud pant. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, turning him animalistic. He couldn't wait any longer.

The gunslinger dipped his head to look between you, a guttural utterance escaping him as you spread your legs, exposing your needy cunt. He held his cock, nearly discolored from being so hard, and rubbed it up and down your center, coating himself in your juices.

"Need you, woman," he bellows. The bass in his voice sends goosebumps spreading down your arms, and you nod, mouth agape, eyes staring into his. His jaw also hinges as he watches himself disappear inside you. Once wholly sheathed, he moans long and loud, a stark contrast to his regular subduedness.

You'd never seen him like this, so desperate and uninhibited. Your body responds to the unexpected but welcomed change, your pussy clenching around him, making both of you jolt. Holding himself up on his forearms, he rocks his hips into you at a steady pace, leaning down to kiss your neck.

Shy and coy Arthur had left the building, replaced by wolfish Arthur, willing to howl and snarl for what he wanted. And in the moment, he wanted to brand you with his mouth. Bruising you was defacing a masterpiece, but it was a crime he was happy to commit. He was an outlaw, after all. He nipped at your neck with his teeth, leaving a mark before moving on to another spot to do the same.

You cried out, the first orgasm of the night building within you. He knew your body well and adjusted to give you what you needed, straightening his back, digging his thumbs into your ribs, and pistoning in and out, his hand going to rub your clit. Head tipped back, he moaned, no, roared, with every thrust.

You knew this was rare: Arthur Morgan losing complete control of himself. He was lost in you, lost in your wetness, lost in your tightness, and lost in those sounds. His head snapped down, and he stared right through you, eyes wild.

"Let me hear you," he demanded, slowing his strokes to get your attention. Head spinning, you gasped, too cock drunk to pay attention to what he was saying.

Grumbling, he pulled out of you to switch positions, now standing on the side of the bed. He guided you back to him, aligning your backside with his crotch. He hugged you to his chest, your back pressed into him. Your hands instantly went to his forearm, holding onto him as he practically held you in the air.

"I said let me hear you," he growled in your ear, accenting each word of his demand with an electrifying pulse of his hips. You arched your back into him, his name coming off your lips like thunder.

"That's it, darlin’."

Perverse sounds of wet skin slapping together and boisterous cries filled the cabin.

You were starting to see stars, your vision blurring as you focused on the pressure building in your insides, wanting so desperately for it to boil over. Your toes dug into the buckskin rug at your feet, trying to keep the rest of your body upright.

Arthur was a machine, pounding into you with the goal of bringing both of you to the edge. He didn't relent—didn't show any mercy for the mess you'd become under him. It was overstimulating in the best way possible.

You just needed a second, just one, to get your barrings. Attempting to scoot forward for that break was futile. Arthur moved with you, his length plunging deeper than ever.

"C'mere," he growled as his cock grazed against that sweet spot in the depths of your core, making you holler out and lose the little balance you had left. It didn't matter, though; he held you taught against him, pinning your body between him and the bed. Keeping one arm wrapped around you, the other touched you right where you craved.

"Now," he groaned into your ear, fingers circling your clit antagonizingly slow. A chuckle exited him as you melted to his touch. "Want you to come undone right here. Can you do that for me?"

Droplets of sweat fell from his head onto your back, and you moaned out, "Y-yes, Arthur."

You didn't take long then; a wave of warmth crashed over you as your velvet walls contracted around him, making the man curse into the now-hot cabin air. His hips kept their steady rhythm as you came, Arthur chasing his own climax now.

"Good girl, good girl, good girl," He moaned with every thrust as you clenched around him. He folded himself in half, once again putting his full weight on you, his heart pounding against your back like a drum. More erratic now, his rhythm lost its steady cadence as his balls tightened, his orgasm coursing through his veins.

He pulled out of you, one hand still gripping your side as the other one pumped furiously at his cock. Moaning, whimpering, and whining, Arthur threw his head back as hot spurts of his lust splattered across your back.

Hand falling from your hip, his breath slowed as clarity flowed back into his eyes. Using his discarded bandana, he wiped his sins away from your back before gently rolling you over. He scratched the back of his neck, a sly grin making home on his face as he watched you splayed out and spent. Arthur had gotten everything he'd ever wanted: a bed, four walls, and you.

[briseroyawritingsblog]

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒔

𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒎𝒂𝒏!𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒂𝒏 𝒙 𝒘𝒊𝒇𝒆!𝒏𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

+18 minors do not interact. hurt/comfort, nursing wounds, blood, physical pain, emotional pain, very slow healing, mutant cure, kissing, cuddling, mentions of sex, happy marriage, fluffy ending etc.

𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒂𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 / 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

divider by @bunnysrph 💌

“Oh no no no!!” You sobbed slapping your husbands cheek gently to wake him up. You found him passed out, third time this week. His dress shirt drenched in blood, bullet holes decorating the front making you cry hard. Tears staining your cheeks as you quickly rushed to the bathroom for first aid kit and to pull out the harming bullets. “Please.. please..” you sniffled ripping the front of his shirt buttons scattering all over the place. Grabbing your medical pliers you didn’t hesitate to dive inside the bullet holes in his chest, pulling one after one out. You cleaned the blood in process, the fresh one which pooled out of his wounds. You couldn’t stop crying— your heart held so much pain and grief. “You can’t die on me.. not like this. God I love you so much please don’t..” you slapped his cheek gentle to possibly wake him but he wouldn’t. The healing of his wounds were so slow.. even slower than a week ago. You did this few times.. he woke up right after but now he wouldn’t. You cried against his shoulder gently removing his ruined dress shirt. You washed his chest gently with a warm damp cloth, his face too, his hands. You kissed his knuckles where his claws would come out but now he was only laying on your bed. “Lo.. please..” you sighed with pain climbing on the bed right next to him snuggling to his side. “I know your body aches, I know but just.. come back to me. I will take care of you” you sobbed kissing his bearded cheek caressing his chest where his heart supposed to beat wildly by now but it didn’t. Another wave of pain hit you. “Please..!” You cried even harder.

The faint heartbeat returned, you knew that he lived. He was just too tired, in too much pain to wake up, he needed rest. So much of rest. Although.. he swore that he would never take the mutant cure you feared that it was the answer to your prayers at the moment. Opening the drawer on your bedside table you pulled out the cure. You could use only a little bit to heal him, only a tiny bit. Lo hated that you’ve spend so much money on it, nearly your whole pay check because you wanted to heal him. He’d rather suffer and get through it alone than to use the cure. You cried desperately waiting another moment before gently injecting a tiny bit of the cure in his vein. You watched his wounds heal away like magic, his heartbeat getting stronger. His breathing returning back to normal, you thanked god silently in between sobs. Putting away the cure you hugged him close to you pulling the covers over your bodies resting your cheek on his naked chest. You had no strength to move, you wanted to be close to your husband. You felt his arms coil around you and you closed your eyes crying with happiness. Tears streaming down your cheeks you let out a huff. “Shhh..” Lo whispered to you holding his eyes closed feeling healed, his body feeling like new and all thanks to you. “I’m so sorry kid..” he breathed out kissing your forehead. “I’m fucking sorry for giving you so much pain.” He sighed running his big calloused hand over your back. “Don’t say that.. I want all of your worries, all of the pain, I want to take it all away I’m your wife” you cried looking up at him still resting your cheek on his chest. “I can’t give it to you kid.. only my love” you closed your eyes at his words with a broken whimper. His thumb wiping away your tears “Thank you..” he added kissing your forehead again. “Shhh..baby” you climbed on top of him burying your face in his neck.

A faint smile appeared on his face, he held you close to him. Even closer than before “I can’t lose you, I can’t leave you Lo..” you whispered your chest hurting immensely at the thought of losing him. “You won’t. I’m still here..” he added reassuring you. “C’here kid.. kiss me” he breathed before he captured your mouth in a loving kiss. You kissed him more urgently to be sure he’s healed and that he’s there with you this wasn’t a dream. “My love” you let out a soft moan wrapping your arms around his neck and he hummed at the closeness. Your legs nearly curled around his waist “you tiny monkey, you won’t let me go will you now?” You shook your head resting your cheek to his. “I love you..” he smiled snuggling you close. Your core was pressing to his growing bulge “S’not this old man’s fault- you’re clingin’ and tellin’ me you love me” he let out a chuckle “and rubbin yourself on me.. fuck” you giggled at his words loving that he was back. “I’ll take care of you my love” you blushed kissing his lips. Lo’s kiss was needier than yours this time. All that crying and sobbing was quickly exchanged for moans and whimpers, he used that extra energy to love on you.

-

[charnelhouse]

bad people

Gif by @jdmorganz

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!ReaderWordcount: 3kWarnings: rough sex. age gap (tho undefined). violence. oral. blood. joel being a dick. drunk sex. Summary: When it happened, it happened in the dark.

Ten Years Post Outbreak

Boston was dirty. The summer rain had been relentless, liquefying the dirt to unforgiving mud. She’d had enough of rain. Her shirt stuck to her skin, constricting her limbs and soaking her feet. She was lightheaded. She’d had a spoonful of canned peaches earlier, and the sugar smudged her tongue. 

She blinked down at her feet, the sneakers threadbare and soaked. Her eyes flitted to the wood-brown boots beside them. They dwarfed her shoes in comparison.

The man next to her was one she knew. Joel Miller.

He was rough-looking with his weathered skin and dark hair threaded with a bit of silver. He was also handsome, seemingly carved from a shard of rock. Strong. Brutal. 

Hephaestus. 

If he were a God, she’d choose Hephaestus.

The things she did know about him were both second-hand and from afar. He was mean and ruthless. He beat the shit out of a rival smuggler and blinded another. 

Tonight was purely coincidental. The rain was too hard. The soldiers were out in droves due to a recent Firefly attack. Joel had stumbled upon her hideout: a narrow storage closet that smelled like bleach. He’d turned the tiny light on, and she’d snapped like a feral cat. He’d shut it off without apologizing.

Instead, he glanced down at her, frowning, and for a split second, she thought he was going to murder her for the shelter. Instead, he tugged a large plastic bottle of brown liquid from his pack and offered it. 

Whiskey–she guessed. A homegrown brew that might make her temporarily blind. The good stuff. 

Wordlessly, she took it. The terms were met. You can share this space with me. She would have said yes regardless.

Joel sat beside her, and after she swallowed enough to burn her lungs, he accepted the whiskey again.

***

When it happened, it happened in the dark. 

They barely spoke. Instead, they passed the bottle back and forth. Both of them were loose with it. The whiskey warmed her belly, making everything somewhat bearable. Her vision became edged with gauzy sweeps of color–finger painting in the dim light. The world was bathed in butter, gold, and temporary numbness.

Thirty minutes had passed when she finally spoke. “Great weather we’re having.”

He paused, the plastic crinkling in his hand, the rim scraping against his chin. He smiled briefly.

“Used to like the rain,” he replied. “But now?” He shook his head, and she noticed the raw cut of his jaw, his patchy beard. He was someone who had worked too long in the sun, and yet she found him unbearably attractive. Rugged. A hot coal pulsing fire, and she was desperate to get warm. 

She thought of fungus. She thought of it growing in this narrow room with its perfect conditions. Humidity. Wooly heat. A petri dish. She could become it–become the sick and she could rot into the wall with Joel sitting silently beside her. She’d swell with a patchwork of pretty colors: blister-red, jaundice-green, bile-orange. 

Jesus. She was maudlin. She was drunk. 

The rain fell harder, pelting the walls of the building. She knew things were hanging on by spit and glue. She knew everything could–would–collapse eventually. No more clean-cut grass. No more distinct roads. No more potted flowers. 

Joel turned his head, his dark gaze landing on her face. The irises shimmered like a sun-drenched black top. He had somber eyes. Expressive for once. Doe-like. He stared at her as if it was the first time he actually was actually seeing her. 

She wondered if he went through life avoiding the periphery. There was only the direct line in front of him. When he came into this closet, he shoved the bottle forward and only saw her hand accept it.

He blinked at her sluggishly, his pink lips parting beneath his mustache. There was a flicker of recognition.

“You ran with Luke, right?”

Surprised, she nodded. Joel had remembered her.

Luke. Gorgeous Luke, who was the very picture of a homecoming king. A movie star. Corn-fed. Blonde hair, white teeth, and sea-glass green eyes. He had been full of hope, and there had been a time when Joel and his brother, Tommy, had worked with them. She’d stuck to the corners. Watched. Observed. Frightened out of her mind because she didn’t understand how to live anymore—how to function, barter, or be content. Luke had done it all, protected her to the best of his ability.

“You’ve gotta take a deep breath, baby,” Luke had ordered, shrouding her face between his dry, clean hands. “You adapt. You live. That’s it.”

“Good guy,” Joel offered, somewhat awkwardly. Everyone knew what had happened to Luke. She’d been surprised that many people cared at the time. The Apocalypse had occurred, but the community still gave a shit over the handsome jock with the diplomatic smile.

She huffed a laugh, and he frowned.

“He was an idiot,” she hissed–very resentful even if it had been three years. He’d left her here. 

There’d been so much blood—eggplant purple pouring out of Luke as he gurgled for her. 

Joel pushed the bottle into her hand, his knuckles brushing her palm. She took a pull and didn’t wince. “He still operated as if the rules hadn’t changed. He didn’t understand that you have to be a bad person to survive here. He trusted too easily. Far too empathetic for his own good.” She scowled as she knocked her head against the wall. It throbbed–spots of white sprouting across her vision like a fungus–

“Hey,” Joel said, leaning into her. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

She could smell the honey-burn of whiskey on his tongue, in his beard. There was also the press of wet dog, sweat, and body odor. She was used to that. She was used to the smell of unwashed humans. Those were good scents because they didn’t carry that mildewy stench of fungi. A water-logged basement. A moss-covered stone at the edge of a pond.

She inhaled and found Joel’s hair brushed in smoke. Cigarette ash. He was closer to her, his denim sleeve rasping her bare arm. 

“You’re shivering,” he mumbled.

“I know.”

It happened within a second. An unspoken decision erupting like a metallic click of a lighter.

She was lonely—so lonely and she wanted to burn. Perhaps, he did too.

His eyes found hers, his lids heavy, and his cheeks flushed. She wasn’t sure if she moved first or he did, but she knew they didn’t kiss. He jerked to the side last minute, his mouth scraping down the side of her cheek.

He encouraged her to lie down, his chest against her breasts as he petted her hips, the outside of her thigh. He was heavy, breathing hard as he buried his face into her neck.

“Lift your hips,” he murmured as he popped the button on her jeans and rucked them down to her knees with his nose still rooted against her jaw. 

They fucked fully clothed on the filthy, cement floor. 

She pushed his jeans under his ass as he gripped his cock and smeared it against the lips of her cunt. It was clumsy and desperate, but it felt good. Everything felt good. She had to bite his shoulder when he finally breached her. He moved too quickly, sinking to the hilt as her body tried to accommodate his girth. He’d broken her in, forced her to mold to his size, and she found herself fisting his hair, biting his neck.

“You’re good,” he hummed as he slowly began to saw his hips. “Fuckin’ great, sweetheart.”

The drag of his cock sizzled her insides and spread her apart. He pinned her down and buried her with his full weight. She felt safe—blanketed by him and all of his denim.

Every thrust forced her spine up the wet floor. Her knees dug into his ribs, her ankle wrapped around the back of his calve. He smelled like a soaked garden. Soil. A brushfire. Wood. His nails were dirty, and she arched when he dug them into her waist. 

He ground against her in a way that made the wiry hairs at his groin stimulate her, his pelvic bone rubbing her clit. She climaxed a little too quickly. Embarrassingly quickly. It had been so long since Luke and Joel was big. The pain was welcome. The ache of him. She clenched around him, tightened to a knot as she cried out into his hair. His curls were caught in her breath, his beard burning her skin. 

Afterward, he stood, tucking his soft cock, shiny with her, into his jeans. The near-empty bottle of whiskey rolled against her leg. He attempted a smile that was more of a glower and shook his head a bit to clear it before backpedaling out the door.

***

It ended up working out—forced proximity. 

He needed a second hand, and anyone else found him scary. He seemed taken aback when she offered her help, perhaps surprised at her forwardness. 

We fucked. That’s it. 

But–he accepted her, begrudgingly pulling her into his plans. She was a tiny island in a sea of several. Her group had been Luke, and the others within it had done what they did to him. She’d killed them for that—no more group.

He gave her the couch in his small place. Tommy was in and out. Ships in the night, she supposed, though she didn’t know what had broken between them.

Most of the time, Joel ignored her. He seemed unable to look her in the eye, which she found hilarious. Her ego had long been snuffed out, but she couldn’t help the pinch of hurt at Joel’s coldness.

You’ve been inside me. C’mon. 

He gave her orders. She watched his back. He was someone who would know of her existence if she died. 

Would he care? She doubted it.

But he’d know she’d been there. Breathing. Alive. 

***

One midnight, Joel returned to the apartment, pissed off. She hated waiting for him, being left behind. She’d rather be out there and with him.

Luke had died alone. He’d told her to stay put, and he’d gone out and died. 

Joel had stumbled toward the couch in the dark. Forgetting she was there, he’d crashed into her, and she’d yelped. 

“Fuck,” he growled, shoving a hand through his curls. “What the hell!?”

“It’s my bed,” she murmured, and it seemed to douse his fire. He blinked at her, the moonlight turning the edges of his face silver. 

“I don’t understand,” she continued, voice a little thick with frustration. “If you don’t want me here–”

“Lie back.”

He went to his knees, hands moving under her ass and pulling it forward. He cupped it and lifted her pelvis. Shorts gone. Joel’s skin was cold from the outdoors, and he hitched her knees over his shoulders. His hair tickled her skin. He covered her cunt with his mouth and drank from her. He devoured without a hint of shame because she could hear herself on his tongue. The wet mess of her pussy. The room rang with her whimpers, and when she tried to silence them with her hand, he growled like an animal–a beast. 

Afterward, he stood up mechanically, before stalking back to his room. He left her with her shorts around her ankles, her cunt tender and soaked.

He hadn’t even wiped his lips.

***

She learned from him—what he had become. He was selfish and drowning in the bloodlust that rippled under his skin like a parasite. She got it. She found it stimulating. His philosophy of kill or be killed. His ego stroked with every fight he caused or fatal situation he inevitably won. 

Two months in, she watched him put a bullet in a newbie smuggler who had sold him pills made from chalk and sugar. 

He turned around, grabbed her hard by the back of the neck and shoved her up against a wall. He dragged her pants under her ass as he fiddled with his belt. After a distressing second, he pushed himself into her. No spit. No preparation at all. It was dry enough to hurt them both, but she still moaned. He gagged her with his palm as he fisted her hair. He fucked her in short, brutal strokes. Thump...thump….thump against the plaster wall. An even, steady rhythm. He didn’t rush it. He didn’t speak either. Just grunts. Just feral, low noises from the back of his throat. 

“Joel,” she gasped, and he pinned her with his hips. He withdrew until only the tip remained before plunging back inside her like he could fuck her guts. Maybe, he wanted to. Maybe, he wanted to punish her and remind her:

I’m a bad person. I’m the kind of person who survives in a world like this. Isn’t that what you want?

***

“How old are you?” Joel asked out of the blue; his brows knitted together in concern. 

It was a little late for that. The air between them spiked before becoming sour and viscous as jelly. He pulled his shoulders back, his expression twisting into something hesitant and concerned. 

She chewed her lip thoughtfully, wondering if she should lie for his benefit. Finally, she told him, and he grimaced. The age difference wasn’t that obscene. It wasn’t unheard of or ugly. There weren’t many people left to begin with. She’d seen him kill. He knew what she had done to avenge Luke.

Joel rubbed the scar across her belly. "Was this from the woods? After Luke?"

"You should see the other guys."

Joel grinned in a way that was so deliciously impressed. Smug. "Oh," he said, curling with glee. "Oh-I did. Had no idea a little thing like you could even think of such things."

She leaned forward, her lips hovering over his own. His hands found her ass and he encouraged her down until he was half-way inside her. He was all blood - unforgivably hard and he split her down the middle. She loved it.

"I lost my mind for a second," she revealed, deliberately flexing the walls of her pussy. He grunted and became slightly cross-eyed. "You know...” she continued. "If it had happened to you? I might have done the same."

"If I had been Luke?"

"If you had been Luke."

Suddenly, he grabbed her hard and shoved her down, impaling her on his cock until he couldn't drive further. He was in her throat--her lungs. Joel. "I wouldn't be Luke," he argued huskily as he snapped into her - once - twice. He smacked her ass and the sound rocketed through the room. "I'm a bad guy, remember?"

She tried to laugh, but it tumbled out of her like a whimper. "Still," she said between the continuous, punishing stabs of his cock. "Still--I'd avenge you."

She held her hand out, and he took it. He could wrap his whole fist around hers and she’d disappear.

“Don’t worry so much,” she warned. “You’ll get wrinkles.”

Of course, he was already well-worn. She bet he was lined and edged even before the infection. He was a constant overthinker. She knew he’d been a carpenter, but the rest was a wash—all diluted gray mass of nothin’. His life before was not something he gave her.

“Why are we holdin’ hands again?”

She lifted her shoulders, gaze wandering away from his pointed stare. “Just consoling you now that you’ve realized you’re a dirty old man.”

He squeezed until her bones trembled before rolling his eyes in a disarmingly young way. “You need to watch that mouth of yours.”

***

Joel was swollen with a fever. She touched his forehead, dragging her fingertips across his cheekbone. She traced a letter and then her name. He leaned into it, lips parting as his whiskey-damp breath brushed her skin. 

“You’re not doing too well,” she observed. His bare shoulders bulged from the edge of the blanket, and his lashes fluttered. His mouth curled as he tried to shift against the thin mattress.

“S’fine,” he slurred. 

She swallowed a scream. She wanted to burst. She could do nothing for him but wait. Hope it was a virus. Hope it was a plain old illness that had to tire itself out. 

“Let me go to the other side of town,” she murmured. “I’ll find you meds. I’m sure I can.”

His eyes snapped open at that. He attempted to sit up before groaning. “Don’t–don’t–you fuckin’ dare.” He said her name softly as he melted back into the mattress. Coughing. Moaning. “Do not go.”

He pushed his head into her lap in the blurred daze of his fever. She swept his hair away from his face, combing his fingers through his damp curls. 

If he got worse, she’d go. She’d have to. 

The next day, the fever dropped a point. Joel couldn’t fall asleep, instead trembling in the bed, sweating rivulets of sickness. 

She played him Lee Hazlewood. Your Sweet Love. She played it on repeat. It rocked him somewhat, and with her imagination, she turned the popcorned ceiling into stars and a twilight sky. 

Joel curled into her. “You smell nice,” he sighed. He held her closer, demanding warmth even though his skin was oven-hot.

In the morning, his fingers wandered down between her legs. He touched her, stroked her until she shook in his sweat-sodden sheets. The intimacy killed her. It was too much and not enough.

***

She worked one of the body disposal shifts and cut her hand on some glass. The wind was painfully cold, and the blood that bubbled up from the gash felt like hot tea. She studied it, somewhat enraptured by its brightness of it. It turned the dirty snow at her feet maroon.

She heard her name. It was muffled, and then it was louder, familiar, and seared with frustration. Joel. He gripped her hard by the arms, twisting her around. Joel handled fear terribly. Terror could only be molded into anger for him. Violence. 

He shook her. “Where have you been? I waited an hour.”

She lifted her hand to show him. She still could be childish. She wondered if she had stopped maturing after the world had ended. 

His eyes slowly crept from her face to her hand. “How?”

“Some glass,” she shrugged.

“Is—are—-,” He trailed off, audibly swallowing.

She found it off-putting. Joel was usually so collected. 

“If I were infected—they would have shot me,” she reminded him, and he sagged an inch. Of course. Of course. How silly of me. 

He rearranged his expression so that it was his usual gruff stoniness. 

“You’re freezing,” he accused as if she could help it. Boston winter. Not enough layers.

We thought the cold would stomp out the infection–the bacteria–the fungus. 

“It’s fine–”

Wordlessly, Joel wrapped his arms around her shoulders, hauling her into the heat of his chest. Surprised, she gripped the fabric of his shirt as he forced his jacket around the both of them. The sky was blue-black, and the snow clung to her hair and scalp. It coated his coffee-brown hair in powdered sugar.

She pressed her face into his sternum, nuzzling her nose into the space between his pecs. 

“Let me see your hand,” he urged. 

She gave it to him, still dripping and tender. She needed a bandage. Of course, FEDRA tested her, but they wouldn’t waste a single strip of gauze.

She heard Joel curse them under his breath before cradling her hand, fingertips barely nudging the injury. He dropped his head and kissed the vulnerable space between her thumb and index finger, and when he pulled away, there was the faintest trace of her blood on his chin.

“So weird,” she said. “So alive.”

His brow furrowed. She might be a little light-headed.

Yes. Yes. Hot-feverish blood meant her heart was pulsing, thumping with life just like Joel. His anger. His pain. What he does to her in the dark. 

“C’mere,” She grasped his face between her hands. Unshaven. Prickly. Her blood. On tiptoe, she claimed his mouth, and he accepted, even demanded more.

[dark-and-kawaii]

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱‧ The Last Vow ‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱‧₊˚

Summary: Like a hellish nightmare, you find yourself imprisoned by Mephistopheles, subjected to unspeakable torments... But maybe if you're obedient he'll reward you nicely with a certain Devil.

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི₊ ⊹ Pairings: Raphael x F!Tav/Reader - Mephistopheles x F!Tav/Reader

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི₊ ⊹ Content: Sprinkle Of NSFW - Dark Content - Hurt/Comfort - Angst - Mention Of Noncon - Chained Up Raphael - Heartbreak - Pregnancy

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི₊ ⊹ Notes: This is probably my favorite ending i've ever writtin (╥_╥) Gosh, I've missed writing darker stories, and I truly believe Angst/Hurt is my forte. With that, please enjoy xoxo I hope this makes you feel a type of way ♡

You stirred beneath the heavy silk sheets, a dull ache pulsing through your body. As consciousness slowly returned to your weary soul, the memories of the previous night came flooding back- the searing pain, the humiliation, the hopelessness and fear… 

Each morning since Mephistopheles stripped you away from Raphael, you had awoken to a fresh Hell, your body aching and bruised from the archdevil’s nightly- daily torments. The searing pain between your thighs and the soreness that radiated from your core made even the simple act of walking a torturous endeavor. And always, there he was, his presence suffocating you, his wicked grasp robbing you of the last shred of your dignity. 

Pushing yourself upright, you wince as the fabric grated against your raw skin. You could see how the sheets were drenched in dried blood and fluids. the evidence of your violation, your degradation, laid bare before you. A bitter lump formed in your throat as the tears welled in your eyes. You were trapped in a waking nightmare...

Shakily, you turned towards the grand mirror that decorated his wall, dreading what you might see. Your reflection revealed a pitiful sight… Face flushed crimson, lips swollen, tear tracks staining your cheeks…

The movement caught Mephistopheles’ attention... And then you felt it, how his hand snakes around your waist, roughly pulling your trembling form back against his chest. Your breath hitches in your throat as the coarse hair of his beard scratches at the tender skin of your neck, his suffocating heat enveloping you. It was all wrong… Nothing like the gentle warmth of Raphael's embrace.

Raphael... Your heart clenched as his beloved face materialized in your mind's eye. You vividly recalled the last time you saw him... Suspended helplessly in his father's crushing grasp, one wing twisted grotesquely, his legs shattered, those handsome features of his marred by blossoming bruises as Mephistopheles mercilessly constricted him. Your shoulders shuddered as your red rimmed eyes fell shut, a fresh wave of despair crashing down upon you... He was so beautiful... Even broken and bloodied... And you missed him terribly. Missed his soft, loving, poetic voice, the comforting press of his body against yours... 

Mephistopheles’ deep, rumbling laughter reverberated through you as he sensed your anguish. You tried to twist away from his touch, but the archdevil held you firm, “Good morning, little pet.” With a cruel yank, he seized a fistful of your hair, pulling in them like horse reins-      wrenching your face down towards his lap.

“Ahng!” one of your hands automatically flew up to grip his thick wrist, your other hand bracing against his thigh... Your eyes widened as his thick, fleshy length sprang to life before you, the bulbous head inches from your lips. The stench of sulfur and dried sex assaulting your senses... 

“Be a good little mouse, and perhaps you'll earn a reward today,” he purred, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. His free hand grasped your jaw, his claws digging into your flesh as he forced your lips apart, pressing the tip of his cock against the moist heat of your mouth. You could feel the muscles in his thigh flex, a low, animalistic growl rumbling in his chest as he bucked his hips, forcing his way down your throat until he could feel the head bumping against the back of it- until he could see the outline of his throbbing shaft bulging in your slender neck.

…

And rewarded you were… in the most depraved, nightmarish fashion imaginable. 

Mephistopheles led you down the spiraling ice staircase, the tips of your fingers grazing it- appreciating how its frozen beauty contrasted with the evil that dwelled here. He delighted in your stumbling walk, cruelly jerking the chained leash to send you forward against his back. He took pleasure in the feeling of your soft curves pressed against him- a delicious blasphemy, as you had rightfully belonged to his son.

At the bottom of the stairs loomed an immense metal door, its surface intricately engraved with disturbing scenes.

“A reward for being such an obedient girl this morning, pet.” Mephistopheles grinned, his fingers tilting your chin up, forcing you to look into his eyes... his thumb caressing the cut on your bottom lip, “I do so enjoy watching that pretty mouth of yours wrapped around my cock..” He whispered, his tone low, husky, almost seductive.... “You should feel privileged this day, I rarely bestow such rewards on any but myself.”

The archdevil's fingers trailed along your cheekbone, the tip of his claw slicing through the thin skin. He smiled when you flinched, relishing the taste of your fear, of your anguish, his tongue flicking out to catch the crimson droplet that seeped from the wound, “Now, after you... My love.”

The open mouth smile he gave you as the doors began to part told you it was all a lie. This was no reward, no, he would only ever do this to break you further…

When the doors were fully parted, the smell of death, rot, and decay immediately assailed your senses. You covered your nose with the sleeve of your tattered gown, your eyes watering, “W-what is this place?” You stammered, taking in the macabre scene before you.

“Ah, this my sweet pet,” the archdevil cooed, “This is my trophy room, a collection of souls I have claimed through the ages.”

Souls…

Your gaze travelled along the row of pedestals, each displaying a gruesome trophy. The first held a human head, its face twisted into a silent scream. The next, the preserved torso of a man- his skin mottled and decayed, his ribs splayed wide causing you to retch violently... 

Raphael had done horrid things as well, this you knew- but he again never allowed you to bear witness to any of it... 

Mephistopheles paid no heed, fisting your hair to drag you further inside. You were forced to look at the corpses, the bodies, the bones and the rotting, decomposing remains of whoever once resided here... The ghostly moans of those still clinging to life by a hair's thread.

“I think this is my favorite.”

Thrown towards a cage, you braced yourself against the cold metal, your eyes screwed shut afraid of what you might see- and then his words registered... Favorite.

Fear gripped your heart in its icy vice, your body trembling as the first sob tore its way from your throat. No, no, no!

Those long lashes of yours fluttered open... The dim light illuminating the hauntingly familiar form within the cage…

Your legs buckled beneath you, your body sliding down against the bars, uncaring of the biting cold pain of the ice- your hand pressed against the metal in disbelief... Those brown eyes, those expressive doe eyes you knew so well stared back at you…

Your voice was but a pained whisper, “R-ra... Raphael…” 

With a strangled cry, your trembling hands reached out desperately through the bars, tears blurring your vision, “Raphael!”

The once confident devil was a shattered husk of his former glory... His wings twisted and ruined, that tail that used to pull you to him now lay limp, broken on the floor. Those luscious lips you had so fervently worshiped were trapped behind a brutal muzzle. That perfect tan skin you had kissed and caressed a thousand times was now a canvas of lurid welts, bruises and lacerations, a patchwork of scars, some fresh and raw, others pale and faded... 

Your eyes traveled over him, taking in the sight, the smell- the evidence of his abuse... Your stomach churned when your gaze finally landed between his legs, “Oh... Raphael... “ That pretty cock that would make you sing like a song bird was not brutally encased by the smallest of gilded cages... Straining, leaking precum and taking on cage shaped bruises as it tried to swell and harden…  A rusty ring piercing through his cock's head, the metal barbell pulled taught…

Mephistopheles's laughter rang out as he viciously kicked you to the ground, “The pathetic boy could barely stand to watch me ravish you, yet his cock positively weeps for it! Isn't that right, my son? So hard and leaking at the sounds of your lover's cries.”

His boot ground against your skull as Raphael thrashed against his bonds, chains clinking harshly as ragged breaths puffed through the muzzle. 

The archdevil only smiled down at his son, “Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about you.”

He watches as his father steps on you and his body twitches with rage. 

“Do not be jealous, my son. Your turn is coming soon enough.” Mephistopheles chuckles, amused by his son’s reaction as he leans down and slips a key into your hand, “It’s only for the cage, little pet. Try anything and I’ll be sure to feed you that cock of his in the morning.” 

You shudder and nod, tears sliding down your face as the archdevil stands to watch as you scurry to the caged door.... Your trembling hands grasp the padlock, the sound of the mechanism turning and unlocking. 

As soon as the lock is free another strangled sob escapes your lips as you rush towards Raphael, only to be violently wrenched back by the searing grip of Mephistopheles on your chained leash. His wicked laughter echoed off the stone walls, mocking your anguish as he dragged you across the icy floor back to him.

“Look at you, so eager to embrace such a disgrace,” he sneered as he flicked his wrist, the chains binding you clattered to the ground, and you wasted no time crawling towards Raphael's broken form. 

“Raphael!” you sobbed, not caring about the filth, the stench- you needed to be close to him, to feel him pressed against you, alive. Tears streamed down your face as you cradled his head in your arms, “M-my devil…” You gently stroked his matted locks and his chipped horns, “What- what did he do to you…” You managed between gasps for air.

His eyes softened at your touch, his body pressing as close as his shackles would allow. It was all he could do... His arms were bound, his hands crushed by his own father. His voice was gone, silenced by the muzzle... 

“Oh, pet.” The archdevil cooed as he stood behind you, his fingers carding through your hair, “Such a loving heart. Do you think him deserving of it?”

His question caught you off guard, “W-what?”

“Do you think he is worthy of your love?” His voice was dangerously calm, too calm, “Because I fear once he knew the truth he'd feel quite differently about you.” Then he snapped his fingers, your gown vanishing in a plume of smoke, leaving you completely exposed.

“What- what are you doing!?” You cried, “Please!” as your hands tried to cover your stomach.

“Come now, let him see”

“No!” You sobbed as you curled around your middle, hiding your entire front... 

The archdevil growled, his hands grasping your arms, wrenching them away from your body, “Let him see the truth.”

“R-Raph-Raphael- PLEASE!!” You shrieked, “Don't! Don't look, please!!”

His eyes grew wide with realization, there was no denying the slight swell of your stomach, the curve of your womb- the truth laid bare... 

No... No! You were supposed to be his! That was HIS womb, HIS body to violate... 

Raphael's chains rattled violently as he strained against his bonds, a guttural sound of rage tearing from his throat. You could see the murderous intent blazing in those eyes- the desperate urge to rip the twisted soul growing within you from your womb. He could feel his mind shattering- the rage, the fury, the jealousy, the betrayal, all threatening to drown him.

A cruel smile twisted Mephistopheles's lips as he savored your anguish, reveling in the look etched across Raphael's battered features. With a mocking laugh, he delivered the final sadistic blow- “You carry the spawn of your tormentor within you, my little pet. How fitting that you, meant for my son, will birth an heir- one less pathetic, for me instead.”

Your hands flew to cradle your abdomen, sickened by the perverse truth, as Mephistopheles continued to laugh before turning on his heels and striding away. Leaving you crumpled on the icy floor beside the wreckage of the man you loved. Your body convulsed with heart wrenching sobs, it was true… you carried the vile archdevil's child, an abomination gestating in your womb. 

Through your tear blurred gaze, you saw the raw, animalistic fury blazing in Raphael's eyes as he registered everything. When you instinctively tried to soothe him, offer reassurance, he recoiled violently- the revulsion and loathing etched in the planes of his beautiful face like a brand. 

“P-Pl-please Raphael...I- you...I…” Your words shuddered out in ragged gasps between sobs, “You know how much- how i yearned for so long to carry your child- i- I dreamed of bearing an heir for you…” You pressed your brow against the metal restraints imprisoning his chest, fingers scrabbling futilely at the bonds, “It was supposed to be you- n-not… him…” 

Drained from the emotional upheaval, you laid against Raphael, against the cold chains that wrapped tightly around him… The rhythm of his labored breathing lulling you into slumber. Raphael remained awake, jaw locked in mute anguish as he took in your form against him best he could. Slowly, the fury bled from his expression, replaced with utter devastation. 

With excruciating care, he bent to lay his head atop yours, his little mouse…

Before darkness crept in to claim his mind, in that waning moment of clarity, a vision came to be. He saw you holding an infant tenderly as you stood beside his regal form- the crown of Karsus glinting brilliantly atop his head. Your smile brilliant, your cheeks flushed as you looked up at him. In your arms, an heir. A child of his, a son, born of his blood and yours.

But the dungeon's chill inevitably seeped back into his bones, leeching away the warmth of that beautiful delusion. With a shuddering exhale, Raphael forced his eyes open once more… His brows furrowed as he studied the small, defenseless child growing in your womb...

He pressed his muzzled lips to the crown of your head... He vowed right then and there that he would find a way to rid your body- rid the womb that belonged to him, of that despicable abomination. You would be in his arms once again. The crown of Karsus resting atop his head with his father groveling at his feet... You would bear him an heir... A son of his flesh, of his blood...

[condenhorn]

giving bi-han a cunt w/ bear trans-male reader having a (slight?) breeding kink ;)

A/N: not my best work :( i haven’t posted in a few days due to work but eat up <3

before your transition, you vowed to get bi-han pregnant. one way or another, that is. it was the ultimate goal. dirty, heinous thoughts about your sparring partner rattled your brain endlessly to no sedation. and now since you’ve transitioned, that feeling has been more visceral. more than ever. but you were absolutely sure that bi-han did not want anything to do with you that way.



bi-han, while harsh, treated you like an equal from the start. saw you as a man from the jump and continued down the line, never faltering with his fighting tactics or insults because you were born the opposite gender, which was very reassuring. you grew close to him because of it.

when you started transitioning medically, his personality nor nature didn’t change. if anything, he tightened up to keep up with you. as your muscles were starting to grow more prominent and visual, hair started growing everywhere, and your voice was much deeper than you ever thought, which he took note of.

he insisted on sparing much more than before once you begin your medical journey, his moves more erratic and forceful, his ice seemingly like he was going to kill you at some points in time. and you put your damnest into sparring with him because essentially, he's one of the few that doesn't make it easy on you.

and so you trained. day in and day out, getting recreational tips from all earthrealm warriors alike. even johnny had a bit of input with fighting strategies besides hitting someone in the balls. but none of them equated to bi-han's which stuck with you. tighten your stance, swing hard but not crazy, always make sure you're blocking your chest each time you come back to your form, keep your balance at all times.

as you grew, the fights got more and more dangerous, blood splattering over tatami mats, vicious growls from each other, shoving one and the other onto the floor until you finally managed to pin bi-han down in a rather peculiar position, winning. your arms far more larger than his, a growing beard, it even seemed like you got taller. and that made bi-han’s cunt throb with you glaring down at him, lungs heaving for air, a lopsided grin declaring your victor.

since that day, bi-han was variously flustered with each time you managed to pin him down, with you growing more and more concerned on what was going on, not knowing after the sparring sessions was when bi-han got himself off from your strong arms forcing him down to the floor.

failed grunts devolving to whimpers as he thrusts two fingers in his cunt, rocking himself against his fingers while using his other hand to stroke his clit. imagining that the pillow in front of him was you shadowing his entire body. thick, coarse hands all over leaving nothing untouched and thus he came undone. drenching the sheets below him with his cum and slick, struggling to take in deep breaths to calm himself down.

the next day counted for another spar session, you ready and willing to take bi-han down again, the latter seemed more aggressive and angry today than ever as his face muscles twitched and his knuckles tightened while you readied your stance. blow by blow you both exchanged as you catch bi-han again and pinned him to the ground. he writhed in your grip, you declaring victor once more for the third time.

but bi-han’s horny thoughts got the best of him as he rolls his hips against yours, grinding steadily with his cheeks hot and dusted pink, his face the same as usual, intimidating. this shocks you because there was no way that the lin kuei’s grandmaster was taking a liking towards you of all people. was this a dream or literal insanity?

frozen stiff, you look down at bi-han with the widest eyes and that got him to look away, asking him what was that. because this was new. for both of you. bi-han growing to regret his actions while your eyes slowly transitioned into what equates hunger and want in the passing moments.

bi-han, of course, thought it was silly and a broken pipe dream bc there was no way for something to happen after that. but as soon as he saw you staring him down, his cunt throbbed under its weight, taking a handful of your shirt to yank you down to his level and slot your lips between his. rough and aggressive, just how he acted. biting the bottom of your lips and licking his once he separated himself, his cunt eliciting much slick from tasting you.

and that’s how you got the man in your bed, spurring curses your way because your cock was stretching him out like crazy, making him feel so full. as he bounced on your cock, you felt bi-han’s cunt contort around it as if it was trying to suck you back inside with each rise and lift he did that your tip was only inside before slamming back down for it to prod about his sweet spot, making his form delirious.

taking note of it, you grab his hips and slam him down on your cock whilst fucking into him, his weak groans developed into whimpers, his voice cracking under the pressure of your cock spearing him senseless. his hands gliding against your heaving chest beaded with sweat.

not having enough, you took over, having bi-han fall to the bed with his legs casted up onto your shoulders, a firm grip on his hips as you drive him to meet up with your thrusts. the speed nearly tripled from the last as bi-han struggled to keep his voice low, still with the insults and now threats, saying that he’ll kill you once you’re done with him, once you breed him full of your ‘cum’, ample and swole. grunts that were nearing to animalistic, your voice grew hoarse, spurring things such as filling bi-han up to the brim, that he’ll be leaking all over the sheets with your cum.

you grab bi-han’s legs, spreading them apart to feel more of him contort under your hold, his clit now out there for you to see, having him clawing for purchase amongst the sheets. but bi-han was unable to as he came all over your cock, wetting both your thighs and the covers beneath the two of you. his head arching back, nearly hitting the backboard as his violent jerks and gasps were more congenital because of you fucking him within an ounce of his life. his cunt tensed and fluttered, velvet walls suckling your cock, wrapping it nicely as his cunt begged you to stay in each time you pulled out.

bi-han’s voice now timid, brain devolved to whimpers and moans, diving into overstimulation as he didn’t have the strength to insult anymore, having to be condensed to a rag doll with you continuously grabbing his legs and fucking into him as his body cooled.

you feel yourself getting close, your cock building up by the second with an easy glide in and out of bi-han’s cunt, the noised making bi-han seethe in his skin and hide his face. until you finally came. painting his walls of clear squirt, the latter arching his back into it, trying not to whimper from the feeling but it came out pathetically.

a few more shallow thrusts had bi-han very overwhelmed, you slowly pulling out to rest right on his clit made him want to kill you on the spot, but feeling your ‘cum’ leaking out of him put him on a high that he’d never thought to experience.

one day, you’ll impregnate bi-han for real, one way or another. and you told him this, with him having to scoff at your silly fantasies and brushing it off. but he’d never admit that he wanted you to.

[queenofspades6]

The Monster you wanted me to be - Kaz Brekker x reader

REQUEST: “i’ve been thinking of like a fic where reader is like not innocent but doesn’t like killing people and kaz tells her she needs to grow up or something so after some time she ends up being like super badass and just like batshit crazy and comes back from a mission just drenched in blood and kaz like reflects on what he’s created because he liked her but didn’t mean to turn her into this and they have a conversation.”

Warnings: Violence. Murder. Rape. Blood. Touch aversion.

Author’s Note: I loved the idea! Thank you for the request! I hope you liked it! It was so fun to write it! I may have added to much violence, and background for reader, I hope you don’t mind! Enjoy!!!

———

Kaz Brekker was the one who saved you. Usually, you didn’t tell people how you first meet Kaz Brekker, because who would believe you? When it happened, you were a young girl with no family left, no home, and no money. So when a man named Pekka Rollins found you begging for food in the street, and promised you a marvelous and wealthy future you couldn’t say no. You were not naive, but you had nothing left. It was going with Pekka Rollins or dying in the streets. What you didn’t know was that Rollins wanted you to be his prize, the beautiful girl he would sell for the highest bid. At the time you didn’t know...

Pekka Rollins brought you most of the time when he had to meet with investors, promising you to these men if they made a deal.

You didn’t know until that one evening Pekka had told you to dress well and show some skin. You had purposely worn a red gown with cleavage, firmly believing that Pekka wanted you to look beautiful to help him make a deal. And it did. You thought at least Pekka would respect you, but he didn’t.

You learned the hard truth after a promising deal, when he told you to go home with a huge, bearded man that had stared at you all night with desire. He told you to please the man, to be gentle if that was what the man wanted, that if he was to slap you, you would be still and accept it. You had frowned, and grimaced, telling him you wouldn’t do it, but he grinned at you.

“You will. You owe me money now, you can’t go. And if you ever do, I’ll find you, and you’ll regret saying me no.” He whispered into your ear.

A single tear had run down your cheek, he had licked it with his tongue, making you want to vomit.

“Don’t cry sweetheart, it will make him push harder, you don’t want that, don’t you?”He muttered, caressing your cheek.

***

You didn’t cry.

This night would always remain in your memory. It was probably the worse night you ever had. The man had beaten you until you were bleeding and had pushed into you without warning.

It hurt, you remembered. You hoped to fall unconscious, but your body betrayed you. You had screamed once while he pushed harder into your core, and then you stayed silent, and remained still. It was hopeless to scream, the man was loving it even more. He wanted you to cry, but you couldn’t let him win, so you repeated these words in your head until he was finished: ‘I can survive everything’. ‘I can survive everything’ ‘I can survive everything’ ‘I can survive every-‘

After this dreadful night, Pekka had asked you to sleep with other men to conclude deals. The times you said no, you were almost beaten to death.

The day when you met Kaz Brekker had been one of these days when you had said ‘no’. Pekka punched you until you vomited blood. Your upper lip needed stitches, and your side was bleeding.

You needed a drink after being beaten so badly, and while going to the nearest tavern, you noticed three armed men trying to steal the jewelry of an old woman. Even if you still tasted blood in your mouth, you ran towards the attackers, and fought them until they ran for their lives. You didn’t kill them, you couldn’t.

Kaz Brekker had watched the entire time. He saw you, a frail and bloody girl defending an old woman in a street with your bare fists. With no weapon, you defeated the men, and helped the old woman go back to her house.

Kaz had followed you for hours in Ketterdam’s streets, watching your every move. That’s when he saw you stealing people’s wallets without them noticing, and that made him convinced he needed you as his crow. Since then, you had always been a Crow, a young girl who knew how to handle blades and especially firearms. There wasn’t a single day when he regretted hiring you. He paid off your debt, and promised himself to kill Pekka when he could.

For Jordie, and you.

***

You loved to think you were a friend of Kaz. Even if you wished you were more. He always asked if you were alright, always tried not to involve you when it was about Pekka Rollins.

He never mentioned once, to anyone that Pekka had forced you to be an escort. Nobody knew. Dirtyhands had let people think you had stolen something from Pekka, and that was why Pekka wanted his money back. Nobody questioned Kaz when it came to you, nobody dared.

He was always thoughtful with you, always considerate. Sometimes he sent you jewels, leaving a necklace on your bed with just a note with a crow drawn. You knew it was him, because you had looked for these notes in his office, and you found multiple. So he must care, right? If not, why bother with all this?

***

Even if you worked for Kaz for years. He never noticed that you didn’t wish to kill. You had promised yourself to try with all your might not to kill. Of course, Kaz Brekker couldn’t know. He didn’t need to know, until one day, he asked you in his office. Alone. Right now.

What had you done? Dirtyhands usually summoned all the Crows in his office, not just you.

“Kaz.” You greeted him.

He acknowledged your presence with a simple nod.

“I need you.” He declared, his tone grave.

If it was not Kaz Brekker saying this, you would have thought it romantic.

“What do you need me for?”

“There is a man I need you to kill. I’ll give you the name, the address, it must be done tonight.”

“I don’t kill.” You retorted without a second thought. You couldn’t bear taking a life and watching someone you killed die.

“You don’t kill?” Kaz repeated, a menacing tone in his voice, and his eyes piercing through you.

You tilted your head in disagreement.

“I need you to kill this man.”

“I’ll say it again, Kaz, I don’t kill.”

“Why?”

You saw something passing in his eyes, but you couldn’t decipher what.

“Because I can’t.” You replied.

“Oh yes, you do, Kaz started raising his voice, just grow up, you’re living in Ketterdam, Y/N, if you can’t kill, you won’t survive in the Barrel.”

Determined not to yield, you crossed your arms and shook your head.

“You are going to kill this man, Y/N, because if you don’t, you are of no use to me.”

You felt anger rushing through you, and sadness. You thought maybe Kaz had appreciated your presence, but that was a lie. Another lie from a powerful man. You were only an investment. Only one of his girls.

You didn’t answer, and quickly approached the door, ready to live.

“Y/N, don’t you dare leave this room!”

The hand still on the handle, you opened the door, and left the room, slamming the door with all your might. You almost smirked knowing the whole Crow Club would hear.

You passed through the people in the crowd of the Club. You spotted Inej, and Jesper at the counter of the bar. But you couldn’t face them tonight.

Kaz wanted you to kill someone. But how could you? You knew that if you did, you would not stop. It would become easy. So easy to take a life, to watch someone take his last breath, and smile.

How many times Pekka Rollins had taken lives without remembering the faces of the dead? And Kaz?

You pushed away the thought. Pekka and Kaz were different, but weren’t they both using you like a puppet only to serve their ends?

You wanted to scream, to go back to your room in the Crow Club and forget that this ever happened. But you couldn’t.

You looked at the small piece of crumbled paper in your hand. Kaz hadn’t noticed you had taken it from him. You looked at the name and the address written in Kaz’s handwriting before folding it and putting it in your pocket. One look at your revolvers displayed on your nightstand gave you all the answers you needed.

Kaz wanted a monster, then you’ll give him one.

***

“Boss. You here?” Jesper asked and entered Kaz’s office without knocking.

“Jesper.”

“What happened? I saw Y/N leaving your office in a rush.”

“It’s none of your business.”

Jesper rolled his eyes.

“What did you do this time?” The Zemeni boy asked.

“I told Y/N to kill someone, and she didn’t want to.”

“And? Why did you ask her? Nina, or Matthias could do it, why Y/N? Or I could do it. I never miss a target.” Jesper winked at Kaz, a malicious grin on his lips.

Kaz sat, and sighed, holding his cane between his hands, and looked at Jesper.

“What?” Jesper asked. ”I am looking good, I know.“

His hand still on his cane, he looked away, avoiding Jesper’s gaze.

“What if Y/N never comes back, Kaz? Did you think about that?”

Kaz groaned.

No, he didn’t think about it. He couldn’t. He didn’t bear the mere thought of never seeing you again.

And what if Pekka found you? He tried to push away the thought of this first time his eyes set on you. So frail. Bruised and bloody, but still standing triumphantly.

“She will come back.” Kaz declared, almost as a prayer.

“What if she doesn’t?” Questioned Jesper.

“Then we let her go.”

“No! She’s been part of the crew ever since you took her in. She is one of us, Kaz. Inej didn’t want to kill either and you let her stay, why not Y/N?”

He didn’t realize his breathing was heavy, and that his hold on his cane had tightened. No, she wouldn’t leave the Crows, the Crow Club and the Dregs. No, she wouldn’t leave him.

At this moment, Kaz Brekker felt lonely. Even if Jesper was there in his office, something was off.

“Leave, Jesper.” Kaz asked, almost wishing Jesper would stay without a word.

“Kaz, you can’t let Y/N leave! You care about her!”

“Leave! Now.” Dirtyhands shouted.

Jesper raised his hands and left the room.

Miserable. That’s how Kaz felt. He put his face in his hands, sighing loudly.

What if you left?

Since that day in the streets, he knew he wanted to protect you from Pekka Rollins, from Ketterdam, and himself. He had tried. He prevented you from ever being involved with Rollins or even with the Dime Lions.

Sometimes, you would enter his office late at night while people were playing Poker in the Crow Club, you would wait for him to talk. About anything. At first, he found it annoying, and hated when you did that, but now he secretly treasured these moments. He wouldn’t admit it, but you could make him smile.

The first times you came to him late in the night to talk, he stayed silent, and you were the only one to speak. Through your secret meetings, you told him about Pekka and the men that had raped you. He had mentally taken note of the names, and these men were found dead a few days later.

But now how was he supposed to forget?

***

A body was lying in a pool of blood.

The feeling in the air was foreboding. The bloodied knife on the desk was displayed on the kitchen counter.

A young woman was looking for a towel or a piece of fabric in the cupboards. Taking her time, she opened them one by one, and when she finally found a blue towel, she took it and wiped the bloody blade of the knife. The woman glanced at the corpse and was tempted to clean the mess.

There were sheets of paper soaked in blood placed on the ground. The woman had read them all.

The man had his mouth open almost as if before dying he had screamed.

Albert Ackers was a slaver; he separated the children from their families to sell them to the highest bidder. Maybe he had deserved it.

The woman unfolded the little note in her pocket with the name of the man, she brought the flame of the lighter near it, before letting the paper burn.

***

The door of Kaz Brekker’s office opened suddenly, Kaz frowned.

“It’s done.” You muttered, looking Dirtyhands in the eyes.

He nodded, grateful you finally returned home.

Home.

This was it then? His home, your home? The crows’ home? You were going to leave his office, without another word.

“Y/N, wait.”

You closed the door, leaving him in the dark again.

***

Kaz Brekker never regretted anything in his life. Until he asked you to kill Albert Ackers. He knew the man was the devil himself, but he should have respected you enough to let it go.

And now you ignored him all the time. Late at night, the door of his office was always ajar where it never was. Each night, the Bastard of the Barrel was waiting for you to come.

You never came.

***

You were only there when the Crows were waiting in his office to discuss a contract. Kaz had noticed you didn’t hesitate to kill anymore. You could be ruthless, and even cruel sometimes. Kaz Brekker hated himself for that. He had taken what he loved the most in you. He loved how compassionate you were, always willing to help even if it meant hurting yourself.

Kaz regretted deeply what he had done. Even more when he began to find every night a new jewel he offered you, displayed on his bed. How he hated himself...

He had lost Jordie, and now you. What was the point of being the King of the Barrel, and having thousands of kruge if he couldn’t have what he wanted?

***

“Y/N, what happened between you and Kaz?” Inej questioned you.

You were sitting at the bar of the Crow Club drinking alcohol with Inej.

“Nothing.”

“Y/N. Everyone noticed the changes in you and Kaz.”

You shook your head, avoiding the Wraith’s gaze.

“Y/N, what happened?” Inej asked, putting a hand on your arm softly.

You finally dared look at her, almost shamefully.

“He wanted me to kill someone, and I didn’t want to.”

Inej raised her eyebrows in wonder, listening to you carefully.

“I killed the man, Inej.” You confessed. “I did it for Kaz.”

“That’s why you’re ignoring him?”

You nodded.

“I am a monster, now. The monster everyone wanted me to be. I became what I despised, and the worst, Inej, is I think I like it.”

Inej approached you and caressed your arm gently.

”You are no monster.”

***

The Crows were reunited in Kaz’s office to steal an ancient weapon worth thousands kruge. You all discussed with the details, and when it was settled, the Crows began to leave, you were going to follow them, until you felt a soft hand on your arm.

“Y/N. Stay.”

“Why? To remind me I am just another investment. Just a puppet to take care of people? No, thank you, I am good.” You declared, almost angrily.

“That’s not true. Stay.” He muttered, praying you would listen for once. “Please.”

His hold on your arm tightened, you pushed his hand away as if it was poisoned and left the room.

Here he was. Alone at last. Again.

***

Kaz had given Nina, Matthias and Jesper a mission to retrieve folders from an important man in Ketterdam.

There were many disappearances these last few months, and Kaz had heard this man was probably involved. Disappearances were not good for business, Dirtyhands had to take the matter in his own hands. He needed information.

The plan was perfect: breaking into the man’s mansion which was heavily guarded, stealing the folders, and leaving. What Kaz didn’t know was that you were going too.

Nina, Matthias and Jesper had agreed to let you go with them. In case things went wrong, another person would come in handy.

You all entered through a window as silently as possible. You looked around you, and stared at the room you were in. Firearms of all length were displayed on the walls. It was a splendid weapons room exhibiting firearms with the most advanced technologies. Jesper made a little scream.

“God answered my prayer!” He whispered. “Am I dead because it’s like being in heaven.”

“Jesper, focus.” Nina reminded him while Matthias was guarding the door.

Matthias glanced at Nina, letting her know it was time to look for information.

”Go with Matthias, Nina, I am going to stay with Jesper. Be fast.” You told her.

She nodded and followed Matthias down the corridor.

You stared at Jesper, your hands in your hips, a frowning look on your face.

“What?” Jesper questioned, kissing a gun.

“Jesper, we need to go.”

“But Y/N, have you seen these guns?”

You nodded, and he sighed, feeling disappointed. Jesper kissed the firearm and caressed the soft metal. The cold metal felt good against his skin.

“Take some if you want.” You told him. “But be quick.”

He almost embraced you but was too preoccupied to gather some of the most amazing guns he had ever seen.

“We need to move.” You said, crouching and watching the hallway.

Jesper followed you when you advanced in the hallway. There were so many rooms, how were you supposed to find the good folders? Hopefully, Nina and Matthias would have more luck.

You began to look for the folders in the rooms, Jesper looking for the bookshelves, and you for the desk. Nothing.

“Oh. That’s good, you need to hear that, Y/N.” Jesper exclaimed, a hand open in his hands.

“What? You found something.” You whispered, almost expecting he found one of the folders.

“Yes, I did! Watch that.”

You looked at the pages Jesper showed you, it was about some Saint of firearms that never missed his target.

“Jes, stop that. We are not here for that.”

“But Y/N, what if the Saint is me?”

You stared at him incredulously, wanting to laugh out loud. You tapped him in the shoulders, and Jesper being Jesper let the book fall out of his hands. It fell on the floor in a loud thumb. You hoped nobody had heard.

“What was that?” A distant voice cried.

You heard footsteps. Two people. In the hallway. You told Jesper to stay still, and when the guards opened the door, they never saw what was coming. You threw a dagger in the neck of the first one, and with grace, you were going to slit the throat of the other one, but Jesper shot.

You groaned. Now everyone knew you were here. Thank you, Jesper.

“To my defense, he tried to kill you.” Jesper declared.

“Come on, we need to find Nina and Matthias, and the folders if we have time.”

You moved without a sound, Jesper following you closely when you heard a woman screaming.

“It’s Nina!” Jesper shouted.

Both of you didn’t wait, you ran towards the sound. There were more guards waiting, and one was pulling Nina’s hair.

Without thinking, you threw yourself at the man, a knife in the hand. You stabbed the man in the neck while he kicked you in the stomach. You stabbed him again in the heart. His breathing stopped. You were covered in blood. You could feel the liquid running down your cheeks and your lips, feeling the metallic taste.

“Damn, Y/N.” Nina muttered. You ignored her, and asked:

“Do you have the folders?”

She nodded.

“We need to go fast.”

Matthias, Nina and Jesper followed you to the nearest room. You opened the window slowly. You heard male voices in the hallway. You were glad you had locked the door, but it wouldn’t last long.

You gestured to Nina to go first, and then Matthias helped you through the window. Jesper did the same, and Matthias came too. All of you began running on the roof following the same path you used to come. At least you were all safe and you had the folders.

***

You threw the folders all soaked with your blood on Kaz’s desk. His arms were crossed as if he had expected Matthias, Nina and Jesper to come back. He was furious you went too.

“This is what you wanted.” You exclaimed and held his gaze.

Kaz noticed how drenched in blood you were, the skin above your eyebrow open, and wounds on your arms. You did kill after all. Dirtyhands would have preferred you didn’t.

Nina said something, but you were too caught up in Kaz’s gaze to hear.

“Ugh, if you’re going to stare at each other all day, then I’ll let you to it. I am hungry.” Nina declared, already leaving.

Matthias followed her, a shy hand on her back. Jesper followed them too.

You stayed. You didn’t know why, but you remained still. Kaz stood up, and advanced towards the door. He closed it behind Jesper.

Now it was just the two of you.

“Y/N.”

You plunged your gaze in Kaz’s, almost losing yourself in his ocean-blue eyes. Even if you were angry with him, you couldn’t hate him, even if you wanted to.

“Kaz.”

He examined your face and your body for any wound, he found multiple. You were covered in blood, soaking his office with the dirt of your boots.

“You went with them.”

It was more like an understatement, than a question. Watching you wounded and bloodied made him feel bad. Terribly bad.

You nodded, a hand on your hip, waiting for him to speak.

What was it Kaz wanted to say? He had prepared what he wanted to tell you, but now no word came.

“Are you done? Because I desperately need a shower.”

“I am sorry.” He whispered eyes fixed on the ground.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

A small smile was drawing on your lips. Was it real? Did Dirtyhands really apologize to you?

“Stop smiling.”

“Was it an apology I heard from the Bastard of the Barrel?” You questioned.

“I told you, Y/N, I am sorry. For everything.”

You sighed and were ready to leave.

Kaz put his hand on your arm, tightening his hold to make you stay.

“Sit on the desk.” He commanded you.

You did as you were told. With the back of your hand, you pushed the documents on the desk, and sat, feet no longer touching the ground.

Kaz had a bowl of hot water in his hands, he put it carefully on the desk with a clean towel. Your eye caught a needle and thread. You winced at the thought of the pain.

Not leaving your gaze, Kaz gently removed his black gloves. You swore you saw him shiver.

He took the clean towel and put it slowly in the bowl, and then with meticulous precision, he approached it to your face.

The towel touched your face, caressing the skin to remove the blood. You didn’t close your eyes; you were staring at Kaz the whole time. His eyes were focused on his fingers and the contact of the towel on his skin.

He tried to touch your cheek with his thumb. The touch was unbearable, but he stroked the skin nonetheless. He closed his eyes and sucked on his breath.

“You don’t have to.” You told him, noticing his invisible pain.

“I want to.”

I need to, he wanted to say.

Then he removed his hand from your face and watched your arms. You began taking off your shirt. Kaz broke your gaze, shy at the thought of seeing more skin on your body.

He washed the blood from the towel and took another one. He rubbed the excess of blood from your arms, brushing your skin and sending shivers down your spine.

“Why?” You whispered.

He plunged his eyes into yours, and you thought he looked like a little boy, not Dirtyhands.

“You’re hurt, it’s my fault.”

You desperately wanted to say ‘no’, and he needed you to say it. But you didn’t, you knew better.

“Your debts to me, to everyone in Ketterdam no longer exist. You are free.”

You nodded, not really realizing what happened.

“Free to flee wherever you want, I’ll give you money, you can even buy a house, begin over.”

No answer.

“But...”

“But?” You asked.

“But you are free to stay. You’ll always have a place here. You’ll always be a Crow.”

“Am I not an investment anymore?” You questioned eyebrows raised in wonder.

“You never were.” He muttered.

“That’s not what I felt.”

“I am sorry for Albert Ackers. I knew you didn’t want to kill, I forced you to do so, and now... “

“I am the monster you created. You wanted me to kill, I kill now, isn’t that good enough for you?” You shouted, taking the bloody fabric from his hands.

“It was already enough. You were already enough, Y/N.” He whispered.

“I became what you wanted me to be, Kaz.”

“I didn’t want that, Y/N.”

“Me neither.” You replied.

“You’re already enough. Stay. Stay with the crows. Stay with me.”

“I am a monster, Kaz.”

“You are not.”

“I am. And you know what’s worst? I don’t mind it, and that scares me.”

“Do you remember the faces of the people you killed?” Kaz asked.

”Each of them. Every night.”

“No monster would remember their faces.”

You closed your eyes, and let the tears run down your cheeks.

“What am I becoming, Kaz?” You cried.

He stood still, staring at you crying, scratching his hands. He wanted to hold you but he couldn’t.

Slowly he touched your shoulder and caressed it. You welcomed the contact and took his soft hand in yours. His breathing became heavy, but his eyes were still locked with yours.

“Stay, Y/N. Stay with me in Ketterdam. We’ll try to tame our demons. Together.”

You nodded, and approached your delicate hand to his face, waiting for him to refuse. He let you touch his cheek even if it burned, and he wanted to scream, but he didn’t. You deserved the world, and for you, he needed to face his demons. Eyes in his, you approached your mouth to his ear, and whispered:

“Together.”

———

If you liked it, don’t forget to like, and comment, it motivates me to write! Thank you!

———

If you liked this x reader, you may love this one with Kaz Brekker:

⬇️ ⬇️

[yeyinde]

ATROPHY | Joel Miller x F!Reader

》 SUMMARY: It's her, him, and the beats in between. A slow simmer of sex to something more. Something he isn't quite ready for, yet knows he can't let go of.  》 WARNINGS: 18+ SMUT (mild); allusions to death, assault; female gendered reader, female gendered anatomy; minor game spoilers; Joel isn't bad at feelings – he just doesn't want them. Joel is tired™ 》 WORD COUNT: 10,9k

His grief, sorrow, the ones that he tries to shove into a box marked apathy, are worn in the crevasses that line his weathered face. Deep canyons make him look ages older than he is. He wonders if she can see them. If she can peel the divots back and uncover the festering sickness, the rot, that sits in the folds. 

It's his own fault, he thinks, for stuffing his grief in the same place he keeps his worry.

》 NOTES: I did something different with my writing. It's still a Reader insert, but. I tried third person instead of the usual second. also, how this ballooned up to nearly 10k is lost to me since it was just supposed to be smut?? I had this clear image of older Joel laying in bed, his guitar leaning against the wall, catching the light of the sun as you slowly rode him, and now? I don't even know. ⤑The gif is mine. Please don't take or repost without permission

MASTERLIST | FAQ | AO3

Complacency is a death sentence in a world like this. 

Lazy Sundays spent between the warm, damp sheets. Boredom. Afternoons strumming his guitar on the front porch. Sleeping in. Drinking at a saloon in town. Music. Laughter. 

It doesn't exist. 

Shouldn't. 

And yet—

His guitar sits, abandoned, in the corner of the bedroom. The wood still carries the heat from his thumb this morning when he played a song alone on the porch. Eyes bleary, full of sleep, of rest, as he took in the varicoloured dawn cresting through the indigo sky.

Those same weathered, beaten hands that strummed the chords to Hurt are now occupied again. One perched on her hip, skin sateen soft and plush, full and warm and clean from the shower last night as she bears down on top of him in a quiet cadence, a muted, languid dance. The other cups the swell of her breast in his palm, nipple still damp from his hungry mouth, and flushed red from his teeth. 

This should just be a fantasy. 

A dirty thing in the recess of his mind when he has a moment to himself breathe. A thought, a whim. Something to needle away at the last vestiges of his consciousness when he sees her in the wild—vibrant, young, and free—and then sullied in the back of his head when he leans against a tree, and thinks of the dirt on her skin, the blood on her delicate hands, and how they'd taste under his tongue.

But this isn't a dream.

When he sleeps, he dreams in black and white. The only colour that bleeds through is red. Blood red. Pulpy and vicious. Ugly. Garish. It splatters across the pavement where he laid Sarah down, where he lost Tess, and everyone else he never promised to save and still couldn't. 

He knows this isn't a dream when he blinks his eyes open, and she's there. Sitting atop him in a kaleidoscope of colour, drenched in ochre from the still rising sun. The only red is her blistered lips, the rough burn between her thighs from the scrape of his beard, and that sinful little tongue that slips between her teeth when he slides in deep. 

And then—his eyes drop to her side—that ugly wound that cuts her flesh, ripped over the seam of her ribs. 

He's awake. Lucid. 

She's much too heavy to be something carved from fantasy. 

He doesn't say this, of course—Joel isn't stupid, and for someone so considerably smaller than he is, she packs a hefty punch in those slender fingers that curl into a fist barely the size of an apple. The sharp jab of a rusted, blunt knife. Knows where to hit him, too. 

He tucks it away, and lets his hands explore, feeling the tangibility of her weight, her presence, under the tips of his bloodied fingers. 

(Broken on the same teeth that caused her to hurt.)

The knob of her hip bone juts out through her flesh, and he grazes it with his thumb, feeling the soft curve. 

Real, he thinks. Flesh and bone. 

He can feel the flutter of her racing pulse under his hand when he kneads her breast in his hand, and lets her nipple graze teasingly over the rough skin of his weathered palm.

The tight clench of her around him—pussy a perfect knot around the base of his cock, all pretty and tied tight like a bow—is another stroke of realism his dreams, nightmares, fantasies, could never imbue. 

It's a present he's sullied more times than he can count, each touch another tally to the neverending number of sins that pile higher than the hollow skyscrapers in Boston. 

Joel feels each breath that leaves her heaving chest. Each gasping hiccup of his name when she raises her full hips up, and then slide back down the length of him in a slow, languorous roll until he nudges against the seal of her womb, and steals the air in her lungs. 

It's real. 

A paradox, then. 

One of those things that shouldn't happen, but is. Like her, and him, and everything else in between.

He knows what the others in town say when they see her—pretty and soft with a ginger touch and a sweet curl of a voice when she whispers his name. It doesn't make sense for her to be all wrapped up in him, following along behind like a shadow to a man who's cut from ashlar, and reeking of rot. Ruin. 

He's calamity in ageing grey, and she's the ripe, forbidden fruit he's not allowed to bite. Poisoned apple. Cherry sweet. 

(He wonders if they'd recoil once they saw that her insides were gnarled; acrid and sour; bitter melon. Lemon drops.

That she is far more like him than they could ever dream.)

They glare at him from the corner of their eyes when she swells like a lighthouse in the midnight gloam at the sight of him wandering back from patrol, eyes all bright and beaming, and beautiful—Christ. 

She's a picture, he thinks. 

One of those pinup girls he'd find in dirty magazines as a kid. When he and Tommy would sneak a peek behind the barn, away from prying eyes. A portrait of lust. Desire in high gloss. 

A classical beauty—the type that would make men drown themselves at sea. A starlet in the golden age back when it mattered. 

Writers' muse, maybe: she would have been the girl everyone talked about—the one that eluded the tortured artist, made him pine. 

Hemingway would call her brutal. 

Cat in the Rain. 

(She liked his old, heavy face and big hands.)

He doesn't know much about poetry but he knows she's the type who could make a man want to stain his fingers in ink just to capture the curve of her lips when she smiled. 

A vixen. Hellion. Lilith. 

Her voice is a song when she says his name. A hymn. 

Dangerous. 

He doesn't know when this started. 

Maybe, when they brought her in with the rest of the group she was travelling with. Beaten down, hungry. Clinging to life with frostbitten fingers. 

Her eyes were flat; a stagnant pond. Lips a grim, blue line. Placid. Gone. She'd been out there for too long to ever find comfort behind walls, and he knows the feeling of trying to crawl out of your own skin when people stand too close. 

She scoffed at the idea of this place, of sanctuary. Resentful and derisive. He could see the distrust in her clenched jaw, balled fists. This world was a whim—evanescent—and what they gathered from the rest of the group, survival hadn't been easy outside of safe zones.

Wall after wall fell, she said, tone flat. Blank. Haunted by ghosts still lingering in the canyons of her eyes. Stopped believing in stuff like this after a while. 

Her eyes were stained—jaundiced and red, filled with burst blood vessels—and raw from how hard the edges of her knuckles had dug into the flesh of her eyelids. They spoke of sleepless nights. Ones interrupted by her own sense of survival, hyperarousal. 

He knows the feeling of jerking awake whenever his brain starts to lull, to slip into that dangerous facsimile of security. 

Pipe dreams. She wears her fatigue like its armour, wielding the brunt of her exhaustion like a shield. 

(Sleep often feels like a bad habit for people like her, like him.)

But like him, it waned slowly. 

The chips in her veneer cracked, split, and he saw the incipient filament start to seep in. Complacency. Comfort. 

A few months in, she stopped being so defensive when they invited her out for drinks, and when they talked about dinner parties, and birthday celebrations. Derision was still a heavy weight in her distant gaze, clutched in bleached knuckles like a claymore, when she looked at them, a touch incredulous. 

Joel understands the feeling. 

The itch in your guts, the discomfort in your chest. It festers, doesn't it? 

Children play close to the fences, making up games of tag, and hide and seek, as if those things with broken, pustulous faces weren't skulking within arm's reach just a breath away. 

This whole place is a vacuum. The interior is covered in thick molasses; stuck in stasis. They pretend that birthdays and holidays matter. Dance around the saloon at night with drinks in hand. Pale ale. Old booze. 

It's rigid in its structure: patrols that span the entirety of a day—from dusk to dusk in three shift increments—and daily checks of the fences, the gates. Trading with other communities. Rules. Regulations. 

It gives the idea of safety. Of security. 

(But the bruises on his hands and the gash in her side are proof that it's sometimes not enough.)

Slowly, though, as the days wore on and the fences stood proud and tall and secure, she softened. Tucked it away with a smile, and started saying, I'll think about it instead of clipped jerks of her chin, or nothing at all. 

Joel doesn't know if she ever really did think about it like she said she would. 

Broken promises carry a distinct sound. One he knows all too well. 

She never showed up despite the invitations. Never came to celebrate. 

She stood by the fence, and looked out, eyes wide, mouth flat. The coil in her shoulders, the tremble in her hands, reminded him of a trapped animal. Cornered, and tense. 

She'll bite someone eventually. 

(He just never expected it to be him.)

The tension didn't flee the crease of her eyes, but she tried to integrate herself into the fold, the community. Slowly. Slowly. 

He took stock of her in the same measure he does everyone new who wanders in. Assessing. Watching. Cautious. 

He could tell right away that she was a wildcard. A lit match slowly burning down the wick in a sea of gasoline.

Pretty, he finds, despite himself. Drawn in by her allure; a coruscating light in the middle of endless, unfathomable grey. 

He catches sight of the weathered face that blinks back at him from the frosted windows, hazy and thick with condensation that make the grey in his hair, his beard, look startlingly whiter than it was ten seconds ago. It's a jarring reminder of who he is. What he's done. 

It's not insecurity that keeps him from seeking her out, but self-preservation. Some people, he finds, just have this magnetism about them. A beacon. A light. A gravitational pull that drags you closer and closer. 

And hers is purely primal. Animalistic. She smells of sex and sin and makes him think of object permanence when everything around him had been clouded in the sharp shade of ephemeral grey. 

She's a fractured mirror. Medusa in the making. 

Joel's always avoided broken glass. 

(Ladders. Black cats. Cracks in the pavement. Pretty girls who swallow everything like a black hole—)

Too sweet, he finds. Forbidden fruit. Tart, ripe, and sugar dipped. 

(He never had much of a sweet tooth, anyway.)

Through his observations—necessary, he tells Tommy when he catches the way Joel's gaze follows her around when she moves; limbs ballerina lithe, swan songs after dark: just because we let them in, doesn't mean we can trust them—he finds out everything he needs to know. 

A rusted sign on the side of the road says, stay away. Danger in dulcet. Soft and sweet. A perfunctory bow in battle before the deadly blows come. 

He oscillates between finding her both too soft and too hard, and it's the unknown that makes him wary. 

She's a caged animal. Everyone is just kidding themselves if they think she's domesticated. 

Somewhere in the throng of people milling about, drinking and dancing like the world wasn't in shambles, she finds his gaze, matches his stare. 

Most people looked away. 

But she's not most people, is she? 

No, she's dangerous. Pretty in a way that's entirely too ethereal for the broken remnants of what remains. Left behind. Mouldering until death claims its victims. Until the spores released from the earth itself burrow in the rucked lines of your head, sprouting up like flowering buds. 

She makes men want. 

And while the pickings might have been slim, Joel knows there are several (and maybe a little more) above him in terms of desirability. He's older. Gruff. Rough around the edges without any whim of changing, or scouring himself down so that his jagged pieces don't pop something as tender and sweet as her. 

He doesn't put himself in the same bracket. Despite Maria's insistence, Tommy's needling, he isn't a bachelor. 

Hasn't made himself available.

And he isn't. 

Not since Tess. Not since—

None of that matters. He's too old to think about romance, about skin and sex, and warmth. And more.

The thought of it all leaves something sour twisting in the gnarled rot of what remains inside his chest. 

Despite that, or maybe in spite of it, she comes to him. 

(Somehow. Somehow.)

She asks him to dance, and the breathy tone of her voice tastes like a lit cigarette; it plumes nicotine in the air. Second-hand smoke. A contact high. 

He finds it disarming when she laughs after he says no. Firm. Hard. Dismissive. 

Not in your lifetime, sweetheart. 

The unspoken stay away rang clearer than the echo of her laughter. 

And that was that. 

But she came back. 

("If not a dance, then how about a drink?"

"Wastin' your time, sweetheart."

She grins, then, soft and coy. "Not much else to do with it these days besides chatting up a handsome stranger."

He pretends she didn't make him choke on his drink, and eyes her warily instead. Dangerous, he thinks. The type that just doesn't quit. One who is just small and malleable enough to slip inside the tiniest splinter.

Just like a raspberry, she'd rot fast. Festering. Clouded white and infectious. Worse, in many ways, than the parasites outside of the walls. 

"Just don't get your hopes up." He settles on after a moment, a lull, that makes her blood-red lips curl up like the curve of those stupid hearts dangling overhead. 

And hates that he doesn't really know if he's still just talking to her or the wandering eyes in his own skull when he says it.)

He doesn't know why she takes a liking to him of all people. Of all men. He might be out of touch with the reality they live in now, always on the fringes of waiting for things to buckle at the knee, and collapse into ash, but he isn't stupid. Oblivious. 

Joel sees the way she stares at him. Open, wanting. Curious. 

She shouldn't be. There's nothing in him—nothing left. His insides are polluted, gnarled. Ugly. A gurgling cesspit that doesn't know how to fix, only dissolve. Consume. He's acidic. Caustic. 

Bad for anyone's health. 

He can't keep anyone safe, and all he knows how to do anymore is push people away, and lie (and, lately, make Ellie so incensed with anger, she cuts him to the core and spills his choleric blood out onto the pavement where it hisses and sounds just like Tess). 

He's a patchwork mess of a man sewn together with a churlish hand. The broken pieces are borrowed and maligned, but they sometimes feel like they fit when he shifts, and spits enough contempt to keep everyone else from getting too close, and—

It's enough. 

(He likes it that way.)

But she—

His hands grip her tight sometimes—too tight—and the stains he leaves on her skin set his teeth on edge. It's too much like ownership. Possession. 

(And he finds the colour that blooms on her flesh to be too fucking pretty to ever sit comfortably in the gnarled pit of his guts.)

"Don't worry, Joel," she whispers when she catches him staring at the marks he left behind. Dark and ugly. Contrition tastes of old nickels. "You won't break me that easily." 

It's a bad decision. 

But he was never known for his good choices, and when she fluttered her eyes at him, hand pressed to his chest like she were allowed to touch him, he crumbled. 

She didn't give him much of a choice to fight back when all she asked for nothing but the warmth of his skin, and the taste of him on her tongue. 

Pleasures of the flesh. It's easy. Simple. He fucks her behind the saloon, rough and dirty, and swallows the sounds she makes against the brick like they're just for him. He takes her home, and knows that when he's nestled between her thighs, it's as close to heaven as a man like him will ever get. 

And then—it's over. She leaves. He pretends to sleep. 

Rinse. Repeat.

It carries on this way for nearly two years. Distant, cold. He can't remember the last time he had anyone warm his bed, but it takes the edge off, the stress and pain of Ellie's distance, her mistrust, and hatred, and she asks for nothing. 

She lets him grab her when he wants. Lets him bend her body into whichever shape suits him best, and says nothing about the fingerprints that he leaves behind, the astringent tang of rot when she slides out of his bed, his hands, and out the door. 

He lays back, the same hand he used to grip the back of her neck when he fucked her into the mattress now resting under his head, and he pretends doesn't feel colder now than he did before. 

There is no promise of forever. There's no promise of exclusivity, or monogamy, but he knows that she hasn't fucked anyone else since she got here, that those pretty thighs only ever parted for him, and he's too worn down to entice anyone else who wasn't looking for a sleazy fuck against a tree into his bed, anyway. 

Complacency begets comfort, security, wants.

They settle down in their borrowed homes, in their borrowed beds, and think about making the most of their borrowed time.

In that, they yearn. Family. Togetherness. Everything they had before they tried to drag into the now. Forcing a square through a round hole. A mismatched puzzle piece into the slot it wasn't made for.

Sometimes, they get lucky and it slips through. It distorts itself into something different, and new, just to fit through the preconstructed crack.

Joel doesn't think about then. He thinks about now. A broken world no closer to resolution, absolution, than it was thirteen, fourteen years ago. There is no roseate veil over his eyes; everyone else can see it. 

He isn't the type of man someone brings home. The one you push and push until he fits through the front door, and back into normalcy. Stagnancy. 

And she's not the type of woman who'd ever try. 

He likes that about her.

Poisoned candy apple. Pretty on the outside and rotted within. 

There is no future outside of the way he fits inside of her, and this is as permanent as the blemishes he leaves on her pretty skin. 

Then he dreams, and it's of her.

Lifeless, blue. The way her head splits open is beautiful in that macabre sort of way horrible things sometimes are. Flowers burst behind her eyes, petals budding out of the hollowed space that once made his chest stutter when the sun caught the crevasse of black that split from her pupil and bled into her iris. A small stream of ink. 

The canyons of gradient colours are now filled with blooms of enoki. Red amanita curls out from her ears. 

Where he once laid his palm over her chest is now a gaping hole flowering with a pulsing mass of candlesnuff and staghorn. 

Death cap where her heart once beat. 

Beautiful, he thinks, even as he howls her name.

He wakes up drenched in a cold sweat, and the curve of her name heavy on his tongue. His knuckles pop when he fists the damp sheets between his trembling fingers, but the ache feels good. The sting reminds him he's alive. Whole. 

He's awake, but the nightmare doesn't end. The sight of her body lingers in the back of his head when he strums his guitar and plays a song for the demons within. He thinks of her when he forks over the expired box of condoms he found on a run, and listens to Jesse ramble about how Ellie is doing in exchange for the loot. 

It's her he sees. 

She blinks at him, eyes that same shade that sometimes makes his breath hiss between his teeth, and then her crown caves in. Forehead splits down the middle. One half stands where it was as the other falls over on her shoulder. 

Fractals spill from the plumule that was once her brain stem until the two halves are bleached white like dead corals on a ruined reef. 

The flowering toadstool quivers. What was once her—wit, charm; that uncanny ability to make him feel like the ground beneath his feet was crumbling—is a mass of spores. Polluted. Rotted. 

Where she once stood is a puppet. Dead. Gone. 

Her head tips. Ink spills from the putrefying blood vessels, congealing in the air. It spools into a circle. A black hole. 

He lifts the gun, and feels nothing at all. 

Everything he could have felt, feels, is syphoned into the needlepoint of no return, the place where she once looked at him, and said, I don't want anything from you, Joel. I just want you.

He wakes before he can see the aftermath of pulling the trigger. 

A fluke, maybe. But it happens each night after that. 

He knows, then, that there's no turning back. 

Permanence doesn't belong in this borrowed home, but she somehow drags it through the foyer and into his bed, anyway. 

She stayed over last night. 

Joel doesn't think he tried to let go when he collapsed into the bed beside her, arms woven around her sweat-slicked back, locked tight like a pair of shackles that mean about as much as a prison or the law these days.

It was cold. Late. He didn't want her to walk back in the snow all alone. 

That's all. 

But Joel isn't a gentleman, and despite how much he wishes he wasn't, he's egregiously self-aware. 

He knows he's in trouble when it just makes sense to keep her close. When it's easier to have her within arm's reach than it is to meet at the front door, and let her in. 

(When he sleeps better if he can feel her burning skin on his.)

"You're thinking too much," she gasps, eyes lidded and heavy. Drinking him in. 

Joel doesn't know what a pretty thing like her sees in a man like him. 

He can't offer her anything except the cold comfort of a warm body, but even that is null. He knows there are younger men prowling outside her door, just itching for an opportunity to make her look their way. 

(She never does.)

"Yeah," he rasps, the word sticking to his teeth. "Never been much of a thinker."

"Really? Ain't that a surprise."

His hand slips from her hip, palm swatting at the soft flesh of her ass. The sting makes her tighten around him like a vice. 

"Watch your mouth."

The way she gasps his name, breathy and aching, makes him stifle a groan between clenched teeth, her voice rolling over him like warm sea breeze. 

She's a lot, he thinks, and yet—she asks for nothing. 

(Nothing but him. One of the things he can't give her. Won't.)

Still. 

Her nails press into his damp chest, catching on the smoked dusted patch of coarse charcoal hair. Bracing herself against the swell of his ribs, and slowly rocked back into him, taking him deeper and deeper into her soaked, tight cunt. 

The pulse in his neck throbs out of his skin, a tick she likes to press the flat of her tongue against and drink up the briny droplets of his sweat. He can see the want in her eyes when he catches her staring at the column of his throat, the way she bites her lip like it's a substitute for how badly she wants to sink those same teeth into his flesh. Mark him as her own. 

Possession. Ownership. 

Sometimes, he catches the glossy, rotund image of himself in the inky puddles of her pupils, blown wide with feverish desire, and he can see the same expression, the mien, captured in her startling hue. 

Mutual want. 

It's easier to give in sometimes. To let go. 

He can't, though, and selfishly, he knows she'll never ask. She will bite your lip, the inside of her cheeks, and your tongue until it's raw and bloody before she lets the words slip through the gap of her teeth. 

(He feels the rough, chewed ridges on velveteen flesh when he rolls his tongue between her ivory teeth, swiping over the insides of her cheeks; broken skin split and metallic—a testament to her own selfless desires.

He tastes it on his tongue long after she's gone. Wet pennies. Dandelion sour.)

It knots inside of him. She'd ruin herself before she asked him for more. 

Maybe somewhere in his avoidance, his distance, she knows he's ruining himself by just giving her this much. Nothing, and yet—

Everything to him. 

An impasse, then. Uncrossable when he's already two feet out the door. 

"Joel—"

"I know, sweetheart," he murmurs, low. Rucked gravel. Falling rocks. It jars him how easily he responds to her. She says his name, and he'll drop anything in his hands to get to her quickly enough. "I know." 

The wound on her side pulls taut when she moves. It draws his eye like a beacon. Makes him grind his teeth together until it sparks pain down his jaw, the enamel sawed to the raw nerve. 

His hand slides over her molten flesh, trailing over the soft curve of her waist, until his thumb brushes the seam that keeps her insides from spilling out. The swollen, bruised skin is warmer than the rest of her body. Glossy where it tugs against the black threads keeping her whole. 

Joel didn't go with her on this particular trade. She went with some new kid they'd picked up, all varsity grins and clean hands. He seemed so damned eager to get her attention in the pub. Her age, too. 

Made a pretty couple, Ron said. Fucking loud mouth Ron. 

He was supposed to go, but when the kid caught him in the corner, nursing a beer that sat in his guts like a stomach ache, and said, hey, man, can I take your spot? he didn't know how he was supposed to say no and still cling to the degrees of separation he wedged between himself and the world. 

So, he raised his mug to his mouth, and forced himself to drink, to nod. 

Knock yourself out. 

The flash of sadness that flickered over her face meant nothing at all—nothing—but he felt something churn inside of his rotted guts. Atrophy, he thinks. He isn't meant for this. Doesn't want it. Need it. 

She's a bigger liability the closer she gets. A slow-moving black hole consuming all of the counterscarps he dug until nothing is left but crossable rubble. 

It's better, then, to cut it at the root before it infects the rest. 

So, he does. 

Maybe, he expected something different. For her to call this thing what it was, and then demand more of him, yell and scream and beg for the things he wouldn't give her—if only so he could break her heart into pieces, and force her to let go. To stop. 

Force himself to do the same. 

But she doesn't 

It's a quiet acquiesce; a little more than a nod, and a grim line of her pretty mouth. Okay, it says. If that's what you want. 

And that's what she always says, isn't it? If that's what you want, Joel. Whatever you say, Joel. Sure, Joel. Okay, Joel. 

A spitfire in ochre. A bright lighthouse in the middle of the grey sea. 

(The only person she dims for is him.)

Joel doesn't see her off. Doesn't say be careful or come back safe because words like those don't fit between his teeth. They aren't meant for the nothing between them. The chasm of everything she can't pry from his gnarled fingers. 

She leaves with him. 

He drinks alone. 

Despite whatever nonsense Tommy says, spouted over rationed potatoes and deer meat stew, he isn't sulking. 

"Let your girl go out alone? Unlike you, brother."

The way the words sat in his chest felt like an anvil. 

"Ain't my girl," he muttered. He wanted to be angry but all he felt was numbness. "Ain't my anything."

It's Maria who gets under his skin when she scoffs.

"Joel Miller, you're the biggest dumbass I ever met, save for your damned brother. Gonna push a good thing away and die alone." 

"No one asked you." 

Maria tries to fill in the blanks of something that doesn't exist. 

It peels back the gossamer from his eyes, and he sees, then, the way they skirt around him and her like it's something. As if his name is permanently attached to hers. 

He pretends he doesn't feel the burn in Maria's glare when he doesn't see her off at the gate.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't. 

He isn't there when she comes back, and hates, even more, that he feels something prickle inside his chest when Maria catches him near the stables, and says, I expected more from you, Joel.

It doesn't feel good when he bites back, that's your problem, Maria. Shouldn't have gotten your hopes up. 

Joel lives in his vindication, in his pettily forced indifference. She hasn't come to see him, anyway, and he's sure that she and Varsity jacket are meeting at the pub for that date he'll never give her. 

Doesn't matter, he thinks. And then, if only to burn himself in the flames, he adds: better this way. 

She'll know when he's not there. She's smart like that. Know him in ways he doesn't think anyone else ever could. Ever wanted to. 

(He hates it, and her, sometimes, for it.)

She'll understand. She might corner him one day with that dry ire dripping from the corners of her mouth, patronising and grim, and she'll do what she does best when she strips him bare and leaves him to rot. 

Her eyes are cobra pits. Her teeth leak venom. 

But she won't push. 

It'll simmer out when she blinks, knowing that this is it, and she'll say: okay, Joel. 

Okay. 

He braces for it—hates that has to because that means something, something he isn't ready to acknowledge—and—

And it's all moot. 

She never shows up at the gate. 

It punctures something in his lungs when Tommy looks up at him, face ashen and worried, and says: "she didn't come back. They didn't come back."

It takes an hour to find her, left for dead and beaten within an inch of her life by the side of the road. A wound in her side—a gaping hole he swears he can see through. Milky bones poke through, drenched in red, and—

His heart doesn't stop, but a piece of it breaks off and lodges itself in his throat. He can't swallow. Can't breathe.

Something curls out from the moon-white line of her rib. 

A bud, he thinks. Distant. Warbled. A saprophyte. 

He has the image of her in his head. The same one he sees when he closes his eyes and falls into a fitful sleep. 

Beautiful even as the cordyceps split her skull into blooming monkshood in hideous grey and plum. Pale and lifeless; a marionette on toadstool strings. A puppet in fluorescence. 

"She's—"

Tommy's hand reaches down, fingers curling around the sprout. 

Don't— not Tommy, too—

He pulls back, and Joel catches the tremble in his joints, the whites of his knuckles, when he spreads his fingers. 

In the palm of his hand sits a leaf. 

A leaf. 

The bark that leaves his chest tears right through the clot in his throat. Rips him open from the inside out. 

"A fucking leaf—"

He carries her back, and doesn't let go until the doctor is there, urging him out of the room. 

"You'll get in the way." 

He sees the looks they give him when he passes, but Joel never cared what people think. 

Doesn't plan on starting now, either. 

He's on the wrong side of fifty, and has more blood on his hands than the looted bars of soap could ever scour clean. He knows who he is, and maybe, maybe, knows what he wants, and Ron's loud mouth never meant much to him, anyway. 

Joel gets a name when she's sleeping after surgery—lucky, he overhears, got there in the knick of time, any later and—and brings nothing with him when he leaves. He won't need it. Doesn't want it.

He finds them chatting over an open fire, and beats them to death with nothing but his bare hands. 

He doesn't burn them. Doesn't bury them. 

When he's finished, covered in blood and aching, and satisfied, he drives an ice pick through their skulls (the same thing, he finds, that caused the hole in her side), and leaves them to rot. 

They say nothing about the blood on his shirt, or the broken, mangled fingers of his hand. He's content to leave them. To feel the agony as his broken bones split through cracked skin.

(He thinks of her—broken, blue—and clenches his hands so tight, the pain makes him blackout.)

He only lets Maria patch him up when she hisses about infection, and blood poisoning. 

Says nothing at all about what he'd done, where he'd gone. 

She doesn't ask. 

When she's finished, she says: "woke up yesterday."

He knows. Still: "that right?" 

"Gonna go see her?"

"Don't need me crowding around her bed."

"Maybe she, for some reason, wants to see your ugly mug."

"She tell you that?" 

"Didn't ask about you, if that's what you're asking." She snorts. Shakes her head. "Both a'you are really perfect for each other, you know?"

"We ain't." 

Her brow raises. Something prickles across her expression. "Huh."

"What?"

"Nothing," she shakes her head with a small smirk. "Just… didn't know you knew the word we, is all." 

"We done here?"

He doesn't go to her. 

Stubborn as an ox, she comes to him. 

She says nothing about the bandages on his black and blue hands. Nothing about the way he can't make a fist through all the swelling. Her hands are soft, and warm, when they wrap around his. Small, delicate. A baby deer cupping the paws of a grizzly bear. 

His eyes flash with something that tastes of the same rotten satisfaction he felt gnarled inside of his chest when the man who left her for dead on the side of a road wheezed as Joel broke his nose, and then battered the broken bulb into a messy, mushy pulp. 

He didn't stop until grey matter leaked through the holes. 

She knows what he did. He feels it in the way she stares at the black, swollen mess of his fingers. Bones broke on teeth, on a fractured skull. 

He doesn't regret it. He doesn't even think he enjoyed it much, really. 

It had to be done. Had to. 

They took a life. Varsity Jack, she tells him. Stabbed in the heart when he tried to defend her with the same ice pick that ripped through her flesh. 

Her tone is flat. Empty. 

He sees bruises on her knuckles, those little fists were her only defence against them, and the red welt on the man's face makes sense now. 

He feels proud. 

She's not broken—battered, beaten, torn to pieces—but she still stands, whole, intact. Resilient. Strong. 

(A survivalist. The only time she ever alluded to more was to tell him that he was worrying for nothing. That, above all, she would survive. Outlive him, even.

"What are you so afraid of, old man?" A cheeky wink. Her tongue dips out, and touches the upper corner of her lip. "I'm gonna outlive you, anyway."

God, he thought, he really hopes she fucking does.)

It doesn't surprise him to see her eyes cloud with anger, arsenic white, when she brings his hands to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. Anyone else might have asked why. Said thank you, even. 

She just murmurs, "I hope they suffered." 

Saccharine sweet. 

Rotten to the core. 

He saw the same shade of calamity in her eyes when she wandered in, grim and distant, as the one that stared back at him in the mirror. Her complicity in this doesn't surprise him. If anything, he wonders if she's angry he left nothing behind for her. 

The thought makes his lips quirk in a needle of something he hasn't felt in a long time. 

"They did."

The words are uttered like a promise. His busted pinky twitches, and it makes her smile. A bloom of petal pink flowering across her face. Soft and tender. The swell of a sea mark burgeoning out in the gloom of grey. 

And all for him.

Joel pulled her in close. Closer still. 

(Too close, maybe, because now he doesn't know how he'll sleep without her by his side)

His thumb slips over the tumid skin poking out from tight, black sutures. The threads are the only thing keeping her together. 

Beneath it is a bruise. Black. The tip of his thumb presses against the cresting peak. Knuckle to skin, it's a perfect fit. 

(In all the same ways he and she aren't.)

"I'm okay, Joel," she whispers, and the thick, dulcified tone of her voice shakes him from the labyrinth of his mind. 

His grief, sorrow, the ones that he tries to shove into a box marked apathy, are worn in the crevasses that line his weathered face. Deep canyons make him look ages older than he is. He wonders if she can see them. If she can peel the divots back and uncover the festering sickness, the rot, that sits in the folds. 

It's his own fault, he thinks, for stuffing his grief in the same place he keeps his worry. 

"Yeah," he intones, and he isn't sure if he's speaking to her, himself, or a god he hasn't spoken to since he was eighteen and Sarah got sick for the first time. Maybe everyone, all of them, all at once.

It makes her huff. "Am I losing you already, old man?"

"Ain't that old," he bites back, hips lifting when she slides down. It makes him nudge something that has her eyes fluttering, mouth dropping, slack. Her nails catch skin when they rake over his chest. 

Sex has always been an outlet. A comfort. It blankets that part of his head that never quiets—failures, failings—and offers a respite from it all. Her weight on his hips, chest, thighs doesn't dull it all but buffers it. 

White noise in his ears when her nails rake over his skin. The scent of her clings in the air around them—sex, kerosene, cinder, ash: the scent of a wet forest after a wildfire scorched the earth—and clots out the fetor of decay, of mildew, and moss, the earthy tang that reminds them of death. Of them. 

It's a distraction. Distance in skin, sweat, and heat. 

It's just sex, just—

"God, Joel," she gasps loud, sharp, when he pitches his hips into her, blunt and unforgiving, and hits deep. Carves out the shape of him in her soft, fluttering flesh, and tries not to get lost in the thick scent of her. 

It dusts over everything until he still smells her even when she isn't here. 

Temporary made permanent. 

It's the very thing he runs from finally catching up. He feels the graze of fingers ghosting over the nape of his neck when he looks at her, poised and centred above him. Aphrodite in flesh and bone. Her fingers prickle his skin with their sharp tips, and the indents left behind are soothed over when she gasps his name like it's something special. Meaningful. An orison murmured in the quiet box of a confessional booth. 

The curtain rustles. 

"Yeah," he grunts, low and filthy; the noise sticks in the back of his throat when he feels her tighten up around him. A little apple-sized fist of pleasure. He flexes his thighs, hands grasping her tight, and knows he's going to keep her here again tonight. "Fuck, sweetheart—"

The way she moves is liquid. Mercury. He watches, eagle-eyed and enraptured, as she squares her shoulders, and takes him to the root. The base. 

Her presence in his life atrophied his defences until they lay scattered on the sheets that reek of her. In the folds of his pillow where he rests his head at night. The featherlight wood of his guitar when she leans over his shoulder, and says, play me another one, Joel. 

He's a dog without an owner. A stray mutt on the outskirts of town, wandering through the city in search of sustenance. 

She's the one who keeps feeding him. Lays out a dish just for him, and scratches her nails behind his ears until the curl of his lips subsides. A slow broiled trust. He stops showing her his canines, his claws, when she shows him the vulnerable curve of her neck, and lets him mark her skin with his touch. 

Joel will mourn her the same way he does everyone else—achingly empty, and tearless—but he thinks, now, that he might think of her once, and then never again. He's selfish. Always has been. 

(Can't afford not to be when she looks better bearing his mark. When he sleeps easier with her breath in his ear.)

Just sex. The words are weak in the back of his head, and he feels the shaky resolve begin to crumble, chossy wobbling under unsteady feet, when her head falls back in a mockery of prayer, the utterance of his name heavier than the sins on his shoulders. Just sex. Just—

The grille falls, and shatters into smelted pig iron at their feet.

—it's just her, him, and the beats in between. A slow simmer of sex to something more. Something he isn't quite ready for, yet knows he can't let go of. Won't. Not now, not ever. He won't give her anything, nothing but the touch of his hands, and the weight of his body, but it's juxtaposed to the worry heavy in his chest, the anger still lacing the broken bones in his fingers when his thumb brushes the curve of her wound. 

It splits in her ardour. The bottom scab tugged too much, lifting from broken flesh. 

Ichor pebbles on the seam. It pools an angry merlot against the indigo scab, but when it slides down her flesh, it's Phlegethon red. 

His thumb catches it. It's warm, and sticky. He smears it over her quivering belly, and fights the urge to try and lick it clean. Knows, somehow, it would taste of Lethe. 

Joel's teeth ache when he grinds them together, tongue lashing across the ivory seal. He's thinking too much—abstracts, concretes; they blur together in a cacophony of want, take, run, hide—

Keep. 

"It's okay," she says again, as if all his secrets laid bare. As if the talons digging into his flesh somehow tapped a vein, an artery, that leads directly to his stem, and she's syphoning the thoughts in his head with the same ease that she steals the breath from his lungs. "It's okay, Joel. It's—"

She doesn't finish. Her words are shorn, bitten at the grain when he reaches up, holding her around the waist, and brutally fucks into her weeping cunt with the finesse of a starving man invited to a feast fit for a King. 

It jostles her. Breasts swaying, head bobbing back and forth as he nearly lifts her off the bed with the force of his thrusts. 

The brutality of it screams one shrill echo of it isn't. None of this is okay. None of it. 

She's chiselling him open until he's a raw wound exposed to the unforgiving air. Until he bleeds and thinks of her. Until the only sound that drowns out the terror raking across his synapses is her voice when she murmurs his name. 

"We're fine, Joel—," it carries the flavour of axiom. Aphorism when she says: "we'll be okay."

She trembles over him, muscles straining to keep up. This isn't her taking; despite being perched above him like a queen astride her throne, she gives. Lowers herself the way he likes. Circles her hips until he sees white behind his eyelids. 

The weight of her feels like an anvil. The heat is enough to liquefy his bones. 

"Keep goin'," he rasps the words out—a strange limbo of being both an encouragement and a demand. It lacks the bite it had before, when he'd bend her over and fuck her until he was satisfied, until the howling in his head, and the ache in his bones was eased with the soporific gossamer only sex could give him. "Just like that, pretty thing—"

It's a slip. An accident. 

Her rhythm stutters. Her ribs expand wide under his palms; ballooning up so much he wonders if she's trying to burst them at the seams or float away. Irrational, of course. Sex makes him stupid. Makes him hungry and needy, and has him feeling like he's almost, almost human, and—

He holds on a little tighter. 

Pretty thing. Her lips form the words in a soundless exhale. Pretty thing. She's used to him calling her all sorts of sobriquets smeared in a palpable stroke of derision. It's not contemptuous, but he makes his mockery of it clear with the flout in his tone. Sarcastic, caustic. 

Sure thing, beautiful. If that's what you want, sweetheart. Go on then, gorgeous. 

She always wore the same sour twist to her lips, the exaggerated eye roll. The heavy huff. 

It was never flirtatious, never complimentary. 

This—pretty thing—is the softest he'd ever regarded her. 

He watches her throat bob when she swallows, eyes tracing the nervous flutter as she struggles to grasp the concurrency of his words, the way he said them. Their meaning. It flickers through those depths that threaten consumption whenever they dust over the length of him. Thinking. Thinking. 

They were always abstract, but his words are concrete, and she isn't sure how to carry the heavy cinder he drops on her. Her fingers are used to the ephemeral weight of his scorn; the delineation of distance—unspoken but unignorable. Unequivocal in its separation. 

"Wow," she breathes, tremulous. She grasps at normalcy but he can see how much those two words have rattled her. She swallows again. Eyes narrowing. Viper pits. "Getting soft in your old age, huh?"

Joel isn't ready to acquiesce. 

He pitches his hips up, letting her feel the solid length of him—blunt, burning iron—and feels his chest flutter when she whines, head dropping back as he bludgeons into her core. 

"Fuck, Joel—"

He isn't soft. Isn't malleable. He's made of carbonised grief, anguish, despair. Reinforced with volcanic clinkers running rivets of apoplectic fury. 

He isn't soft. Isn't what she deserves, or needs, or should even want—

But the way she says his name is pyrolysing. 

Cinder. Soot. Ash. 

He spent so much time holding firm against the walls to keep her out, he never bothered to filter the air he breathed. She clots in his lungs. The scent of her builds. A mass forms. Metastasises inside of him. 

Her hands fall there, palms drawn to the steady thump of his beating heart. It drums under her skin, a stuttering rhythm that makes her own chest swell with her shaky inhale. 

His slide, rough skin scraping over her soft flesh. She burns hotter than the acorn stove in the corner of the room, and he feels the heat simmering in his veins. Scents the sulphur and volcanic ash in the air when she leans down, bending at the elbows to press her lips against his. It's chaste, as far as their usual kisses go. Biting and vitriolic. As if being sweet, tender, was forbidden. 

Maybe it was. He doesn't know what he'd have done if she kissed him like this back then. Honeyed rich, and molasses slow. It tastes like smoke but reminds him of the rock candy he'd make at home with Tommy when he was young. 

She moans into his mouth when his hands slip around her waist, her thigh. He holds her steady, and rocks up into her to the same tremulous beat as her clumsy, fragile kisses. The vibrations buzz on his bruised lips, and the tingle of her voice washing over him makes his cock twitch inside of her. 

The press of him, unyielding and firm, against her soft, soft walls makes him grunt. Another noise pulled into the cacophony of them. It's lower than anything he's ever made before. New. Novice. 

Fucking her now feels marginally different than it had only yesterday. It's raw. Vulnerable. 

He thinks of a slow burn. A candle wick. 

Wonders, then, if she feels it, too. This rawness that sits in his thundering chest; a scraped-out, hollow feeling that draws in more and more of her until the crater is filled with the essence of her sweat, the heavy breaths she tries to stifle in her throat to keep kissing him like she'll never get the chance to again. 

And that must be it. 

This isn't what he normally gives her—bruises and bites, beard burns over the delicate softness of her flesh; he leaves her kiss-bruised and drunk off of the taste of him, malt-heavy and whisky sour. 

Intimacy is saved for moments when she cums around him, tightening up like a strung bow in his archer's hold; when she squeezes herself into the nook of his shoulder, whimpering as he fucks her through her high, and chases his release in the spasming clutch of her willing body. When he cums, painting her stomach, her thighs, her ass, with the stain of his spend, the only physical proof he'd been inside of her, and smears the wet mixture of them on her heated flesh, still buzzing with the aftershocks of her orgasmic haze. 

It's reserved for the microcosm carved from their shared release, drenched in the glow of the chemical slurry that saturates their brains, releasing endorphins until they feel nothing but the buzz of each other. Skin to sweaty skin. Each breath a gasp. 

He lets her linger in these soft moments. This singular dissonance sits incongruously with everything else between them. But then she shifts. The microcosm that filmed around them bursts. 

She slips away after he does, slowly leaning over to pull on her discarded clothes, and wipe the stain of him from her body. 

His fingers itch for a cigarette when he watches her through lidded eyes as she stumbles around on fawn legs. 

She always hesitates for a moment. Joel often wonders if she's waiting for him to ask her to stay. 

He never does. She leaves. 

(Rinse. Repeat.)

But now—

"Easy, now," he murmurs, tongue slipping through the gap of her teeth to chase her taste. "Don't rush this, sweetheart."

Everything about this is unlike him, and she moans her disquietude into the scant space between them, brow knotting together when her stitches pull, and he leaves a bloodied trail across her waist, knuckles split and bleeding anew. 

They're both bloodied, he finds. Drenched in each other's sweat, spittle, and blood. 

It makes dizzy. Makes his fingers dig into her flesh, holding her closer to his heaving chest as he takes. His hips raise off the bed—a clumsy slant into her welcoming sex, and he feels her shudder when he hits deep, cock nudging that soft place inside of her that always makes her forehead crease. 

He can't see it when she leans down, peppering wet kisses across his grey beard, and painting hard through her nose when he presses the flat of his palm against the base of her spine and fucks into her with sharp, unrhythmical thrusts. 

"That's it, take it just like that—," he grinds the words off, and tastes the condescension in his tone. 

In response, she bites down on his pulse point. 

Another break in the routine. The rules lay scattered around them, smouldering embers of this incipient beginning to something neither of them is ready for. 

Her hands wiggle out from between their chests, bringing them closer together than before, and when she tangles her fingers in the damp curls behind his ears, he swears he can feel her heartbeat echoing through his ribs. 

He spears himself into her faster, seeking that place he knows will make her melt—

"Joel, oh—ah, fuck—"

—and once found, he cruelly angles the head of his cock into it, rasping out words of patronisation into her ear. 

Good girl, he says, and groans when her cunt tightens around him like a nautical bow. Taking me so good. Gonna cum for me? Gonna cum around my cock—

He can feel his release brimming up like a fever in his veins. White-hot and arctic cold. It sets his nerves on fire, and the pressure of her around him makes him see pure white. 

He thinks of church on Sundays when she chants his name like a hymnal—Joel, Joel, Joel—and finds nirvana when she sinks her teeth deeper into his flesh, unmarked and unclaimed until now. He'll have the perfect impression of her teeth embedded in his skin, and thought alone makes that gnarled spool inside of him loosen. 

Joel is taken by surprise when she cums—voice a shaky, shrill howl of his name, and the sound of it, the blood that stains his beard when she turns, baring her teeth and pressing them flat to his jaw, makes him grunt. It's raw. An oozing wound.

She flutters around him like the beat that echoes through his bones, and feels a hunger inside of him grow. 

The uncoiled knot inside of him rears, once dormant and dead to the world, now gnashing its jowls at the hands that prodded it from its slumber. Rapacious. A black hole when it yawns. 

The town knows she's his. Has since she sidled up to him, all soft smiles and viper eyes, and asked him to dance, for a drink, and what's a handsome man like you doing in a place like this? Got anyone I should worry about, Joel? Wanna dance? Wanna fuck—

And they know, now, that he's hers when he carries her in his arms, and knocked his forearm into the necks of anyone who tried to pry her from his clutch. 

They know. They know, but it's not enough. 

He wants to mark her, stain her. Leave her with the permanent smear of him on her pretty skin. 

Fuck—

This wasn't supposed to happen, but the keen awareness comes much too late. 

He fucks the frustration into the tight clutch of her willing, forgiving, body, and tries not to come apart at the seams when she mewls his name like he's just as much of a burden to her as she is to him. Bankrupt. Bereft of the walls and the rationale that kept him lightyears away from everyone else around him (until Ellie, the hospital—this place that reeks of stagnancy and burrowed into his marrow), he crumbles in her hold once more. 

His release hits him like a sucker punch to his gut, and the force of it makes him ache.

He doesn't pull out like he always, always, does despite the contraceptive she has, and spilling inside of her spasming cunt feels too much like heaven for him not to come apart at the seams. For him not to shatter into pieces when she pulls him closer, and murmurs, that's it, Joel. That's it—cum for me. Just let go, I got you—

And for the first time in a long time, he does.

It's an awkward assemblage of limbs that don't fit together, bodies that are too incompatible, but he tugs her down onto the mattress beside him, and makes it work. She rests the flat of her palm over his sweat-slicked chest, nails raking through the dusted grey smatter of hair on his chest. The inside of her thigh is wet with him, with her, them, when she slides it over his hip. 

Her head rests on soft tissue where his arm and shoulder meet, ear nestled into his armpit. His arm around her back, fingers resting on the curve of her elbow. It's then, when he finds his thumb brushing small circles into her dewy skin, that he realises what this is. 

Cuddling, he thinks, a touch derisively, in the apocalypse.

It was never a burning release, the aftermath of that intoxicating chemical bath of endorphins, oxytocin, and then a quick until next time. 

Being trade partners for most of the scheduled shifts—his brutality, and her knowledge of survival made them a perfect match outside of this clumsy moment of intimacy—meant that she often stayed for a few hours afterwards discussing plans, and who to barter with next or the places they haven't yet scavenged. Lying naked beside each other, shoulders sometimes brushing as they spoke—that was the extent of their post-sex ritual. 

This, he knows, is new. Different. 

It has the same cadence as last night when his massive hand swallowed her wrist in his palm, and he said, just sleep here, but it's a syncopation. Lighter, somehow, than the gruff way he demanded her company, the brutal divot between his brow. 

She moves, slow and languid, and for a moment he thinks about letting her leave. Repairing the chasm that crumbled between them into heaps of broken ruination and anguish, her hand brushes his when she pulls away, and he knows he won't. 

For such a massive presence, she's surprisingly small in his grasp. The bump of her wrist bone fits snug against the broken, swollen knuckle of his middle finger when he folds his hand around hers. 

The hitch in her breath, the rapid flutter of her pulse beating against his too rough, too worn palm are the only measure of her hesitation, her confusion. 

They're not themselves in this moment. 

The moor around him collapses. A sinkhole forms. 

He clings to her and drags her under with him.

The words won't form on his lips. His throat is bereft of what he feels in his marrow, unable to utter them aloud, to make them real. As if speaking his burgeoning desires is somehow worse than a death sentence. 

Wanting in this world is dangerous, and ruinous, but when Joel sees the dawning realisation buoying to the surface in those unfathomable black holes, he knows there's nothing more worrisome, more deadly, to him than her insatiable appetite. Her desire for more. 

More—

And just him. 

Something in her gaze splinters. Cracks. Her shoulder slump in something that tastes of the same defeat that taints the pinch in his brow. 

"You are getting softer, Joel Miller," she takes a stab at a joke but her hands shake too much for it to land properly. "Who'd have thought all it would take is old age and mortality—"

"Shut up," he grumbles, and fights the thrum of satisfaction that spumes in his veins when she lays back down beside him. "Didn't hear you complainin' this much five minutes ago."

"Yeah, well—" her hands settle on his chest, fingers carting through the damp, matted hair. "There's a reason I'm always on top, you know. Worried you might throw your back out." 

"You say that like I haven't already." 

Her chin scraps over the soft flesh where his bicep meets the curve of his shoulder, eyes bright in the morning sun that smears rays of ochre across the bridge of her nose.

She's pretty, he thinks, and feels that same gnawing in his guts, that same hunger, when she dips, and presses a kiss to his skin. 

"Poor baby," she coos, brows drawing together in mock sympathy. "I can't believe a little missionary ruined you so badly. Guess I should take better care of the elderly."

"Wasn't the missionary," he huffs. Her skin is soft, tacky, when he runs his fingers over her shoulder. "It was carrying your heavy ass home."

"Did my heavy ass snap your hips, too—"

"Christ," he bites out, but it lacks any heat. "You just never shut up, do you?" 

He hears the click in her throat when she swallows. 

"Guess you'll just have to shut me up, won't you, old—"

He presses his lips to hers, and steals the goading words from her quivering mouth. 

"Call me an old man again, and I'll spank your ass, little girl."

The condescending tone is thick, but where he expects her indignation over the same words spoken to her by everyone else when she said she wanted to go with him on runs—stay here where it's safe, little girl—it instead makes her suck in a sharp breath between her teeth. He feels the vacuum of it against his lips, and blinks up at her. 

"Did you like that—"

"No," she snaps, and drops her head to his chest. "God, Joel, you really know how to ruin a moment."

"Is that what this was? A moment?"

"Yes," she volleys back. "You don't think it was?"

He swallows down the tang of panic that salts his tongue, and presses his lips to her crown instead. 

"Ain't much of one, was it?"

"We'll make a better one," she murmurs, the lilt of a promise heavy in her words. 

When she settles in his fold, cheek laying flat against his chest—hiding her embarrassment he tones with a particular thrum of fondness so sweet it makes his teeth ache—he folds his arm over her shoulder, keeping her tucked into the bracket of his body. 

She's too small for him to ever be a perfect fit. Too hard inside that pretty little head for him to ever wiggle through. Too soft for him not to ruin her completely when he holds her too tight in his hands that overlap in a way that sometimes makes him dizzy, feverish with want, with fear. 

She doesn't click in the same way Tess does—did. 

A silent agreement of unspoken distance. Never ask for more, it hissed because you'll be brutally disappointed. Never hunger because you won't ever be satiated. Don't yearn. Don't want. Don't, don't, don't—

No, she doesn't click. She doesn't fit. Not with him. Not at all. 

(Tess left him whole. 

She devours.)

Consumes. 

Her eyes are black holes, and ever since she looked at him through the fanned ring of her lashes, and said: you won't break me that easily, he's been standing on the edge of her event horizon waiting for that perfect singularity to swallow him whole. 

(He thought her pull would happen quickly. Instantaneous. 

But she's been ripping him apart the entire time; morsel after morsel until all that remains is raw nerve. Scraps.)

A slow descent into comfort, kinship. 

She's on the same plane of existence as Tommy, Ellie. Maria, too, he supposes, a touch begrudgingly. His circle widens, expands. The bubble encompassing her, too, and he knows that he'd mourn her in the same hushed breath as the rest. 

I'll outlive you, old man. 

(He's never wanted something more in his life right now than for those words to come to fruition.)

For the first time since the walls reared, since the gunshot that still echoes in his ears like a reminder of his sins, his failures, Joel thinks of tomorrow. And the one after that. And after that. 

He thinks of her, and them, this, in the afternoon. Over old stew. Tommy's laughter. Maria's knowing glances. Ellie's anger. Her scorn. Distrust. 

Wasting the night away in the bar that's always several octaves too loud not to make him tense, antsy. Watching her dance around the room, ballerina nimble with a sprinter's pace. Listen to her joke and laugh with the men who look at her a touch too long, and a shade too intense, and—

Bringing her home after. Back here in this small house where he rots. Where he plays his guitar as if the chords of Hurt would ever be enough to drown out the bullets and the bloodshed. The clicks, the groans. The scent of moss, and fungus. 

Taking her to bed in the sheets that hasn't stopped smelling like her since he fucked her three times over Christmas until she sobbed into his pillow, and begged him for respite. When she brushed the grey hair from his temple with fingers that wouldn't stop trembling despite the ease in her grin, and the polynya in her eyes as she regarded him with more than just desire. More than just sex and sweat and the comfort that comes with losing yourself to the chemical high of another body tucked into the crevasse of your own. 

She doesn't fit. She doesn't belong. 

But fuck—

He knows he's gone when he can't imagine her anywhere else. 

"Sure," he says, and wonders when she let herself into his life, into the gnarled remanants of his chest. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

(He only dreams in black and white, but when he closes his eyes and dreams of her, it's in a startling palette of browns, reds, and blues.)

[soullessdianthus]

𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘

Summary: Reader's everyday life had been turned upside down since she had been recruited to Ghost's team. As a young, but prominent soldier she had to face many obstacles, but there was one in particular that made her blood boil ━ Commander Phillip Graves of Shadow Company. Little did she knew, that the blonde man with angelic was face going to make her suffer and bleed, wishing for the embrace of Death to swallow her whole. Y/C ━ your callsign Also posted on my ao3 ⟶ 𝕏

A/N: Basically, a whump where Graves is torturing the Reader after trying to frame her for a federal crime. Then Ghost finds out. Dark themes ahead.

Warnings: graves, canon typical violence (blood, guns, implied sexual harrasment), gore (desc. of tortures), angst, some sprinkles of comfort at the end

Word count: 7.6k

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐄

For as long as you could remember, the commander of Shadow Company made you feel uneasy. At first, you couldn’t precisely determine what was wrong – with him or you. There was this strange feeling, an odd hunch regarding Phillip Graves. Thank God, you didn’t work for him. 

The whole collaboration thing that General Shepherd had with them was bizarre. A private military company? As far as you knew, they were called mercenaries, not some elitist soldier group. Their commander was oddly loyal to the general, it almost seemed like their bonds were far more complicated than a paycheck. 

Soon enough you realized he was his executioner, a war criminal literally. 

But your colleagues kept chastising you for making such hideous assumptions about higher ranks. You rather quickly learned not to share too much of your personal opinion with the other cadets. 

Thereby, your voice of reason and concerns were sealed within your own mind, left to take roots. Particularly when you sat on your own on the side of the training grounds just after lunch break. Your gaze was focused on the fellow soldiers battling with the obstacle course, although your thoughts kept spinning in a never ending cycle – analyzing the latest mission, what happened step by step, what went wrong, what you had done poorly. 

That was your key to survival – repeating the excellently executed tasks and never letting yourself slip up. Because there won’t be a second chance. 

Some may say that you were an overthinker. That such shredding of each event into smaller pieces might mess up with your brain or worse – sanity. 

But who the fuck cared about your sanity in a military? All of them had their hands tainted with blood, all of you had done some things that a perfectly ordinary person would find atrocious. 

And sometimes you were ashamed of that. There was a time, at the beginning of your service where you couldn’t face your God at all. The evening prayers ceased, as the shame pooling in you forbade you from reciting the lines. 

In spite of that, what wise people used to say that “time heals wounds” became your truth. You reconciled that death would be following you no matter where you would go. And each day, over and over you tried to omit feeding her greedy pit of a stomach.

Until you met Graves –  in many ways he resembled your friend reaper.  But he was far from being a friend. Mowing the fields of living, leaving corpses behind – “claw one’s way” was his motto. But there was a charming shell of a man that many seemed to fall for. 

A soft, rounded face covered with shallow frowns and not so many scars. Short, yellow hair kept impeccably brushed to the side, beard usually trimmed or shaved. And those piercing eyes of his. Phillip’s glance balanced on the edge of calmness and hatred. Only thanks to his brows could you tell the difference.

Some of your colleagues from the cadet group stalked behind you into the shower room as soon as you returned from the latest mission, still drenched in sweat and the scent of war. Pestering, but not about you of course. 

Since you passed all of the tests, you were amongst the few lucky ones that got introduced to the lieutenant's team. It wasn’t just any ordinary lieutenant, it was Ghost. Infamous man who wore a skull mask. Belonging to his division felt like joining some exclusive special forces. Which, in a way, was true. 

But at the end of the day, you were just a private. You have heard from your current superiors that you might have the potential to make it to sergeant in the next few years. Only if you stay alive, that is. So therefore it became your priority. 

Another week began, but you stopped counting days in the calendar. Every morning when you woke up, you checked the temperature and the schedule for the day. The decision of not tracing the days of the week seemed more… soothing. You were not counting the days until your demise, so what was the point of knowing if it was the third or fourth of the month?

Within the short period of time you have spent in the army you learned that time is the most precious thing in the world. The minutes, the seconds of you breathing in and out, devouring the essence of living. 

Time was fleeting and you were ready to do everything, not to let it slip away. 

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈

As the new week started, a new mission was approaching. All you knew was where to report, in what type of gear with what kind of weapon. You were just a private after all. So when you happened to find yourself, sitting on the bench amongst the fellow soldiers, his raspy voice echoed like war drums. The thuds of Ghost’s steps synchronized with the beating of your heart and the loud sways of helo’s propellers.

There it was – the adrenaline. The sweet hormone that kept you going. 

Tonight’s objective was crystal clear – ambush, then break in the building and search through it, looking for a man called Barnet. He was a federal agent, yet allegedly he was involved with illegal weapons dealing in and beyond the country’s borders. Now, he hired some mercenaries to protect his ass. Your group, with the help of Shadows, was supposed to capture that man alive for further investigation.

After another happy landing, you abandoned the helo and walked toward the gathering point where some Shadows were already standing. To your misfortune, Phillip was standing beside them.

And until your last step, you tried to manifest that he wouldn’t notice you this time. Well, the universe wasn’t too indulgent for you lately. 

━ There she is! 

“Oh, fuck me, everything but not him again”, you thought to yourself, making your way to the rest of the group. Your fingers clenched tightly over the M4 rifle you were carrying. 

━ Commander. 

You tried to keep a professional facade, referring to him with his rank. There was no time for a small talk as the clock was ticking. 

━ It have been a while, wasn’t it? ━ Graves turned his body towards you, causing a dozen of eyes landing over your frame. Somehow, the tactical vest and your equipment began weighing on under their curious looks. The lieutenant’s was the heaviest of them. ━ Let me tell you something, doll. I’ve never thought I’d meet someone colder than Ghost here. Are you always like this, huh?

━ I’m not cold. Just focused on my job, sir. 

He kept drilling a hole into your soul by looking a little too long to your liking with his blue eyes. They were the color of the ocean, of the sea you missed so much. God, how long was it since you last let the waves splash over your ankles?

━ That’s appreciated, soldier. 

Only then he returned to evaluating the situation with Ghost. In a matter of seconds you were supposed to enter the battlefield. Therefore you had to get your act together.

Breath in and breathe out. Try to focus on the commands, but count the prime numbers in your head at the same time. The simple mathematics helped you in distress.  At least the technique helped with your panic attacks through the years prior.

Within the next twenty minutes you found yourself with one of your teammates, callsign Omen, on their way, clearing out the second floor, left wing of the building. Since he was physically bigger than his partner, it was you who was going first. In case of need, you would quickly disappear behind the corner – you weren’t as easy to spot as he was. 

The building itself seemed to resemble a school or some sort of city council – the countless hallways and rooms made it an ideal layout for a shoutout with the enemy. Apparently, from what the two of you heard through the radio, Ghost was right after the target. It meant the mission was about to end.

Mrs. Laswell was right, calling it an “in and out” type of operation. All that was left to do was to keep your position until your lieutenant captured the objective. 

Because there was no sign of the opponent’s forces nearby, you and Omen split to sweep through the rooms departing from the long hallway. Perhaps, hiding some mercenaries?

You found yourself standing in front of the locked doors. Your heart slowed down by now, your body wanting to refuse to stay in combat mode. With a few firm kicks, you broke down the blocked doors to find yourself facing… an office or an archive.

The room had no windows and it was almost dark inside, the light from the hallway illuminating the interior. An uneasy sensation creeping up your spine. Plans and stacks of files laying on the table’s surface, pulling you closer. Hanging board, closed laptop still plugged in and a pot of recently brewed coffee. 

In that moment, as you stepped inside the room, you sealed your fate. Your curiosity became your doom, but you didn’t know that yet.

As your gaze wandered through some handwritten notes on the board, you heard a clunking sound of a metal bin rolling next to you on the ground. For some time you couldn’t register what exactly happened. 

Suddenly you began to run through the hallway, before “the bin” exploded. The recoil of the grenade made you stumble forward until your knees and fists hit the concrete ground.

For a moment there was silence. Blissful silence. 

Then the muffled thuds of someone’s steps blended with the squeaking noise ringing in your both ears. The fear pooled in your stomach, causing you to gasp for fresh air. You only noticed their presence as you saw the tip of their shoes right in your face.

The vision in front of your eyes was blurry, the image shaking uncontrollably. It felt almost like you were drunk, but you were clearly not. You were very much sober. 

The tight straps of your helmet dug into your head and temple like they were squeezing your brain out. The helmet weighed down on your poor head, so you tried to take it off – fingers awkwardly struggling with the straps.

The person standing in front of you grabbed you by your arm and helped you get on your feet. Then another set of arms wrapped around your back, but this touch was different – you knew this one belonged to Omen. A colleague, a friend.

Your heart was swaddled with warmth for a minute, until the other person decided to open their big mouth.

━ Come on, doll, we’re leaving. ━ A familiar, southern accent almost made your blood boil.

If God was real, he was clearly turning your life into a comedic spectacle of misery. Of all the possibilities it had to be him. 

━ Can you walk? ━ Omen asked and it was the first thing you registered correctly. The buzzing noise finally freed your eardrums, now leaking with blood. You nodded, but his hand was still belaying behind you. ━ What was that?

━ Some pre-installed grenade, I think. 

“Or someone rolled it beneath my feet”, you thought about that being a possibility too. You always considered other scenarios. It wasn’t your first encounter with an explosive, you knew the pre-installed ones usually weren’t rolling down the ground and you hadn’t nudged any cord. 

Besides, how come the Shadows and Graves suddenly happened to be there? 

Maybe your friends were right and you have already lost your sanity. Perhaps you went absolutely crazy, but that madness made you want to place together the sequence of events. You needed to understand what happened, because something was off. 

And there he was, walking on your right – Commander Graves, the reaper. It seemed that him and his Shadows were escorting the two of you to the gathering point as you were still numb after the explosion. He walked with his chin high, eyes sparkling with confidence after a successful mission. The aura that surrounded him made you feel like a prisoner of a warhound. 

Why?

Everything following “your salvation” blended together into one mush. Omen was a good friend of yours and he made sure you were not seriously injured. Only when the two of you sat on the bench inside the helo, you told him the whole truth.

━ There was something in that room. Something important. Papers. 

━ And they secured the evidence by destroying it with that grenade? ━ He was quick to follow your pattern of thinking, but it still wasn’t enough. You had a feeling it wasn’t as simple as it seemed.

At the end of the day, Barnet got arrested and by this time he should be escorted by the Shadow Company to the FBI associated facility, meanwhile Ghost’s team was on their way back to the base. Everything from now on should have felt steady. 

But it didn’t.

━ Wounded? ━ Lieutenant interrupted the conversations that were being held between the teammates. 

━ Survivor of grenade here, sir. ━ Omen pointed at your bloodied earlobes, the dried liquid staining your neck. As the tall Britishman approached, you sent your colleague a death stare – you didn’t need his attention like this. You were alive, therefore no one should worry. 

━ Can you hear? ━ Ghost leaned over his knees to reach your level, his dark irises looking over you to search for far more serious wounds. You nodded after making sure your hearing was intact.  ━ Then you’ll be fine, Y/C. 

He patted your shoulder before turning around to take his own seat. How lovely of him, a very worried superior he was.

During your way back to the base, you tried to calm your own thoughts. There was a need to stop them from crushing over you, your head still hurt like hell. For the first time in a good while, the thoughts felt overwhelming rather than helpful. You tried to brush them off, but it was unsuccessful. 

You really needed to lay down and rest. A cup of tea would be lovely. 

When the helo landed on the grounds of the British Army’s facilities and everyone slowly was walking away to take a shower and rest, you stayed behind going at your own pace.

And so did Ghost. A lone wolf.

━ Sir? ━ The masked man hummed, joining you on a walk to the barracks. ━ Would you find some time for me tomorrow? I really need to talk to you about the operation and the explosion. 

━ It’s related?

━ I think so, yes, sir. 

━ You think? Are you sure, you’re not wastin’ my time, Y/C?

It took a moment for you to reply, but now you were entirely sure. Your gut feeling never failed you before. 

━ I would never waste time of a lieutenant, sir. I’m sure about that. ━ You tried to conceal the smirk twisting corners of your lips, but it became almost impossible with Ghost’s stupid questions. So you played along.  

━ Alright, we’ll figure somethin’ out. Now, take a good rest and watch that head of yours, private. Don’t lose it. 

Ghost could be funny sometimes, if you got to know him a little better. And of course, if he didn’t eat you earlier on – he could be an incarnation of a Behemoth himself sometimes. Even you were afraid of him at first, but that fear grew into a familiarity. 

Little did you know that you were being watched by a shadow as you spoke with your superior. The all-seeing gaze already began consuming your poor, oblivious soul. You already were a victim of his mischievous plan. 

Yet, you still had a chance for an absolution.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈

A warm shower, good sleep and a few pills of paracetamol was all you needed to regain most of your strength after the latest mission. Despite a new day beginning, sun hovering over the horizon, your head or rather thoughts were coming back to the events of last night. Nervously picking up the cuticles and pinching your own skin, trying to let go of that obsession. 

Yes, obsession. It became pathetically weird at this point, you had no physical evidence to show your superior. Perhaps, you were just overreacting or your mind got to the breaking point? 

None of that. You shook your head to the sides, brushing the fragility and doubts away. 

You were not weak, if you happened to be in his team. Ghost’s team. You were observant, noticing the smallest details – the superiors commented, after the successful recruitment to special forces. 

A voice of reason led you to the women’s bathroom and straight to the sinks. At this time of the day, the facility was empty, so you enjoyed the silence and loneliness. You turned on the tap, before splashing your face with cold water. 

“Breathe in and out, soldier”, you instructed yourself. 

As you calmed down a little, you dried off your face with paper towels. Soon after, you found yourself on the way to Ghost’s office. While you were walking down the hallway, you noticed the presence of Shadows. They were still sticking around. Just, you didn’t know why and probably won’t even know – you were only a private after all.

So to ease your curiosity, you decided to believe they were here for another collaboration. You shouldn’t be so nosy – that’s what your mother used to tell you, when she caught you eavesdropping on a conversation you were not supposed to hear.

━ Good morning, sunshine!

Graves suddenly placed his palm onto your shoulder, causing you to flinch. Fuck, you almost never flinched. Its weight felt abnormally heavy on your body, just like he was pulling you down hills with him – back to the gates of hell. 

━ Jesus Christ ━ you murmured quietly, barely audible. Your eyes shooting up to him, smiling like an idiot  ━ are you scaring everyone like this? 

━ Not particularly, no ━ Phillip grinned, exposing his pearly white teeth. ━ Would you mind going for a walk with me, soldier? There is… a matter we have to discuss. 

━ To be honest, I was on the way to my lieutenant’s office.

━ Why?

When he asked you this simple, one-worded question, you knew Graves was playing a sort of game with you – trying to squeeze as much information out of you, before you realized. But you were far from naive, you were an equal player in the game of shadows. 

There were no obligations towards the commander, he wasn’t a part of the army. So therefore, you decided to bluntly lie.

━ I don’t know, he called me in this morning. 

━ Bet he can wait a lil’ longer. Come on, I’ll take the blame, sugar.

For a couple of seconds you stayed behind, rethinking the decision you've already made. But then your legs aligned with the pace of his steps. The bold curiosity drove your actions. You decided to follow him outside of the building for a walk. 

It was quite a nice day outside. Clouds covered the blue sky, but it didn’t seem to be raining until the evening. It was pleasantly warm, a little too dry to your liking as the dust floating off the ground dirtied your trousers. 

The two of you followed the path near the fence between the storage buildings – armory, garages. Captain Price liked to call it a dumpster and he was right about that. 

The silence that fell between you two wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the pure anticipation of the other person’s next move – will he start a small talk? Because you wouldn’t. Or maybe Phillip would be straightforward with you? But about what exactly? 

━ So ━ you finally spoke out, letting your hands collapse at your sides ━ what was so important that had my superior to wait?

Your gaze landed on his face, searching for any tiny spasms of facial muscles. You needed something to work with. To figure him out.

━ I could have asked you the same question. 

━ I already told you, sir – I don’t know why the lieutenant called me in. 

━ No? ━ Graves suddenly stopped and turned his whole body towards you. A truly natural response was to face him too. ━ Weren’t you two talking in private yesterday? Following the return to the base, no? 

━ Ghost was worried about my ears, I was bleeding after the explosion. You saw it yourself, sir. Why does it matter anyway? 

He had the audacity to speak freely, to admit, that he had kept an eye on you yesterday. The arising question on your mind was: why? Why was he monitoring you?

━ You two seem to be quite close. ━ Graves continued poking the hornet’s nest.

━ He’s my lieutenant.

It took every inch of your willpower to withhold the fastened beating of your heart. You couldn’t be delusional, not right now. Ghost was just your superior.

━ Is he though? You make me wonder ━ he turned his head to the right, before clicking with his tongue. On purpose Phillip was keeping you on edge, waiting before you finally snap ━ if he plays a part of this venture. Is Ghost also involved?

━ What the fuck are you talking about? 

You finally raised your voice at Graves, annoyance flooding your veins. Nothing coming out of his mouth made sense, he was wasting your time here. 

━ I’m afraid you’ve been caught red-handed, sugar. Trying to destroy the evidence of your contribution to illegal weapon trafficking. Some money on the side, huh?

You snorted, amused by this sickening accusation. And until now, you thought your deductions were childish and foolish. Until Commander Graves opened his mouth, spilling more nonsense.

━ You think I planted the grenade? That’s bullshit, Graves. You ━ you took a step forward and your pointing finger dug into the material of his tactical vest, just above the dip between the collarbones ━ were there. You saw everything.

The last sentence came out more of a whisper, carefully threatening him that you knew he was fucking around with you. But he had orders to complete. The commander of Shadow Company would do everything for the sake of good fucking show. 

━ ‘m afraid I have to take you for further interrogation, soldier. 

Graves suddenly grabbed your forearm with a force you would never expect he would bare. At that moment you were confused, standing between a rock and a hard place – should you obediently follow him for “a talk” or should you resist his actions? Phillip was not your boss, he wasn’t in place of authority.

But, there was a hesitation if you should punch him or not. 

━ You can’t do that without my superior presence. ━ You struggled against his grip, looking around and searching for any witnesses. To your misfortune, again, there was none. The training grounds were empty.

━ See ━ he managed to pull you with him, while he made his way to the magazine nearby ━ this is a military rule, princess. It has nothing to do with me.

Graves was playing dirty, when he finally dragged you inside the empty hall. You clung to the both sides of his vest, before smashing your forehead against his face. The blonde man stumbled backwards, cursing loudly, calling you all sorts of names. It had to hurt like a bitch, if all might Phillip Graves was whining like a little boy kicked in the balls. 

━ You little– Fuck!

You tried to pass by him, before one of his Shadows revealed his presence, standing between you and the doors. Then another man emerged from the darkness, until you counted three of them in total. 

“Great”, you thought. 

A deep breath of not so fresh air filled your lungs. A hint of moisture hit your nostrils, while your sight was still getting accustomed to the dim lighting of the hall. Slowly you began to worry as you happened to be cornered by the Shadows with no one by your side. It made you vulnerable – like a wounded animal to a vulture.

━ What is this really about? ━ A simple question was asked, when you carefully tried to back out as far from the reach of his loyal soldiers. The situation was getting far more intense than you thought. 

━ You’re related to Barnet’s scandal or at least you're messing up the evidence, all I have to hear is a confirmation.

Commander, whose hands were dirtier than anyone you knew, wanted you to confess. Ironic, wasn’t it?

━ Don’t make this harder than it has to be, doll ━ Graves wiped his bloody nose with a material of his sleeve, slowly walking in circle around you, a lamb to the slaughter ━ just face the consequences of your own actions. 

━ You know it’s not true. I have nothing to confirm, sir. 

If you were the same person you were years ago, you would fidget with your silver medallion. Praying for courage in a situation like this, facing the personification of evil. But that necklace was laying forgotten in the abyss of your drawer. 

The painful truth was, you were left all alone in an uneven fight. 

━ I was afraid you would say so. 

With the slightest nod of his head you noticed the change in soldiers’ stance. They were about to charge at you and that familiar, eerie feeling in your bones. So you did all that you could to prepare for the upcoming attack. 

When the first soldier swung with his clenched fist towards your face, you swiftly managed to avoid it. Then, you succeed another time. But by omitting the hits you wouldn’t last long, so the next strike had to be blocked. 

Your forearm acted as a shield, when you tried to charge forward the Shadow. The second soldier joined the brawl, kicking you in the back of your knee. The punch in the joint made you stumble.

You decided to push away the first opponent and then with all your body mass, pin the second Shadow to the ground. Your arms wrapped around his thighs and you fell onto the soldier with a thud, punching his jaw with your clenched fist. 

The adrenaline made your nervous system numb to the pain you inflicted upon yourself. If not for the blood staining his jawline, you wouldn’t notice when your knuckles began to bleed. 

As soon as the pinned Shadow’s hands gripped your waist tightly, trying to push you off, you knew the outcome of the fight. Even if you had an upper hand for a split moment. There was no magical foreseeing – a simple conclusion told you, that you against the three of them was an already sealed result. 

But you had to put up a fight – you wouldn’t allow yourself to cross the gates of heaven or any other sort of afterlife if you hadn’t tried.

A sudden yank on your hair, made you cry out and fall off the soldier laying on the ground. Before you managed to get up, the third Shadow, until now standing still and watching, kicked you in your ribs. And then another time.

And another.

You stumbled to the side of your thigh, gripping the aching side of your bones and flesh, blood spilling beneath the surface of your smooth skin. Breathing, such a fundamental ability to live, became harder with each passing second. 

Your mouth fell agape, greedily trying to swallow some air, searching for a boost of energy. 

The three demons abused your position on the ground as they began kicking you around – aiming for your stomach, ribs, arms. It almost felt like you were their soccer ball. 

Graves stood tall near the raging chaos with his arms crossed over the tactical vest. Only when one of his puppets smacked you across the face, causing you to fall onto your stomach, he intervened. 

━ Not in the face, idiot! She’s quite pretty, isn’t she? Would be such a waste to permanently mutilate such a face. 

The blonde man crouched down and gripped your jaw, taking a closer look at the red mark pulsating on your cheek. It seemed that he was savoring the hurt look on his victim. The commander smirked, finally acknowledging the fear in your eyes. 

The taste of copper spreaded over your tongue, it felt disgusting and made you lightheaded. Only then the pain they inflicted on you began to sink in, causing all of your limbs to become extremely warm. Almost like the tongues of flames were dancing over your skin. 

If the Shadows kill you that night, will you become a martyr? Or would you be remembered as a traitor as Graves wanted to?

They swept you off the floor, upholding your fragile body by hooking under your armpits. Your head craved to hang low, but your consciousness needed to follow their movements, trying to predict what they would do to you next. 

 ━ I don’t like repeating myself, soldier, but I’ll give you another chance ━ Graves leaned in front of you, his hands resting upon his thighs. He became irritated that you hadn’t broken already ━ were you involved with Barnet or his partners in smuggling the federal weapons? 

━ I’m just a private, you fucking fuck! ━ You spat out the truth, brows narrowing close to your eyelashes. ━ I. Did. Not. 

His blue gaze wandered somewhere behind your back. Graves nodded and a sudden wave of stabbing pain spreaded around your kidneys. You cried out, spine arching, pathetically trying to escape the ache. 

Then they would give you a few seconds of break, you trying to breathe through the pain. But the cycle would continue as the Shadow behind your back kept electrocuting you over and over and over. 

The motherfuckers tased you. And they would not stop until you were a panting mess, limp within their hold. Poor mind of yours fried, barely holding onto the debrises of sanity. 

When your body reached some sort of limit and your vision became blurry, you really began to think you were to die tonight. In a matter of hours, you would have to face your friend – death and let her mock you for such an early encounter. 

But at least, you would not die untruthful to yourself.

Within the next couple hours, when your consciousness was wandering between the limbo of the Sandman’s realm and the reality, you gradually managed to understand the truth. 

That night during the operation Barnet, you saw something you never should have. The office and the crumbles of it. There was something inside so fragile and precious that made a person in a position of power command Graves to frame and torture you. As you were the only witness of it.

And for whom Shadow Company worked for?

The picture became crystal clear and you laughed like a madman. A trickle of blood dripped down the corner of your mouth, when they kept inflicting pain onto the poor soul of yours. And your young body too, staining it forever.

General Shepherd’s hands were not as clean as everyone thought so. He had to have something in common with those weapons being smuggled to the terrorists. Shepherd might have been afraid that you knew that, so therefore he needed you dead. Even though you hadn’t managed to read any of the notes before their destruction.

He wanted you buried six feet under the ground with no gravestone. No monument. 

And you know what they say – if you don't know what it is about, it’s probably about the money.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈

Although the pieces of puzzles fit together perfectly, their borders clinging tightly to each other, you hadn’t experienced satisfaction at all. 

The exhaustion became helpful at some point, separating your body from all the pain you’ve endured during the last couple of hours. The blood on your cuts dried up, but the smell of it made your stomach turn. 

You couldn’t believe that the scent and sight of blood would make you lightheaded, ever in your lifetime. Not as a woman of course, they see much more blood than the average man. 

But all of the beatings that those demons inflicted upon you was bearable. Painful obviously, but bearable. If your assessment was correct, they hadn’t broken any bones till now. The split skin on your collar bones, separated with the sharp blade of the knife could be stitched up. With good care the scars would eventually fade. 

If you survive this interrogation. 

Your grunts and whines filled Phillip’s ears, yet he still craved more than this. He hadn’t heard you scream and he would extort those sounds from you pretty soon.

The Shadows dragged you to sit at the wooden chair near the old table, your shoulders slowly sinking to the furniture’s backrest. They gave you a break as their knuckles were bloodied and scratched. Perhaps, they were thinking of another way to push you into the Behemoth’s maw. 

The time between your interactions passed quickly. Your eyelids closed loosely, but you heard the surroundings very well – the gravel crunching beneath the soles of their shoes, the way they shifted their weight. You noticed that, all of it. Your mind was alerted and aware. 

━ Have to give that to Ghost, he trained you well ━ Graves dragged another chair near yours and sat comfortably in it. Too close to your liking though. ━ But you must be tired, don’t you?

━ I’m fine.

A whisper hummed in the storage hall, filling the silence between your breaths. Those which might be your last ones. 

━ You look shit to be honest ━ the commander put his hands in the air, just like he didn’t want it to sound like an insult. ━ It didn’t have to come to this, doll. You wouldn’t have suffered if you just confessed when I asked you to. 

You scoffed, raising your head to face him with a look full of disgust.

━ That false confession is a death sentence. 

Graves shifted in his seat, getting closer to you as he leaned to your ear. One of his hands pushed the loose strands of hair behind your cartilage, while the other rested on your thigh.

Your whole body tensed, when his palm squeezed the soft flesh of your inner thigh. It wandered far too close to the crotch, even through the material of clothes. 

When your hands shoot to grab his, the Shadow standing beside grabbed your left arm and pinned it to the table’s surface. Your other hand’s fingers were entangled around Graves’ wrist, trying to stop him from moving any further. 

You had heard that he was wicked and unpredictable, but not to this extent. 

━ Listen up ━ he said so quietly it might have eluded from you, if you didn’t pay enough attention ━ I’m being generous here and giving you one, last chance, princess. Confess and you’ll be under my arrest. No further harm will happen to you, if you behave, that is. 

The audacity of this sickening man never stopped surprising you. You knew perfectly well what he meant by being under his arrest, what it meant to be Phillip Graves’ prisoner. It was a fate far worse than death. 

Your eyes were locked on his mischievous smile, twisting soft cheeks and underlining the wrinkles on his forehead. He was abusing his power and was perfectly aware of that. It was you against the devil. 

━ Come on, be a good girl. ━ He tried to persuade you with the sweet words and empty promises. It was kind of insulting, Graves thought he would convince you to change your mind. ━ Just say it was you, hm? 

But little did he know, your pride and stubbornness was far greater than his. 

You hung your head low again, before chuckling softly, shoulders trembling. It caught him off guard, you noticed. Graves probably thought you’ve gone far from sanity. 

Naturally you were weary of the pain, of the constant soreness in your muscles, the painful stretch of dried up blood. Yes, you were scared of upcoming tortures, you already admitted to that before yourself. But you would never forgive yourself if you weren’t true to the beliefs that got you here in the first place. You couldn’t let them frame you. 

Not this motherfucker in particular.

━ Go fuck yourself.

Then it was you who spilled out some words coated in pure hatred, almost an exorcism to make him go away. Your faith in your truth was strong. Graves’ hand released your thigh with a disappointed look on his angelic face, instead forcing your right forearm into his chest. He was keeping your limb too tight, while the other one was still pinned to the table.

Another Shadow appeared in the corner of your eye, slowly making his way towards your splayed out hand on the flat surface. Only then you noticed the thing he was holding. 

“Fuck.”

━ Alright, the hard way it is. ━ Phillip said, savoring the building fear in your eyes as your shrinking pupils were following the outline of the drill. A simple machine you would put your furniture together.

But in the right hands it would be a torture device.

━ You can’t be serious. You c-can’t– Y-You–

He shushed you, cradling your right arm within his hold. One of the Shadows stood on the other side of you, squeezing the elbow and your wrist so roughly, it almost made the bones pop out of the joint. 

Your instinct was to try and wiggle away, but the two men held you steadily. The third one flicked the power button and you looked at the small, but pointy drill turning with a mechanic sound. 

━ No, no, no, no, don’t, DON’T! 

The panic and fear overtook your stoic strategy. Only then you began being truly scared of their sinister games. You pleaded, you fought back, you begged until you screamed so loudly, there had to be someone hearing you from the outside. The pain of your flesh getting twisted and ripped off, made you want to vomit, if not the screaming tightening your throat muscles.

Then the drill stopped. You estimated it hadn’t even reached your bone, yet. But the crimson, syrupy liquid climbed up the length of the metal part and trickled to the sides of your assaulted forearm. 

You were breathing loudly, gasping for air. A droplet of sweat rolled down your temple. Every single finger of yours was trembling, muscles spasming from the pain. 

Graves reached one of his hands and forcefully squeezed your jaw and cheeks. He forced your pretty face to stare directly at him. Then, when he noticed how salty tears were overflowing your waterline, he grinned.

━ Look at me, soldier ━ Graves gave an order, but you were not his subordinate. He had to yank your head and dig his digits into your flesh again. ━ Look. At. Me!

The Shadow continued the assault, turning the power back on. This time, he expected resistance from the hard tissues so he pushed harder. 

Your shrieks filled his ears like cathedral music, a gospel of his liking. The tears streaming down your face finally reached his palm that was squeezing your face. Graves wanted to have a good look at all the scowls of ache. 

You swore you had heard the bone cracking, a muscle perforated already. White, blunt pain blinded your senses, only the warm embrace of the commander sitting across you kept you aware that you were still in the land of living. 

Your stomach was hurting – God, you were going to puke. 

━ What’s the meanin’ ‘f this?!

The voice of your savior, echoed somewhere in the back of your consciousness. The mechanical drill stopped its work and you actually felt it when it was ripped off your forearm. You whined, letting your eyelids shut. Blood splashed across the table. 

The two Shadows remained by your side, meanwhile Graves stood up from his seat and took a walk towards the intruders. 

You felt the familiar smell of tobacco, a very specific species of tobacco used only for cigars. 

━ Captain, I can assure–

━ Assure what? ━ John Price said, venom and hatred rolling down his tongue. He was pissed and dear God, you don’t want to anger this man. ━ That you mutilated one of my soldiers? Who gave you the order? 

Graves pressed his lips into a thin line.

━ General himself.

━ Why? ━ Ghost raspy voice sounded next to your limp form and it made you feel protected.

When you opened your eyes, you saw him towering over you even when he slouched to reach your level. You forced yourself to form a subtle smile, because somehow, the fight was over. You were being taken away from the monster that Graves was. 

━ She destroyed the only fucking evidence, trying to cover her own ass.

The lieutenant took a quick look over your body, you felt his gaze roaming on yourself. He was looking for serious wounds, but the one on your forearm seemed to be the nastiest one. 

Ghost helped you rise up from the chair, securing you in the straight line by holding onto your shoulders. Before he did that, he seemed to ask nonverbally with his dark eyes if you could walk. You nodded weakly. 

━ She’s a private under my command ━ Captain Price kept lecturing the blonde man, standing still like a tree. ━ If she had been accused, I’m the one to take her for questioning, not you. This is my team, my base and you will follow my rules, is that clear? 

You couldn’t exactly point to the moment where you walked past Price and Graves. Your eyes were so heavy and the main focus was to keep walking forward. If not Ghost upholding your posture straight by holding onto your arms, you wouldn’t be able to stand by your own strength. 

Despite the stories you had heard about him being rough, he wasn’t with you, at all. His grip was firm, but no digit of his calloused fingers dug into the beaten flesh of yours. Should a soldier ever feel comfort rather than dread in the presence of their superior? Was this normal? Were you? 

━ I had my own orders, the intel pointed out she was a suspect. Apparently ━ he took a deep breath in, keeping his anger on a leash ━ there was a misunderstanding. I apologize for any… inconveniences. 

━ I’ll talk to Shepherd about this one, you stay out of it ━ Price stated, before turning around on his heel. He was walking behind the two of you. ━ Oh, and you owe this lady an apology. Better be a good one, boy.

No. 

You wanted to scream that word over and over. If Graves ever bothered you again, you would gouge his blue eyes out – gladly looking at the soft tissues getting stuck under your nails, Phillip’s blood staining your hands. Ghost felt when your body tensed under his grip as he led you out of the storage hall. Of all people, he could sympathize with you the most. 

You walked in silence, only the echo of the gravel mixed with sand echoed in your ears. The chilly, evening breeze awoke your senses, although it didn’t give you more strength. Your hand clutched to Ghost’s, when you felt your stomach shrinking.

━ God ━ you leaned over your own knees, gasping for air ━ I think, I’m gonna… ‘m gonna puke.

He followed your poor soul to the side of the road. Before you could deny his help, Ghost was collecting your loose strands of hair and holding it firmly behind your neck. 

━ That’s alright. Take your time.

He wasn’t angry or disappointed with you. Ghost wasn’t rushing you as you tried to catch your uneven breath. The lieutenant just stood there, holding the hair out of your face in case you would vomit.

But you hadn’t thrown up at all. You just crouched there gasping for air, pressing your wounded forearm to your chest, blood staining the military shirt. Your limbs began to shiver, but not from the low temperature. Only then you allowed yourself for a display of any weaknesses, for a way to express your pain and exhaustion.

━ I d-didn’t do any-anything. I promise.

Your tone sounded broken and he couldn’t bear it. His stone cold heart couldn’t withstand the look in front of him. Ghost pulled you up from the crouching position, before pressing your forehead into his chest. He could still hear your quiet sobs, your blood surely staining his clothes too. But he didn’t care about some piece of cloth. 

━ I know.

Ghost was already soaked with blood of all the lives he ended miserably, but to be stained with something that belonged to you? That was something different. To him your blood could be the red wine that turns into the blood of Christ during each mass.

The lieutenant wrapped his arms around your back and kept one palm on the back of your head. Ghost caught the glimpse of your tired eyes and all he could see was himself. A reflection of sort, only a shard perhaps. When everything he had held dear to him – the dignity and humanity of Simon Riley, was taken away from him all those years ago, all he needed was a solace. 

The man didn’t have to say much, you weren’t entirely sure if you wanted to hear him pity you. But Ghost’s presence was enough, his warm and gentle touch made you feel somehow protected. 

Perhaps it was the exhaustion causing you to melt into his embrace, because how could you feel any special, different from your teammates in his beautiful, dark eyes? He was your lieutenant for God’s sake.

Would he console the others if needed? Or maybe he sees you as weak? A fragile package that needs to be handled with care? Why was he so sympathetic with you of all the people? 

You stopped thinking and sank into the feeling of his soft and clean shirt that covered the man’s sternum and chest. You brushed the idiotic thoughts away, because you deserved that kind of affection. 

You deserved to be held close and to feel safe. 

And in his arms it all became very real. 

Even for a moment.

━ Come on, moppets ━ Price’s now calm voice, broke the heated thoughts and raging emotions as he got closer to them. ━ She needs to see a doctor.

A/N: The end of this fanfic has an open sort of ending so therefore I can write more comfort with Reader/Ghost in the bonus chapter if you would like to. ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

[stervrucht]

● AO3 ● My fics ● My art ● Rambling ● Asks ● Previews & Snippets ● Kofi ● Fic Recs ●

Hi, I'm Ster -- scientist by day, writer by night. My creativity only sees the light of moon. MDNI

✨match my clown, and we'll be friends✨

Links to pairing I write for:

Steddie (Stranger Things) | Harringrove (Stranger Things)

Steddie Angsty August [2024]

Eddie Munson Big Bang [2024-2025]

The Graveyard Shift Steddie | Rated E | 17.1K words | Ongoing | Tags: Vampire!Eddie, Hotel clerck!Steve, Horror | AO3 Local rockstar Eddie Munson — enigmatic, mysterious, never photographed in daylight — stays at the Indianapolis Sweetwater Hotel during a gig. Steve Harrington is just a simple guy trying to earn a living working the graveyard shift at a hotel desk.  ● Tag ● Sneak Preview ● Part 1 ●

There's a gap where we meet Harringrove| Rated E | 14.0K words | Ongoing | Tags: Fighting, Violence, Fuckbuddies. Enemies to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort | AO3 Billy and Steve start a fight club that turns into something more.

Ask me about my WIPs and I'll post snippets!

📗Eddie Munson Big Bang - TBA [14K]

🩸The Graveyard Shift - Chapter 5 [ 1.1k]

❓Secret project with @sleepy-steve - Canon divergence Steddie [8.2k]

💀Blood crawls where it can't go - Vampire!Eddie [3.0K]

👊Harringrove fic exchange [18.5k]

If you're gonna mess me up, don't do it slow | Steddie | Rated M | 3.3K words | Completed Steve POV - Fake dating - Friends to lovers - Sharing a bed - Fluff and humor Eddie and Robin are 'Bearding' and Steve has no idea what that means. The result: a jealous Steve and a healthy dose of kissing your gay friend. ● AO3 ●

Proximity | Steddie | Rated E | 52K words | Completed Eddie POV - Slow burn - Mutual Pining - Sharing a bed - Fluff and angst Eddie enjoys invading people’s personal space, just to mess with them. Steve's complete disregard for boundaries makes him the ultimate challenge. ● Part 1 ● AO3 ●

Drumstick | Steddie | Rated E | 2.8k words | Complete Steve POV - Fluff & smut & humor Eddie is bad at dirty talk and gets a little offended when Steve points it out.. ● Tumblr ● AO3 ●

Encore | Steddie | Rated M | 8.3k words | Complete Steve POV - Bisexual Awakening - Fluff Steve runs an errand for Dustin and has a bisexual awakening at the hands of Eddie Munson. ● Tumblr ● AO3 ●

Grass | Steddie | Rated E | 3K words | Complete Steve POV - Drugs made them do it - Shotgunning When Steve doesn’t go to college, he can stay at his parents’ house under one condition: every week he has to mow the lawn. Eddie has some tips when it comes to grass. And by grass, he means weed, of course. [AO3]

(Un)broken | Harringrove | Rated E | 7.0K words | Complete Billy POV - canon-compliant - Hurt no comfort A canon-compliant study of Billy's obsession with Steve (and some smut). ● AO3 ●

Gravitational | Steddie | Rated M | 1.5K words | Complete Eddie POV - Vampire!Eddie - Bloodsucking - Horror Eddie arrives at Steve's doorstep, drenched in blood, after having been presumed dead for a considerable time. ● Tumblr ● AO3 ●

Ficlets

Last updated: 18th of October, 2024

header by @runraerun 🖤

[coramatus]

What if Under the City Streets was even more mean to Ingo?

Then you get the Mad Woodsman AU of an AU.

Cw/tw: mentions of self-harm, suicidal tendencies, dissociation, self-loathing

He gets better though.

The Mad Woodsman was an Ingo who descended fully into madness in the Unknown, attacking anything and anyone that dared get too close with a flaming axe drenched in Edelwood oil. But he inflicted the worst violence on himself, trying repeatedly to kill himself and self-harmed, always failing because his pure despair is fuel for the Beast, making him more useful alive and suffering as a battery to be consumed.

Unlike other Woodsmen, he has a full scraggly beard and long, matted hair and is constantly in a filthy state. His mind is lost in a cloud of misery, despair, and delusions, his moments of clarity few and far between. He is constantly haunted by a figure in white who always stands out of reach, only ever smiling enigmatically at him.

So when Time Lord Emmet Railer appears to try and save him, the Mad Woodsman is immediately lost in raging insanity as he tries to kill the figure, begging to be left alone so he can die in peace. There’s nothing to save. He’s less than nothing. Why can’t the figure leave him alone?

But eventually, the despair becomes too much to bear and he collapses, allowing the Edelwood to take him. When Railer finds him and tries to save him, he begs for oblivion, his heart and soul in so much agony, that death is a relief.

But Railer refuses.

Using his supernatural strength, Railer tears the Edelwood off the Mad Woodsman, ripping whole chunks of bark off at a time. Once enough of him is freed, Railer takes him and his lantern into Time Central station.

The Mad Woodsman is given a room to recover in. But he barely moves. He thinks he’s lost his mind completely and exists in a haze of misery. He refuses to change clothes or bathe because he thinks everything is a hallucination. He is beyond terrified of Railer and Beta, refusing to let them anywhere near him, screaming at them to leave him alone.

However, the Time Manager/Railer’s adoptive time sister, Unity, makes an effort to reach out to him. She takes the feral cat taming approach with him, simply being in his presence and acclimating him to hers. She gently talks to him, tries to help him take care of himself, and makes sure he’s fed. Despite her efforts, he doesn’t outwardly respond to her, often just shuffling back to bed after she coaxes him out. Unlike Railer, the Mad Woodsman never lifts a finger against her, only ever quietly moving away.

It’s decided that they can’t wait any longer to purge his body of the Edelwood oil poisoning him.

The day of the Edelwood oil extraction is a terrifying one. He is put under for the procedure, only for them to discover that Edelwood oil makes up for a quarter of his insignificant weight. He starts to fade, his mind accepting and embracing death as an end to his suffering. With his heart flatlining, Dr. Ingo of @nimbasamedical-train is called and the man is given life-saving blood transfusions, which he begs them not to administer as he wished for oblivion.

When he wakes up, his mind is strangely clear. He’s still miserable, but it’s not eating him alive anymore…

Most of his beard and hair has been trimmed short as the rest of it was filthy and got soaked in oil.

But when Unity comes to check on him, he recognizes her by name. Even when he was insane, he recognized that Unity was only ever trying to help, never daring to hurt her.

As he readjusts to sanity, he still has problems to face.

He’s forgotten what he looks like and can’t recognize faces anymore. He knows what his name used to be but is so full of self-hatred, he’s too ashamed to use it again. So he asks Unity to choose a new name for him.

Unity decides on Pyre.

He accepts it.

And his journey of recovery begins…

[thlayli-ra]

Can you do the kissing away their tears with drew and punk

Since Bad Blood, I have had a few requests for another instalment of the Winner's Room AU, then @afterdarkprincess inspired me with her post and I had this perfect little prompt for my Trick or Treat event sitting in my askbox, so I've mashed the whole lot together to write the final chapter of the Winner's Room AU. Enjoy!

Treat - 'Kissing Away Their Tears'

Characters - CM Punk, Drew McIntyre

Rating - Mature

Warnings - Blood, angst, smut, religious imagery

They say that dogs often find a quiet place to be alone when they know they're going to die.

Perhaps that was why Drew wanted to be by himself right now. He may not have been literally dying but he felt like he was, the pain in his head and body so visceral he could hardly stand. But the greatest pain of all was in his chest, off-centre, slightly to the left. In his heart. For when his blood and sweat had run out of him in great gushing rivers, something else had left him too, a piece of his soul, leaving behind a black hole like a decayed crust.

He sat bunched up on the floor, the room around him pitch black and silent. Pulling his knees up tighter to his chest, he set his forehead upon them, wincing at the anguish that wailed from the gruesome gash on his crown and let out a fresh surge of tears, coating his already damp and sticky cheeks.

No, he may not literally be dying. Yet, it felt like the end.

He never heard the door opening or the shuffling of booted feet stepping into the room. It was only when the room around him became drenched in cold, hard light that he even realised his solitude had been shattered. He peeked through his intertwined arms, blue glassy eyes trailing up the black boots, past the black and white kick pads, over the black and white trunks with the single heart among the six-pointed stars, panels of white on either side mirroring the white checked panels on Drew's own trunks, all finished off with a decorative silver lining. Ring gear as filthy and as soiled as his own attire.

Drew's gaze did not venture any further. Not up past the black gothic writing arched over the naval, or the twisting skull and serpent tattoo, and certainly not up past the greying beard and the thin, harsh lips and the crooked nose and definitely not into those two cruel pools of olive green that shimmered whenever they hit the light.

He didn't want to see the look on Punk's face. He knew why he was here, had even hid in the desperate hope that he wouldn't come for him. These past months, he had discovered first hand the depths of cruelty that this man was capable of and in only the past hour had been the ill-fated victim of the worst of it. For nearly forty-five minutes he had been beaten and maimed and tortured, busted open and made to bleed like a blessed statue of the Virgin Mary.

But with Punk, it was always a given that he could raise his game up another level, and Drew trembled at the prospect of what the older man would do to him now that he had a solid victory under his belt and they were completely alone with no interference this time.

'Please don't hurt me,' his quivering lips uttered quietly.

A nasally sigh permeated the air and another soft shuffle of boots as Punk made his way towards him. The Scot drew his large legs in tighter, rolling up into himself like a frightened hedgehog who's spines had been torn out, one-by-one. Vaguely aware of the demon crouching down in front of him.

Craggy fingers teased their way under his chin and coaxed it back. Drew flinched at the tenderness of their touch, softly guiding his blurry gaze up, but the Scot would not be tricked and locked his eyes instead on the swirling pattern of waves across Punk's chest, boxed in on either side by a white towel draped over his shoulders.

Another sigh. Punk sounded tired, but not the kind of exhausted tired he had been last time. More like mentally tired, emotionally tired, like a man who had been on the run his entire life and was now getting sick of running.

'Look at me,' his voice was deeper than usual, raspier. Drew wondered if his brief stint with the oxygen mask had affected it. Or perhaps, something else...? Had he also been-?

Drew wanted so much, so very much to look up but he was too afraid of what he would find, or worse, not find.

'Ok...' Punk's fingers slipped out from under his chin again and the fear dug deeper into Drew's chest. His hand moved on its own accord, wrapping around Punk's wrist and snaring it tightly.

'Shhh, it's ok,' Punk placed his own fingers gently around Drew's, stroking them with a feathery touch. 'I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.'

That should have terrified him yet the thought of him leaving terrified him even more.

Drew watched Punk's other fist, the fight tape circling it dyed a rich red, almost hiding the pencilled-on stigmata in the centre of his palm, as it clumsily found the edge of his towel and unfurled it from around his neck. The Scot gasped as it was pressed down onto the top of his head, directly above the horrific crevice cutting through his skin. As Punk applied more pressure, Drew's entire six foot five frame gave an almighty shudder and his lips parted enough for a fragile whimper to escape.

'Yeah, it's a real bad one,' Punk hushed out. 'Must have caught the edge of the tool box or something. You'll need to see the medic afterwards to get it stitched up.'

His words offered no comfort to Drew who gritted his teeth and tried to fight off the pain in his skull. Another whine sounded in his throat.

'Shhh, I know, I know.' The older man gave a little tug on his wrist but Drew grunted and refused to release it. 'Can I have my hand back, please?' There was a slight joviality in his tone. It helped put some of Drew's fears to rest. Surely he wasn't going to hurt him that much if he was making jokes and tending to his wounds? Eventually his fingers unclamped, and Punk pulled his wrist free. The sudden loss of connection panicked the Scotsman and he fumbled around for another part of Punk to hold, finding a spot on the older man's thigh and curling his fingers into the muggy, moist seam of his knee pad.

'You're a mess,' Punk noted aloud, using his newly freed hand to pick up the corner of the towel and wipe at the bloodstains on Drew's face.

Something sparked inside of Drew, a knee-jerk reaction that he couldn't contain. 'Because of you,' he spat back at the other man, albeit feebly.

'I promised you I would make you bleed.'

'And you did.'

'I did.'

'And now it's-' Oh no! No, no, please. Not here, not right in front of him! But his gates had been kicked in by this very man until they were destroyed completely, hanging off of their hinges all warped and mangled. Drew could no longer hold back the welling tide inside of him. 'I-it's over!'

Huge, fat tears poured from his eyes. His shoulder began to quake, wracked with his heart-wrenching sobs. And Drew had nothing left, no energy or defences, however small, remaining to stop it. So he sobbed like a lost child, clenching his fingers even tighter around the edge of Punk's knee pad, not a single shred of light to help guide him through the suffocating darkness.

'Hey, now.' The towel was removed from his head and dropped to the floor. Now both sets of inked hands were cupping Drew's bearded cheeks and he gave no more resistance as his jaw was tilted back and finally, finally he looked up.

He looked at Punk.

The older man didn't just sound tired, he looked tired. The ever-present bags under his eyes were swollen and puffy, coloured a deep pink. His scruffy, silver-speckled cheeks were drawn, his hair a tangled mess and the area around his eye sockets sunken in.

But it was his eyes themselves that grasped Drew's heart and squeezed it mercilessly. The way they gently shimmered like the quiet ripples of a lake in the moonlight. The delicate tenderness in them that struck Drew as viciously as the heavy metal wrench had in the cell.

Punk's white lips parted slightly, a warm breeze ghosting on Drew's face.

'Please don't cry.'

Drew shook his head with despair. Defeated, and not because his shoulders had been pinned to the mat for the one, two, three. 'First, I lost our bracelet and now... now I'm losing you too.'

Punk sighed again, pulling in his bottom lip to rake it with his teeth. 'I was never yours, Drew,' he said at last, and the Scot eyes filled again, weighted by the pull of the concrete slab chained to his feet dragging him beneath the waves to drown. 'But...' a sliver of Punk's tongue appeared at the corner of his mouth, stroked timidly across his lips.

Drew blinked up expectantly.

'.. but for tonight, you are mine.'

He leaned in, placing those same lips on Drew's cheek. The Scotsman froze, paralysed by Punk's taser lips brushing his skin. Unable to do anything, not even breathe, as one-by-one Punk kissed away every single wet droplet trickling down his face. His kisses were tranquil and sweet, each one dropping a piece of serenity back into Drew's soul, helping to repair some of the fractures left by the brutality of their match.

After chasing away the last tear, Punk pulled back every so slightly, finding the crystal blues of Drew's eyes, pausing, thinking. Then mentally saying 'fuck it' and lunging in to capture Drew's lips. At first, the Scot didn't know what to do but when he felt Punk's tongue tease his own, a simmering tang bursting on his taste buds, he returned in kind. Both of their mouth opened up, allowing the other in and they enthusiastically explored one another, probing deep into each crevice and fold. Drew's tongue found the empty groove of Punk's missing molar and swirled in the gap until his lips curled with mirth and a thought suddenly popped into his head.

This is the first time we've ever kissed!

All the vile, cruel, sadistic crimes they had inflicted on one another and they'd never so much as shared a single kiss. It seemed bizarre under the circumstances.

But they were more than making up for lost time, growing greedy and sloppy with one another's lips until at last Punk let go, a misty look in his eyes and a lopsided smirk on his lips. Lifting himself up slightly on his knees, his blood-splattered fingers went to the waistband of his trunks and pulled out the knotted ties holding them up. Drew looked on as Punk slowly and deliberately untied the chords, savouring the show being played out for him, especially relishing the part when Punk hooked both of his thumbs in the slackened waistband and slipped them down his thighs, over his kick pads and off, leaving him naked from the knees up.

Punk's busy hands set to work, clutching at Drew's ankles to tempt his gigantic legs down in order to straddle the larger man's lap, then seized his wrists and guided Drew's hands to his hips. The Scot readily obeyed, holding his holy relic steady as he nudged in closer. Punk's own fingers were fiddling with the studded waistband of Drew's bloodied trunks, yanking it down enough to free the Scot's cock. He gasped loudly when Punk looped his fist around it and gave it several delicious strokes from root to tip.

Closing his eyes, the Scotsman tipped his head back against the frigid wall, every other sensation suddenly numbed bar the glorious one between his legs. This was an entirely new side to Punk that he had never imagined possible. This man, who had shown him nothing but hatred and spite all these months, all these years, was now being so loving, so affectionate, so gentle, caressing him with all the tenderness of an angel's wing. It was like a religious experience, a vision, a revelation, and suddenly he realised this this was all he'd ever wanted and had been so blind to it this whole time simply because he had no idea it even existed.

Somehow, some way, there was enough blood left in Drew for it all to rush south. Punk eyed the bulging appendage, mesmerised. His fingers found each side of Drew's head and delicately slid his foreskin back, lifting the veil to admire his blushing bride beneath. Drew let out a shaky breath, his cock bobbing with delight.

No more words needed to be said between them. They had put everything out there in the open, they had traded barbs on the mic, they had flogged the skin from one another's back, they had beaten each other until they had painted the canvas with their blood. There was nothing more to give.

Except one thing. One last gift that Punk had to offer Drew; and as he lifted himself up onto his knees and lined himself up with his throbbing cock, placing his forearms on Drew's broad shoulders to lock on tight to his gaze, he readily gave that gift.

His undying attention. At long last.

And Drew accepted it gleefully, never once wavering from his intense hazel stare as Punk pushed down onto him, piercing himself with the spear. His hole opened wide like a flower in the sun, welcoming Drew's warmth in and he slipped in easily. It was nothing at all like that time after Summerslam, in the showers. It felt right, as if it was their natural state, a habit, like putting on his wedding ring every morning. Or perhaps not, perhaps more like, when he used to put Punk's bracelet on, after the elastic had stretched loose to accommodate Drew's meatier wrist. Within only a couple of pushes, Punk had taken him in all the way to the hilt and it felt so incredible that Drew nearly cried again.

They began to move, Drew thrusting his eager hips into Punk while the older man squatted down onto him, both finding a perfect rhythm easily and settling into it. Both starting to blush and bead with sweat, the dried blood on their faces staining the dewdrops scarlet to look like fresh clots skimming off their brows. Both of them keeping their eyes trained on each other and only each other.

And in that moment, Drew saw the lines of blood on Punk's face, saw his short hair spiked out like a crown of thorns and as he bobbed up and down, he would catch the single light in the room directly behind him, and the Scot gasped aloud when the vision manifested into reality.

He had been wrong. Punk was not a succubus or a demon. He was a saint, with a halo shining around his head.

Punk's words from a week ago crashed into him. It had been more than a threat - it had been a prophecy. One that had come to fruition;

'You will look up,

and I will wipe the blood from your eyes so you see me,

And it's not a god you're praying to,

It's not the devil you're praying to.

You will be praying to

CM Punk!'

[1-ker0sene-1]

The Dead Do Talk

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish / Reader

(Wheelchair User Reader)

Chap1,Chap2, Chap3, Chap4

"Headlights"

Word count: 4k

CW: blood, gun violence, death, implied child death

The two of you make your way down the street, eyes flicking from building to building in caution. Your gun resting on your lap as you pushed yourself forward in your chair. The streets weren't very.. alive. The corpses were around, but on the ground, skulls bashed. Others were still squirming, writhing on the cement with snapping jaws, but they weren't strong enough to get up. By broken legs or half eaten torsos.

"Thought there would be more."

Johnny mumbles, still gripping the knife he was given in a tight fist at his side. You give him a glance before shrugging.

"Looters pass through and take some down. The rest wander around in groups, drawn around by sound. They filter through the town at night, wandering off during the day when they hear survivors."

You take the time to explain. It's better he knows, so he can survive on his own.

Johnny nods with a sigh. This all felt unreal to him. Like he would wake up any second in the hospital. A hospital full of life. Lights. Nurses. Maybe his team would be around him. Maybe his family. Or maybe he was dead, this fucked up dream being a permanent purgatory. A punishment for his war crimes. Maybe this was just. He couldn't deny he may deserve it with all the life he's taken.

He stops walking as he notices you turn towards the sidewalk in front of a one story house. As you pull up towards the door, Johnny walks behind you. Tilting his head watching you unlock the door and push on the aching hinges, making them squeal in protest. Going in you glance back at him over your shoulder.

"It's not much. But the way things are right now it's better than nothing. There's spare clothes in the bedroom. Hopefully something will fit you."

Johnny nods.

"Dinnae worry lass. Plenty enough."

He mumbles walking into the house, shutting the door behind him with his shoulder. He walks around the place, the back door was boarded, Windows as well. Walking around the hall to find the bedroom like you mentioned. Pulling on dresser drawers he searches for something he can wear. Finding some mens jeans, boxers, a long sleeve and a sweatshirt. Layers was the game now, as you had told him electricity went out a month ago. No heating.

The bed in the room was.. a sight. He could see why you weren't sleeping in here. It was drenched in dried blood. Handprints and tears all over the ripped up naked mattress.

He sighs deeply, pulling up the hospital gown, over his shoulders and head. Tossing it on the floor. Reaching for the boxers he steps into them and pulls them up his body, a little tight. He mutters something under his breath, brows taught as he cursed. But they would do. Next pulling on the jeans. Shirt. Before finally pulling the sweatshirt over his head. Johnny shifts now fully dressed, his hand mindlessly reaching up to his beard as he catches his reflection in the dresser mirror.

"Fucks sake.. Two months.."

He whispers to himself.

The scott walked back towards the living room, leaning against the doorway as you unloaded supplies gathered from today. Glancing over him for a moment, raising your head and giving him a chuckle.

"Well at least you look like less of a psych ward patient.."

You hum. Making him chortle and shake his head at you.

"Cannae catch a break even in a coma huh?"

John quips back.

You glance him over, eyes catching on the slightly shaved spot on his head. Where the stitches and ridge of a new forming scar was starting.

"Am I allowed to ask?"

You tilt your head curiously. Johnny blinks, his eyes flicker to your legs and where you're seated in your wheelchair.

"Am I?"

He returns.

You stare at him for a moment or two. Before turning your head away.

"I'll leave it be then."

You drop the topic quickly. Johnny does too. Looks like both of you have sore wounds not ready to press on yet.

"Ye said this was a virus..?"

John asks shortly. You nod, overturning a can as you check the date on it. Going over supplies, though your hunger wasn't going to stop you from eating a two day expired can of food.

"Yes. No one really knows much. At least us civilians. Even being ex military no one could tell me shit when this all broke out... All I know.. Is that being bitten will kill you."

You explain.

"Kill ye? I thought ye turn inta one of those bastards?"

John tilts his head, his jaw set. Tongue pushing inside his mouth below his bottom lip in frustration. He watched you find yet another can, this time holding it out to him. His eyes just barely soften, glancing away as he steps forward to take it from your hands with a nod of gratitude. You continue to explain.

"Whatever it is.. it kills you first. Fever. Shakes. Ruptures your vitals till you're just choking on blood. And when it's done.. You're done... It just takes over your body."

You look down at the can, a bit.. Dazed as you mindlessly explain. Johnny's throat goes dry at the thought. This wasn't just an infection.. Whatever this was. Was manipulating bodies in a way he's never seen.

"How do ye know?"

Johnny asks, taking in your condition. You know a little too much to be guessing.

You suck in a tight breath. Looking up at the other soldier. You decide to answer honestly.

"A couple lived next door. Wives. They came over cause they knew I had weapons, rations, a bit of experience. One of them was bitten.. We didn't know what it was-"

You sigh and lean back in your chair.

"In just a few hours she was gone. And.. Whatever thing came back in place of her.. bit her wife and.."

You swallow. Before steeling yourself with a shrug as you popped open the can of food.

"I dealt with it."

Johnny watched you quietly, he didn't want to push you anymore on this. The way your shoulders slacked and your eyes fall closed in a reminisce of pain made his chest twist.

" 'm sorry lass.."

He whispers under his breath. You open your eyes again to shrug it off and clear your throat. Saying simply.

"This is what the world is now John. That's all."

It was getting dark, during their journey back from the hospital the sky was getting darker. But now it was near black outside.

"Doors are locked.. the dead can't open them. Not much brain function there except walking and hunger.."

You explain, opening up a battery operated lantern. To at least illuminate the room enough to see.

You grab a few stacked blankets, draping them on the floor in a makeshift pallette to sleep on the floor. Despite the couch next to you. Your hands push at your seat, about to slip yourself out.

Johnny wasn't having that.

He puts his can of food on the stand, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder. Gently pressing you back into the chair.

"Yer not seriously sleepin' on the floor bonnie?"

He shakes his head at you. You raise a brow a him, the corner of your lips quirk in a slight smile.

"Saying you don't want the couch Sargeant?"

"Nah. You'll take it."

Johnny says fairly sternly. But it didn't take much for you to comply. Taking his hand off you with your own. Pulling up to the couch to transfer out of your chair and onto it. Sitting on the cool leather, you reach over to pull your gun into your lap.

"That's all the blankets I have for you John-"

"I told ye dinnae worry lass."

You shake your head at him with a huff of amusement.

"As long as it's better than the barracks cots huh?"

You say, which gets a chuckle out of him.

The two of you had eased up for the night. You sat on the couch, legs comfortably propped up with the can in your lap. Johnny was on the pad of blankets on the floor next to you. Empty can on the floor next to him. You finish yours, resting it on the stand behind your head. It's been hours but neither of you can sleep.

It's dark, but Johnny is looking at you. The orange light of the lantern illuminates your curled up figure. Even in this light he can see the dark circles under your eyes. Poor lass.. he thinks. His head aches at the thought of the shit show you saw during all this.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything really. But he just looked like a gasping fish. White light comes in through the windows in beams, filtering through the boards blocking them. Leaving both of your heads to snap over to them. You lurch over the arm of the couch, shutting off the lantern in an instant. Plunging the room into darkness.

Your silent. Too silent. Johnny's eyes search the little gaps of the window, catching sight of headlights. Somebody was driving by. He sits up stiffly. But stills when feeling fingertips find his shoulder, they're yours. He knows it.

"Stay down.."

You whisper. He trusts it. If there's a reason you're hiding from these people, it's probably a good one.

You were also sitting up now, hand firmly clamped on his shoulder. He could see you're looking straight at the door. Your free hand inches to your gun to pull it to you. He reaches for his knife. His eyes stay on you.

Give the word bon.

You both can do this.

Maybe there isn't that many in the truck.

But you squeeze his shirt in a fist. Both of you watching as the lights slowly pass further down the street. Eventually going blocks away. You let out a long breath. Before leaning back with a curse under your breath. Johnny looks at you with a frown.

"Ye know 'em?"

You shake your head, your hand slowly leaves his shoulder. Your warmth goes with it.

"..I only seen one of them.. Had a run in a few days ago. It's a group.. That's all I know." You say.

"How?" He asks.

"Killed one, thought that was it. But the truck still comes every night."

Johnny blinks at you with a slack jaw, before closing it tightly. Fuck. Maybe they didn't know. Maybe they never saw you. Maybe they think the corpses got their companion. His jaw is set.

"They came at ye?" He's trying to confirm.

You nod. Gripping your gun a little tighter, you're still looking in the direction of where the truck went.

"There's no laws John.. No good men if good means nothing anymore."

You mumble simply and softly. He fucking hated the thought of what that meant.

You two are quiet for another ten minutes, before hearing a scream, brutal and throat ripping from a few blocks away. A woman. Johnny is up on his feet in seconds. And you drop your head back with gritted teeth and a devastated sigh.

"..I told her to leave... I thought she did.."

Johnny's eyes flick to you. He clenches his fist and takes a step towards the door. You stare at the ceiling.

".. It's too late. We wouldn't make it to her."

He's frustrated at your words, turning to look back at you.

"We can fuckin' tr-"

A gunshot cuts him off. Turning his tongue to ash in his mouth. Eyes locked on yours. You let out a shaky sigh. You both know that girl is gone.

"I told you.. This is what the world is now."

"We need ta leave bonnie.." His tone is dripping in concern.

".. We'll talk about it tomorrow. We need supplies."

It took forever for you to fall asleep, John knows. He was watching over you. Fuck he didn't get a single blink of sleep himself. Anxiety twisting and knotting up in his gut. That group was probably hanging around and he didn't like it. Dealing with the dead was one thing.. Now that he knew what was going on they weren't too hard to take down. Slow, stumbling and brain dead. The real hostiles were the living. That's what he knew.

Sunlight drips through the boarded windows, much warmer than the bright headlights last night. His eyes take in the room again, for nearly the fiftieth time now. Every detail. The couch, the upturned armchair in the corner. Your chair, looked a little beat up, he wonders how long you've had it. The wheels are somewhat worn down, even a couple gauges in the rubber, that was why it didn't roll quite as smoothly. His eyes fell on you now. He wondered if this was your house.

Johnny gets up slowly, last night solidified something. He needed to get out of this town. More importantly. You both needed out of this town. That group running around? The woman killed last night? You saved his life, he wasn't going to leave you to die here. Not when you didn't leave him for dead at that hospital. His hand reaches out to nudge you, coming in contact with your shoulder.

It takes a split second for you to wake, only another split to have your gun up at him. He didn't take it to heart, he knew instinct when he sees it. Gently pushing the barrel away.

"Easy...jus' me."

The scottish accent soothes, you immediately lower the gun when you realize. Letting it rest in your lap as you drop your head back with a sigh.

"Fuck.. Sorry. Used to sleeping alone."

You apologize.

This morning was spent getting ready, in your chair, loading rounds into your rifle. Getting an empty bag to bring supplies back. You had told John there's one more store that's relatively untouched in town. It was locked up by the owner when things went to shit. But you found some bolt cutters yesterday to get in. He was more than willing to go on the supply run with you. You pulled on a sweatshirt over your t-shirt and headed out together.

The town is small. It only takes fifteen minutes to get to the store. Johnny is trying to convince you to leave. He has been the entire walk.

"How long till that group stumbles on ye?"

He mutters. You sigh in response, stopping your chair in front of the chained up doors. You hand him your rifle so he can keep watch as you grab the bolt cutters from your bag.

"I move houses once a week-"

You tell him. So it wasn't your house.. Johnny thinks.

"Bon.. there isn't much to search in town. They're gonna notice this store opened.. They'll know yer still here."

He tells you.

"I'll deal with it Johnny. You can move on from town. Let's just get these supplies yeah?"

You dismiss. You use the cutters to break through the chains, they drop to the ground and you push the doors open. Going inside. Johnny is left frowning at you. You think he's going to leave you here.

You both stop a couple feet from the entrance, both of you wide eyed. Holy shit. This place was entirely untouched. Stocked. Full.

"Fuck.."

You whisper under your breath. Your stomach aches looking at all this food. One glance at Johnny and you can tell he's feeling the same. You grab one of the empty bags hanging from the back of your chair, a big duffel.

"Canned goods first, water, anything that will stay good for a while."

He nods and takes the bag, putting the rifle on the counter. You have another bag in your lap. You split up to gather as much as you can.

This place felt like an oasis, no blood, corpses, not a single sign of the hell that was outside. Just a store. You shoved as much in your bag as you could, jugs of water, canned vegetables, soups, anything that lasts. Even some cheap kitchen knives. Johnny was maybe five aisles down, getting any supplies he could. There was tools. Maybe they could work on your chair if they needed it. He stuffed them in the bag. The store was a pretty good size, even a small outdoors section. As when this shit show went down it was camping season, lucky for them. John gathered anything that would fit in the bag.

This relief, excitement, near joy of finding this absolute gold of a store. Neither of you noticed the truck pulling up outside.

Not until the doors slammed shut. You stilled in your chair, breath cut off in your chest. Your brows furrow looking down at your lap, you freeze. You left your gun with Johnny. He left it on the counter. You both are fucking idiots, blinded by the richness of the store. You swallow thickly, silently pulling your chair behind the aisle separator. You listened, trying to calm your slamming heart. Two pairs of footsteps. Alright.. You can work with that. One might be Johnny's. So there's definitely one, possibly two.

You reach into your bag, searching for the kitchen knife you packed earlier. The footsteps are getting closer. Fuck. Fuck. Please where is the damn thing!? The footsteps are getting closer. Two aisles left. Your hand wraps around the handle, there. You pull it out. The blade catches on a can, pulling it over the lip of the bag. You have to watch with parted lips of anguish as it falls over your lap, clattering onto the floor. Rolling a few feet past the edge of the aisle.

How fucking nice. You're going to die because of a soup can.

Pulling the knife up to defend yourself, hearing the steps quicken towards you. You look around to catch eyes of a man, holding a pistol. Wearing a wicked grin when he finds you. You plan on seconds your last defense, maybe you could swing at his arm. Maybe you could hide around the aisle a little longer. He's coming at you now. Move.

More running steps. Definitely not his. It's a flash, a big, fucking angry, flash. Johnny slams straight into the man, they both crash into the aisle next to you in the struggle. Both grunting and cursing.

"Johnny-!"

You blurt his name, pushing forward in your chair to get towards him. You could give him the knife, you could-

"Take it easy sweetheart."

The barrel of a shotgun is pressed to your temple. Your throat bobs in a tight swallow. You grip the knife with white knuckles.

"Drop it. Or I'll paint the wall with your fucking brain."

The man tells you. Gritting your teeth you suck in a breath, letting the knife fall to the floor. It's not too far, maybe a couple feet away. Your lips tightly pressed together in the stress, eyes on the aisle where Johnny and that man were. The struggling stopped, you could only hear muffled grunts.

"That's it. You listen pretty well yeah?"

Your eyes flick up to your captor, you feel sick at the way he licks his lips. You glare at him.

"You deal with him yet?"

Your captor hollers to his companion, shifting in annoyance when not getting a reply. The mans lips purse in frustration.

"Jason hurry the fuck up-!"

He shouts. But the response he gets isn't what he wants. Stepping out from the aisle, Johnny has the second attacker in a one armed head lock. While using his own pistol to hold to the mans temple. Johnny's soft blue eyes are narrowed in a furious glare seeing that shotgun to your head.

"Let hir go. Now."

John seethed.

Your attackers face twists in anger, gripping your hair harshly. Pressing the barrel of the gun harder against your head, the metal scraping your skin. Making you let out a hiss. Johnny tenses at this, shifting in a mix of discomfort and anger.

"Now-! Or I put 'im down!"

Johnny shouts

You swallow thickly. You know this man. At least you did.

"Marvin right?"

You say sharply. Making his eyes snap to you. He blinks. Mouth opening to curse at you, but you keep going.

"You know me. I know you. I know your wife- I know your kids-"

You tell him. His chest heaves and you know what this means. They're dead. But right now, in a sick and twisted way, that's good. You need him to fall apart. You need him to get emotional. Your hand slips at the edge of your bag, wrapping around the first thing you feel, another can.

"They know you're hunting people down like this?"

"Shut up-"

He snaps back.

"Let me go. We can forget this."

You tell him. He clamps his jaw, eyes narrowing at Johnny. Scoffing he grits his teeth.

"This bloke killed him didn't he? .. Killed Ian."

Marvin snarls. Johnny didn't. You did. You open your mouth to deny but Johnny takes it into his hands.

"Aye. And if I did? Should be lucky I'm not killin' ye."

Marvin snarls.

"You leave. He stays."

He says. Your stomach wrenches, words flooding your mouth.

"No- That's not fucking happening.. Marvin-"

You suck in a breath to speak calm again.

"Don't do this. Let us go and we'll leave.. fucks sake Marvin, I babysitted your daughter while your wife delivered your son-"

These words hit him hard, the gun moved away from your head. Just enough. That's just enough. You swing the can up with your fist, giving a bit more power to an upper cut sent to his jaw. Sending him stumbling back. He's stronger than you, you're not getting that shotgun from his grip. You throw yourself forward out of your chair, going for the knife on the floor.

At the same time, Johnny shoots the man in his hold, throwing the body aside. Marvin takes a step forward to ready his shotgun at you.

"YOU FUCKING BIT-"

Just like that two shots go off. You see one, in Marvin's forehead as he slumps to the ground lifeless. But the other you don't see. For a second you think you're shot, there's liquid pooling next to you. You're ears are ringing. You take heavy breaths staring at Marvin.

"Lass?!"

Johnny calls your name, rushing towards you his hands clamp on your arms. Pulling you to lean up against him, on his knees. On the floor with you. You can feel the scruff of his untamed beard scratch at your temple. The pistol left on the floor too. Your eyes blink at him, before looking down next to you.

Fucking soup.

It was the can, about half a foot away, blasted open by the missed shot from Marvin. Pooling next to you and under your side.

"I'm fine.."

You whisper. Nodding as you pull yourself together. Looking at him more clearly. Nodding in confirmation.

"You alright John?"

Johnny looks at you with a hard swallow, unable to voice just how gut punched he felt by that last move of yours. But he nods. You pulled it off. That's what matters.

" 'm alright bonnie.."

He mumbles, he reaches for your chair armrest. Pulling it over to the two of you. You could get up on your own, but Johnny's hands envelop your hips, lifting you up past him to slip you into your chair. Your hands grip at his shoulders.

His eyes stare into yours, pleading something you already know. You suck in a breath and nod a few times.

"I know- I know you need to get out of he-"

"We. We need ta. I'm not fucking leaving ye bon.."

You look at him, jaw tight and your throat spasms.

"I'll be a damn chore Johnny-"

"No."

He says sternly. Johnny is still gripping your hips. Giving you an almost glare, he's determined now.

"I need ye. You're no chore."

You look at him in silence. The both of you sitting between two bodies, two pools of blood.

"Okay... Okay we'll leave."

If you could kill for eachother. Maybe you could live for eachother too.

{I am going for a bit of a slow burn, but I still want there to be a fast bond, you'll figure the feelings later. So I hope you enjoyed a little more lore building and protective Johnny! Lemme know if you want certain scenarios! And if anyone else wants added to the tag list! ♥️}

(tag list: @sadstone-s @lolly145 @mangoguy @kaoyamamegami )

[bitchfitch]

The heart is closer to the center of the chest than most realized. It cowers behind the sternum, beating away in its cage of bone as though it believes itself encased completely in steal.

Marion kissed his dearest friend. Armel's beard scraping along his chin, his hands on Marion's hips, his heart thumping steadily inches from Marion's own. He let the moment linger. His hand traced down Armel's side, over the bulge of his fat belly and down to the breadth of his thigh. Armel tilted his head, Marion pulled the stiletto dagger from its sheath on Armel's hip.

A treasure fit for a king, the thing they had been searching for since they were just boys playing make believe on their home shore, they had a map now. Its exact location still burning behind Marion's eyelids.

Hearts were seen as a symbol of courage, not for their stubbornness, but for the bravery it took for them to continue to beat inspite of their frailness.

Armel gasped against his lips, Marion clung to him as the blood gushed between them. Armel's weight turned to dead stone seconds after the stiletto pierced up through the thick muscle Marion had praised so often before, under the guard of the sturdy bones that seemed to never break, and into the heart he knew was his completely.

Marion was hot with Armel's life drenching his front. His friend, his lover, his brother of circumstance dead in his arms.

The treasure was fit for a king, but they weren't noble men. Armel would have struck if Marion hadn't done it first.

Marion dragged him to the ships railing, kissed his cheek one last time, and dropped him overboard with the map still tucked down his shirt.

Marion would never forget it's illustration, he never forgot anything, with it destroyed and Armel gone he wouldn't have to share a single coin.

The ocean far below embraced the body of the heart torn fool. The waves balming a spirit still too shocked to so much as grieve his own death.

A storm brewed far above.

The ocean pulled the fool deeper and deeper, it's siren song filled his untethered mind.

The waves began to crash against the ship's hull.

The ocean cared not for the betrayals of man, but it adored the ruthless who carried its spirit.

Thunder rumbled.

The ocean called the fool kin, and offered him an exchange it knew he would accept.

The rain began to pour.

A heart torn monster surged in the ship's wake. Cold and dead and hunting as lightning struck the deck.

[sky-fire-forever]

Happy DADWC day! How does some Fenris/Anders/Hawke sound with a bit of ❛  do you ever wonder what it would be like if things were different between us?  ❜

Thank you so much for this prompt!! I'm actually really proud of this one! For @dadrunkwriting

My Hawke in this one is Scorpius, who uses they/them pronouns.

The clinic is nearly spotless from Anders’ thorough clean of the place. He’s been scrubbing the entire area from top to bottom since this morning, trying to rid it of the bloodstains and stench and mysterious mold that grows on the walls. He wants this to be a place of healing, which isn’t made easy when the place is filthy. 

Not that he often has time to clean it. If he isn’t tending to patients, he’s out with Hawke, neither of which leaves a lot of time to actually give the place the cleaning it deserves. Which is why he takes every opportunity that’s dropped into his lap and holds tight with everything he has.

He’s no sooner finished tidying up when the doors burst open and Fenris storms in, supporting a limping and bloodied Hawke.

Anders jumps up immediately, tossing his rag away in favor of his staff. “Maker’s breath, what happened?” He leads Hawke to the examination table and gently sits them atop of it.

There’s so much blood that Anders doesn’t know where to begin searching for a wound. He begins frantically pushing at Hawke’s clothes, anxiously searching for whatever the cause of Hawke’s condition might be. He can’t heal it if he doesn’t know what it is.

“We got into a fight, what else?” Fenris snaps. “Can you heal them or not, mage?” There’s a growl to his voice, one that Anders knows well from whenever he’s concerned or freaked out by something. 

“Yes, of course.” Anders pulls at Hawke’s robes, tossing them aside to get a closer look at their body. “Where were they hit? Do you know?” 

“Everywhere,” Fenris growls like that’s of any use. 

“Did they at any point hit their head?” Anders needs details if he’s going to see Hawke through this. 

“How am I supposed to–”

“Fenris, please!” Anders turns to fix the elf with his best glare. “I need your help if I’m going to heal them.” 

Fenris grits his teeth, but doesn’t lash out again, which Anders takes as progress. “Yes, they hit their head after an arrow shot them in the leg,” he says, speaking slowly as though to control his anger and get his thoughts in order.

Anders nods and summons his healing magic to his fingertips. It comes as naturally as breathing to heal, to help, to undo the damage done by destructive forces. Ironic, considering what a destructive force he himself has been known to be. 

He brings his magic to Hawke’s head, watching their face as they hiss in pain. 

“I know, love,” he says sympathetically. “I know it hurts, but I need to repair the damage.” 

Head injuries can be rather nasty if not taken care of right away, which is exactly why it was the first thing Anders asked about. He pours his magic into repairing any damage done to the brain and skull, taking care not to worsen any of the injuries. When he’s done, he sets to healing the damage in Hawke’s leg. 

It takes almost an hour to cure Hawke of all of their ailments, patching up each injury as he discovers them or Fenris tells him about them. By the time it’s over, Hawke lays fast asleep on the examination table, drooling slightly as they dream. 

Anders is exhausted. His mana is spent and he’s completely drained, emotionally and physically. It hurts him to see his partner in so much pain, to be forced to be the cause of some of that pain in order to heal them. 

He takes a step away from the table, wiping his brow and sighing. “There. That should do it.” 

“They’re… alright, then?” Fenris asks from where he’s been sitting in the corner, watching on with rapt attention. 

“Yes, though they should rest as much as possible.” Anders watches Hawke fondly, taking in the sight of the drool smeared across their lips and catching in their beard. They’re beautiful, even like this. Even still drenched in blood after fighting for their life. Even out completely cold. Anders doesn’t think there exists a condition in which Hawke wouldn’t be absolutely beautiful. 

Fenris nods. “I should… take them back to their estate, then.” He pauses, as if uncertain. “Unless I should take them back to my residence in order to have someone watch over them?” 

“I can be at home with them,” Anders says easily. “I was just about finished in here anyway.” Except that there are now new bloodstains to be cleaned. Oh well, those will just have to wait. 

Fenris clears his throat. “You misunderstand. I would like to be with them.” 

“Oh.” Anders blinks, caught off guard. He can’t blame Fenris for wanting to be with Hawke to make sure they’re alright — he’s just as much their lover as Anders is, after all — but Anders still finds himself almost forgetting about Hawke’s relationship with Fenris at times. 

There had been a time when it had been just Hawke and Anders. For three years, in fact, after Fenris had walked away and Anders had stayed. Sometimes, on his worse days, Anders wonders if Hawke ever would have chosen to be with him had Fenris not walked away first, but Hawke is always quick to soothe those fears the moment they catch wind of them. 

This relationship between the three of them is still tenuous and new. It’s still in its infancy and Anders doesn’t want to do anything to break it. 

“Of course you can be with them,” he says hurriedly. “As long as… well, I’d like to be there too.” 

“Of course.” Fenris looks just as uncomfortable as Anders feels, which brings Anders some amount of relief. 

They wake Hawke just long enough to coax them back to their mansion, using the cellar entrance located not far from Anders’ clinic. They manage to get them through the estate without any trouble and tuck them into bed together. 

Hawke looks up at them both as they snuggle beneath their sheets, their mind still addled from exhaustion. “Look at you two, getting along.” They beam at them both. “I love you both so much.” 

Anders and Fenris look at one another, a blush rising to each of their cheeks. “And we love you, Hawke,” Fenris says in a softer voice than Anders has ever heard from him. “Now you must rest.” 

“Healer’s orders,” Anders adds. 

Hawke nods sleepily and less than a moment later, they’re out like a light. 

Anders smiles at his sleeping lover and brushes some of their hair back. They’re still quite bloody, but that can be dealt with in the morning. 

“Do you ever wonder what things would have been like?” Fenris asks out of nowhere. 

Anders turns to look at him. “Pardon?” 

“Do you wonder what things would have been like if things were different? Between us, I mean.” He gestures to the three of them. 

Anders doesn’t like this line of thinking. “What’s the point of wondering? Things are how they are.” 

“I think about it often,” Fenris says, either not picking up on Anders’ discomfort or not caring. “If I hadn’t walked out that night…” 

“Do you think they would have chosen you?” Anders blurts out before he can think better of it. “If you hadn’t left, do you think they would have been happy with just you?” 

Fenris eyes Anders curiously. “No,” he says after a long pause. “No, I think they would have loved you just as much as they do now, if not more.” 

Anders is honestly surprised by that answer. “You truly believe that?” 

“I do.” Fenris is silent for a moment. “I do not believe any relationship between Hawke and myself would have lasted if I had allowed it to continue,” he says. “I sometimes think this is the best way it could have been.” 

Anders scoffs. “Even though it includes me?” He can’t keep the note of bitterness from his tone. 

Surely Fenris would rather be with Hawke on his own, without having to share them with Anders. They’re like two wolves who have decided to share a piece of meat: there will always be too little for each of them and they’ll both be left hungry. 

Fenris watches Anders with an expression Anders can’t read. “Do you feel dissatisfied with your relationship with Hawke due to my inclusion?” 

“No,” Anders says quickly and he realizes it’s true. Hawke never leaves him out in the cold if he needs them and they’re just as doting and loving towards him as they’ve always been. It’s simply… different now. Now Anders can turn his head and see that same affection directed towards someone else. 

Sometimes seeing it makes his stomach twist with envy, jealousy brewing in his heart. A part of him screams that it’s unjust for him to have to share, to not get Hawke all to himself, but he knows that part of him isn’t true Justice. 

It’s just his own pride and jealousy and ego. He knows that, has always known that. He’d known it from the moment he agreed that Hawke should be allowed to pursue a relationship with Fenris. 

Sometimes it stings, but then he thinks of how happy Hawke is to share their love. The smile on their face when they look at Fenris is so similar to the smile Anders sees when Hawke looks at him and who is he to deny Hawke more happiness? All he wants is Hawke’s happiness. 

And Hawke needs someone there for them when Anders does what he has to do. When he betrays them and their trust, he needs them to not be alone. Fenris can make them happy, can help with the decision to put a knife in Anders’ back for his crimes. He can make it easier. 

“They love you,” Anders says. “That doesn’t stop them from loving me too.” 

“It does not,” Fenris agrees. “They are someone capable of much love.” 

Anders nods and takes a seat beside Fenris. “Thank you, Fenris. For being there for them.”

Fenris sits silently, but Anders understands. 

[catt-leya]

Hiiii

I was wondering if you could write a fic with the prompts; 1,9, and 17 :)

If not it’s okay! Have a good day!!

Drunk (18+) || Rick Grimes

1. This cock isn't going to suck itself

9. Don't give me that look

17. I really dont care, you look hot and I'm trying not to fuck you senseless right now

Summary: You are wearing a red lipstick at a party and Rick can't get his eyes off you.

Trigger: dirty talk, semi public sex and my smutty stuff

With your lips pressed together, you stare into the mirror in front of you and try to suppress the slight tremor in your hand.

Concentrating, you frown and try not to paint yourself on, like a clown.

It's been ages since you've put on makeup, and when your best friend Charlie brought you that dark red lipstick, you didn't expect to even touch it, but now that she's decided to celebrate her birthday the way it used to be done, with plenty of alcohol and music, you've decided to give the lipstick a try.

The only problem is that you haven't been this stressed in a long time, as you have been for the last 20 minutes trying to somehow get this nonsense together.

You hold your breath and before you can draw the final line, your boyfriend calls out from the kitchen, "Honey? Is everything okay? You've been in the bathroom a long time."

Tense, you answer loudly, "Five minutes, then we can go. Are you wearing the shirt I laid out for you?"

You hear an approving hum and turn your attention back to lipstick's instrument of torture.

Concentrating, you pull the last line and lean back to inspect your work.

You didn't go overboard with the makeup, but the lipstick is fierce.

Unfortunately, you also have no idea how well it will hold up and where you'll end up leaving lipstick marks when you're drunk too, but for now, you look good.

Especially with the white dress, you look like you did before the walker Invasion.

You set your lipstick down on the edge of the sink and turn away from the mirror to walk over to your boyfriend, who is surprisingly patiently waiting for you.

As you go round the corner, he's just rolling up the second sleeve from the blue shirt you picked out for him.

Rick looks so good in that blue shirt that you mentally pat yourself on the back.

Quietly, you clear your throat, "I'm ready."

Smiling, he turns to you and freezes when he sees you.

You stare openly at him, too, because he looks so…clean.

There's usually dirt stuck to his face and he's wearing his pants, which are probably older than you are.

But today he's wearing new pants and his hair is neatly combed back, too.

Not to mention his beard, which he's trimmed, and his eyes, which only shine brighter at the sight of you.

Rick always thinks you're beautiful. Whether you walk up to him drenched in walker blood or wearing one of his old shirts.

But today you look to him as if you had fallen straight from heaven and he was not worthy of you at all.

The short white dress hugs your thighs and the thin straps of the dress leave a lot to his imagination.

But the red lipstick takes away all innocence from the dress.

He can't help but stare at your lips and is sure that every guy at the party would turn to look at you.

Even when you're out in shorts, he sees guys looking around for you, but today they'll be lusting after you and he'll have to block everything and everyone out without thinking too long about how your red lips might leave marks on his skin.

He pulls himself together not to gape openly at you and reaches out a hand to you, "You look incredible."

The way he looks at you and tries to reach for you brings a blush to your face, and you clear your throat softly as your fingers cup his, "You look great too, Rick."

As soon as he can touch you, he pulls you to him.

He's pulled so hard on your hand that you're swaggering against him, having to brace yourself with your hand against his chest to keep from landing face down in his pretty blue shirt and soaking it completely, "Wow, slow."

Greedily, his gaze slides back to your lips and you lightly punch his broad chest, "Don't even think about it. It took me forever to get the lipstick like that, so you can give me a kiss on the cheek, but stay the hell away from my mouth."

You see his eyes slide to your neckline for a moment before he looks you in the eye again and smiles slightly, "I love you."

Your heart warms and you turn your cheek to him, "I love you too and now give me that kiss already. I deserve it."

As you demand, he leans forward and presses his soft lips to your heated cheek before murmuring softly against your skin, "You smell so damn good."

When Rick speaks as softly as he does now, his voice is a little deeper than normal and your whole body reacts to this small change.

Of course he senses it and asks in that exact tone, "You sure you don't want me to ruin that lipstick?"

His hips are pressed against you and his closeness clouds your thoughts so you almost say 'Do it', but at the last moment you break away from him and shake your head laughing, "Stop it."

Rick lowers his head a little to look at you through his lashes, knowing full well you're going for it, but you lift a finger and wave it back and forth in front of him, "That's it. Stop hitting on me like that. It's not fair."

His smile widens and he gives you a quick nod, "And I don't think the dress is fair."

Playfully, you roll your eyes and walk past him to the door, "I'm sure Charlie's waiting."

As you expected, an extremely large amount of alcohol is flowing and you wonder how Charlie was able to find these masses in the first place, but when she falls around your neck and shortly after also presses the first glass of wine into your hand, you already don't care so much anymore.

At the effusive greeting, Rick has taken his hand off your back and after Charlie has fallen around his neck too, he announces that he's going to go find Daryl.

Once he's out of earshot, I quietly ask Charlie, "How did you get Daryl to show up here? He's not into that at all."

Coquettishly, she adjusts her dark green dress and chirps, "I have some talents that can be extremely persuasive, sweetheart."

Laughing, I shake my head, preferring not to ask further.

"Red looks really good on you," she says with a wink and grabs my hand, "Come on. The others were already betting on when you'd show up and your lover would finally get his hands off you."

In fact, you never expected to find a best friend in Alexandria, let alone a group of four people who are incredibly important to you.

But now you're heading toward your friends Jon, Ellen, and Marc with Charlie, and you're pulled right in by the latter, "Well, here you are at last."

Grinning, you take a sip from your glass, "You guys act like I arrived hours late, when it's maybe half an hour. Tops."

Ellen raises her glass of bronze-colored liquid to her lips and finishes it in my gulp before wiggling her eyebrows, "So what happened in that half hour."

You take a sip from your glass, too, "Stop with the dirty thoughts. It's not like we're gonna fuck all day."

Quietly, Charlie mutters, "That's not what I heard."

"What?" you stare at her and she shrugs her shoulders with a grin, "Harry takes care of the gardens, and on the odd occasion he once told me that you two were doing it like rabbits. Besides, you both like to leave the windows open and when he cuts the bushes, he hears interesting things. Especially how your lover likes to order you to bend over and-"

Before she can finish the sentence, you tear yourself away from Marc and press your hand over her mouth, "Okay, got it. Harry? Seriously?"

Wordlessly she nods and you take dhand from her lips, "How old is he, 15? 16?"

Jon stares to the other side of the room and purses his lips, "Bullshit. He's 20 and probably so horny without access to porn that he'll happily listen to your free show."

Shit.

But there are worse things in the world than a boyfriend who loves you immensely and a 20 year old who tells around that Rick likes to make you his little slut during sex.

Sighing, you raise your glass, "Let's get another round. After all, we have to toast to my terrific sex life."

It doesn't stay with this one round and at some point Jon disappears to, in his words, 'test out what this guy is like' and by that he means a guy who came to Alexandria a few days ago and hasn't been able to take his eyes off Jon since and the other way around, it hasn't been any better.

Your field of vision wavers a bit as you look to Charlie and Marc, who are discussing whether vodka or tequila is the better alcohol, as large hands lay on your stomach from behind.

You wince briefly, but quickly realize that it's only Rick, who is completely drunk and presses himself against you from behind.

You wait to see what he's up to, and you don't have to wait long before he lowers his head and murmurs in your ear, "I hate that these guys are looking at you like they can have you."

Fueled by the alcohol, you press your ass against his crotch, "What guys?"

His breath is hot and heavy as he hums, "To your left at the bar."

Your gaze slides to the bar Rick described and sure enough, there are three men you've seen from time to time on the streets of Alexandria sitting there staring at you, one of them less in your face and more focused on your body. They don't seem to care that their leader has his crotch pressed against you, his hands sliding from your belly over your ribs and holding under your breasts.

Only his thumb brushes the underside of your breasts and you take a shaky breath, "Touch me."

He laughs hoarsely against your neck, "Dirty girl. Right here? Where everyone can see how well your tits fit in my hands?"

You don't take your eyes off the three men and breathlessly say, "Yes, Rick. Now."

You're tipsy, but Rick is drunk to the core and doesn't give a damn that you've invited him to touch you in public, and reaches out with his right hand to grab your breast.

His hand fits your boob perfectly and you gasp softly, "They are still looking at me."

"Why are you telling me this?" he growls against your neck and as he squeezes tighter, you sigh softly, "Because I want you to realize that they can stare at me as long as they want, but you're the one who gets to touch me like this."

A 'fuck' slips from Rick's lips as you press harder against his hardening cock, and he sends a shove prayer to the heavens that he's had a few too many glasses, but not so much that he can't fuck you anymore.

Your nipple in his hand tightens and sliding a hand to your thigh, you gasp softly, "I have a secret to tell you, Rick."

He starts spreading wet kisses down your neck, mumbling between them, "Hmmm," so you say in a raspy voice, "I didn't have panties to go with the dress because you would have seen everything under the white dress, so I didn't wear any at all."

It takes a few seconds before it gets through to Rick that you're naked down below, and he could just stuff his fingers in your pussy right now without having to worry about disturbing layers of fabric first.

His cock presses uncomfortably against his pants and just as he's about to slide his hand under your dress, Charlie shrieks, "Guys. For real now? We're standing right next to you."

Tighter than Rick would have given her credit for, she grabs his wrist and tugs his hand off your thigh, "Rick Grimes. Stop drunkenly groping my best friend right now while you're still at my party."

Rick freezes behind you and you can't hold back your laughter as you see Charlie's face, "Oops?"

At that, you wonder how she even knows it's her birthday. Especially since you can't even tell what month it is, but you actually trust Charlie to have been counting, so you don't question it further and she shakes her head with a grin, "New episode for Harry?"

Confused, Rick looks first at Charlie and then at you, "Huh?"

It occurs to you that Rick doesn't know anything yet about you having a 20 year old in your backyard and instead of telling him, you gently push his hand off your boob and intertwine his fingers with yours instead.

Reluctantly, he allows you to pull his hand from your soft tit and breathes a feather-light kiss on your cheek as you look to your best friend with eyes glittering with anticipation, "We'll be right back."

He can't help but grin victoriously in the direction of the three idiots as you pull him by his hand through the clusters of people and Charlie yells after you over the music, "Not in my room."

To be honest, he doesn't even know where you're going with him, but he's sure he'll get his money's worth, so he stumbles more than walks after you and lets you push him into a small bathroom that adjoins the living room.

He takes a few steps inside and his eyes have to adjust to the sparse light of the candles standing around before he turns to you and watches you push the door shut with your back and look at him with huge eyes.

The candlelight flatters Rick's already handsome features immensely and you can't stop looking at him.

You've barely seen Rick since you arrived at the party a few hours ago, and now you wonder how that was even possible.

The shirt sits tight against his shoulders and his forearms are only accentuated by the rolled up sleeves, making your heart beat faster.

Your eyes wander back up to his face and the way a few curls fall into his forehead makes your knees go weak. He looks so bold and like your biggest dream at the same time.

God, he's beautiful.

It's almost ridiculous how easily he can read what you're thinking about in your face, and the look you're giving him right now leaves nothing to the imagination.

He realizes he doesn't have the smallest ego, but when you look at him like you'll do anything for him, it just drives it up.

"Get on your knees," is all you need to hear to groan softly, and though your first reaction would be to do exactly what he's asking, you bat your eyelashes seductively, "You're ruining my lipstick with that, Rick." And at the same time you couldn't care less, but you just want to tease him a little, which works very well, because by doing so you draw his gaze to your mouth and his drunken brain can't force him to look you in the eye instead.

When you part your lips to take a deep breath, he doesn't care how rude he sounds as he growls, "On. Your. Knees. This cock isn't going to suck itself."

You hesitate for a brief moment, wondering if you want to take it any further, but decide against it because you can't wait to hear Rick's deep growl yourself as he thrusts his tip all the way down your throat.

So you take a few small steps towards him and submissively drop to your knees in front of him and look up at him.

He would probably never forget the image of you kneeling in front of him in your innocent dress without panties and about to spread your red lipstick on his hard cock.

How you're looking at him with wide eyes and he could take it all from you.

The cool tile under your knees makes the pressure between your legs a little more bearable as you watch Rick pull his pants and boxers down to his thighs and hold his cock in front of your face.

He loves to see you waiting to finally start and when you open your pretty mouth, he doesn't hesitate for a second before pushing his tip between your lips and having to grab the sink rim next to him at the sensation to keep from pushing his cock all the way down your throat.

Still wide-eyed, you look up at him as he fills your mouth and he reaches into your hair, "Don't give me that look."

You know full well that looking at him while you suck him off drives him crazy, but you save that privilege for right now and temporarily fix your eyes on his cock, sliding it into your mouth again and again, leaving red screams from your lips each time.

Rick grip in your hair is so tight that you can barely move more than back and forth and when it almost hurts, you put your hands on his thighs and dig your fingers in.

It's not long before he's just holding your head in place, moaning as he thrusts deep into your throat again and again.

Each thrust brings tears to your eyes and when he slides so deep into your mouth that your nose hits his pubic bone, you gag.

The gag reflex makes Rick's cock twitch and when you think you can't breathe anymore, you look up at him.

Staring down at you with his mouth open, he can't believe he deserves you.

Seeing you like this is more than he deserves.

How tears run down your cheeks because you don't want to disappoint him and try as hard as you can not to gag.

How all your lipstick is smeared and your fingers cling to his thighs as he fucks your mouth.

Another vibration goes through his body as you start to gag again and he pulls you away from his cock moaning.

His whole body is screaming to cum in your mouth and make you swallow it all, but he knows you're wet and without your panties, it's probably sticking to your thighs, which he's dying to see.

As soon as he lets go of you, you support yourself with your hands on the cold tiles below you and take a gasping breath.

Your makeup has become so indifferent in the last few minutes that you wipe your cheeks with the back of your hand and dry your tears, not caring if you now look like something out of a horror movie.

You take one last deep breath and then softly gasp, "I love you. I'm sorry I couldn't stop gagging. I can do better than that."

Only then do you look at him again and he bites his lower lip hard, "I know, honey."

You feel the need to please him, and that includes giving him the kind of blowjob he can actually expect from you.

But today went anything but as you expected, and he nods to the door and growls, "Go."

Pleading, you look him in the eye, "Don't send me away. Let me try again. Please."

You couldn't stand to have to wait outside the door while he jerks off because you weren't able to satisfy him.

But before you can go back to begging, he brushes a few strands of hair out of your face and smiles gently at you, "Relax. I'm not sending you away."

He puts a hand to your chin and strokes your swollen lower lip with his thumb, "You did good, honey."

Briefly, he slips his thumb between your lips, but before you can suck on it, he withdraws his hand and murmurs, "But you're probably so wet you're soaking the whole floor. Do you really think I'd want to jerk myself off when you're more than willing and ready to let me fuck you? I want you to go to the door and brace yourself there, understand?"

You have to blink several times before what he wants from you gets through to you, and then you push yourself up off the floor.

Your knees are soft with excitement and the alcohol in your body makes you feel everything even more intensely when you turn your back to him and he immediately grabs you by the waist because you're swaying a bit.

Slowly, he pushes you towards the door and breathing heavily, you rest your palms on the it.

You don't even have to look to know that Rick is standing inches behind you as he softly breathes, "Do you want me?"

You squint your eyes and push your ass toward him, "Yes, Rick."

Gently, he pulls you away from the door a little more, so that your hands slide a little lower and you're bent forward so that all he'd have to do is lift your dress to thrust his cock into you.

But where would be the fun in that?

He puts both hands on your thighs and drives them up to your butt, so he can put your dress down on your hips.

Naked and vulnerable, you stand bent over in front of him, presenting your most intimate part, as he takes a step back and sighs proudly, "I knew it was already running down your thighs."

At his words, your pussy tightens and you realize yourself how embarrassingly wet you already are for him.

Silently, he watches you as you whimper softly, trying to hide how much you need it, and when you snivel, "Please" he finally buckles and steps behind you again, "I'm right here, honey."

You lower your head and moan miserably as he slides his cock long through your pussy before attaching his tip to your entrance and gripping your hip firmly, "Good girl. Be loud for me."

You've always been a louder partner in bed, and Rick never thought he could get off on it like this, but the first time he slept with you, it went to his head how loud you could get and end up screaming his name.

Even now you're gasping loudly as he presses himself inch by inch into your wet warmth and growls himself, "Fuck, how can you still be so fucking tight after I fuck you almost every day?"

You know he doesn't expect an answer and as he's inside you with his entire length, your legs start to shake and you whimper, "You have to hold me."

Quietly he replies, "I always hold you, don't I, my darling?" And your heart leaps.

No matter how long you've been together, you still haven't gotten used to how important you are to Rick and what he wouldn't do for you.

You trust him unconditionally, and that's what it takes to engage in the kind of sex you have with him. You know that he wouldn't force you to do anything you don't want to and he knows exactly how far he can go.

He gets closer behind you and you try to pull away from him a bit, so that he's not quite so deep inside you.

Then his grip tightens and he growls softly, "You like it when my cock is inside you, huh? Be a good girl and squeeze it. I know you feel stuffed, but do it for me."

When he talks to you like that, you can't help but do as he says, and you moan in sync as you tense your muscles and feel every inch of his cock deep inside you.

He pulls out of you far too slowly for your liking, only to thrust into you hard again, and you have to use all your strength to keep your arms from buckling and slamming you head against the door.

Groaning, he thrusts into you again and each time you have the feeling of feeling him deeper inside you.

As he gasps your name you lift your head a little and look over your shoulder at him, almost cumming for the sight alone.

His face flushed, he bites down hard on his lower lip and the vein on his neck stands out clearly.

You're barely able to make anything but high-pitched noises when your eyes fall on the door and you wince, "Rick, the door."

Between thrusts he growls, "What about it?"

His cock hits the right spot inside you at that moment and you jerk around him and yip, "The party's right on the other side. They can hear everything."

That's when he grabs your hair again and pulls your head back enough to growl in your ear, "I really dont care, you look hot and Im trying not to fuck you senseless right now."

With that, your hands slide off the door and Rick presses your back against his chest.

Before you can even bring a sound past your lips, his mouth is already on yours, pushing his tongue into you without restraint.

Again you tighten around him and notice a knot forming in your stomach and whimper into his mouth, "I'm cumming. I can't hold it back."

In a low voice he grunts, "Let go. Tighten around me and show me how much you want me."

That's when a high and drawn out sound releases from your throat and with the first contraction Rick's cock starts twitching too and gasping he fucks us through your climax.

You cling limply to Rick's hand as he sets you down and pulls up his pants with his free hand, "I love you."

You smile weakly at him and murmur, "I love you too."

All the adrenaline is pumped out of you and even Rick seems a little sluggish as he helps you clean yourself up and then wipes the remnants of your make up off your face with a wet rag and says softly, "You looked really great with that red lipstick, but you don't need that at all. You look downright gorgeous as it is."

Gently, you smile at him and take him by the hand as you open the door and step out.

Immediately, a handful of heads turn to look at you two and Charlie appears next to us with her lower lip pushed forward.

Reproachfully, she looks at Rick, "Can you please tell a few gentlemen your secret to making her scream like that? I want to experience that sometime."

Then she looks at you and laughs softly, "Maybe you should get the remnants of your lipstick off your lover's face too."

You jerk your head around and sure enough, Rick looks like he's kissed a bloody wound.

He looks at you questioningly and you set about salvaging what can be salvaged with your fingers and sigh softly, "Why does that lipstick actually look better on you than it does on me?"

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