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moonshine-nightlight · 4 months ago

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NWWD: Divergent Revelations 2

Side story for NWWD, AU starting mid Chapter 23. Fanfic of my own story that asks: what if an honest conversation was had earlier? (spoiler: slow burn is much less slow)

During the fight with assassins, you and Dale are forced to confront the truth of what you each know about Dale's nature. How does the fight change to have this come about? How will the conversation about these revelations go when there's still more than a week before the wedding?

Main Story 'Nothing's Wrong with Dale': [Part One]

Status: Complete

AO3: NWWD: Divergent Revelations

[Part One] Part Two

You murmur as polite a ‘good night’ as you can to your maid before your door finally shuts, blocking out the rest of the Governor’s house, with all its people who can’t stop asking you question after question, hovering over you. Blessed silence fills your bed chamber. You lean back against that now shut door and try to breathe. Grandmother’s going to be alright, you remind yourself, no one seems to suspect Dale. He simply…hasn’t returned yet.

You tried to apologize to Grandfather for not anticipating that Dale would go after Two, but he’d waved off your ‘sorry’s with a worn, but sincere smile. His absolution was appreciated as was the way he seemed to have left all suspicion behind. Still you knew you’d not feel better until you saw Dale once again.

That’s holding true now. The waiting and hours you passed have been valiantly fought through with your highest caffeinated tea, but you were shuffled away to your private chambers after the last strike of the clock, though you can’t remember how many it was.

Nervous energy still buzzes through your veins, a heady mix of worry and adrenaline that makes you want to pace or hide or do something, anything useful. Instead, you walk over to your vanity where an array of candles is, their light reflected back and throughout the room. Aided by the full moon, your room is lit as well as it ever could be so deep into the night.

Halfheartedly, you pick at the bowl of nuts and dried fruit your maid had persuaded you to take with you. You itch to have those books of Dale’s Bilmont had snuck to you, but they’re all back in Northridge. Neither of you had wanted to alert Dale to your perusal nor risk being found with them by keeping them for days or traveling with them, but if you did have the books then maybe you could prepare to do something in case Dale was hurt in a manner that could not be treated by a doctor.

He’d come to you, right? If he needed help? It’s all out in the open now. What you both already knew but still had pretended not to. Although, as long as he could control himself, he should go to the trained physician. But what if someone else found him? What if this had all been a trick by Two to get Dale to go somewhere else where a trap lay in wait? What if Dale had won, but was injured and vulnerable out in the night somewhere? What if Two manages to possess Dale? What if—

You sit down heavily on your vanity chair, shaking your head to try to dissipate such dire thoughts. Dale had been winning the fight, had managed to drive Two off, and had seemed to have no true injuries when he went after them. Morning would come. Dale will have returned while you slept and he will be fine. He has to be.

You look into the mirror, past and behind yourself to the bed. Speaking of sleep, you’ve no idea how you’ll manage it tonight. You suppose you could brew some sleepy tea, but would that truly work when you still feel your anxiety and nerves as significantly as you do? With the effects of your caffeinated tea still going? Do you even want to sleep?

You know you should. It’s what you had told the others you would do. It's what you would have told yourself to do, if you were another person. It's the best course of action so you are well rested and ready to face tomorrow. Nothing good will come of worrying away the hours deeper into the night.

Yet you know yourself. You’ll not be able to manage it. Taking the tea would only leave you in a half-asleep state, constantly drifting off and waking from nightmares you’d not be able to tell from reality.

Not wanting to bother moving the candles from in front of the large mirror at your vanity, you instead go to your desk and bring over your journal with the magnifier. Setting them up, you turn to a fresh page. The most useful thing you can think to do is to write down everything you can remember the assassins said so as to better find who hired them. Given the layers of who can know what, you decide to write down the truth in your personal shorthand, knowing between your handwriting and the few changes you made, it’ll be nigh indecipherable to anyone but you. It should be the best way to keep the actual facts straight for yourself so you can discuss with Dale, or obfuscate with Grandfather and Grandmother. Most of what Two said will only make sense if you know what Dale is and you’ll not be the one to ruin the facade.

You concentrate on getting everything down while managing your flickering light. The sound of your door closing takes a second to register. The next second has you on your feet, your hand dropping your pen in favor of your busk knife. You whirl towards the door, heart hammering in your chest.

A dark figure, more outline than person given how far they are from the miniscule light, is all you can make out. For a split second, you’re convinced Two has come back for you, until another step closer finally allows you to distinguish, “Dale!”

You drop your hand to the table, body sagging in relief, both at the lack of threat and the confirmation he’s alive. “You frightened me half-to-death!”

“My apologies,” Dale replies, voice low and wary, but unmistakably his own.

You beckon him closer, needing a better look even if many of your fears are assuaged with his presence. “Are you alright? What happened?”

He comes more fully into your circle of light and you can see he has no obvious wounds, only a small bandage on his jaw. “I already spoke to Grandfather and the doctor.” You step closer as he speaks, hand drifting up to the bandage. “I’ve no serious injuries, only some bruisings and cuts. I caught up to Two and ensured they’ll do us no more harm.”

“Are you certain?” Your eyes search his form, noting his damaged jacket is nowhere to be seen. No blood stains or broken bones are obvious. Still, there could be damage under the surface, your eyes on his torso and then up to that single bandage. “The stonework was strong and Two was very adept at—”

“Yes, I am sure.” Dale catches your hand before you can touch him.

Heat rises to your cheeks at the reminder of your impropriety, which only mounts as you fully realize that Dale is alone with you, in your bedchambers, at night. No one to see him here. Complete privacy. You in your nightclothes and robe, he in only a shirt and trousers. “Good,” you manage before you attempt to clear your throat. What do demons care of human impropriety? Dale’s played along well enough, but he’s not beholden to such petty sensibilities. “I’m relieved.”

“Yes,” Dale murmurs, continuing to stare at you as if you might be the one who needs a physical. “You do truly appear to be.”

“What…?” You blink up at him confused. Some of your concern fades to frustration. You give him an incredulous look. “Of course, I am. It was a foolish thing to chase after Two into the night. Who knows what they might have done to you.” Did he think himself infallible? Or you too oblivious to notice the toll the fight took on him? “I’ve been worried.”

“Curious,” Dale says, tilting his head to the side. His eyes begin to glow. A third one pops open on his forehead. The shadows cast by your candles gutter. “I’ve never had a human express such concern over me. Not when they knew what I was.” He blinks and all his eyes focus on you. “Yet, you appear sincere.”

“Oh,” your voice is small, but you’ve no notion of how to respond, how to actually have this conversation.

“I was not sure what I would be returning to,” Dale confesses, his voice lower and quieter. Instinctively, you lean closer to hear him better. You hold your breath to see what else he might say, now that it appears you are finally addressing the elephant in the room. “Would you have told Grandfather and the Captain? Would they greet me only to catch me in a binding circle?”

“What?” Your stomach drops at the mere thought. “No, of course not.” Alarm rises with your nerves, that Dale might still worry of this outcome. As if he still thought it a possibility for you to have done so. Does he think so little of your regard for him? Has he not understood where you stand despite your attempts to make that clear? You turn your wrist in his grasp and he lets you, but seems surprised when you clasp it more securely in your own. “Dale, I’d never—I don’t plan on revealing you. I thought that’d be obvious.”

Dale looks down at your hand on his and just as you start to worry it had been the wrong move, he turns his own in your grasp to hold your hand in return. “I suppose that appears to be the case.” His gaze moves from your fingers to tentatively meet your gaze. “It does not illuminate why you would do such a thing.”

“I…” you struggle for how to articulate your thoughts. Somehow all your imagined conversations with Dale had been focused on him and his secrets, motivations, thoughts—not your own. “I am aware that perhaps my actions appear…unusual.” You do your best to rally your thoughts and Dale lets you, no haste or frustration in his stance or expression. That patience helps you say, “However, you’ve never acted in a manner that made me worry for my safety or the safety of others. You have not tried to do harm to those around us, physically or with the power you could wield as heir to Northridge.”

You stare down at your hand and his, unable to keep track of your thoughts when your eyes are locked on his. The flickering candlelight reflects strangely in his blue eyes that he looks more demonic than usual, but also more striking. You want him to think well of you, but you don’t want him to doubt your sincerity. “I’d not known the first Dale for very long. I think I’ve known you longer now. I confess, I had concerns about that Dale, prior to your arrival.”

You chance a glance up at him and see some surprise in his expression. You’re rather pleased to have been able to surprise him since he’s managed to do the same to you at so many turns. Hopefully, like you, he doesn’t find the surprise bad. “Human concerns, but significant ones. The worries I have for you are different, but less.”

“Truly?” Dale’s voice contains even more of the surprise you’d seen in his face earlier, but no doubt or disbelief. “How could a human, who has always been who he is, worry you more than a stranger in his body?”

“Lord Dale was…arrogant, entitled, and selfish,” you admit, remembering back to your first talk with him. You remember your first meeting with Grandfather and with the other prospects that came up. “And he was the best marriage offer I received.” You frown, trying to articulate why you’d taken a chance with that Dale, aware now that you’re relieved more than anything that he’d been replaced in the end. “I believed he would consider me to be… an extension of himself in a manner that would shield me from some of his faults, so long as I did not interfere with his goals. However, that is certainly not a stable place to begin a marriage, although I had considered it worth the risk at the time.”

“And myself?” Dale asks softly.

You smile to yourself because how often had you asked yourself the same thing: about him and about why he might tolerate you. “You were an unknown,” you say slowly, “in so many ways—I admit you still are. However, you’ve not shown that callous self-interest. You appear… interested in m—the thoughts of others, dutiful to Northridge in a manner I recognize in myself.” You’d been preparing to take up the mantle of Northridge’s care yourself. You’d liked the idea of such a challenge, to an extent. You were eager to prove yourself. To be the one in control of your life. But it would have been lonely and you would have had to juggle Dale’s own plans for the fief. You hadn’t thought there was a better option other than hoping perhaps the original Dale might come around. That isn’t your worry with this Dale.

You take a deep breath and look back up at him. “You did not have to stay and playact the role Dale handed you with his identity. You could have left with his body to strike out on your own.” You hate how much the thought fills you with true fear, not just trepidation or frustration as might have before you got to know this Dale. If he has been genuine with you, you would fear for him out in the world on his own. “I don’t know if you still might do so, but that is my worry, not that you’ll mismanage what you have. I simply feel there is more common ground between us than between myself and the original Dale.” You swallow, suddenly all too aware you’ve been speaking for what feels like ages on end without Dale saying a word. You reach with your free hand to brush some of your hair behind your ear. “That could all be wishful thinking on my side. We’ve not had many chances for honest conversation, excepting now, I suppose.”

Dale finally blinks and stares down at you in a sort of confusion that you hope is fond and not frustrated. “I did not know what to expect when I arrived on the surface,” he confesses slowly, “though I was relieved not to have to contest for autonomy. My recovery from the ordeal was when I knew I would be most vulnerable and thought I might be discovered, necessitating my departure.” His fingers tighten briefly around your own before a small smile spreads across his face. “Thank you again, for your aid.

“I was relieved to be able to stay. I’ve no plans to leave unless forced.” Dale looks past you briefly, to the candles and the mirror behind you. “I have spent my life searching for a stable territory—a home.” His eyes fix on yours once more. “I’ve not had much in the way of surviving family and so find myself inclined to appreciate Grandmother and Grandfather, particularly with Dale’s memories.” His eyes unfocus as if viewing those memories now.

You allow him some time and shortly Dale pulls himself out of those thoughts with a rueful shake of his head. “The memories are both outside of myself and of myself in a rather confusing manner. I’ve not the language or nuance to explain well, truth be told. All of Northridge feels as if it was waiting for me and I’d be a fool not to seize the opportunity. Even you,” he strokes his thumb across the back of your hand, sending a thrill through you, “a lovely mate, was here, like a delightful dream. I’ve not earned any of this,” Dale continues, looking a bit sheepish, a bit chagrined, and a bit like he’s expecting your judgment. “And yet, I’ve had enough ill fortune in my life not let a stroke of good pass me by.”

Your relief at hearing him say he plans to stay is only matched by your understanding. “Even with his flaws, Dale had appeared to be good luck to me at the time. Now, you seem to suit me far better as a partner. Strange as it is to say, I was sometimes more convinced there must be a trick about when I felt we understood each other. It seemed too fortunate.” You take another deep breath as you try to think of what words might solidify Dale’s decision to stay with you, to be with you. The memory of the way he’d said your name only hours ago, the layers of meaning he’d somehow communicated, gives you the strength to say, “For what it's worth, if you’ve been sincere and wish to stay, to be Dale of Northridge, then I’m happy you are here above any other.”

“I have,” Dale is quick to say, catching your other hand in his. He brings your hands in his together and up, dusting your knuckles with a kiss, “and I do. I feel the same.” Your breath catches in your throat. Your heart hammers in your chest due to the warmth and release of tension you feel because you believe him. That Dale might want this too, with you, is hardly more than you can conceive. You haven’t even had to convince and persuade and demonstrate the value of such an arrangement over months as you’d begun to plan for first Dale. Weeks of uncertainty melt away in the face of his straightforward words. You must be smiling like a fool, but you don’t care.

Dale tilts his head to the side, bemused. “Is that common, among human pairs, to understand each other so quickly? Is that why these strange methods are employed? I admit many aspects of human society elude me, including mating rituals.”

“Not all do, but that is the hope of most,” you reply, before leaning forward, unable to help your curiosity. “Wh—” You wince when the movement jars your back and Dale frowns. You absentmindedly pull your clothes away from your bruised back. “Apologies, I am still somewhat sore after this evening's events.”

Dale glances around before leading you over to your bed. “Let us sit.”

“You were the one who fought,” you protest weakly, but the image of Dale on your bed is very enticing. Since you still have your curtains open by the bed, the moonlight has the opportunity to lend strength to the blue-ness of his eyes. You still feel some of the echo of adrenaline brimming in your veins, but it has nowhere to go with the night so late and Dale finally within reach.

“And I am tired as well,” he agrees, giving a little tug to your hand before sitting down himself as if to be a good example.

You’re certain that’s true and you’ve no real objection. If anything the mild impropriety makes your stomach flutter excitedly. You carefully sit down beside him, arranging your robe as you do so with only one hand, not wanting to let go of Dale quite yet. He’s only just come back to you.

He turns, bringing his knee up onto the bed in order to face you better as you tuck yourself against the footboard for stability. Dale looks boyish in such a pose. With some of the excitement and fear out of the way, your conversation begins to remind you more of sneaking between dormitory rooms at school.

You try to bring your mind back to the conversation you were having instead of childish conversations and not so childish games. “How does courting work for your… society?”

Dale smiles, a little crooked, like he too finds your description of anything demonic as a ‘society’ amusing. “Truthfully, there are many varieties in how different demons approach such matters. Perhaps the original strange thing to me was how many humans approach it the same.”

“There is variety,” you consider, actually giving it some thought. So much of your life had built to where you were now, you’d not contemplated the process itself since you were a child. Primarily, fears about your ability to participate at all were what had dominated your thoughts then. “That variety tends to be geographic, however a culture evolved. This continent was once under the rule of a single large empire, before it fractured and so shares certain traits across country borders. The continent to the direct south is similar within itself. To the east across the Narrow Sea, there is still one empire. Only the more distant continents were never united—to my knowledge—and so I believe have a greater variety to their customs.”

“I see,” Dale nods. “The Depths is a very…scattered and varied place, physically and among demons themselves. No one group of any kind has ever controlled a large portion, not in the history I’m aware of. Still, there are trends among similar demons or those who live close to one another, customs that bleed into one another. The demons I am most familiar with either live in tight-knit clans and generally don’t mate outside of it or are solitary. Both consider time to become familiar with each other a critical component.”

You nod. “Many people who end up marrying have known each other all their lives, due to circumstances, or because they were neighbors, or because their parents decided years ago to link their families and lands.” Pivoting since you’re not sure demons have nobility, you continue, “According to those I know who aren’t nobility, that’s also far more common among the common people. Nobility enjoys overthinking, or at least that’s what my father says. A lot of marriage decision making is based on utility, alliances, and finances—not to mention tradition and honor. Tolerance of one's spouse is the expectation with companionship over time. Partnership or true affection as an ideal to hope for. Although, it is custom to play at appearing happily situated, regardless of one's internal feelings on the matter.”

“Surely you had more options than Dale,” the demon with his name protests, as if he’d been meaning to make the argument since you first mentioned such a thing and could no longer contain himself. “Sometimes his thoughts or memories—impressions of people or situations—occur to me. I admit I dislike many of them. I disagree with many of them.”

You’d known this was part of how demonic possession worked but it was still strange to hear of. “I’m certain his of me were not flattering nor were there many of them—one of the few commonalities we had was likely our rather poor opinion of each other,” you confess. “I doubt he suspected my true feelings. He agreed to marry me because he needed to in order to inherit, because I seemed amenable to his influence. Not to mention because I came with a larger than is typical dowry for a fifth child. I’m sure he thought me generally acceptable, if a bit disappointing—he told me as much. However, that was his fault for letting rumors reach the ears of potential spouses or at least their parents.”

The way Dale tightens his lips, but doesn’t disagree confirms your suspicions. He gives a small huff before saying, “Yes, I can recall. He was quite frustrated with the reputation he’d found when he made his way back home. At the very least he wished he’d been able to marry before they spread. I think he’d underestimated how many would not want to be associated with demonic research. Not to mention the more dramatic tales of carousing he and his compatriots got up to on their tour.” He rolls his eyes as he continues to list reasons why Dale’s marriage prospects had diminished. “How many of them would pair off with each other as they did, and so on. He believed he could have turned his reputation around in order to have a spouse he saw as more…” Dale winces, clearly trying to find the least offensive word, before giving up, “worthy, but was aware such an endeavor would take time he did not want to spend.”

“Yes,” you acknowledge because isn’t that what you suspected all along? In some ways it's hard to care much about what the original Dale thought, not when he was dead, but you find you hate the idea of echoes of those thoughts sounding through this Dale’s head. You care about his opinion. You want him to think well of you. You push those fears aside to focus on the conversation you are having. “In that way, we were compatible. We did confirm what we expected from this marriage along with what was required for our engagement to be initiated. It's simply that those items of import were easily discovered on paper and with minimal interaction in person.”

“You were engaged before you met,” Dale says, shaking his head in either disbelief or disapproval. “Truly mystifying.”

“What sort of traits are valued in your courtships?” you ask, wanting to meet him where you could. Everything so far has been how humans do such things. You want him to feel comfortable with you and your relationship. You want a chance to show him Dale’s lingering thoughts shouldn’t matter to him. You can’t find more time to spend together with the wedding so close. You can’t change how you only met shortly ago, but hopefully there are other elements you could honor. “I would be happy to participate in any rituals I could, as we have fulfilled the majority of the human ones already.”

Dale blinks at you with such surprise you worry for a second that you might have just made a foolish offer. Since you were in fact referring to demonic rituals that was likely a given. No, you remind yourself, you trust Dale. Dale closes his mouth within a second or two, and admits, almost ruefully, “In truth, many such questions and information have already been answered. What would take demons time and trust to reveal, humanity seems more free with, particularly over these last few weeks of intensity and socializing. My parents courted for years but saw each other far less than we have over the course of that time.”

“What sorts of things?” you can’t help but press, eager for anything to work with.

“General compatibility,” Dale begins to list with a shrug, “socialization, familial connections, and expectations. The majority of courtship negotiations for my parents was spent on territory and fitness to defend said territory, with the others learned as that progressed.”

“If the ability to defend territory is a sought after quality,” you say, wanting to fidget out of self-consciousness and holding still out of sheer self-determination, “I must be sorely lacking as a candidate.”

Dale immediately shakes his head. “No, it is a balance. I trained to fight and defend. It is a skill I can bring, not one that I expected any partner to possess. I would not have refused such a mate, but I hadn’t been seeking one out either. The terms of survival are different on the Surface.”

He leans back, bracing himself on one hand as he frowns in concentration. You resist the urge to lean after him, to maintain any closeness you’ve gained. He looks so distant in the moonlight, foreign with his demonic eyes on full display—there are two more than before—and with shadows moving as if in a gentle breeze around him. “My parent had staked out a large territory in alliance with another demon, who died soon before they met my mother. They were initially very hostile to the others settling nearby, including her. She managed to negotiate with them for her smaller spot and slowly they came to see they would enjoy being together. Since my parent had a lot of territory, my mother had to prove her worth as a defender. Even my parent had to prove their territory borders were sustainable with all the new interlopers.”

You try to even picture such an existence. It seems so solitary. You had often felt lonely as a child, and even after, but there were always people around, you simply didn’t have any connections with them. You weren’t actually alone. Perhaps you are missing something. “And it was just them?”

“Yes,” Dale replies, eyes softening as if he could hear your true question. “Shades are generally solitary and while my mother came from a clan, she preferred solitude as well. That was one reason for her departure.”

“And you’re a shade?” He certainly seems to be one, given his facility with shadows. Had he spent so much of his life in similar solitude? “The past few weeks of gatherings must have been overwhelming for you.” He’d not seemed to be. However, perhaps he was a better actor than you’ve given him credit for. He was coming from such a different place of experience.

Dale shook his head. “I’m only part-shade and even so, I’ve always enjoyed being around others. I’ve been to the Surface before and know how close you all tend to live.” It was so odd to hear him acknowledge all this out loud, to hear him say “you all” and know he meant “humans”. That he wasn’t included with them. “Even in the Depths I traveled, as many young demons do before they settle on their own territory. I have worked with others and even temporarily joined a handful of clans. Nothing ever fit or stuck. My first time on the Surface, as chaotic and overwhelming and confusing as it was, felt right. After one final attempt in the Depths to find a place to suit me failed, I knew what I wanted was up here.”

You want to ask for every detail, for every nuance and failed alliance he alludes to. At the same time, you don’t want to scare him off, by asking for more than he feels comfortable revealing. If you’ve already rushed the timing, you don’t want to push even more, not at the risk of driving him away. You want to hold this new honesty with both hands and protect it. You want to never let it go. In the end, you settle on a sincere, but generic, “I confess, the tales of the Depths make it sound fearsome,” in the hopes that he’ll tell more if he wished, but would not feel pressured if he did not.

“It is.” Dale has closed all of his eyes, clearly remembering. “It is lonely and dangerous.” He blinks open his eyes and they’re glowing once more, enhanced by the strong moonlight that falls on his face. “There are dangers here too, but so many more opportunities and ways of living. Not merely survival.”

You shake your head. “I’ve no notion of such a life. I’m pleased you are here and that we can offer you that.” Today has more than proven that Dale can defend himself and that you are certainly winning no accolades in such an arena, and yet you feel protective of him. You want to shield him from the harsh life he clearly led before this, fighting for so much of his life. You want to make a home where he can rest and enjoy life.

“Thank you,” Dale smiles, as if your simple words mean something to him. “I admit I’d been prejudiced against informing you of my true nature due to past experience.”

He said he had been on the Surface before. You recall his trepidation, his fear as you now recognize it, both in the aftermath of the destroyed study and even when he first was in your rooms. What experience might that have been to caution him so?

“It is freeing to be able to speak of this with you,” Dale continues with a smile you reflexively return. “To feel there is no curtain of confusion between us. My own hope had been for such a mate, a confidant.” You squeeze the hand still clasped with his because that is all you wanted as well. He squeezes back. “I’m not sure how we got here while taking such a stilted and quite frankly, human route. It is so far from what I would have expected and gone by so quickly.”

“The time has flown,” you agree, “and yet it also seems a lifetime ago I stood in your rooms after the incident and tried to meet you anew.”

Dale looks startled. “Did you know even then?” He runs his free hand through his hair, baffled. “But we’d no chance to truly even meet, for me to demonstrate any sort of trustworthiness. You knew then?”

“I suspected then,” you correct. “You were strange, but kind. It seemed very unlike the Dale I had only just started to get to know. He’d been acting oddly the night he must have summoned you. He did set the summoning in motion himself, yes?” Dale nods, still wide-eyed with interest and surprise. The effect is compounded by the five eyes he has with which to look back at you. “I knew of his studies with the demonic, I knew of his anticipation for the night, and then the sudden illness.” You shrug. “Well, I went to see him—you—on purpose. But all I could truly discern is that something demonic had happened. I didn’t know if he was still part of you and I’d frightfully little knowledge of demonology to leverage. It wasn’t until a few days later that my understanding solidified.”

Dale just shakes his head. “You knew all this time…”

“Were you not aware?” you can’t help but ask, nearly as surprised by the notion as Dale seems to be that you did know.

“I…No,” he frowns. “At times I thought you might. Later that first evening, I worried my reaction to the willowbark had been too vehement or that I’d said something strange while my memories and Dale’s were sorting themselves out. During the tournament, when you sought me out regarding Eastmount—that was when I came closest to thinking you knew what I was.”

“But you changed your mind,” you continue for him. You can see it in his face. “Why?”

“You assisted me,” he says plainly, lifting his eyebrows as if it were obvious. “You didn’t confront me or accuse me or try to leverage any sort of secret knowledge of what I was for your own gain. You didn’t turn me in or ask for my aid to advantage you or threaten me.”

“You thought so ill of me?” You can’t help the hurt that blossoms in your voice. “That I might do such a thing?” Hadn’t he known enough of you by then? You thought he’d understood, that he had seen who you were quicker than anyone else you’d known. Your hand starts to pull out of his without you meaning to. Unable to resist drawing back from him.

“That is what humans do with demons,” he says, almost pleading, pressing your hand to the bed to halt your movement, but not pulling it back towards himself. “Even if you were not one who sought selfish gain, then as a righteous human, you should have raised the alarm, formed a trap, done something to expunge the demon from your midst.” His vehemence is surprising, you feel caught out because he wasn’t wrong. Those are the two expected reactions. “I had thought I’d misjudged you since you had seemed to know, but not do any of those things. I was waiting for the demand of what you wished for in exchange for your silence. It never came.” Dale shakes his head again. “I concluded you didn’t know. It was the only explanation that fit. That, at most, you suspected Dale had enhanced himself with demonics and were willing to aid him in his one-upmanship with Eastmount.”

“I see.” On one hand you do truly understand his caution. He is a feared stranger in a foreign land, which goes doubly for Northridge given Grandmother’s attitude. You know plenty who would have done as he suggested, but… You also know some who would not have. Surely he must have Dale’s own memories of humans mixed up in demonology that wouldn’t have reacted so poorly. It's such a specific fear. “Has…has that happened before? When someone found out you were possessing a different human in the past?”

“I…” He freezes, all of his extra eyes closing up, although the two that remain are still glowing, black all but gone from them. “Yes. It has.”

A bolt of anger on Dale’s behalf straightens your spine, even though you know how humans react to demons. It's not even unwarranted most of the time. But this is Dale, your fiancé—your Dale. Did they simply not know him? From all the stories you’ve heard, most demons make their true intent, if it is destruction, known quite quickly. It’s why you’ve become more comfortable with Dale as time has passed. “I don’t know what circumstances there were, but you’ve not behaved in a way that would cause me to betr—to react in such a manner.

“I would not have blamed you. Demons can be quick to turn on each other as well.” His voice was strangely soft and earnest as he spoke, as he tried to absolve you of these potential feelings and actions against him. “It’s not humans alone who have decided that it would be better to no longer act in concert with me before.”

It breaks your heart, to hear him say it so plainly, so gently. You can see now you are working against a lifetime of betrayal, or so it seems to you. You search for something, anything, to communicate your sincerity. A reason to push any lingering fear of such possibility in the future as far from his mind as you can.

“You saved my life tonight, Grandmother’s life.” It’s the most tangible, most straightforward reason you could see that he might believe for your trust in him. You wait, but he doesn’t disagree. You have his rapt attention. “We are working towards the same goal, are we not? You’ve more than proven your dedication to Northridge tonight, to my satisfaction.” You don’t see it so plainly, so unemotionally, but you want to impress upon him that you are aligned together. You wait for his slow nod of acknowledgment.

“Nothing you have done has persuaded me otherwise,” you work hard to make your voice as steady and sure as you can. “It never crossed my mind to try to entrap or exorcize you tonight.” You hope by focusing on now, he won’t try to argue this specific point. You don’t have such concrete reasons for your feelings before and so you’re not sure he’d believe you’d never really had the inclination once you actually met him. Otherwise, he’s right: some things need that time to grow and solidify. You want to make damn sure you’re starting on the right foot. You will gain the rest of his trust going forward.

Dale leans closer, an eye opening up. He tightens his grip on your hand as he does so. You wait on pins on needles for his response. “I believe you. Thank you.”

You want to shift the topic back to lighter matters, but you’re unsure of how to do so. “Demons truly have turned on you as humans have?” is what comes out instead. You wince.

Dale doesn’t seem to take offense. “Yes, as I was not born into a group that survived, I sought to join others.” You want to ask so much more about that, but you can tell by the way Dale is moving past this part of his past, that he doesn’t want to share that now. It’s late. It's been an incredibly long day, you understand. You’ll be able to ask him for details on all of this because you’re getting married. You’ll have your whole lives to learn everything about him. He’s staying, you reiterate to yourself. You can no longer picture your future without him.

“The majority of demonic clans are very insular and do not take kindly to outsiders,” he says with a frown. “They see nothing wrong with treating said outsiders with little…regard or integrity. This is why the courting ritual I described is spread out. To allow time to pass without betrayal or shifts in alliances to occur. To demonstrate the connection can weather time and outside forces.”

“And to feel confident in telling anything more personal to their prospective spouse,” you add, nodding. Sure there is gossip and alliances and even violence within the nobility on the Surface—tonight’s more than proved that—but not on the scale Dale’s describing. You’re abruptly very grateful for the world you live in. You’d likely not survived his.

“Precisely,” Dale confirms. “Information that might have been construed as weaknesses to be exploited, but not can be trusted to not be taken advantage of.”

This does fit with the rumors and heresy you’ve heard about demonic ways of life. It’s a wonder any of them manage to mate at all. Still, you’d hoped for something else, something you could do besides ‘not betray him’. For Dale. To show that you accept him. To demonstrate your sincerity to the marriage. To signify your clarity who he is. You know that marriage is with a demon and you want him, not anyoneelse. You want him to know that before the night’s through. “So there aren’t any other differences in courting that you are surprised about? Or that we have not participated in?”

Dale frowns as he thinks. You try to determine if it's the moonlight and wind painting strange shadows on his form or just him without pretense. He’s mesmerizing either way. “Couple’s often take a journey together or begin to merge their territories prior to being bound as formal mates. You’ve already come to live in our territory and we’ll be taking our tour after the wedding. I don’t believe much can be done to accelerate that at this point.”

“No,” you have to agree, although you understand now why Dale had been so eager for the tour and are doubly glad to be doing it. “Not in our circumstance.”

“We already discussed and covered so many compatibility topics that there is not much left that I’d have wished to know about a potential mate. Well, I suppose it is unusual to have done little beyond dance,” Dale admitted, all but two of his eyes looking sidelong out the window now. “Physical compatibility in such matters is also considered relatively strongly. I suppose that has more weight for demons given our variety.” He sounds on the fence about how true he feels that statement is. As if he is giving you an excuse to brush past this topic and move on.

“Oh?” You hope that sounded calm. You hope your expression isn’t giving you away if your voice did not. “I, I do not mind, if you wanted, or rather,” you can’t get the words out in a coherent manner, too intrigued despite yourself, and your inability to talk sensibly is only making you more flustered. Memories of your fumble at a festival as well as memories dancing with Dale distract you. “If there was something else you wished to discover regarding our compatibility, I would not be opposed.”

Dale blinks at you in surprise, but without judgment. That lack of judgment is always one of the primary differences between who is Dale is now and who Dale was. It is the quality you appreciate the most. “Oh, you would not?” He sounds mildly intrigued and unflustered as he runs a few fingers through his hair. It’s unkempt and dark enough to melt into the shadows around you both, but you think it looks longer than it did even a few minutes ago. As if the strands spent more time tangled around his fingers this time around. “I constantly find myself torn between what Dale has experienced informally, what I know human society seems to expect, and what I would consider a reasonable level of intimacy for those who plan to join together permanently in merely a week.”

“Of course.” You can hardly keep the typical social rules straight, let alone your own memories and another persons and another society’s set of expectations. It’d drive you a little mad, you think. “I imagine such conflicting knowledge must be confusing.”

“It is,” Dales says emphatically, looking relieved to finally be able to speak openly. Then he sighs, looking mildly embarrassed for possibly the first time you’ve seen. “And I know I do not always play my part correctly.”

You feel a little bad for having had the same thought because, well, he isn’t wrong, is he? Nothing much you can say to that. Still, you want to reassure him. “When we are in private, you don’t need to worry about playacting correctly. You’ll wear yourself to the bone if you tried to keep up a facade constantly.”

“I appreciate your saying so,” he says with a tentative smile you’ve not seen before. It’s sweet. It would have looked out of place on the original Dale’s face and yet it suits this one so well. “It can be tiring. Not always and there are times when even in public, with you, I still feel as I do now.”

You smile, pleased with yourself at having made him feel even somewhat comfortable in a land so alien to him. “It’s not as if I’ve not felt out of place before, although not to the same extent, but I want us to help each other. That’s why I wish for you to feel comfortable here and now, with me and our courtship. We are to be married and I want that to mean a partnership, mates, a true couple. No matter our differences and the strange circumstances we’ve found ourselves in.”

“As do I,” Dale murmurs, leaning closer. At first you think he’s simply relaxing his posture, until his hand reaches out to put a finger under your chin. His eyes are dark as they stare at your lips and you recall what turn the conversation had started to take before being sidelined. “So, you would not mind if I…?”

Evidently Dale wishes to push the conversation back on track. His intent is obvious and he gives you plenty of time to pull away, but you still reply, only a little breathily, “I would not” before his lips cover your own. It’s a far more tentative and gentle kiss than the one human Dale had taken from you. Less awkward than your first kiss had been. You melt into his hold as he cups your cheek more firmly, angling the kiss just so. His lips are cool, but soft.

Dale parts from you only to press another kiss to your lips the next second. Kiss after kiss, the rest of the world melts away until there is only the two of you in the faint light, safe in this room. Your hands end up grasping the front of his shirt to keep him close, not that he seems intent on going anywhere. His hand tangles itself in your hair, cupping the base of your head while his other splays along your side to better pull you closer.

He deepens the next kiss and you can taste him on your tongue, like coffee and cinnamon. You relax into his hold even as he seems to get hungrier, as he steals the breath from your lungs and every stray thought from your mind. Dale pulls an appreciative noise from the back of your throat. Your hands, still fisted in his shirt, slowly release their grip to press against his chest. He’s wonderfully solid beneath them, safe and whole and home.

Dale belongs with you and you won’t let anything keep him from you.

You bury a hand in his hair, the cool, silky strands almost wrap around your fingers in return. Eventually, you have to use your hold to pull him back enough to breathe, but you don’t give him more than the space to allow you to do so. Dale pants against your lips. “Breathing is so…” Dale starts to mutter, almost absentmindedly, before he leans back in to dot kisses along your jaw.

You hum in agreement, pleased with his attention. Desire zips through your veins. Shadows move like flames in the moonlight, shifting across Dale’s body and around him. You swear you can almost feel them, like velvet against your skin. This night feels like a wonderful dream.

Dale’s large hands land on your hips, strong and sure. He makes his way back to your mouth, determined that neither of you can truly catch your breath, and starts pushing you further onto the bed, away from the end. Your feet leave the ground while he moves after you. Your own hands are occupied, holding his strong jaw, buried in his luscious, dark hair. At some point, while stealing your thoughts with his nimble tongue, he lifts you entirely from the sheets to maneuver you fully into the middle of bed. Even when he sets you back down, you're only kept even remotely upright by your hold on him.

“Sana…” Dale pants against your lips when he pulls back just enough for your lungs to remember their job. His voice is raspy and deep as he speaks through his own breaths. You meet as many of his eyes as you can, half-lidded but rapt with attention. “I have been wanting, no,” Dale corrects himself, “needing to familiarize myself with your scent.” He runs his nose down the column of your throat before burying his face in the crook of your neck. You feel his words against your skin nearly as much as you hear them. “As your touch, your appearance, your voice are already solidified in my mind. All brief glimpses of scent I managed to steal pitiable and meager until now.”

Your mind struggles to think of a coherent response. Is this part of demon courting? Having Dale wrapped around you, against you so intimately? The desire to know you by every sense. “Oh?” If so, you want more. Even if it’s merely something Dale wants, he’s welcome to it, to you.

“Your taste…” he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your collarbone. “Half-remembered, filtered through that imbecile’s mind.” His derision for Dale’s opinion helps chase away your insecurities that he might be swayed by them. He scrapes his teeth against your skin and your mind fogs over. “I knew it to be a poor imitation of reality, but if I had known how poor, I’m not sure I would have been able to resist for so long. Want. More,” he says around licks and kisses to your sternum where he’s pushing against the barrier of your chemise.

“You, if you,” you stutter around the words, trying to string your thoughts together. You’d had daydreams about a fiancé you trusted enough and who felt passionately enough that you’d preempt your wedding night, like in so many hushed romantic stories. “Yes, you can, if you wa-ant.” When Dale merely continues to nose at your hem, you finally manage to say as plainly as you can, “Simply remove it.”

“Gladly,” Dale replies, eager hands already set on the task of riding you of your remaining clothing. It’s so freeing to be able to say exactly what you mean, what you want, and have Dale hear you. To have him immediately act on what you say. Your robe had fallen off at some point after his first kiss so there is only your chemise. He manages to divest you of it in record time, making sure the fabric doesn’t catch on your bandages.

He stills to take in the sight of you, but only for a few seconds. As soon as the slightest inclination towards embarrassed self-consciousness starts to make themselves heard, Dale says, “Thank you,” so emphatically, you feel heat rise to your face and gather between your legs.

“I—” Whatever you were going to say is lost as Dale immediately starts trailing kisses down from your neck to your chest. His other hand lands on your upper thigh and starts to massage and stroke at the skin there. You moan, eyelids slamming closed to better enjoy the sensations he’s provoking throughout your body. It's so much after so long of only dances and holding hands, but you feel as greedy as Dale is acting. With the taunt of courtship over, you want to be as close to him as you possibly can.

He envelops a nipple in his mouth and lightning races down your spine to strike your core. You can feel yourself getting wetter as he continues. You ache for some friction between your legs but you don’t want to risk Dale stopping. As he switches sides, his hand coming up to tweak and rub your damp skin, you moan shamelessly. You want to drown in the sensation of Dale moving so eagerly against you. He’s ravenous.

Dale’s attentions push you back and you place a hand on the bed to try to steady yourself. It's not quite enough, not given your injured arm. You do your best to control your descent down on your side. Dale gropes at your hip as if to try to help keep you up before he realizes what you're doing and helps guide you down instead.

His shirt disappears as you reposition yourselves. You move quickly to explore the skin now bared to you, feeling strange stripes of velvet mixed with soft human skin. The difference in textures reminds you of who you are with even though you can’t see his inhuman nature with your eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to weather the heat he’s stoking within your body.

Dale pushes you further back and you go with the motion until you feel the sheets against your bruised back. Flinching, your hands scramble against Dale’s skin as you arch away from the bed. “S-Sorry,” you pant, “Bruised. My back.”

Dale’s already tipped you back onto your side and you see a tail with two eyes arc over your shoulder. He growls at whatever he can see in the dark. Shadow tendrils brace you between your shoulder blades and on your lower back so that you can relieve some pressure from your side and relax more in this position. His teeth seem sharper as he says, “I should have torn them to pieces for touching you. For hurting you.”

“You did,” you reply, not wanting to derail the mood even if the reminder of Dale’s defense of you certainly isn’t drawing you out of it. You don’t want Dale consumed by anger. You selfishly want his focus to be on you. “It’s treated as best it can be.” When that doesn’t seem to be enough, you cup his cheek, “Make me forget about it.”

Dale’s eyes ignite at the challenge and you feel a corresponding pulse between your legs. “Yesss, sana,” he hisses in agreement, pressing a kiss to that hand. He resumes his mission to memorize you with all his senses with renewed zeal. It’s easy to let him do so. With him pressed to your front and his shadow tails wrapped around to brace your back, you feel wonderfully enveloped by him. Safe from the world. Safe with him.

“You seem like something I shouldn’t be allowed to have,” Dale murmurs, voice strange, distant and echoing. He presses more kisses further down your body. Even with nearly all his focus on the physical, he can’t help but think aloud with whatever part of him isn’t consumed with you. “Shouldn’t be allowed to keep.”

The shadow tails supporting your back spread and his hands fasten securely to your hips. “Smoke in the wind,” a kiss to your stomach, “water in the hand,” a kiss above the thatch of hair you have, “a dream before waking.” He looks up the length of you, his eyes blue and dark and as hypnotizing as ever. “Fighting for this—you and Northridge—for this life tonight has made it feel so much more a reality rather than a far-off wish.” He presses another absentminded kiss to you. His thumbs stroke your skin and your hips roll in his hold involuntarily. “Something I would never truly be able to grasp.”

“You can,” you tell him, feeling nearly as desperate as he’s been acting, voice breaking on the words. Desire clogging up your throat. “If you d-desire… Dale,” you wail his name when he finally puts his mouth on you.

You lace the fingers of one hand into his hair, not able to judge what was too tight while your hips jitter in his hold. Overwhelmed by the sensation of that long adroit tongue dipping in for a better taste. Your head tips back as you try to push into him. He groans encouragingly as his hands move to your thighs and pry them apart to give him more space to work. The improved angle gives him more access, more contact, more ways to make you mewl with pleasure.

True to his words when he first began, Dale is ravenous for your taste, licking and sucking with an intensity that makes you little able to do more than take it. Unleashed, he must have truly been holding himself back before. The fight, that kiss, has broken some self-restraint he’d clearly been tightly holding onto.

Dale devours you. He devours you until you’re a sweating, moaning, mess held firmly in his grasp. Until a final wave of pleasure pulls you under.

You come back to yourself slowly to find Dale still between your thighs, carefully licking up every last drop of desire he’s managed to wring from you. You hope he’s satisfied with you. You hope he’s never satisfied. You hope he’s willing to make a meal of you again and again. “Dale,” you breathe out. Glittering, bright eyes look up at you, half-lidded and gratified, but still hungry.

Heat begins to rekindle in your veins as he lowers his gaze back down. As he begins to plant kisses and leave little sucking marks on your skin. As he works his way back up your body. You stroke through his hair encouragingly, languid and content to let him do as he pleases. He’s certainly proved himself worthy of the leeway. He pulls you upright as he goes and your free hand lands on his strong shoulder.

You don’t hesitate to pull him into a kiss once you're close enough. His mouth is wet with you still and you find yourself delighted with the evidence of his indulgence, his base appetite. When he pulls you into his lap, you take advantage of the additional height to lead the kiss. Dale gives way under you easily, letting you press your advantage and finally do some taking yourself.

You don’t break the kiss until Dale situates you perfectly in his lap to let his cock rock against your cunt. Your moan and instant attempt at grinding down against him leave you gasping. His large hands, spanning your hips and with fingers that dig into your ass, encourage your movements as he groans.

“You…” you try to give voice to the thought that’s been building in your mind without you realizing it, “the way you said my name…” You can still hear it echoing in your memory, but you need to hear it aloud. It’s what had helped stabilize your trust in him and you ache to hear it now. “After the fight…”

Dale shudders, something rolling through him, before he opens his mouth to breathe your name in that same resounding tone, the one that seemed to carry with it so much more than a single word ever could. Your eyelids flutter, as you feel that same comfort as before, but it has evolved. Now cinnamon spice and crimson tart berry streaked through that yellow warm honey. You feel it along your nerves, buzzing through your veins like warm, mulled wine. “Dale,” you gasp back, hoping you can convey something similar in return.

Air flows from him like a breeze and his shadows gutter around him while he closes his eyes to the sensation. When he presses you back down against him there's a rumble you first mistake for a growl only to realize it’s a purr. “May I…?” His cock ruts against your entrance as if there was any doubt as to what he was asking for.

You're lost in this moment, in this feeling, and yet in that second, he takes to ask the real world breaks through. You bury your head in the crook of his neck, craving his own scent nearly as much as his craving for your own had sparked this fire into motion. “Yes, please, Dale—I need you.”

“Yes, sana, I do as well. I need you so very much,” Dale pants as he guides the head of his cock to where it needs to be and begins to push inside.

Gods, he feels big. You remind yourself to relax, let yourself be pliable, and allow him in. One of his hands leaves your hip to stroke soothingly through your hair while he thoughtlessly babbles, “Yeeesss, so hot, so tight. Lights above, you feel better than… So good. Thank you, pretty, pretty mate for…for this, for this allowance, for this gift, f-fuck.” His words make you shudder and you must be dripping from them given how much more easily he makes his way inside.

Once he’s finally hilted in you, you both need the extra few seconds to take a breath. Him overwhelmed by you surrounding him judging by his scattered words and you for the stretch. The ache of being first too empty and then nearly too full. Soon you deliberately clench around him and he groans. You press a kiss to his neck to let him know he’s alright to move and then set to making it a mark on his skin.

Dale murmurs your name again, a faint echo of how he’d said it earlier. Shuddering, your teeth graze the mark you’re worrying on his skin. Instinctively, he thrusts in even though he’s only pulled halfway out which pulls a groan from deep in your throat.

The sound seems to set Dale off because soon he’s thrusting at a rhythmic pace, half with his own hips, half lifting you up in counterpoint to his movements. Your heat throbs at the demonstration of his strength. You pull your head back to take him in in the moonlight. Your demonic fiancé, demonic mate.

As you can feel another peak building, the pulsing between your legs getting stronger, Dale’s thrusts become more erratic. As soon as you notice, his thumb lands on your clit, obviously determined to push you over the edge with him.

Dale buries his face in the crook of your neck. His voice resonates against you as he says, “I… I could…I should…” He starts to lift you off of him. “We’re not—”

His words are cut off with a loud moan when you push back against him, hands on his shoulders, muscles throbbing around him. To keep him inside you where he belongs.

“No, no,” you say, mind overwhelmed with pleasure, but also coherent to understand he’s trying to cater to you even if it's not what you want, what you crave with a strength that would surprise you if you gave it a moment’s consideration. “Please. I trust you.” You know Dale wouldn’t leave you now. As far as you're concerned, you’re already married. He’ll never leave you again. “Please, stay inside.”

He growls your name in response and pulls you back fully onto his cock without needing further encouragement. His hands stroke up and down your sides, shadow tendrils controlling the pace of his thrusts. The additional sensation of his hands on your skin, on your chest, your nipples, combined with the kisses and marks he’s attempting to suck on your skin drive you to the final heights you need to climax, convulsing around his cock. Dale falls over the edge with you.

Bliss spreads through your body as Dale collapses backward, you sprawled on his chest. You’re sweaty and overcome and the most satisfied, most content you’ve been in… You let the thought fizzle out and merely sigh happily instead. What more could you ever need than Dale with you in your bed?

Languid sleep laps at your mind, but when Dale prompts you, you go through the motions of nighttime ritual. He murmurs an apology when you shudder from the feel of tepid water and sigh from any movement at all that’s not horizontal. Soon enough you’re clad in a fresh shift, Dale in only his own shirt, standing by the bed. He looks, with hesitation at the door.

“Do not leave, not until you must,” you say as you lean against him, hand over his heart. Not an ask, but not a demand.

“I won’t,” Dale replies, the solemnity of an oath, the fervor of a declaration of love—more powerful in the dark of your bedroom. He shuffles you over to the bed until you’re lying down against his chest once more. “There’s nowhere else I’d want to be.”

That warmth of belonging wraps around you at his words and you gently kiss his neck in answer, before mustering the sleep-weary words to say, “There’s no one else I’d want.” It’s so easy to admit now, so freeing to say aloud.

Dale presses a kiss to your head. He echoes, “Only you.”

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a-yellow-van · 6 months ago

Text

Wish You Were Here | Part 3

You and Joel get stuck in a blizzard during patrol. It leads to something unexpected.

Series masterlist

Pairing : Joel Miller x f!reader

Fanfic tags : canon compliant, slow burn, romance, some smut, angst, hurt/comfort, joel and the reader are terrible at feelings, female reader, no use of y/n, reader is in early 30s, past relationships, trauma/PTSD, grief, loss, post-apocalypse, jackson joel, joel is a good parent to ellie, protective joel, major character death, original characters, queer characters, bisexual main character, age difference, canon-typical violence

WC : 8.9 k

Warnings for part 3 : Minors DNI! swearing, drinking, mentions of trauma and PTSD, mild violence, explicit sexual content (masturbation, unprotected sex, p in v sex, rough-ish sex, praise kink, pet names, limited aftercare), more hurt than comfort I'm sorry

Writing this one hurt a lil. But I'm happy with it. So please enjoy.

It’s been half an hour. Thirty minutes of riding side by side in complete silence, interrupted only by the sounds of Old Beardy and Willow’s hooves rhythmically crunching in the snow. It seems like an eternity. The tension is so intense it’s almost palpable. Your presence, a blur in Joel’s peripheral vision, is putting him on such an edge that, at any given moment now, he could turn around and gallop back to Jackson, or start saying things he’d better keep to himself, or get you off your horse and take you by the waist and…

No. Nope. Stop it.

His grip on the reins tightens and he bites his inner cheek until the stab of pain rips his mind off that absurd train of thought. He stares straight ahead at the deserted highway, the stretch of the 191 carved in a broad valley. The landscape is lost in a sea of white, the concrete below invisible, crashed cars resembling large animals sleeping in a snowy den. Joel’s face is numb from the cold, rugged skin humid, a few wild strands of hair on his forehead pearling with ice. The brim of his insulated cap isn’t enough to shield his eyes from the stinging wind, but still, he stares, almost unblinking. His neck itches with the urge to turn and glance at you; he has been actively fighting it ever since leaving. He has to remain collected, he has to concentrate on the job. That sentence is playing on loop in his head like a mantra, so much so that the words are getting jumbled, barely making sense anymore.

He doesn’t understand why it’s been so difficult to just move on from what happened. Not one day during those two weeks has passed without his thoughts drifting back to that brief intimacy he shared with you, without wondering what you’re doing, how you’re doing. And he loathes it. Hates being confused, hates not having control, hates that you’re having such an effect on him. So, before he drives himself crazy, he decides to start counting the cars until the both of you reach the first checkpoint on the Hoback route. Joel has calculated about five miles since Jackson, only around three to go until the job gets more active. There are two cars on the right, their shapes stuck together in a permanent collision, and one on the left. Joel can make it.

Small, repetitive rituals like this always helped him focus; back when he was working construction, a lifetime ago, he’d recite stupid ad jingles to himself, trying to remember as many as he could and associate them with the correct brand. There was a famous one that Sarah used to sing just to annoy him, delighted when it worked without fail every time. He’d be reading the newspaper in the morning, or watching a game, or driving her to school, and she’d pipe up out of nowhere. And then it’d be stuck in Joel’s head for days. Some annoying rap about credit reports. How did it go again? F-R-E-E, that spells free…something something dot com, baby. Sarah’s mischievous giggles, after he begged her to stop, echo around his mind. Less than a year back, it would have sent him down to a dark, sunken place with slippery walls nearly impossible to climb out of. Not anymore, after Ellie. The memory’s still stained with grief, but it doesn’t feel so crushing to carry. He’s accepted it as part of him. Joel tries to recall the rest of the lyrics to that damned song; he thinks Ellie might get a kick out of it. She’s always so eager to learn about even the most meaningless things that existed before the outbreak.

It does the trick to distract him from you. It works so well, in fact, that he nearly misses the turn to the checkpoint. He pulls on Old Beardy’s reins suddenly, steering him in the right direction. The horse neighs in protest.

So much for concentrating.

You’ve certainly noticed the mishap, but you don’t comment on it, much to his relief.

Get a fucking grip.

Joel begins down the side path to an abandoned gas station, the tension rising. Maybe, if one of you were to point out the obvious, it would make this whole situation a bit less miserable. But Joel isn’t going to be the one to do it. It would come out all wrong, anyway.

The place is small, a few pumps decaying under a canopy that’s barely holding on to four crumbling steel rods. The convenience store isn’t in better shape, its windows shattered, the signboard crashed by the entry. You take initiative and move towards the back of the building; Joel takes it as a cue for him to check out the front. The advantage of being an experienced patroller is that you can do your job without much communication; at least there’s that. He jumps off Old Beardy and walks up to the building, unworried but readying his weapon nonetheless. If there were infected around, he’d have spotted them already. Just as he thought, the interior is empty, what’s left of it is covered in a thin film of dirty snow. Just for good measure, he checks the storage and the restrooms in the back. Still nothing. He jogs back to his horse just as you turn a corner, you and Willow coming back into view, calm, unperturbed.

You don’t wait for him to leave. He scrambles to mount Old Beardy, and you’re already back on the highway. It sustains Joel’s growing irritation; he almost yells out for you to slow down. Sure, ignoring each other is one thing, but being unsafe and disrespecting patrol rules is another. So, as a punishment, Joel spurs Old Beardy into a run and catches up before overtaking you, almost knocking you off Willow. He hears you gasp out in surprise. You try to swerve to the right, but he blocks the move. He wants to make you crack. Because he can’t be the one to do so first. You try the same move, to the left this time, and again, Joel is faster. He takes things a step further and lets out a dry, arrogant scoff.

That’s it. You’re about to rip into him. But only the whistling of the wind responds; you keep stubbornly quiet. You don’t even give the man a glance when he finally lets you pass and get back on his side, your expression set in stone.

Damn it. You’re good.

Joel doesn’t attempt anything else, deciding it’s wasted energy. You both continue on the road, status quo, for another hour. You stop at a few other checkpoints around the highway : an old RV park, a fire station…Warm, sheltered places that would draw in people, or things, at this time of year. But there’s no sign of life anywhere. By this point, Joel would usually have had to take out at least a stray runner. It’s almost unsettling. Like the calm before a storm. That little seed of concern plants itself inside his mind, heightening his senses. You must feel it too, because you guide your horse closer to his, and he notices your right hand leaving the reins to rest on the rifle hanging from your shoulder.

Sombre clouds are accumulating in the sky, hanging low, menacing. The wind increases as you both reach the highway exit to the small village of Hoback, carrying sharp snowflakes that cut Joel’s exposed cheeks. The path is narrow, flanked by tall conifers that grow denser, their branches drooping down from the weight of the snow. You’re forced to get behind the man, your gaze on his back piercing, nervous, uncomfortable. The both of you still don’t talk, but the atmosphere has shifted, the unspoken conflict momentarily forgotten.

Joel moves forward cautiously on trot, alert, scanning his surroundings. The first cluster of residences comes into view, simple log cabins settled at the foot of a hill a couple yards away. From the distance, nothing looks out of place. He signals for you to follow him, and you patrol up and down the short street, hastily inspecting the houses on both sides. They’re frozen in a dead silence, immobile, ravaged by years of negligence and harsh elements. Instead of being reassuring, the absence of movement only causes Joel’s foreboding feeling to develop. Something is very off here. The both of you repeat the process through the village, falling into calculated, practised gestures. And, while patrollers have the habit of checking some key places for supplies to bring back to Jackson, this time, your pair instinctively works as fast as possible, not entering a single house. There’s an unwritten agreement to get the hell out of here as soon as you can.

You’ve cleared out most of the village and, at last, you reach Snake River, the sounds of its turbulent waters mixed with the wind is tumultuous. There’s a bridge ahead, just large enough for a car. Its wooden structure is unstable, some slats have fallen, the rest are icy and split in places. This next part has to be done on foot; the horses would collapse through the bridge and drown if they even took one step on it. Once you cross the river, you’ll need to walk a couple miles to the outskirts of the village, finishing off the route at an old golf course. The clubhouse is a great lookout to the area; it holds the patrol logbook. Joel halts Old Beardy before the river, and you stop next to him. The animal shakes his head, freeing his mane from the layer of snow. Joel hesitates, not quite ready to leave the protection and speed horseback offers. He’s debating if an acute gut feeling is reason enough to turn back and leave patrol unfinished.

That short moment of doubt is precious. Because a second later, nature seems to fall completely silent around you. As though a predator is roaming nearby. Sudden, horrible snarls erupt from the woods stretching to your right. The ground trembles beneath fast, uneven footsteps. A lot of them. Too many. Time stops as Joel looks in your eyes for the first time in hours. They’re full of fear.

And then a runner stumbles onto the trail about three hundred feet behind, twitching, its mangled head snapping in your direction. Followed by another. And another. It jolts the man right into action.

“COME ON!” He urges you, spurring Old Beardy to a gallop.

There’s no way to go, but forward. Joel barrels around the bridge and down the slope, reaching the riverbank. You don’t leave his side, thighs clenched around Willow’s flanks, arms straining with the reins. And as your horses hooves hit the ice, the horde has crossed the distance, pouring down the embankment. There’s at least twenty. Some of them fall into the water, the current seizing them immediately. But it’s not enough to stop them. Joel’s heart is hammering out of his chest, his body rocking with the movement as Old Beardy pushes on, fueled by the danger. Joel lets go of the reins, expert fingers grasping his rifle. He swiftly points it at the first runner that lunges at his left, and lodges a bullet in its brain. The next one steps on the corpse, ready to attack. It meets the same fate. The gunshots coming from your side clearly indicate that you’re handling yourself. Before long, Joel has emptied the chamber, not one bullet wasted.

“RELOADING!” He shouts.

You cover him, taking out an infected, mere inches before his claws dig into Joel’s ankle. He doesn’t have time to thank you, however, pulling the trigger the second he readies the rifle again. You both maintain the rhythm up for what seems to be hours, the horses snorting through the effort, runners dropping like flies. Joel has lost all sensation; he doesn’t feel his lungs burning or his muscles pulling; the adrenaline has completely taken over. He keeps riding. Shooting. Reloading. And…Yes, there.

Only two of the fuckers left.

One on your side, one on his. He fires. Perfect shot. He thinks the two of you might make it out unscathed.

But then, something happens. Your weapon is pointed at your own runner, about to shoot. But you hesitate. Joel watches as the creature strikes. Willow panics. She rears up. And you are thrown to the ground.

——————————

That runner.

It looks so much like her.

Your body hits the riverbank, head bouncing on a rock, wind knocked out of you. A sharp pain erupts in your skull, high-pitched ringing explodes in your ears, stars appear in your vision. In a fraction of a second, the creature is straddling you. You weakly push an elbow against its chest, keeping its jaws from locking around your neck. It twitches, screams, clacks its teeth.

And you just…accept it. Twenty-one years of surviving, and this is how it ends.

You close your eyes.

And you’re back in the forest. That day. You’re running, faster than you’ve ever done in your life, branches grabbing at you, slicing your skin, like they want to prevent your escape. You glance over your shoulder. She’s gaining on you. Her eyes have turned a milky white, her clothes are ripped, her skin bloodied. But she still looks so much like herself. She still sounds like herself. Your baby sister. Her discorded weeps fill you with a gutting terror. You can almost make out the repeated word. Your name. Tears fall down wildly as you dart between trees, your breathing erratic, throat on fire.

“PLEASE! ANI! STOP!” you howl. But she’s gone. She can’t understand. So she chases, and you run.

Until your foot catches on a large root, sending you tumbling through the underbrush. Your gun clatters away from you. You lay there, stunned, dirt in your eyes, your nose, your mouth, ankle bent at the wrong angle.

She pins you to the ground, broken nails digging in the skin of your arms. You flail around, kick at her, trying to free yourself from her impossibly strong grip.

“STOP IT! ANI! STOP!” you cry out again, voice raspy, hollow, desperate.

Your right hand pats around blindly for the weapon, your left is pushed against her forehead, forcing her mouth away from your exposed shoulder. Your heart is beating so fast it seems like it’s stopped. Maybe it has. Maybe you’ve died, and this is just a flash of your last moments as you drift into peaceful, eternal rest. Or maybe it’s a horrible nightmare, and you’re about to wake up, a hand laced in your sister’s soft hair, light snores escaping her lips. She always looks so innocent when she sleeps, like all worries have washed off her, like she’s been sent back to a happy childhood in her dreams.

Your fingers brush against cold metal. You close them around the handle.

Bang.

The shot echoes, in the past and in the present.

You’re still alive.

The runner’s corpse slumps down against you, coating you with gore, a foul smell making you gag. You’re paralyzed, trembling, chest rising and falling erratically, gasping for air. You look up at the angry grey skies, the snow plummeting down, catching in your eyelashes. Everything stands still for an instant.

It all comes rushing back as the dead infected is ripped off your chest, discarded to the side like a rag doll. You sense a presence crouching down next to you, and Joel obscures your view.

He calls out your last name, loud, snapping you back to reality. You focus on his face; it’s flushed, expression tight with stress, eyes darting, searching for yours.

“Hey! Are you okay?” he yells.

Joel takes you by the shoulders and pulls you into a sitting position, the sudden movement making you dizzy. You stare back at him, eyes wide, blinking rapidly, unable to answer. Stunned.

“HEY! Did it bite you?” he continues, shaking you.

You move your head side to side in response, causing it to throb in pain. You wince, raising a hand to your occiput. Your glove comes back crimson. Joel’s eyes fall to the blood, and he mutters a curse. He reaches into his coat pocket to take out a rag, balling it up and pressing it to the back of your skull.

“Keep that there for me. Can you do that?” He speaks in a low, steady tone, but there’s an edge to it you pick up on. You nod and execute yourself. Willow comes over and nudges you with her nose; her way of apologising. You pat her with your free hand, reassuring. It was your fault.

Joel runs back to Old Beardy, the poor beast trembling from the fright. He takes something out of his pack’s front pocket and brings it back : a small bottle of rubbing alcohol. He twists the cap off with his teeth and kneels behind you, taking the rag and pouring some of the liquid on it. He rubs it on your wound, eliciting a shriek.

Holy shit that hurts.

Joel inspects the injury, parting your hair to expose it, the rough fabric of his gloves like sandpaper on your scalp.

“Cut isn’t deep. But you’re gonna get a mean bump.” Joel explains, applying more pressure. He stops the bleeding, aided by the cold, and wraps the rag around your head, securing it with a tight knot. “We gotta keep moving. Can you stand up?”

This version of Joel, assertive, protective even, catches you off guard. It’s such a stark contrast from his attitude earlier in the day. It nearly makes you forget how close to death you just came.

“Uh, I-I think so-” you reply, regaining your voice, before attempting to push yourself off the ground and falling back down. Your head spins.

Joel offers you his hand, which you take to pull yourself up slowly, your whole body protesting. Bile rises up to your oesophagus. You lean over, breathing through your mouth.

“Shit. I think you have a concussion,” you hear Joel say, from far away.

And, then, as if things couldn’t get any worse, the storm picks up. The snow gets so dense you can barely see five feet in front of you. The man takes the lead, urgently guiding you towards Old Beardy. He helps you mount, taking you by the waist, and you don’t even think to resist. There’s no way you can ride by yourself in this condition. Joel gets on and takes the reins while you hold on to him, chest pressed against his back. He whistles for Willow over the wind. She follows right behind.

Joel leads his horse out of the riverbank and into the surrounding woods, visibility getting even poorer. You’re blinded by snow, breathing it in, wheezing. You put all trust in Joel’s sense of orientation, praying that somehow, he gets you back onto the road. He presses forward, a hand raised in front of his face to protect it.

What a stupid fucking way to go out. Lost in a blizzard. With Joel Miller. At least the town would have something to talk about.

But then, miraculously, the trees begin to thin out; ahead, you can make out the faint outline of a trail.

He did it.

You squeeze Joel’s torso tighter, as if to thank him. Old Beardy perseveres, pushing one leg in front of the other. Your head is getting heavier, the concussion pulling you towards a dreamless sleep.

“Hold on. We’re almost there.” Joel affirms. You’re not sure who it’s destined for : himself, you, or the horses. Maybe all four. But it’s all you need to let go, and you pass out, head slumping on Joel’s shoulder.

——————————

You wake up to the sound of snow pelting against glass. Your skull feels like it’s being drilled into with a jackhammer. You pry your eyelids open and try to get your bearings, vision foggy, as though you opened your eyes in a chlorine pool. You find that you’ve been laid out on a frayed, deformed couch, springs digging into your back, a quilt smelling of mothballs thrown over you. Your winter attire has been taken off. You push yourself up on your elbows and look around the room. It seems to be the small living area of a cabin; there’s a rustic coffee table where both packs lay next to the bloody rag that acted as your bandage. To your left is a large, frosted-over bay window; the outside is an infinite, oppressing white. Two sets of jackets and ski pants hang from antler-shaped hooks next to the front door, a puddle forming underneath. A stone hearth takes up the wall in front of you, fire crackling inside. And, to your right, a plaid armchair. Joel is sitting in it, leaning forward, forearms resting on his thighs, watching you intently with knitted brows. His expression is hard, severe, unfriendly; he’s back to his normal self. You hold his gaze, your sight slowly getting clearer.

“Uh. Hey,” you speak hoarsely, throat dry. It makes you cough, which prompts Joel to get up and rummage through your pack to retrieve your canteen. He tosses it to you carelessly, and you fail to catch it. It lands on your lap with a thump. Joel plops back into the armchair, huffing. He is very transparently upset with you.

Great.

You take a long gulp of water and wipe your mouth with the back of your sleeve, the day replaying in your mind like on a movie theatre screen, pausing on your near-death experience. And you’re baffled, ashamed of your own actions. You can’t believe Joel had to step in and save your sorry ass, like you’re some kind of damsel in distress.

Fucking rookie mistake. And now you have a goddamn concussion.

You massage your temples and suppress a groan. “How long was I out?” you ask instead.

“About an hour.” Joel answers, tone glacial, deprived of any sympathy.

“Did you try calling Jackson?” You nod over at the small radio sitting on the ground by the window.

“Couldn’t get a signal,” Joel answers, gruff, as if it’s an obvious fact.

You roll your eyes. You know he’s right, but still, you stand up despite sore muscles, and go over to the device, cranking it a few times before trying the channel knob. You’re met with static. Joel mumbles something under his breath; it doesn’t sound pleasant, or polite. You put the radio back down and return to the couch, avoiding eye contact with the older man.

You glance at your watch. It’s right after 3PM, and the blizzard hasn’t let up. You’re going to be stuck here a while. You rest your head on the arm of the sofa, staring at the beamed ceiling, lost in reflexion. About how genuinely worried Joel seemed when you got hurt, how he jumped right in to take care of you. It makes you seethe. He tucked you in so you’d stay warm. He even changed your socks; the wet pair is drying by the fireplace. How dare he? You shift on the cushions, stiff, ill at ease. And Joel chooses that moment to break the silence.

“What the hell was that back there?” He questions, his tone accusatory.

You tense up. The blame you’re putting on yourself is more than enough. He doesn’t need to twist the knife. You ignore him, your jaw clenching.

“Hey. I’m talkin’ to ya,” he nags.

It makes your blood boil, and you sit up to glare at him. “Won’t happen again,” you grumble.

“Yeah? You sure about that?” He continues, harsh.

You take a deep breath. “Look, I-”

He interrupts you. “You don’t freeze up like that. Ever. You understand me?”

“Oh, wow. I had no idea!” You strike back, not missing a beat. “I don’t need a lecture from you, Miller,” You spit out.

Joel lets out a chilling chuckle. “Oh, you’re welcome, by the way!” He barks, “You know. For keepin’ you alive an’ all.”

You spring to your feet, heat shooting to your head, exacerbating the migraine. “I didn’t ask for your fucking help,” you utter.

Joel gets up too, towering over you, hands balled up into fists. “Right. Next time I'll just let you get infected. That what you want?”

“I told you. There won’t be a next time!” You shout, holding yourself back from punching him in the gut, or kneeing him where it would hurt most, or pulling him down to the couch and pushing your lips to his neck and letting him-

No. Nope. Not again, not here, not now.

You desperately need some air. You move towards the front door, but Joel strides up to you and blocks the way, arms crossed.

“You ain’t going anywhere,” he warns.

“Let. Me. Out.” You command. Your head is so painful you think it might explode.

Joel chuckles again. “You got a death wish or somethin’? Settle down, girl.” He talks down to you as if you were a child, smug, condescending; but that word makes your heart skip a beat.

You try to make a pass for the handle, but he grabs your wrist and shoves it backwards effortlessly. You’re seeing red. So you opt for the next best thing; you spin around abruptly and storm off to the other side of the cabin, into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you.

“Oh yeah. You do that. Real mature.” Joel yells out.

You hear the creak of the floor under his steps and the rustling of fabric as he sits back down. You take your frustrations out on the shower curtain, displacing thousands of dust particles, before biting down on your hand to muffle a scream. When you’re done, you climb into the bathtub and curl up against the lime-scaled cold porcelain, forehead on your knees. The space is dark, stuffy, suffocating. You wonder how you’ll be able to make it through the storm without ripping Joel’s head off. Or doing something exactly opposed to it. How easily that man is able to just get to you is incomprehensible. Enraging. And, worst of all, despite how reluctant you are to admit it…

Arousing.

It must be the concussion dysregulating you completely. But the feeling grows, and you extend both legs to squeeze your thighs together, trying to release the pressure building between them. It’s no use. There’s only one thing that would satisfy it, and he’s right outside the door. Without your control, your right hand moves to the waistband of your jeans, undoes the button and goes down, past the elastic of your underwear…Fingers reach down to your entrance, already slick, and glide back up to the hardened nub, the touch sending a rush of pleasure through your body. You rub clumsy circles around, slow at first, mind filling with Joel, his calloused hand there instead of yours, stretching you out, whispering filthy things in your ear. You increase the speed, biting your lip to keep yourself from moaning, cheeks flushed, the pressure becoming almost unbearable. You push two fingers inside, curling them to stimulate that sensitive spot, bucking into your own palm to deepen the sensation. In a matter of seconds, you’re unravelling, free hand gripping the side of the tub, your walls clamping down on the other, come seeping in the fabric below. Your lips part and you can’t help a low squeal from escaping them. You immediately clap your left hand over your mouth, heart racing.

Fuck.

Did he hear?

You take a few deep breaths, trying to calm yourself. The reality of what you just did comes crashing down. It only worked to heighten your desire. And your anger. You button your pants back up and step out of the bathtub, wiping your hand on a scratchy towel you find in the linen closet along with a colony of spiders.

You’ve been in here for too long. You have to go back out. It would raise suspicion if you didn’t.

——————————

Joel is oblivious, too busy sulking over the events of the day as he tends to the fire, flames illuminating his face in a flickering glow.

That was too fucking close.

The image of you, frozen up under the runner, keeps snaking its way into his thoughts. It infuriates him. How you just gave up, like your life was worthless, like you deserved what came to you. And yet, the sentiment is so familiar it makes his chest ache in a burst of empathy. He can sense the burden in you, the intense trauma you endured. Most people have, in this unforgiving world, but you…There’s something more. It was the look in your eyes when you saw that infected, as if it reminded you of something so vivid it stole you away for an instant. He knows because it’s happened to him. It still does, sometimes, although less frequently. They’re these moments of sheer panic, where he’s choking, the world blurring around him. He has to count things he can see, or touch, or hear…He feels so miserably weak after it’s passed, as if he’s just a small, scared old man. Maybe it reveals his true nature.

And he’s so angry at you for making him care. Because for some reason, he does. Ever since that night at the tavern. Maybe even before. How scared he got when he thought you might be done for is direct proof of it.

He can’t afford to have another person to protect.

A quiet cough brings him back to the present. He peers over his shoulder. You’re standing behind him, seemingly troubled by something; you fiddle with the hem of your sweater, gaze glued to the ground.

He turns back to the hearth, sighing, and forces out an irritated “You good?” The thing is, he actually is concerned with the answer.

“Fine.” You reply, your tone not an ounce more affable than his.

That is as far as the conversation goes. Joel eventually gets tired of rotating the same log with the fire poker, pretending the action is crucial to keep the flames alive. He goes back to the armchair, glancing at you. You’ve reclined on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, mindlessly chewing on a piece of dried meat. He decides to imitate you, because he needs something to do with his hands. So he digs in his bag for the sandwich he’d packed; it’s mushed, tasteless. You both eat in thick, loaded silence.

The sunlight is starting to decline, and the storm rages on, casting the room in an eerie shadow, the cold seeping in through every tiny crack in the cabin’s foundation. Joel shivers despite himself, shoving both hands under his armpits in an attempt to preserve his body heat.

A second later, you’re out of your seat. Joel watches as you climb up the spiral staircase that leads to the loft bedroom. You shuffle around the space, partially concealed by the railing, and come stomping back down, carrying a crumpled blanket. You hold it out to him at arm’s length. Joel cocks a brow; the sudden kind gesture leaves him completely confused. You jiggle the blanket under his nose, impatient. He decides to take it, and drapes it around his shoulders, the relief immediate.

“Uh. Thanks,” he mumbles.

You give a shrug in response, dismissive, wrapping yourself in the quilt and retreating to the sofa.

What the hell?

An hour ago, you were fiercely arguing with him. Now this. The flip-flopping is giving him whiplash.

Time passes, excruciatingly slow, nor Joel or you daring to say another word. The sun fully sets; the darkness outside is opaque, as if the little cabin is drowning alone in an abyss. There’s no way around it, you’ll both have to spend the night here. Around half past 5PM, Joel can’t stew in the tension anymore, so he goes to check on Old Beardy and Willow, confined to the veranda at the back of the house. They’re cramped, but otherwise fine. Joel risks a short trip to the yard to fill an old, warped bucket with snow for the horses to drink. As he shines the beam of his flashlight around, he notes that the blizzard has weakened slightly. This mess might be over in the morning. Just a few hours. He can last until then. It’s not like he has any other choice.

He feeds the animals with a pile of straw forgotten in a corner of the veranda, behind some gardening tools. At the start of the outbreak, he couldn’t help but imagine who inhabited the places he used as shelters, what their daily lives looked like, if they were still alive. Sometimes, he’d come across evidence of the contrary. It used to disturb him, he’d feel like an intruder, but he’d quickly grown desensitised. Cordyceps didn’t spare anyone. It made suffering the new normal. It’s useless to dwell on what was or wonder what could have been. So, he doesn’t pay more attention to the objects scattered around the space as Willow eats from his hand.

Once he comes back inside the cabin, he finds you exploring the kitchenette that’s crammed underneath the loft. You’ve opened the cupboards, revealing stacks of chipped, dusty dishes. You’re going through a drawer, a few utensils clinking inside. You haven’t noticed Joel, too focused on your search for something of value. He observes quietly as you move on to the second drawer, when he decides to make his presence known. He clears his throat before speaking.

“Don’t bother, I already checked while you were sleepin’.”

His words only make you search harder, meticulously inspecting the contents of the drawer, bent over, your back turned to him.

Goddamn it. You’re exasperating.

And yet, his eyes are drawn to a specific part of your anatomy, the curves made obvious by your position, your jeans hugging them so well he could just-

“Or do whatever the fuck you want,” he mutters, the hostility compensating for the sudden surge of lust.

He plants himself in the armchair, once again, the noises of your continued investigation grating, setting his nerves on fire. After a few minutes, they stop. And you come walking back to the living area with a subtle, conceited smirk on your lips, and a bottle of very nice, before-the-apocalypse whisky clutched in your right hand.

“Didn’t check well enough, Miller,” you say, failing to hide your satisfaction.

“Where was it?” He asks, upset at himself for missing the item.

“Back of the sink cabinet,” you answer smugly. “Quality stuff,” you add, reading the label. You’re absolutely right, but Joel isn’t going to recognise it.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky,” he grumbles. You don’t waste time and unseal the bottle before raising it to your mouth.

“Don’t think that’s smart,” Joel cautions, making you pause mid-air. “Y’know. Concussion,” he continues, his tone more unpleasant than he anticipated.

You don’t listen to his advice, staring at him tauntingly as you sip. He’s quickly learning that you thrive in defiance. And this audacity you possess, it’s…Attractive. Joel inexplicably likes that you’re provoking him. Your expression remains neutral as you swallow, even when Joel knows for a fact it must sting like hell. You offer the bottle to him.

It’s been a long time since he’s had liquor that didn’t have an aftertaste of battery acid, and the sight makes him crave a good drink. It’d certainly make the night pass by faster. He knows it’s a terrible idea, considering where getting drunk with you led him last time, but it’s so damn tempting…

He takes the whisky from you.

——————————

You’ve made a considerable dent in the liquor. It’s dulling the pain in your head, reducing it to a distant ache. You’re sitting cross-legged in front of the hearth, and Joel has joined you on the ground, close enough to pass the bottle back and forth without having to stand up. His back is resting on the bottom panel of the couch, legs spread out casually. The fire, as well as the whisky, is enveloping you in a calming warmth, eating away at your inhibitions; you’ve taken your sweater off as a result, stripped down to a tight thermal shirt. There’s silence again between you and Joel, but this time, it doesn’t make you want to claw out of your own skin. It’s strikingly comfortable. And you find yourself wanting the man to come closer, longing for contact, connection. You haven’t forgotten your little adventure in the bathroom; in fact, the liquor is feeding those feelings, and they’ve risen to a nearly overwhelming level.

You take another sip, and, during the exchange, Joel’s fingers graze yours, sending your heart in a frenzy and a burst of flustered heat to your face. You jerk your hand away.

Idiot.

You play it off by brushing it through your hair. Joel’s mouth twitches upwards before he drinks.

“What?” You ask, defensive.

“Nothin’.” Joel passes the bottle back to you with a faint air of amusement. You decide it’s a good time to stop, and you set it down on the floor.

“Done already? I was expecting more from ya,” he teases.

You hate how well it’s efficient in riling you up. “Like you said. Concussion,” you retort, pointing at the site of injury.

“Hm. So now it's a good enough excuse,” he presses on, narrowing his eyes at you.

“Yup,” you answer simply.

“Really? That’s all you got?” His smirk is more assured now.

You give a drawn-out sigh in response, studying the fire like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

“Damn. I was startin’ to like the snark,” he says. It seems like the liquor has taken a toll on the man’s reservations, too.

“Don’t wanna waste my breath on you,” you reply, unable to resist the banter.

Joel chuckles. “Ah. There she is.”

You had forgotten how lovely Joel’s laugh is. How natural it feels to talk to him like this. Funny how booze seems to have that impact on the both of you. And, after a tortuous day of being at each other’s throats, you welcome the change of mood. “Did I just hear you say you like me?” You turn to gaze at him, an eyebrow raised.

“Nah. Must be your concussion.” He answers, deadpan, unfazed.

You can’t hold back a smile as you reply. “Hm. Sure, Miller.”

He pauses and appears to consider something, chewing on his bottom lip. “Uh. Joel,” he finally lets out, voice deeper, more serious. “Just- call me Joel.”

You’re taken aback by that sudden request.

His first name. It feels informal, intimate even, as though you’ve moved past the status of coworkers, into murky, foreign territory. You know you should refuse. You’ve dropped too many of your principles with this man already.

“Alright. Joel.” You gulp. “Uh, same goes for you.”

He gives a short nod, and mirrors your sentence, only with your name instead.

It’s significant. This moment. It feels like the two of you have reached a point of no return. Like from here on out, things can’t just go back to the way they were.

“Man, this isn’t how I was planning to spend the night,” you revert to humour to diffuse the returning tension.

“Yeah?” Joel follows your lead. “Got somethin’ you’d rather be doin’?”

“Pretty much anything else,” you quip. “I was gonna work on this painting I’m late on.” You’re not sure why you’re opening up about that aspect of your life, but it’s the direction the whisky has picked. It’s futile enough. Still safe.

“Oh. Right. Painting,” he says. “I knew you did that.”

He does?

“Didn’t you do one of Tommy and Maria?” He continues. “For their wedding?”

The man truly is full of surprises. And to think you were convinced he was completely indifferent to you, at least before today.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, that was me,” you reply after a few seconds.

“It’s good work. You managed to make Tommy look half-decent. That’s talent right there,” he jokes.

“Yeah. Thanks. I tried.” You chuckle, and your stomach flutters at the compliment. You’d shoot those butterflies one by one with a tiny gun if you could. “What about you? What’d you have on the schedule?”

“Hm,” he answers, “not much either. Was gonna ask Ellie to join me for dinner. And get rejected again.”

“I don’t blame her,” you comment, a teasing grin forming. “What teenager wants to hang out with a grumpy old guy?”

“Hey. Rude.” Joel feigns offence. “I can be fun,” he adds.

“Won’t believe it until I see it,” you push further.

“Okay then. Just you wait.” He glances around the room for inspiration, until he is hit by a stroke of genius.

“Truth or dare?”

You snort. “Are you twelve?”

“Truth or dare?” Joel repeats, voice raising in pitch.

You shake your head in disbelief.

Joel fucking Miller.

“Fine. Truth,” you capitulate.

Joel smirks. “Okay. Uh,” he concentrates, “What’s your favourite colour?”

You take a second to process the words that just came out of his mouth. And then burst out laughing.

“Come on,” Joel protests, a grin brightening his eyes, deepening the wrinkles around them. “What’s wrong with that question?”

It makes you double down in laughter. You wheeze, trying to catch your breath, and Joel joins in with a few low chuckles. The stoic mask has vanished. Why does he look so sweet?

“That-that- was the best you could come up with?” you get out between deep inhales.

Joel doesn’t back down. “You gonna answer it or what?”

“Okay, okay. Uh-”

You realise you haven’t thought about that tiny aspect of yourself in about two decades. Cordyceps has had that strange effect of destroying souls, personalities, the little things that used to make one human. By infecting some, and coercing others into survival. You’re not sure which fate is worse.

“It’s yellow,” you finally reply. Yellow like the sunshine. That was your sister’s nickname. And you were Moonbeam. Opposites who completed each other. And now there’s only one left, lonely, broken.

Joel nods. “Fitting.”

“Hm?”

“Your tattoo.” He gestures at your exposed collarbone, where a sun made up of a multitude of ink dots is etched into your skin. Joel is scarily on point; that was for her, too.

“Yeah.” You don’t linger on the topic. “Your turn. Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” Joel replies instantly.

You’re not prepared. “Uh- I dare you to-” Your mind is sluggish, moving in slow-motion as you try to come up with something. “I dare you to sit next to me.” It comes out without your control.

Shit.

“Easy,” Joel brags. He pushes himself off the ground with a grunt and takes five steps before settling back down so close that your legs are touching. He doesn’t acknowledge it, eyes on the fire ahead, and neither do you. But it sends a chill up your spine and your thoughts to a dangerous place. You determine you’ve taken a long enough break from the whisky and take a swig of the liquid courage. Joel does too.

“Your turn,” he reminds you.

“Truth.” You still have enough wits left to be worried of what he’d make you do as a dare.

“Takin’ the coward’s way out?” He teases.

You drink again, ignoring the remark.

“Alright. Uh, tell me about- your first time,” he says, glancing over at you with a sly smile.

That’s a huge jump from the innocence of his first question. You shoot him an unimpressed look. “You’re gonna have to be more precise.”

“You know exactly what I mean. Now start talkin’,” he playfully orders.

You sigh. “I was seventeen. With a friend I had in the QZ. Nothing special to it.” Your teenage years aren’t a period you like to reminisce about; you had to grow up much too fast.

Joel stays quiet for a moment, and bumps your knee with his, in a movement that could be passed as accidental, or as an attempt at comfort. You’re not certain which is the truth. “D’you love him?” He asks, his tone genuine, devoid of mockery.

“Her,” you correct. “And…I don’t know. It was years ago. Doesn’t matter.” It’s a lie. You remember it like it was yesterday. And you did.

Joel’s expression is one of surprise, and embarrassment. He turns a shade of red deeper than he was the second before, the temperature having nothing to do with it. “Oh. Uh. I- Sorry, uh, didn’t mean to assume- That’s- Good for you- I-”

You’re very entertained by his reaction. People usually fall into one of two categories when you tell them; awkward ally or plain bigot. You’re glad it’s the first one. You cut him off before he digs the hole deeper. “It’s fine. Don’t beat yourself up. Your turn.”

He seems rather grateful for the change of subject. “Uh. Right. Truth,” he replies, regaining his composure.

You give him a taste of his own medicine. “Same question.”

Joel is unbothered, and tells the story nonchalantly. “Okay. It was my date at senior prom. Back of my car in the school parking lot.”

It makes you laugh. “Wow. How very original. I gotta know what kinda car it was.”

“My dad’s busted old Wrangler. I put that car through a lot of shit.” he replies, chuckling.

“I could have guessed that.”

For a second, you and Joel look at each other, smiling. He almost appears timid. And for a second, the horrors of the world retreat into the shadows that birthed them. For a second, everything is alright. You could stay here forever.

——————————

Joel could, too. He wishes time could stop here. Because he’s confident that the night will inevitably end in something he’ll regret. No way around it. It’s taking an enormous effort already to keep himself from reaching over and closing the distance between your lips and his. The booze isn’t helping. You’re not either, with that radiant smile that’s melting his hard shell little by little, and your eyes that keep wandering around his face, his chest, and lower too, though you try to be discreet. He’s doing the same, and he’s certain you’re aware of it. Now, it’s a matter of who will succumb to the temptation first.

You speak up again. “One last thing, Joel. Did you get the girl?” The question is lighthearted, but the memories it brings back certainly aren’t.

He sighs. “Yeah. I did.” Sarah’s mother. They’d been high school sweethearts. Young. Dumb. A tale as old as time. “Got married. Had a kid. The whole nine yards. Then she wasn’t ready to be a parent. And, well-” He trails off, the words slipping out, motivated by the liquor. He’d never have confessed such a thing in a different context. Especially not to you. And just like that, he’s ruined the mood.

Your eyebrows shoot up in shock, before your expression softens, as you realise what must have happened to said child. Pity? Compassion? Joel can’t be sure. “Oh. Uhm. I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know-”

“‘S’okay. It’s, uh, it’s been a while. And I got Ellie now,” he reassures, slurring the words slightly.

“What-what was their name?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“Sarah,” he answers after a pause. He’s only recently started being able to talk about her out loud without breaking down. He doesn’t know if that still applies when he’s inebriated. And he’s not willing to test it out. He drowns the sentiment in more whisky, before giving you the bottle.

“Uhm. That’s pretty.” You take a swig and hesitate. “I, uh, I- know what it’s like. To- to lose someone like that,” you say, softly. The pain the words cause you as they escape is evident. Joel believes you.

And then something happens. Your right hand leaves your lap, moves to the side and comes to rest on his.

His gaze travels from your hand, up to your face. It’s full of doubt, eyes wide, as though you’ve just made a horrible mistake.

It’s all it takes for the floodgates to open.

——————————

Joel grabs your forearm and pulls you into his lap. His mouth collapses on yours. You don’t protest, accepting the kiss immediately, gripping his shoulders to steady yourself, knees on both sides of his thighs.

A rugged hand goes to the small of your back, pressing your chest to his, while the other slides up to the back of your head, carefully tilting it to deepen the kiss. Tongues collide, hungry, eager. He sucks on yours, stifling a moan.

You’ve been pent up so long you’re soaking already. He breaks away from the kiss to trail his lips across your jaw, before going down your neck, biting and swirling his tongue on your pulse point, not mindful of the mark he’s undoubtedly going to leave. He earns a gasp, your fingers interlocking with his hair, holding him in place. You grind against his growing bulge to try and alleviate the fervent pressure rising at your core. He thrusts his hips up to meet yours, the friction sending sparks of electricity to your hazy mind. A hand wanders to your breast, fingers groping the soft flesh, flicking the nipple raised through your shirt. But you need more. Need him inside of you. Now.

And you tell him so, voice quivering with desire. “Please,” you add in a whimper.

It isn’t long before your clothes are ripped off, his lips refusing to break apart from yours for more than a few seconds. He lays you down right there on the floor, bare, trembling, aching for his touch. He sits back on his heels and admires you for a moment, eyes darkened, intense, reflecting the flames as if they are blazing behind his pupils. You watch, mesmerised, as he undresses in the dim, dancing light of the fire, casting him in an aura that’s almost ominous. He stands up to take off his underwear, cock springing free and hitting his lower stomach.

The sight makes your mouth water. God, he’s big.

He climbs on top of you, your legs encircling his torso, granting him access to your entrance. And he pushes into you. Hard. You’re so wet his cock slides in without resistance, filling you completely, nearly hitting your cervix, the jab of pain delicious. The act isn’t kind, or tender; and it’s exactly what you want. For him to use you, to ruin you. And he does. He fucks you senseless, each stroke bringing you closer to oblivion, to forgetting who you are. The sounds he’s letting out are outright sinful, grunts laced with dirty sentences that could make you finish on the spot. But you’re holding on. Until he lifts you up by the waist, angling himself to hit that bundle of nerves over and over again, making you cry out in ecstasy, clawing at his back. You’re almost there, your walls pulsate around him, driving him deeper inside.

“Think you should come for me, darlin’,” he hums into your ear, nibbling on the lobe.

You obey.

The orgasm ripples with such force it blinds you. You can’t even scream. You’re gone. Not a person anymore, but a being of pure pleasure. Joel coaxes you through it with a few more thrusts, erratic, uneven, as he reaches his own release. He pulls out of you at the last second, painting your belly with spurts of the thick, warm substance. Your entire body spasms before going limp.

All the fight has been drained out of you. You’re reduced to a panting, throbbing mess on the floor, arousal pooling out of you, coating your inner thighs.

“Did so good for me,” Joel praises, hands cupping your face, left thumb rubbing circles on your cheek. “So fuckin’ good,” he repeats.

You stay still, eyes closed, brain shutting down your functions one by one. As you’re about to drift off, you feel strong arms carrying you to the loft, carefully placing you on the bed, cleaning you off with a soft cloth. He climbs in and embraces you, limbs tangled with yours, and you nuzzle your head in the crook of his neck. His fingers gently brush the hair from your face to plant a kiss on your forehead.

“Sleep tight, darlin’,” he whispers.

It’s so vulnerable it makes your heart ache.

Because you know this’ll all be gone tomorrow, along with the alcohol evaporating from your system.

——————————

You’re right.

The sky is clear by the next morning, harsh sunlight brutally waking you. You’re alone in the bed, shivering, sore, his scent all over your skin. You get dressed, head pounding, filled with excruciating remorse.

Joel is waiting for you by the front door. Glacial. Austere. Haunting. The person that you went to bed with a few hours ago has been torn to shreds. As though he never even existed. Maybe he was a product of your imagination.

And, once you’re outside, standing side by side on the horses, ready for the return trip, Joel utters a sentence that reverberates in your head all the way to Jackson, its echo deafening as you ride in silence.

“What we did. It meant nothing. Understand?”

You keep the tears in until you’re back home.

To read on AO3

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel tlou #the last of us #tlou fanfiction #fanfic #pedro pascal #joel miller x female reader #joel miller smut #tlou part 2 #send help #fic: wish you were here

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jaythes1mp · 3 months ago

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hii jay, i just came home and ive read your reply ! im honestly so shocked at seeing how many ppl i have inspired to write (especially since im never once satisfied with my writing) but im glad me and klemen-tine are your inspirations bec your writing is very good and (also) underrated !!

and really, the inspired fic i wanted to write based off of your "here, kitty" one is about yan! batfam x angel! reader where it mostly focuses on their obsession on both the human and non human parts of the mc. i imagine a wingspan of over 7 to 10 ft with the family's favorite activity being... preening their angel's wings since it's so oddly intimate and induces both pleasure and satisfaction on both the reader's part and theirs but in different ways because it's also a reminder of how much the family has monopolized their time. and i want the relationship to thread between romantic lines but im unsure, so before i go off track with rambling— it just reminds me so much of your fanfic and i love it when other writers do non-human portrayals of the mc because theres so much potential for obsessive nature and just what truly is your identity; a human? a monster? or a pet for them to cherish?

anyways, i have so many ideas for your here, kitty fic and altho i haven't read the second part yet, ive been thinking about something similar to the idea i pitched above wherein one of their means of inducing you to a... relaxed state is through the means of your more animal-like features. it's sometimes even so effective that even you aren't aware of just how much they truly know about you; they don't even need to drug you at all, silly!

imagine, despite being in your human form, you retain your animal instincts. threatening dick with sharp fangs and a bite to his shoulder the moment he tries to tackle you with a cuddle leads to him finding that one very pleasure-inducing itch in your head that you couldn't quite scratch no matter what form you don. his hands meticulously run through your scalp, up and down motions, fingers exerting enough effort to repeatedly scratch that spot.

"that's a good kitty..." he mutters above your head, a wobbly smile forming on his face at just how... adorable you are. even your tail rhythmically thumps at how good you feel. see? why even try to fight him when you could settle for something way better...?

it just shows how you really are meant to be cooped up and pampered by them.

you don't know how he knows where, how, why he decided to do just that— but it works... despite your previous ministrations, you melt like jelly against his muscled body and allow his left arm to lock on your waist, the right one refusing to budge from stroking the locks of your hair. soon enough, you're purring, shivering against his body and ignoring the hastened beats of dick's heart against your ear, head conveniently laid on top of his chest and your body now on top of dick's seated form on the couch.

how he managed to effortlessly distract you from his travel from standing to sitting, you don't know. how he knows all the right spots to touch you, you don't also know.

and actually, you don't care. not when he continues to pleasure you with his love-filled patting. his left hand even started to stroke against the skin of your back— and all of a sudden, you feel that buzz of your goosebumps. the only sound left that echoes throughout the room are your purring and dick's heartbeats.

you close your eyes and bite your lips to prevent any of your whimpers from spilling out of your mouth.

for now, you tell yourself, you'll let him win this time.

deep down, you know it's a lie.

not when they've already won.

from me to you: happy bday again! hope you enjoy this short scenario i pulled out of my ass. it's been some time since i have written something but i hope this suffices! ^^

BWHAVAHSHSBANOKANANSJSJAKKASHSVS AHSJAKAKNAVSHAHAJA

WOAHHHHHH DUDE!!!!

I really really love it, thank you💚

Can I write something based off of this in one of my future chapters??

Also, the Angel reader idea is epic. If you ever write anything further on it please definitely @ me🙏 or if you don’t want to I’d for sure write it.

I apologise for the late reply, I wanted to wait till my birthday to read it💚💚

You can’t even tell that you went on break, man. It’s so epic💚💚💚💚

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meowzfordayz · 10 months ago

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Author’s Note: this was actually supposed to be a lil nsfw fanfic (Shy!Giyuu turned Needy!Giyuu 😏), but then world building (re: cafe setting) got ahead of me, so yeah. 😆☕️

cafe meet-cute (ugly?)

Tomioka Giyuu x Reader

Word Count: ~1,000

CW: explicit language

cafe meet-cute (cute!)

~faqs~

Shy!Giyuu as a regular at the cafe where you work part time to afford college. He always looks so tired, but manages the faintest of smiles whenever you greet him.

Shy!Giyuu who didn’t really notice when you started working at his favorite spot, but did notice when he found himself hoping you’d be there on his usual, dreary Monday morning, your absence duly noted when he’s met by a monotonous, “Hello sir, what can I get you?” instead of your usual cheery energy.

Shy!Giyuu who makes a point of reading your name tag the next time he sees you. You know his name, so it’s only fair that he finally put in the effort to learn yours. “Thanks, [y/n],” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “You’re welcome!” you chirp, and he swears he feels heat emanating from your cheeks. Or maybe he’s leaning in a little too close. Oops.

Shy!Giyuu who, even when he’s in a rush, no longer orders ahead, because then what excuse would he have to chat with you? And when the line is long? He absentmindedly—not absentminded at all—dallies on his phone, ignoring people as they hesitantly creep in front of him, itching for your full attention once the cafe empties out again.

Shy!Giyuu who asks about your area of study, your favorite color, where you got your sweater It looks comfortable, if you’re resting enough 😕 (that slipped out on an especially exhausting day, and he’d promptly turned so pink that you’d politely stammered about needing to check the fridge temperature Can’t let the milk spoil! 😃 as he dropped his tip in the jar and just stared at you).

Shy!Giyuu who asks so many questions you wouldn’t know he was shy. Truthfully, he’s glad his few acquaintances—dare he call them friends—don’t frequent the cafe too often. He’s certain he’d hear a mouthful from them otherwise.

“You talk to people?!” 🧐 <— Tengen

“They know your order? By heart?! Try something new for once, jeez.” 🙄 <— Obanai

“Seems like someone’s earned special privileges from the pretty barista.” <— 👀 Shinobu, after following a reluctant Giyuu into the cafe and watching him receive a free muffin

Shy!Giyuu who makes things a tad awkward when you eventually write your number for him on his cup (hidden underneath the cup sleeve — he almost misses it 😬). Awkward because he immediately saves your number in his phone, and proceeds to not text you.

Shy!Giyuu who’s never really dated, let alone experienced a ~meet cute, and definitely hadn’t envisioned himself in a sort of cafe-romcom situation. Aka, he’s in a panic (and utterly clueless).

Shy!Giyuu who’s grateful for your professionalism when he comes in two weeks later (he may or may not have been avoiding you, and “you” = his feelings for you), disappointed by the lingering stiffness in your tone, knowing it’s entirely his doing. He still blushes though when you shove a free muffin his way, I’m sorry on the tip of his tongue, fleeing on foot before it can take flight.

Maybe he does like you?! You ponder his behavior that night, lamenting to Mitsuri that, “I gave him my number weeks ago! Do you think he has a partner?! 😳 He must. Fuuuck. 😭 He’s so handsome. 😖 But MITSURI, nobody’s paying him to get to know me???! 🤔”

“Either he’s super bored,” Mitsuri giggles, “Orrr he’s super shy and totally crushing on you!!!!!”

Shy!Giyuu who nervously sets a travel mug of coffee on the counter, gazing away from the confusion in your eyes.

“Giyuu, it’s… already full?”

Shit. You didn’t mean to sound so dumb. 🙃

“It’s for you,” he croaks, face your favorite shade of red, “You make me coffee, like, a lot. So I wanted to return the favor.”

Giyuu, I literally work in a cafe you nearly deadpan I have unlimited access to coffee caught off guard by his gesture.

Internally screaming, actually.

“And,” he’s melting inside. You can practically see the steam billowing from his ears. “I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?”

He’s so close, he can probably hear how fast your heart’s beating. Not good, not good, not good. He definitely has a partner!!!!! Oh fuck, and now he’s here to let me down easy.

“For not texting, telling, you sooner.”

He gulps. You lick your lips. The thought occurs to him that he’d very much like to kiss you.

“You have a partner!” you squeak, exhaling like a deflating balloon, “Of course! Why are you apologizing?! I crossed a line! My bad!”

You nudge the travel mug toward him, so focused on your own embarrassment that you miss his expression falling, taking a deep breath to collect yourself.

“Hi Giyuu!” you hope you’re doing the right thing, starting over, “What can I get you today?”

Shy!Giyuu who, admittedly, turns tail and runs. 💀

Damn.

Shy!Giyuu who goes to class mortified yet… excited, recognizing the misunderstanding that occurred, cursing his lack of communication and deer-in-headlights reaction, eager to make amends. To make you see him.

He has to strongly resist the urge to bang his forehead into the desk.

Shy!Giyuu who recalls how his latte art gradually switched from intricate swans and tulips to hearts. Simple, but cute, and always capable of brightening his mornings.

Shy!Giyuu who realizes that, the first morning you ever created a heart for him was also the morning you gave him your number.

Shy!Giyuu who’s determined to clear the air, and take you on a date.

Not a coffee date. 😅

I'm 99% likely going to conclude this w/ pt 2 later today (or sometime this week). 😉💙 Update: cafe meet-cute (cute!) aka pt 2.

#giyuu tomioka #tomioka giyuu #giyuu x reader #tomioka x reader #water hashira #headcanons #college au #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer

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nocturnowlette · 23 days ago

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i'm sorry if this is weird or overstepping or something, but i truly think you're, like, the best person to ask this: i want to write a story (a fanfic) about someone discovering hypnosis through a dare in twitch chat at age, like, 30 or 40. & am having trouble imagining how to write someone in that circumstance who is properly Affected by that first file, or at least affected enough to become Intrigued, because my experience is one of watching tons and tons of youtube videos out of an entirely private, mysticism-powered Interest with a capital I in my early teens that, over months, gradually made me susceptible enough to trance for me to start having, like. preferences. and it's taken literal years for it to become something that's able to make me lose focus immediately or at least quickly upon starting a file. not that i want this guy to be dropping IMMEDIATELY, but i just don't know how to get in the head of someone who already IS susceptible to a significant degree; my own experience is so predicated on conditioning via loads of very, very, very ineffective and bad files before i found anything good. & another complication is that i want this guy (who is definitely whimsical enough to try it once for the fun of it regardless of how much of his ordinary audience would be even mildly interested, so at least i don't have to get Over Half The Audience to be Immediate Converts as well) to start having, like, a dedicated weekly stream for hypnosis, which means finding both both a) good and b) sfw shit fast. sth further complicated by the fact that i want him to meet a Romantic-Slash-Kink Interest through said interest's hypno files. this is all really niche and complex and i'm sorry again if this is wayyy out of your wheelhouse, you just seem like the best-knowledgeable and approachable person on the internet for this. um. i've never been a puppy but ur Feel Like A Puppy script was incredible i loved it so much & def reading again at some point. <3. ily

I'm imagining a scene where this person gets a donation message asking if they could try hypnosis or just "try something" on them.

I won't try to come up with specifics for how the trance should go, but I think heaviness should be the main thing that the hypnotist focuses on; and, importantly, the hypnotist doesn't anticipate how susceptible the streamer is either (they're amateurish and improve in the story with time).

And so, while the suggestions keep coming, with thoughts slowing and their body relaxing, the streamer seems to stop speaking at all. And then, they finally get the Drop command after setting it up...

Slam!

They lose control of their body so hard that they lean forward and hit their head on the desk, waking up instantly and having trouble understanding what happened! ^v^

It'd be best if they felt a bit confused and scared (maybe even turning the livestream off right after), but then... over time... feeling that itch. They didn't understand what happened, but their mind is so curious for it (perhaps you could slip in the mildest obsession or addiction suggestion if you want to fuel this, but I think without it would be great).

So then... they shoot the person a message. The story goes from there.

Also, you could make this streamer Jerma if you want. I could definitely see this happening to him.

#owlette #hypnosis #hypnok1nk #hypno k1nk #hypno fantasy #hypnodomme #hypnotized #hypnotism #covert hypnosis #hypno pet #hypno sub #hypno toy #hypnofetish #hypnosub

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avengerscompound · 18 days ago

Text

Shared Experience - Chapter 17

Shared Experience - A Captain America Fanfic

Masterlist PREVIOUS //

Rating: E

Warnings: smut (M/F, vaginal sex), blood-drinking

Pairing: Steve Rogers x OFC Rose Astor

Word Count: 1975

Summary: Rose Astor met her end in 1920, joining the ranks of the living dead two years after the birth of Steve Rogers. A century later the two meet in battle - a beacon of light clashing with a creature of the night. Despite their differences, the two bond over their shared life experiences. Can a vampire become an Avenger? Can two such different beings create a life together?

Chapter 17

Rose and Steve sat together on the hotel’s balcony. Steve was dressed in several layers, cuddled up under blankets with her. They hadn’t been out there long, but it was extremely cold, and even with the extra padding, Steve shivered slightly.

“You don’t have to sit out here with me,” Rose said. “Not that I don’t want you here, but you’re shivering.”

Steve shook his head. “I want to be here,” he said. “This is a big deal. And if they were lying, you’ll need help getting back inside.”

She nuzzled at his cheek. He was like a furnace against her skin. She was only ever as warm as her surroundings, and right now, her surroundings were freezing. “I love you,” she whispered.

He flinched a little when her skin came in contact with his. “I love you too,” he said, pressing a kiss to her lips. “God, you are so cold though.”

She laughed. “I’m sorry.” She scooped the blankets up against his shoulder and laid her head against his shoulder.

The sky had begun to lighten on the horizon and everything started to turn orange and pink. “It’s happening,” Steve said, reaching for her hand and linking their fingers. “How are you feeling?”

“Nervous,” she said. But it was different. Normally, even full of Steve's blood, by now her body would be screaming to go to ground. She’d be losing control of her conscious thought and working fully on instinct, and her skin would have begun to itch like she had a serious sunburn.

Now there was nothing. Her mind was clear and her skin felt like nothing. “But good,” she added. “It’s different from normal. I feel normal.”

Steve squeezed her hand. “I’m trying to not get my hopes up,” he said.

She nuzzled into his shoulder. “Me too.”

The sun’s disk began to peak over the tops of the trees beyond, spilling its rays over the land before it. Rose felt the warmth as the light rolled over her skin like a blanket. But it was just that. Warmth. There was no pain. No burning. No violent need to escape. As the sun crept higher, a tear ran down her cheek, and then another and another. Until she was freely crying, not caring at all how gruesome she must look right now.

She stood, letting the blankets fall from her body, and she basked in the sun as it continued to rise. “I can’t believe it,” she whispered. “I can’t believe it.”

Steve stood and moved behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. She leaned against him, but her eyes stayed trained on the sun. “I’m so happy,” she whispered.

“Me too,” Steve said softly.

She turned her head to look at him and he used his sleeves to wipe the blood from her face. “I love you so much,” she said.

“And I love you just as much,” he replied, leaning in and capturing her lips. She turned, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling herself flush to him. She couldn’t remember a time she had felt as good as she did right now.

She pulled back a little and looked into the blue of his eyes. “Let’s go inside.”

“Don’t you want to stay out here longer?” Steve asked.

She shook her head. “After all this is done, you can take me to the Bahamas. But right now, all I want is you.”

He kissed her again, deeper and more passionately, pulling her in as close as he could get her, his larger body dwarfing his. She moaned softly into the kiss and pushed her hands into his hair, tugging on it so he pulled back with a gasp.

“Take me inside,” she said.

He gathered her into his arms along with the blankets, carried her back into their hotel room, and dropped her onto the bed. He turned to close the door, but when he went to do the same to the curtains, Rose moved to her knees. “Leave it. Let the sun in.”

He pulled them right open and turned to her, stalking to the bed. She started to strip, pulling off the layers and layers of clothing she wore. Steve started to do the same. They both started to laugh at how comical it became as they shed extra layers of clothing, thermals, and underwear.

When they were finally both naked, Steve leaned in and captured her lips, guiding her back onto the bed and crawling up between her legs. He was rock hard and she was so ready to take him. He was all she wanted in this moment.

She flipped them both and ground down on him. “I think you should feed,” Steve said, rocking his hips under her so that the length of his shaft slid up and down her crevice. “We have a big fight.”

He was right, and as much as Marcellus was the last person she wanted to think about at this moment, she knew she needed to be well-prepared to take him on. “Okay,” she breathed.

She would drink - but not yet. All she wanted now was to have him seated inside her. She raised her hips and took hold of his cock, stroking it a couple of times and then lowering herself down onto his shaft. She winced at the pinch that always came when he breached her, but soon her moan mingled with him. He filled her so well, she loved that feeling of being stretched around him.

She braced her hands on his chest and began to bounce. She closed her eyes, focusing purely on the feeling of everything. His cock moving deep inside her. His skin furnace-hot against hers. His hands and the way they held her hips before sliding up to her breasts, cupping them and squeezing them together. His moans and gasps. His mouth on her breast when he leaned up and latched on to her nipple. The sun on her skin. The sun. The sun. The sun. The way the light caressed her skin like a gentle lover. She wasn't just there with Steve Rogers. The sun is here with her too and she’s never been happier.

“You look so beautiful,” Steve moaned.

She looked down at him, meeting his lust-blown eyes. The look of pure love and desire on his features was nothing if not intoxicating. It filled her with love and life and drove her on.

She leaned back, bracing on his thighs, her fingers digging into the thick, corded muscles. Up and down, up and down. She bounced on his cock, again and again, giving Steve the perfect view of himself pushing in as deep as he could go. He ran his hands up her taut stomach and over her hips. One hand settled on her sex and he used his thumb to rub her clit in tight circles.

Heat spreads through her like a fire has been lit under her skin. She’s never felt anything like it. It was intense, incredible, and almost too much. She was careening closer and closer to the edge. Just as she reached the pinnacle, her fangs extended and she parted her lips.

“Please, Rose,” Steve pleaded.

She rolled her head forward and lunged in, sinking her teeth into his throat. The hot metallic liquid gushed into her mouth joining them in a way that was only possible between Vampire and Human. For that moment they were one and they careened over the age as one, their orgasms crashing down on them and rolling through them like a wave.

Rose clenched up and her fingers dug into his shoulders and her cunt clenched and squeezed his cock. Steve cried out and arched his back as he released inside her in waves.

As she drank from him, that feeling of warmth and life that she already felt deepened, and by the time she pulled back, she could almost trick herself into believing she wasn’t a vampire at all, but just another normal human, full of life, laying entangled with their lover.

Steve relaxed back into the bed, breathing heavily with a soft, dazed expression on his face. He was smiling and his gaze was unfocused. He slowly grazed the back of his fingers up and down her spine as he rode the feeling for as long as he could. “That was incredible,” he hummed.

She snuggled into him. “It was,” she agreed. “The best it’s ever been. I’ve never felt more alive than I do right now.” She looked up at him and pressed a slow, soft kiss to the corner of her jaw. “I feel like we could have a really good life together.”

He hummed in agreement. “I do too,” he said. “This was the last thing I could have ever imagined when we met.”

She laughed. “I thought you were going to kill me.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Never,” he said and kissed her forehead. “We do have one more thing to take care of though.”

She sighed and let her head rest on her chest, listening to the beat of Steve’s heart as it tried to adjust to Steve’s suddenly lowered blood pressure. “Yeah. It will be good to no longer have his shadow hanging over me.”

He wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled into her hair. “It will be. You’ll be able to live completely out of the shadows, both metaphorically and literally.”

She laughed and leaned up pressing a kiss to his lips. “I love you so much. I hope you know that?”

He gazed down at her, a soft smile on his lips. “I do. And I love you too.” He gave her butt a playful pat. “Come on. Let’s go shower and get ready to meet with everyone.”

Rose helped him up, he was a little shaky on his feet since she drank from him, though with the serum, Steve would be fine by tonight.

They showered and changed and Steve texted the other Avengers telling them he’d meet them in the restaurant for breakfast.

When they made it downstairs, Natasha, Tony, and Wanda were already sitting at the table with their food. Wanda was the first one to spot them. “You found it?” she said, jumping to her feet.

Rose beamed at her. “Yes,” she said, coming over and letting the woman hug her. “Let’s keep our voices down though.”

“What happened?” Tony asked. “We thought there was going to be this big ordeal. We brought little witchy poo with us.”

As Steve got his food, Rose went over the events of the night before. When Steve returned with his plate piled high with eggs, cured meats, cheeses, bread, pastries, and fruit, they went over the plan for today to meet with the Forgiven.

“So we’re going vampire hunting with a bunch of vamps?” Tony asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Rose said. “It’s not your fight. But Marcellus - he’s a monster by every definition of the world. He doesn’t just feed on people. He targets girls who are vulnerable and shatters them. He needs to be stopped, and I plan on stopping him.”

A scowl crossed Natasha’s face and her jaw twitched. “Oh, we’ll be helping,” she said. “Don’t you worry about that.”

Tony leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “She said it. I guess we better load up on crosses and holy water.”

Rose smiled and looked at the small group. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Wanda said. “We’re family.”

Warmth spread through Rose from the inside out, like the sunrise was happening inside her. She had the sunlight, the man she loved, and a family. She was entering a whole new chapter in her long life. There was just one last thing in the way.

// NEXT

#marvel #avengers #marvel fanfic #steve rogers #steve rogers fanfic #captain america #captain america fanfic #steve rogers x oc #fanfic #fanfiction #ofc #smut #shared experience

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a-fluffer-nutter · 2 months ago

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Rapscallion

A/N - Day one of August's Tickletober! Anticipation is today's prompt, so here is a Deadpool and Wolverine fic! Please enjoy.

Word Count: 975

“My dearest fanfic readers, you have absolutely no idea how horny I am right now,” Wade let out an exaggerated moan as he stared deeply into Logan’s fiery eyes. Fiery was an understatement, the literal pits of hell could be seen if you looked into his pupils long enough.

“I have no fucking clue on why you keep talking to ‘the readers,’ but it's starting to piss me off,” Logan snarled, his to the running across his top row of teeth.

“Oh, you are such a tease, Peanut! Speaking of bits, mine has an itch that needs to be juiced.”

“You are one of the most revolting people I have ever met,” Logan's center claws slipped out from between his joints, lowering just enough for Wade’s wrists to feel pinpricks of anticipation. “What I wouldn't do to tear your bottom jaw off your disgusting face so you could never speak again.”

“Admit it, sweetheart,” Wade cooed, ready to recoil the second his statement was finished, “You'd miss the blowies way too much.”

As Wade turned his head away, burying his face in his shoulder, he waited for his wrists to be sliced like a fish filet. However, this didn't happen. Uncomfortably shifting underneath Logan's weight, wrists still trapped above his head.

It was a super-secret mission that they were on, Wade had told Logan. Knowing Wade, Logan presumed that this mission was to spy on the Avengers or some shit, especially as Wade kept humming this one “heroic” song that he had told Logan was “really fucking cool in 2012.” While there were no sightings of Thor or Hawkeye, the two, in traditional superhero fashion, did manage to stop some sort of evil entity that wanted to take over Philadelphia. Aside from the Liberty Bell now having a new crack, Wade's fault naturally, the day was saved and our heroes needed a place to crash. Despite saving the day and all, they were a bit short on pocket money, so a grungy Motel 6 was their destination. Logan stayed in to watch TV, which based on the size and shape of it, was miraculously showing films in color, while Wade went hunting for the perfect Philly Cheesesteak. This temporary separation worked exceptionally well until Wade returned and spoiled the end of the film Logan was watching.

“It's not my fault your universe was still waiting for Incredibles 2! I thought you'd seen it!”

“Why would I be watching it if I hadn't seen it yet?”

“Maybe it's your favorite movie, I don't know. You seem like the kinda guy that would prefer more manly movies like Top Gun, Bridesmaids, or Velocipastor, but who am I to judge?”

Naturally, Wade continued to push his luck and Logan's buttons, which lead them to our current situation. Logan pinning Wade on the bed, his wrists trapped between two of Logan's claws and Logan's entire weight on top of him.

Squirming as if he was wearing “grandma's surprise Christmas sweater,” Wade now looked back up at Logan, muscles tensing in the slightest.

“So, are you gonna do the stabby thing? Spaw my blood everywhere like a Quintin Tarantino film?”

“I'm not sure yet.”

“Ah, I see,” Wade clicked his tongue. “Well, we don't have to do the whole slicing me up like a sandwich thing. While this joint certainly isn't a Four Seasons, we don't need to Rudy Giuliani it all and spread mysterious liquids everywhere. Wait, who is the president in your universe?”

“Matthew Perry?”

“Ah, shit. Those kids from Smosh are psychic!” Logan let out a grumble, reminding Wade of his current predicament. “Shit, um, what should you do to me? Bondage? Sing songs of the French Revolution? Whisper sweet nothings in my ear? Hold me closer, tiny da-ack!” Wade was cut off by his own vocal tic. Logan released one of Wade's arms and when Logan repositioned his own, he accidentally grazed Wade's side. “What the shit, man? You didn't tell me I was gonna need to point out where the scary man touched me on a doll to my therapist this week!”

“What the fuck was that noise, bub?” Logan mused; one eyebrow cocked upward. Making a humming sound, Logan moved his hand back to Wade's side and squeezed. Once again, Wade made a strangled yelp.

“Okay, maybe we can get back to the stabbing and bleeding part again,” a wave of nervousness washed over Wade's words.

“Of course, why wouldn't you be ticklish too?” Logan said mostly to himself, and he continued to poke and prod Wade's side, slowly walking his fingers up to the lower rib cage.

“Marvel Jesus does not condone this level of violence!” The last two words were an octave higher as Logan decided that was the moment to stop holding back and quickly skitter his fingernails across the sides of his ribs. “Shit! Peanut!”

Logan continued his assault silently, trying not to smile as Wade writhed beneath him. Shouting out obscenities and references that went over Logan's head, Wade's laugh became increasingly hysterical and frantic as Logan's fingers journeyed upward.

“This is communist propaganda! A war crime! Don't you understand the Geneva Convention? You heathen. You rapscallion. A scoundrel. A hippocampus! A flou-!” Wade's words vanished from his tongue, replaced with loud cackles and hiccups.

“Damn shame this is the only way to shut you the fuck up, bub,” Logan broke his silence, his amusement of the situation now apparent by the upturned curl of his lips. He was thankful that Wade's eyes were as shut as they could be, Wade seeing this little bit of joy could be a catalyst to something bigger than Logan wanted to deal with any time soon.

What Logan didn't know was that Wade was already plotting his revenge. Something so devious, cruel, and sexy, that the world was not prepared for it.

#tickletober #augtickletober2024 #tickletober2024

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writtenbyshama · 10 months ago

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Long Way Home [Part XI]

[Azriel x Reader fanfic]

Synopsis: Y/n is the daughter of a healer in the city of Velaris. After a small incident, she moves to the House of the Wind to work for the High Lord, Rhysand. Everyone in the house seems to welcome her except Azriel, the second in command. Even though he is just blankly polite and does not acknowledge her much, she can't help but fall for him. Does Azriel return her feelings or remain unfeelingly aloof?

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Read Part 1 here. Read Part 7 here.

Read Part 2 here. Read Part 8 here.

Read Part 3 here. Read Part 9 here.

Read Part 4 here. Read Part 10 here.

Read Part 5 here.

Read Part 6 here.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Part XI

Azriel didn't try to talk about it again, and instead focused on recovering from the aches and tiredness. Every evening, I helped him into the bath with soothing oils as the villa's magic changed the bedsheets and covers and cleaned the bedroom.

A couple of days later, I was working on the strawberry patch outside. When I looked up, Azriel was sitting on the porch wall, covered with thick shawls and panting like he had run all the way from Velaris. The tiredness and weakness took a while recover fully, but he had made tremendous progress. I thought of ordering him to go rest, but he would absolutely refuse, so I let him be.

Nobody from Velaris visited us again. It was just the two of us for the next couple of days. Our conversations mainly consisted of his health, but I could see he was itching to really talk to me. He didn't attempt to talk about it however, and neither did I.

One evening, I was helping him into the sunken bath. I was about to leave when he was fully settled, but he stopped me by holding on to my wrist.

"Wait. Please." His hold was hesitant, loose enough that I could've pried myself free if I wanted to.

I did not leave. Instead, I sat cross-legged on the floor next to the tub's edge and let my hand be in his grasp.

"I panicked on the day I discovered we were soulmates. Really. I—I had been watching and yearning for you so long, it didn't feel real. I was ecstatic, but also a bit afraid of what it meant and I needed to fully accept grasp what had just occurred. I didn't realise how bad it looked until later. Like I was running away. I swear I wasn't. And you had left by the time I returned. I searched for you everywhere, until finally during Star fall I was on my knees begging your father to tell me where you were."

Our mating bond was pulsing strongly between us, and I could see scraps of his memories, his thoughts and feelings. The way he begged my father, the pain in my father's eyes as he finally succumbed to telling him the location.

"I still got hurt. You never really talked to me to begin with, and I knew that I could never have a chance with you. I had fantasised of us being mates secretly, and I was so devastated when you left." My voice broke at this point as I started crying.

Letting go of my hand, he looped an arm around my waist and pulled me into the water on his towel covered lap. I didn't resist, and my clothes stuck to my skin as they got wet.

I sniffled and continued. "You were always there when Elaine needed help. Since Rhys and Cassian got the first two Archeron sisters as their mates, I thought you would get her."

He chuckled, but it wasn't mocking. "I helped her because I felt sorry for her. I was never interested in her. Nothing else existed for me since the day I saw you."

I blushed, opening my mouth to interrupt, but he wasn't done. He gently wiped my tears away as he spoke.

"I didn't know how to approach you, and I always got flustered when you spoke to me. Instead, I foolishly watched you from the shadows. Do you think that your quarters being beside mine was a coincidence? I made a casual suggestion to the house keeper that the empty quarters next to mine would house you comfortably when you moved in. Whenever I wasn't on a mission and stayed there, I fell asleep to the sound of your breathing. I had to control myself from full-blown stalking whenever you weren't around."

Tears glistened in his eyes now, but he still wasn't finished.

"Yow know that me and shadows can sing, right? Did you ever notice my shadows always strayed to you when you were near, and they always reacted with a faint, positive tune to your presence."

Now that he had said it, I remembered hearing faint trembles of music sometimes.

"One night I saw you at the kitchen table, drawing. I was curious, and when I saw my hands as one of your sketches, I was so ecstatic. I never hated you, y/n. On the contrary, I loved you too much."

Hesitatingly, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my lips. He waited a moment to see what I'd do. When I did nothing, he captured my mouth in a more searing kiss.

When we pulled apart, I buried my face into his neck and held him tight. He responded in kind, and his wings formed a warm cocoon around us. The mating bond pressed on me, waiting to be acknowledged.

"I know you are hurt and angry at me. And I deserve all of it. Even though I practically ran away from you, you took me in and nursed me back to health. I'm honoured, and beyond happy that you are my mate, y/n. I couldn't have asked for a better mate. For you, I'd happily spend the rest of my days just sitting on your porch railing, just to catch a glimpse of you. Even if you are angry at me. Even if you never let me in."

I took a few moments breathing deeply and stop my tears before extracting myself from his neck. Gently smoothing back some of the hair from his eyes, I cupped his face with both hands.

"I accept you as my mate, Azriel. I had already accepted it days ago, preparing and serving you meals with my own hands. I could never stay away from you for a long time."

He closed his eyes, and I felt the bond finally opening a steady channel between us. His relief washed over me as he pressed his forehead to mine.

"Y/n, I am proud to be yours, both physically and mentally."

"Take me to bed, Azriel," I whispered as I kissed him again.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Tags:

@kalulakunundrum @thelov3lybookworm @hnyclover @impossibelle @sourapplex @brujitafantomatico @venuseuripedis @darling006 @fightmedraco @lees-chaotic-brain @thesunloveschips @jennamelinda12 @stonerpersona

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Read Part 12 here.

This fanfic can also be found in Wattpad, along with other exclusive parts like playlists and pictures. Here's the link: https://www.wattpad.com/story/358573037-long-way-home

Happy reading! <3

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keiththecat · 1 year ago

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The Tortoise and The Hair

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader (You)

Summary: You've been hunting with the Winchester brothers for a while, and you've developed feelings for the older Winchester. Unbeknownst to you, he has feelings for you as well. Will you both admit to these feelings when a coincidence brings emotions to a head?

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: 18+, cursing, male nudity (shower), pistol mention, knife mention

Author's Note: This is my first every fanfic! Y/N is your name, y/h/c is your hair color, and italics are thoughts. The mentions toward male nudity are not super detailed, but the mentions are there. Feedback is welcome! Thanks for reading <3

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, or any of the related characters. The Supernatural series is created by Eric Kripke and owned by The CW Network. This work of fan fiction is for entertainment only. I am not making a profit of any kind from this story. All rights of the original Supernatural series belong to The CW Network.

AO3 link here

"You've got to be kidding me." You run your hands through your hair in frustration.

"Sorry, Y/N, looks like another day without a hunt," Sam continues scrolling on his laptop, hoping he can find something to prove himself wrong, even if just to make you happy.

"There's got to be something. Come on, Sam, I can't be stuck here in the bunker again."

It's been weeks without a hunt. Not a single one. Sam has kept busy with research, but you've been itching to get away. Chuck only knows what Dean's been doing, he's been avoiding you every second of every day. You've even been starting to wonder if you should move out of the bunker and go back to your solo hunting ways. Your stuff is always mostly packed, you could be out of here in less than 3 minutes. Sam being like the brother you never had is the only reason you haven't yet. Well, that and your crush on the older Winchester.

"Y/N," Sam sighs, closing his laptop and crossing his arms on top of the table to look at you seriously. "There's more to this than just boredom, isn't there?"

You scoff, "of course not. I'm just bored. And itching for kills. You know me." You lie through your teeth, hoping Sam will accept this answer and drop it.

"Y/N, you know you can talk to me."

You stare at each other for several painful seconds before you break. "Fine. I just feel like Dean hates me."

Sam places his hand on yours. "You know that's not true. Why would you think that?"

You roll your eyes. "Come on, Sam. He avoids me at all costs. He doesn't even come out for meals together anymore. Let alone not talking to me, he doesn't even talk to you if I'm around! He just motions for you to follow him to another room. You can't honestly say he's happy I'm here." You get up to start walking away when you both hear Dean's yell from down the hall.

"Son of a BITCH!"

With one look at Sam and panic in your eyes, you both take off running.

A few moments earlier....

Dean:

Another boring day. Alone. Ever since you moved in months ago, Dean just can't seem to bring himself to have any one night stands. He tries his best not to ignore why that is. He'll just keep avoiding you and quietly checking with Sam about what's going on, if there are any leads on hunts, how you're doing...

No. He doesn't want to spiral down this hole again. He can't follow through. Bad things happen when he and Sam get involved with anyone. He won't subject you to that. Maybe if he keeps avoiding you, you'll get sick of it and leave the bunker, minimizing your risk of being targeted because of them. He's upset enough that Sam refuses to do the same, instead being nice to you all the time. Hell, you and Sam are practically inseparable, you even have movie nights together.

Maybe he can make his feelings for you go away if he avoids you enough. He can stop thinking about how you light up a room when you laugh, instantly making his mood brighter. Or how your cooking always smells the most delicious, even the most simple foods weave a decadent smell throughout the halls. Or how you're always waiting at the bottom of the stairs after the brothers run for supplies, smile on your face and arms wide open to hug Sam.

Maybe if I stop ignoring her, I could fall into those arms, hold her close, smell that enticing perfume of hers up close...

Somehow you've managed to integrate yourself into every aspect of his life, despite his attempts to keep you out. He's constantly finding your post-it notes with cute doodles in the most random of spots, inside kitchen cabinets and books that have been untouched for months. He even found one under the sink one day, a stick figure drawing wearing a trench coat, an arrow pointing from the word baby to the figure. Sam had to explain that one to Castiel, who then laughed and asked you excitedly if he could keep it.

He shakes his head and runs his hand down his face, as if that will clear the thoughts.

I need to think of annoying things about her. Reasons to keep my distance. Come on, there's got to be something.

And then it hit him. Your hair. Your beautiful, y/h/c hair that he would love to run his fingers through. No, not beautiful, he reminds himself, annoying. It's everywhere, even in rooms you don't frequent, even in rooms he's sure you've never been in.

He'll just have to hang on to this annoyance until he can think of more. If he can manage to think of more. This is useless, he sighs, grabbing his things to take a shower. At least I know I can waste time relaxing with a hot shower and not run into her there. He double checks to make sure the coast is clear in the hallway before heading toward the shower room, hearing muffled voices further down the hall but assuming it's you, busy helping Sam with research.

He gets to the shower room and sets up his things. He turns on the hot water, and steam starts filling the room immediately. He undresses, stepping under the water and letting the heat relax his muscles, tense from his endless debate about his feelings. He grabs his soap bar and starts cleaning, but he feels a tug when he starts to clean his member. Confused, he looks down, finding a long hair knotted around his most sensitive part.

He yanks on the hair, finding it stuck. He yanks harder, feeling a small sting followed by relief with the tension breaks the hair. With the hair pinched between his fingers, he brings it up closer to look at it under the light. He assumed it would be one of Sam's. They mix up their clothes in the laundry sometimes, it would make sense for it to be Sam's hair. But no, luck has never been on Dean's side. The hair is very distinctly from your head.

How did her hair even manage to get there? Damn it, I can't even escape her here... By myself... In the shower... When I haven't been around her for weeks.

He feels the frustration building and his fists clenching. Frustration at not being able to avoid you, at not truly wanting to avoid you, at his member having some semblance of contact with you but nowhere near the contact he desires. It builds and builds until he explodes, "Son of a BITCH!"

Y/N:

Sam rushes ahead of you toward Dean's yell, pistol already in his hands and raised by the time you both reach the shower room, ready for whatever fight he may find. You have a silver blade in your hand, fists raised, eyes scanning for a threat.

"What? What is it, Dean?" Sam asks urgently, not seeing any outward threats to everyone's safety. Dean spins around at the intrusion, eyes widening. You swear you see panic in his eyes when they connect with yours, then Dean frantically grabs his towel, wrapping it around his waist to hide his lower half. You try your hardest to stay focused and not get distracted by his bare chest.

"What is it? Look at it!" Dean yells at Sam, shoving his right hand toward Sam's face, thumb and pointer finger pinched together.

Sam slowly lowers his gun, looking between Dean's hand and his eyes several times in disbelief. "You yelled about a hair??"

"Look at it!" Dean insists, "it's hers!" He gestures toward you with his hand, still holding the pinched hair.

You furrow your brow, "so? It's just a hair? I have a lot of it. I'm sure that's not the only one in here."

"It wasn't just in here. It was wrapped around my head!" Dean yells.

You and Sam look at each other, shrugging. "I fail to see the issue here," the younger Winchester states.

"You know," Dean continued, "my head." He emphasizes the last word with a gesture toward his lower half.

You and Sam look at each other again, eyebrows raised, then Sam throws his head back and bursts into laughter. You lock your eyes back on Dean, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

Dean's face is red with anger and what you think might be a touch of embarrassment. "Sammy, it's not funny. It was knotted and I had to pull it! What if it did any damage?"

"Oh, well Chuck forbid my hair do damage to your most prized possession," you mumble under your breath. Sam hears you, making him laugh even harder, doubling over and wiping his eyes.

"What did you say?" Dean asks, dropping his hand and, finally, the hair.

"Nothing," you say, looking away.

"That's it. Sammy, grab her. We're shaving her head," Dean threatens, taking a half step toward you.

"Dean, come on," Sam says, still lightly laughing. "You have to admit, it's kind of funny."

"Is it, Sammy? It's bad enough I can't stop thinking about her all the-" Dean stops himself, slamming his mouth shut.

Your jaw drops. You swear time stops. Have you been wrong this whole time? Could it be possible he has feelings for you too?

Dean quickly leaves, while you stand there frozen in shock. Sam watches his brother go, then turns to you, "you okay?"

"He likes me too, doesn't he, Sam?"

Sam just looks at you silently for a moment, then puts a hand on your shoulder. "I swore I'd never say anything. He thinks he's helping to protect you. He's... not good at this kind of thing."

You're in shock. Or dreaming. There's no other logical explanation. You're thrilled because he likes you too, but also heartbroken that he thinks this is protecting you. You, a hunter for your entire life, who did it all by herself until running into the Winchesters, who took down vampire nests and demons and everything inbetween with minimal or no injuries, are seen as weak in his eyes?

Leaving Sam behind, you storm down the hall to Dean's bedroom door and pound on it several times. "Go away, Sam," you hear through the door.

"It's me. We need to talk."

After several long seconds, you resign yourself to accepting he's not going to open it. Just as you're getting ready to leave, it opens just enough to reveal Dean, stone faced and fully dressed, wet hair sticking up at odd angles.

"Can I come in?" You ask. He wordlessly opens the door a fraction more and steps to the side for you to enter.

You walk past him a few steps and turn toward him as he closes the door. "I know you're better with actions than with words, so I'm gonna talk and I just want you to listen, okay? I'm not weak. I don't need you to protect me. I can make my own choices. And I choose you. And I'm not going to pretend to know what could happen in the future. But I know that if you watch my back and I watch yours, we can handle anything this world, Heaven, or Hell could throw at us."

You slowly drift closer to him as you continue, "I won't pretend to know every little thing about you, but I do know you, Dean. I know how loyal you are. And how you will always put yourself in harm's way to protect those you care about. How you blame yourself for every loss. How you like to sit outside on quiet nights and look at the stars, enjoying the peace that has been so rare in your life."

You're in his space now, and you reach up to place your hand on his cheek. He leans into your hand, closing his eyes. "I don't know how to do this, Y/N."

"Me neither, Dean. But how about we take a leap of faith together and we can figure it out?"

He opens his mesmerizing green eyes, and you notice unshed tears building up in them. Then, faster than you can blink, his lips are on yours.

You always thought the cliche of seeing fireworks was just that, a cliche. But you'll be damned if you're not seeing entire light shows behind your eyelids right now. Every nerve ending in your body lights up as if on fire. Arms wrapped around each other, you and Dean are pressed so close together, not even air can pass between you. He licks your lower lip, asking permission, and you open without hesitation. Your tongues battle for dominance until you can't breathe, and you break apart, both gasping for air.

"So I guess that's it then, huh, sweetheart?" he rasps, smirking, leaning his forehead on your own.

"Guess so, tough guy. Who would have thought my hair would be the key," you laugh.

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #female reader #supernatural #dean winchester x you #dean x you #spn imagine #supernatural imagine #spn #reader insert #fanfic #fanfiction #sam winchester #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester fic #dean x y/n #pov you #pov dean #keiththecat

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