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slytherinshua · 1 month

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YOUR WOUNDS WRAPPED WITH MY LOVE

genre. fluff. tiny bit of angst. mafia au. warnings. descriptions of a stab wound. blood. knives and guns. some profanity. kissing. they kinda argue but very mildly. i researched a little on how to treat wounds but pls don't expect it to be too accurate 😭. pairing. fiancé!jeno x reader. wc. 1.5k. request. no. a/n. so ever since the concept trailers this jeno has been the only thing on my mind I swear 😔 and nursing trope is one of my fav tropes ever so I joined the two together and was very delulu 👍

“Again?” You asked, less than happy at the sight of the tall man who stood against the doorframe, one hand clutching his side painfully. Lee Jeno always disappeared without warning on another mission only to return, usually injured, for you to patch him up. You had urged him to hire an actual medic for the job, but he refused, saying he didn’t trust anyone but you to get that close to him. That was a few years back when the occasions for it were still rare. You were alarmed at how often he seemed to be going out, and returning with increasingly worse injuries.

Your knowledge and skill with patching up wounds— dagger wounds, bruises and scrapes from physical altercations, hell, even gunshot wounds— was a lot better than years ago. You were confident in your ability to get your fiancé back to health, but you weren’t pleased with how often you had to. No matter how much you pleaded with him to let his body rest, he would more often than not, be out again just hours after you had tended to his bleeding body.

“I’m sorry.” He grumbled out. You would have been shocked by how hoarse his voice had become if this was the first time, but you were all too used to it. Your heart still clenched painfully seeing him in that state.

He could barely walk, blood dripping a little from where his hand pressed tightly to his left side, his face scrunched in pain as laboured irregular breaths left his mouth.

“Come here. Sit down. Tell me what happened.” You said quietly, already having gotten out the box of medical supplies. You were ready with the bottle of saline already, but it wasn’t anywhere near the top of Jeno’s worries. From the tone of your voice, he could tell you were mad at him. Or maybe it was mostly disappointment? A touch of worry, perhaps.

He made his way towards you, carefully limping towards the bed until he could gently lower himself onto it with his weight supported by the bedframe. He sat still as you gently took off his shirt, eyes assessing the dark red spot that stained the side of his stomach and up his ribcage. You glanced up to his face, and he met your eyes for half a second with a slow breath out.

“Knife. It’s not that deep, I stopped their hand before they could push it in very far.” He whispered, and then shut his eyes tightly when you dabbed a little at the wound with a soft wet cloth soaked in saline.

“Are you staying for long?” You asked, guarding your heart for what his answer would be. You loved Jeno— you loved him more than anything, and you tried to be as selfless as you could regarding him and his job. You never put up a fuss about having to patch him up, and you only ever gently tried to persuade him to be more careful. But it was hard, really hard. You couldn’t help but be hopeful that he might be able to stay for a bit longer with you. You hated how you only seemed to be seeing him to treat his wounds for the past month.

But it only reminded you of how he was by far the most selfless person you knew.

Countless threats had always been looking for Jeno’s weakness. And you happened to be the most vital one. You were unspeakably precious to him, and unfortunately, his rivals knew that. Of course, he did everything he could to protect you. You trusted him with your life. There was no one else who you would ever trust as much as him. And he had never lost your trust. You had never even had a scratch delivered to you. But the tradeoff of the protection that Jeno made sure you had was his own life being put at risk almost every day.

Every cut, stab, or bruise that littered his fair skin were marks of how determined he was to keep you safe. The least you could do was treat his body in return with your gentle hands, wiping away the blood, wrapping the wounds carefully, and stitching them up when needed.

Jeno answered your question with only a silent nod yes. Although relief filled your body that he wouldn’t be out again immediately, you still focused on the more important task at hand. You could enjoy his company once he wasn’t bleeding.

“Are they still after you?” You rummaged around in the box for the antibiotic ointment, dabbing a bit on your finger before leaning closer to apply it. “This’ll sting.” You muttered as a warning before dabbing the wound as carefully as you could. Jeno tensed up, his fingers bunching up the sheet of the bed as he did his best to stay still.

“Talk to me. It’ll help distract you.” You told him, pausing your application of the antibiotics to rest a hand on his shoulder, providing a small bit of comfort.

“They’re… They’re after you, not me. You know that.” He whispered out as you continued to treat the wound. “They can’t take me by themselves— they’d be fucking stupid to try. I made sure that they won’t bother us for at least a month. I’ll have to talk to Renjun and Donghyuck about our next course of action.” You hummed in understanding, grabbing the roll of gauze next.

“You need to rest your body, Jeno.” You said quietly. You could tell he was about to protest, so you interrupted quickly, “Doctor’s orders. Don’t pull anymore dumb shit.”

“It’s not dumb shit. It’s to protect you.” He argued back, clenching his jaw.

You sighed, starting to wrap the white cloth around his waist, “I know. But you said yourself that you have a month. At least for a week of that month, you need to rest and recover.”

Your fiancé seemed unsettled at the thought of a whole week of rest; a week of letting his guard down. It was almost unheard of for him. He knew from experience that as soon as he let himself relax, something unexpected would happen. But maybe you were right. Maybe a week of rest is what he needed.

You secured the wrap tightly, and mumbled out how you were all done. Jeno just stared at you while you cleaned up, soaking up the face he hadn’t gotten a chance to study for the past month. He felt incredibly guilty for how often he had been gone, and even more so for how often he had let you see him like this. He knew you hated it, but you never complained. He didn’t deserve you.

“I love you.” He spoke suddenly, interrupting the cold silence of the room. You shut the metal drawer slowly, back still turned to him as you let a small smile grow on your face. You hadn’t heard those words from him in a while. You turned back to sit down next to him again, your eyes staring into his.

“Won’t you say it back?” He whispered, reaching for your hand; your left hand, the one that adorned that diamond ring he had given you months prior. You let him pull you closer as his right hand enclosed over your left. His fingers felt a bit rough, but they were warm and comfortable. With his left hand on the back of your neck, he gently guided you forward until his lips closed over yours.

You could just barely taste the metallicness of blood from the slight cut to his bottom lip. But you didn’t focus on it, too absorbed in the gentleness of his kiss and how perfectly his lips felt against yours even after years had passed. He pulled away, resting his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed as he caught his breath.

You pecked his lips again, “I love you too. Always.”

He visibly relaxed at your words and dropped his head to your shoulder. You sighed, threading your fingers through the hair at the bottom of his neck, holding him closely. He shuddered quietly, and you frowned.

“Cold?” Your hand ran up and down his back slowly, feeling goosebumps rise from the chill. You traced one of the many scars that marked him, stopping at the dip of his scapula and muscle. You reached behind your back, feeling around along the mattress for a blanket. You caught hold of it and gently draped it around Jeno.

You smiled fondly at the way he nestled his head a little closer to the crook of your neck. From his breath, you figured he was already almost asleep. You didn’t want to disturb his sleep, but you knew the position would quickly get uncomfortable, so you shifted his head down to your chest and laid back until you hit the mattress. He didn’t protest at all, but shifted into a comfortable spot in his half-asleep state. With his head on your chest, his arm around your waist, and his legs tangled with yours, you found the new position to be much more promising for getting good sleep.

You pressed a kiss to his forehead and made sure the blanket covered his body before you closed your eyes as well.

↳ nct dream taglist: @kangtaehyunzzz,, @eternalgyu,,

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joelsgreys · 1 year

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to hell and back l one

Post Outbreak! Joel Miller x Female Reader

series masterlist l main masterlist l next chapter

summary: After escaping a group of brutal slavers, you are left with permanent physical and emotional scars. Unwilling to put your trust in another human being ever again, you spend a year fighting for survival alone in the post outbreak world. But when you choose to save the life of a man named Joel Miller, the wall that you’ve built to protect yourself slowly begins to crumble.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI. canon violence, canon language, brief mentions of slavers, brutality, torture, assault, guns, reader is an archer, mentions of hunting, animal death, injured/unconscious Joel, very minor mentions of blood, age gap (reader is 30, Joel is 56) very brief mention of scars, reader does not/cannot speak at times, a lot of internal dialogue from reader, at one point reader does try to speak to Joel but she is unable. *please be advised that no specific diagnosis is used or will be mentioned, i’m writing the series with the idea that reader herself cannot fully comprehend her inability to speak at times. basically the gist of it is we have a very traumatized person who does not realize just how traumatized she is.

word count: 8.2k (good lord I am so sorry)

a/n: not a whole lot to say except for that this is...different. at least i think it is, i could be wrong lmao. this is by far one of the most challenging things i have ever decided to write, but hopefully it turned out okay

California l Fall, 2023

You’d been on the run since dawn.

It was several hours later now and nightfall was approaching—and it was approaching a hell of a lot fucking faster than you could have even anticipated. The darkness was quickly closing in, falling around you like a velvet black curtain. However, stumbling around blindly in the dark was currently the very least of your worries.

Your feet were raw, both completely blistered and bleeding through your socks inside of your worn out, muddied white canvas sneakers. Your sore, aching legs screamed out for mercy and your knees trembled violently, threatening to buckle out from underneath the weight of your body at any given moment.

In the week and a half leading up to your escape from captivity, you’d been deprived of both food and water—it had been your punishment for closing your eyes and turning your head away after you’d been instructed by the slavers to watch their brutal assault of the young teenaged girl that you had been sharing a cage with. She’d been unable to keep up with her work duties, and they had decided to make an example out of her.

Despite still having been forced to witness the horrendous, unspeakable things they’d done to that poor girl, your initial resistance resulted in you being beaten and then starved for several days. Occasionally, one of the late night guards would try and bribe you, offering a small piece of jerky or a couple of stale crackers in exchange for a blowjob. At first, you told him you’d rather cut your own tongue out with a rusty blade than suck his dick, but when he proposed the disgusting, vile trade again just a couple of nights later, you’d accepted it—because him pulling you out of that fucking cage after hours and removing the tight shackles from your wrists when no one else was around would give you the chance to finally make a run for it.

You swung yourself around the nearest redwood tree, slumping back against its thick, wide trunk. You covered your mouth with your two hands in an attempt to silence the sound of your heavy panting.

Besides being in pain, malnourished and severely dehydrated, the exhaustion was starting to set in too. The adrenaline pumping through your veins had brought you this far, but exactly how much farther could it take you? How much longer could it possibly keep you going before your tired body decided to give up and give out?

Somewhere behind you, you could hear the men calling out cheerfully.

One sang out, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

“Come out and plaaaaay,” a second taunted.

The third shouted, “We’re gonna get you!”

Their giddiness made you want to vomit. If your stomach hadn’t been empty, you would have.

Those sick, twisted fucks weren’t letting up.

They’d been on your heels for hours.

The large group of slavers in California were over two hundred strong and had dozens of prisoners chained up in their human cages—they had more than enough people to force into labor. There was no need for them to waste their time and efforts going after you, but after spending the last eight months witnessing firsthand how these sadistic bastards operated, it occurred to you that their desire to recapture you wasn’t out of a need for labor. It was for their entertainment.

They were hunting you down for sport.

This was their idea of fun.

“Fuck,” you whispered underneath your breath, your hands falling down to your sides.

Something had to give.

Your legs, your body, your will to live.

Perhaps all of the above.

You couldn’t keep on running for much longer.

And even if you could, where the hell were you supposed to go? How were you supposed to get there?

You had no food, no water, and no weapon.

Just the torn, tattered clothes on your back.

You were defenseless against whatever else was out there and you couldn’t see yourself surviving longer than a couple of days at most.

There was a part of you that wanted to give up and surrender. If you could be absolutely certain that they would shoot you dead on the spot, you would actually consider it and step out from behind the tree—hell, you would happily let them put a bullet between your eyes and put you out of your misery once and for all. But they wouldn’t be so generous. You knew they would have their way with you here in the middle of this forest and only after they were done would they take you back to their settlement where they’d put you right back in shackles so the real torture could begin. Just like that teenaged girl, the slavers would make an example out of you so that nobody else in their right mind would even think about running away.

They would be sure to make your death as slow and as agonizing as possible.

No. If you were going to die, then you were going to die. But fucking not like that.

Hearing them draw closer towards where you’d been hiding, you pushed yourself away from the redwood and willed yourself to keep on going.

Wyoming l Fall 2024

Your eyes softly flutter open.

Bright, early morning sunlight filters in through the ripped, white lace curtains that hang over the small, square shaped window right above your head.

Blinking the sleep away, you prop yourself up slightly on your elbows and take a glance around at your surroundings. The old, abandoned cabin that you’d stumbled across just a couple of days ago is tiny, cramped, and crumbling. It also reeks—it smells damp, musty, and earthy, like rotting wood. But beggars can’t be choosers and you are certainly in no position to be a chooser right now. It’s not what you consider to be ideal, but it’s four walls and a roof, which is more than anyone can ask for. It’s sparsely furnished with a table and two chairs, an old wood burning stove you had been too afraid to light because you didn’t want to risk setting the place on fire, and there’s even a small, twin sized bed for you to sleep on. Well, perhaps calling it a bed was a tad bit too generous. It’s really just a mattress sitting on four large concrete blocks. It’s rough, dirty, and torn with rusted springs and bits of fluff sticking out from every corner. Still, it sure as fuck beat the hell out of sleeping outside in the dirt and using a rock as a pillow.

Besides the luxury of having something close to a proper roof to sleep under, there’s also a lake just two and a half miles north of the cabin where you had been able to fill your canteen with fresh water. Not to mention, you’d also been able to bathe and wash your clothes for the first time in a couple of weeks. You had been on your own for about a year now, and this was the luckiest you’ve gotten in terms of finding a decent place to stay.

Whether or not it’s safe, it was still too early to tell.

Sure, you were out somewhere in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and hadn’t seen a single soul, living or dead, in a couple of months now. But that still didn’t mean that running into the infected or other people wasn’t a possibility. Letting your guard down was risky. Too risky.

You swing your legs over the side of the mattress and sit up, slipping on your pair of warm, wool socks before tugging on your boots—you’d found them over the summer and even though they had been about one size too small for you, you’d managed to break them in since then and the supple brown leather now molds almost perfectly to your feet. You stand up and lift your arms up above your head while simultaneously twisting your stiff, sore back in a painful, but much needed stretch. You’re only just a couple of months shy of turning thirty years old, but lately, your bones snap, crackle and pop with each and every movement, making you feel twice your actual age.

The thought of it makes you snort in amusement. You should be so lucky to stay alive long enough to see the age of sixty. Hell, you’re still unable to fathom how you’d even made it this close to seeing thirty.

Dropping your arms back down to your sides, you make your way over to your khaki colored pack and pull out your aluminum canteen from one of the side pockets. You twist off the cap and gulp back a long, cool drink of water, hoping to get rid of the dryness in your mouth and the cracks in your chapped lips. As soon as the liquid makes it all the way down to the pit of your stomach, the hollow, muscular organ grumbles loudly, demanding food. You’d had some decent luck while out hunting the previous morning, capturing two wild rabbits—you had eagerly skinned, cleaned and cooked them both, devouring one right after the other so fast that it had nearly made you sick. It had been a pretty decent meal, but not nearly enough to completely satisfy your ravenous hunger. Prior to finding the cabin and settling in, you had been living off of a couple handfuls of nuts and berries for three days while on the move. You were still fucking starving and all you could do was pray that you’d find more rabbits today.

Maybe you’d get even luckier and spot a pheasant. It was their season, after all.

You drink some more water and set your canteen aside. You’d planned to return to the lake later in the afternoon to refill it as well as to have another bath. You pull on your faded, black denim jacket over your hoodie and pick up the wooden bow and brown leather quiver of arrows sitting beside your pack. You’d found the weapon in some hunting shop back in Utah that had already been picked clean to the bone over the last couple of decades. However, no one had even bothered with taking the bow. It hadn’t really surprised you, though. In the post outbreak world, a bow and arrow would do absolutely nothing to protect against the infected runners and stalkers—and it would do much less to protect against clickers unless your aim was flawless.

Still, a bow was useful in its own right.

It was perfect for hunting game. It was silent, keeping you and your location concealed from potential passersby at all times. Most importantly, you could reuse your arrows so long as you were careful and didn’t break them while removing them from your kills—and in the event that you did happen to snap an arrow, all you had to do was salvage what you could from the damaged projectile and make a new one. Simple as that.

Your father had taught you how before he’d died.

“Why bother with a bow? What about a gun?” you had asked him.

“Might not always be able to get your hands on a gun,” he’d replied as he sharpened an edge of the small, thumb sized rock in his hand. “Or bullets. It doesn’t hurt to have alternatives in the event that you can’t get your hands on either of those things, kiddo.” Despite being in your mid twenties at the time, he’d still always call you kiddo. “Always have a backup weapon, alright?”

He’d been wise to give you that advice.

You did have a firearm, a colt pistol that you hardly have ammunition for. There were ten rounds left in the clip and with no luck in finding any more in the last couple of months, you’d decided to preserve them, saving what little bullets you had left for a real emergency. You kept the gun tucked into the waistband of your jeans at all times, along with the sharp switchblade that you used to gut and skin game. As far as weapons go, you sure as hell could’ve been a lot worse off. But if you happened to stumble upon more ammunition for your gun, you certainly wouldn’t complain about it.

Slinging your bow and the quiver of arrows over your shoulder, you grab the dark gray foraging bag that you used to collect and carry your kills in and leave the cabin, feeling somewhat confident enough to leave the remainder of your belongings behind instead of hauling them all along with you like you had the morning before. It wasn’t that you feared someone would come along and steal them. There wasn’t really anything for anyone to steal, anyway. Rather, you’d gotten so damn used to the instability and the constant moving around—you never stayed in one place for too long and were always prepared to run. But today, you decide to leave your things in the cabin, feeling certain that you would return in just a couple of hours.

You step out onto the creaking, three step porch that’s so old it buckles slightly under your weight and a gentle breeze nips at your cheeks and nose. It’s the middle of autumn in Wyoming and the air outside is fresh, cool and crisp. Winter was looming right around the corner like a dark shadow, and although you’d somehow managed to make it through the previous year’s brutal snow season, that didn’t do much to stop you from being nervous about the one that was to come. If all went according to your plan, you’d be holing yourself up in that shoddy little cabin until the worst of winter was over and then you would move along.

To where?

You didn’t have the slightest fucking clue.

You make a short trek about two miles south, going in the opposite direction of the lake and finding yourself closer to the thick forest trees that surrounded the base of the mountain range out in the distance instead. There’s a dried, grassy clearing just feet from the entrance of the forest—finding a single, decently sized boulder in the middle of the wide, open space, you decide that behind it is the perfect spot for you to set up and hope for the best. Carefully setting your things down on the ground, you pull out a pair of old, cracked binoculars from your bag. You lean your body over the smooth, round top of the rock and lift them up to your face, peeking through the lenses. You hope to spot something right away because it sure would be fucking nice to eat something sooner rather than later. Otherwise you might just start gnawing at your own arm.

Diligently, you scan your surroundings for any and all signs of wildlife.

That’s when you see it, standing near the edge of the woods.

You gasp softly as your sights fall upon the deer.

Pulling your face away from your binoculars, you blink furiously before taking another look just to be sure that your eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on you. It’s not a hallucination. It’s a white tailed deer, a female, and from the look of her, she has to be at least about a hundred pounds. At least.

You try to not get too far ahead of yourself, but it’s far too late. The thought of finding some herbs and making a hot, venison stew for supper makes your mouth water. The rest of the meat could be dried out and made into a batch of jerky that could feed you for months. Months.

Then, you suddenly remember you’ve never even attempted to bring down an animal of that size before and you’re slapped back into reality.

You think about your father, who would bring home a deer every weekend after going on his hunting trips with some of his old college buddies. “You want to aim for the heart or the lungs,” he’d say as you and your siblings would watch him dress the carcass, much to your mother’s chagrin. “Look between the shoulder blade and the last rib,” he would tell you and your brothers. You’d also had an older sister, but she had always been incredibly squeamish and had a soul that was much too sweet and caring for hunting. She would always want to bring home every animal your father shot and nurse it back to health. “Somewhere between those two lies everything you need to hit in order to do the job and do it well. And for the love of god, don’t you ever aim directly for the shoulder. Behind it, kiddos, always aim behind it. You got it?”

“Yes Papa,” you’d all chime out together.

Setting down the binoculars in your hands, you reach for your bow and pluck an arrow from your quiver before stepping out from behind the boulder. You’re careful to be as silent as possible as you take a few steps closer towards the unsuspecting grazing animal. You position yourself and stand perpendicular to the deer, placing your feet shoulder width apart—you’re a little farther from your target than you would have preferred, but you don’t want to risk going any closer and scaring her off, so it would have to do. Once you feel comfortable enough with your stance, you nock the arrow and set it on the string. You then hold the string and steady your grip on the bow, relaxing your shoulders before drawing it and pulling your arm back until you’ve reached your anchor point, which is always the corner of your mouth.

Breathe, you remind yourself calmly as you aim at the delicate spot behind her shoulder blade. Nice and slow. Breathe.

Just as you’re about to release the arrow and take your shot, the deer whips her head back towards the trees and her ears prick forward—a split second later, she darts off, zooming across the field in the opposite direction of where you’d been standing.

Your mouth falls open in disbelief.

“Are you fucking shitting me?” you mutter under your breath.

Frustrated, you lower your weapon and just as you start to contemplate whether or not it’s even worth it to try and hunt her down on foot, you suddenly hear something—it isn’t until the noise draws closer to where you’re standing that you realize it’s the sound of a galloping horse.

Perplexed, you squint over in the direction of where you think it’s coming from, right near the edge of the trees. Then, just a moment later, a brown stallion emerges from the woods with a dark haired man riding in his saddle. He holds a rifle in one hand and clutches the reins tightly in the other.

Gasping, you whirl around on the heel of your boot and immediately make a beeline back to the boulder. You swing around the rock and crouch down, ducking out of his sight. You couldn’t be too sure if he’d seen you or not, but it doesn’t matter—a wave of sheer panic washes over you and you can physically feel your own body preparing itself to go into fight or flight mode. Despite having your gun tucked into the waistband of your jeans, you still haven’t reached for it and continue to clutch your bow and arrow in your hands instead.

Swallowing dryly, you turn and carefully lift yourself up just enough so that you can glimpse over the top of the boulder. That’s when you see a second man emerge from the woods. This one is blond and he is on foot instead of a horse. He’s also armed, carrying a shotgun.

“You’re mine you fucking son of a bitch!” he shouts. He lifts his weapon, aims, and then squeezes the trigger, shooting the horse in the side and bringing him down instantly. His rider goes flying off and he hits the ground several feet away from the dead animal, landing so painfully hard that even from a distance you’d manage to hear the loud, cracking sound his body had made upon impact.

You momentarily freeze.

Your heart anxiously jumps up into your throat as you watch the shooter begin to approach him. The attacker moves slowly and with no haste seeing as his helpless victim is lying there motionless on the ground with his eyes closed and no idea that he’s about to die. The blond man comes to a halt just a few feet away from him, grinning as he lifts his shotgun once again and points the barrel of it at the other man’s head. His index finger hovers over the trigger.

Before your mind and body can even make the connection, you rise to your feet and aim your bow, swiftly sending an arrow straight through the blond man’s neck. He crumples, falling to the ground writhing and squirming as he bleeds out in less than sixty seconds.

You wait it out for another minute, refusing to move another muscle until his body finally goes limp and you are certain he’s dead. Taking a look around, you make sure the coast is clear and grab your belongings, slinging them over your shoulder before you make your way over to the scene. Unsure of whether or not there could be others heading in this direction, your plan was to pick off their guns and any other useful supplies before making a run for it back to the cabin. You crouch down beside the man you’d shot and killed, carefully pulling your arrow out of his neck. It makes a loud, horrid squelching sound as you remove it and blood from his jugular splatters your blue jeans. You then pick up his shotgun and check the chamber for ammunition.

Just like the pistol tucked away in your waistband, there’s hardly any rounds left, making it all but useless. Rolling your eyes, you carelessly drop the gun on top of his chest and move on in search of the rifle. You spot it right beside the dark haired man.

Apprehensive, you cautiously make your way over towards him. With how still he had been lying, you could have sworn he was gone—perhaps the fall off of his horse alone had killed him. But just to be sure, you decide to give his side a harsh nudge with the toe of your boot.

He groans and his head rolls to the side.

He’s still alive.

You effortlessly string the bloodied arrow in your hand and aim it right at his chest.

Move again and you’re dead, motherfucker.

“Ellie,” the man mumbles, his eyes still closed.

Ellie?

You slowly lower your bow.

Without realizing it, a little bit of your guard lowers along with it.

Carefully, you sink down onto one knee next to the man and get a better look at him. He’s much older than yourself, somewhere in his fifties if you had to guess. He has harsh forehead lines, deep creases in between his eyebrows, a patchy beard that is speckled with many, many grays, and wild waves of thick hair that look soft to the touch. Though some of his features are a little worse for wear due to his age, he’s still quite a handsome man from what you can see. He also appears to be in decent shape, clean and well fed, and you detect the light scent of laundry soap on his clothes. Surely, he had to have been part of some kind of group, and judging by the leather trimmed saddle on his horse, this group was one that was very well off in this post outbreak world.

You hesitate, but then lift a slightly trembling hand and take the side of his face, cupping it in your palm as you turn his head towards you.

There’s blood on his right temple and your fingers reach up to touch what you had assumed was the source of the bleeding—but then you realize it was a scar, maybe an inch or two in length at most and completely healed. Your fingers trail up even further and venture into his hair which, as it turned out, is in fact just as soft as one would imagine. You find a small gash on his scalp and your fingers become coated in the man’s blood.

Must’ve hit himself on a rock or something.

Your hand leaves his hair and you place it on his broad chest as you begin checking him over for any other potential injuries or wounds. Slipping your opposite hand inside of his brown jacket, you lift the hem of the dark green thermal henley he’s wearing and you discover the scar on his temple isn’t the only one he possesses—he has several more, way too many for you to count on one hand alone. You’re so preoccupied with inspecting the remainder of his abdomen that you don’t even notice the way one of his hands is slowly reaching for yours, the hand that’s still resting on his chest, right over his heartbeat.

Semiconscious, the man takes your hand in his so damn gently that it startles you and takes you by surprise, but it doesn’t frighten you. Weakly, he laces his fingers together with your own and he speaks again, uttering softly, “Babygirl.”

Puzzled, your eyebrows knit together.

It almost sounds like he’s pleading.

For what—for who? For Ellie?

Is she the babygirl he’s referring to?

Your other hand moves up to his shoulder and you give it a violent shake.

Hey, you’ve got to get up now.

“H—” You try to speak the words, but can’t. They’re formed in your mind and it feels like they are right there on the very tip of your tongue, but when you open your mouth, they refuse to come out. You frown.

It’s happened before.

In the spring, you’d stumbled across a small group of people while out hunting in Idaho—it was the first time you had seen other human beings since leaving California in the fall. There had been both men and women and they even had children with them, but that did nothing to stop you from panicking when they’d approached you. One of the women cornered you, trying to tell you that they were traveling across the country to the east coast. “It’s okay,” she’d tried to tell you, holding up her hands. “We’re not bad people, I promise. We’re just trying to get to the quarantine zone in Boston. I think you should come with us, honey.”

You’d been so terrified that when you’d tried to tell her that you didn’t want to join them, you couldn’t push the words out. It felt like your voice had gotten stuck in the back of your throat. That’s how afraid you’d been.

Technically, you can speak.

You’d talk to yourself often when you were feeling lonely. You would read the books you carried in your pack out loud. Hell, you even liked to sing.

But whenever you became stressed, anxious, or scared, it would happen. You’d lose your ability to speak and to communicate—not that you had anyone to communicate with except for yourself, but that’s besides the point. No matter how hard you tried to force your vocal cords, all you could get out were quiet, strangled noises. It was as if your own fears chased your voice away and during periods when you were under extreme distress, it would take several days for you to find it again. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that, whenever you used your voice back in California, it only led to the harshest of punishments.

A gunshot sounds off in the distance, snapping you out of your train of thought.

You shake the man again, harder this time.

Come on, get up! They could be coming this way!

It’s useless. He’s losing complete consciousness.

You hear another gunshot and this one sounds like it’s coming from the base of the mountain range on the other side of the trees, not all too far from where you are. For all you know, it could very well be members of his own group who are firing those weapons out there. But whether it was his group or the other man’s group, it doesn’t really fucking matter. You don’t want to run into either one of them, regardless of who were the good guys and who were the bad guys. In your eyes, everyone’s a fucking bad guy.

Yanking your hand out of his, you get to your feet and prepare to make a run for it. But just as you’re about to take off, the man mumbles one last time. It’s incoherent and barely audible, but you manage to catch that name again. Ellie.

Ellie, Ellie, Ellie.

For some reason you can’t quite explain, that sweet little name bounces around in the inside of your skull.

You chew the inside of your cheek anxiously.

If it’s his group out there, they’ll save him.

If it’s the other man’s group, they’ll kill him.

Normally, you’d have no problem with the idea of leaving another person to die.

After everything that happened in California, you had lost your sense of humanity. Your ability to empathize and actually give a shit about other people had been long gone—or so you’d thought. But you had just saved this man’s life and now you find yourself unwilling to run the risk of leaving him for dead. And you don’t have the slightest fucking clue as to why. He’s a stranger. He shouldn’t matter to you.

You exhale a heavy sigh of defeat.

Okay, how the fuck do I do this?

Without much time left to waste, you gather up your belongings over your shoulder and pick up his rifle, slinging the brown leather strap across your chest so the gun rests comfortably against your backside. You walk around him, lean over, and hook your arms securely underneath his. Using every ounce of physical strength you have inside of you, you start dragging him back to the cabin as fast as you possibly can.

The pretty melody fills his ears as he comes to.

“Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high

there’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby…”

Joel Miller isn’t all too sure if heaven is a real place that actually exists, but the very minute he hears the feminine voice singing, he can’t help but think he’s died and that’s exactly where he’s gone—because only an angel could possibly have a voice like that. So rich, so smooth, and oh so sickeningly sweet.

“Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue...”

The ballad being sung is all too familiar to him.

The Wizard of Oz had been Sarah’s favorite movie back when she had been a little girl, when she was seven years old and she still believed in princesses and fairy tales and faraway lands with yellow brick roads. Even when she grew older, his daughter continued to hold a soft spot for the film and Joel would watch it with her every Thanksgiving at his parents’ house right after their dinner—it would air on cable and Sarah would beg him to let her have her slice of pecan pie while sitting cross legged on the floor in front of his old man’s television set.

“So long as you don’t make a mess on Nana and PopPop’s carpet,” he’d warn her. “Deal?”

Sarah would beam at him and nod eagerly. “Deal!”

He’d grab his own slice of pie, park it right on the couch behind her, and together they would get lost in the whimsical world of Oz, although admittedly he’d usually fall deep into his food coma long before Dorothy had the chance to make it back home to Kansas.

“Where troubles melt like lemon drops

away above the chimney tops

that’s where you’ll find me...”

The words fade and the rest of the song is now being hummed.

Goddamn, he thinks.Even the humming is too fucking beautiful.

Joel feels a cold, damp cloth dabbing at his sore right temple.

Come to think of it, everything is fucking sore.

Once, when Joel had been in his mid twenties, he had been doing some under the table roofing job with his younger brother, Tommy. It had been the hottest day of the summer in Texas, and the two of them thought having a couple cold beers with their lunch to cool off would be a good idea. The pair of them went back to work and started fucking around, goofing off like the drunk idiots they were. While horsing around, Joel accidentally stumbled right over the edge of the roof and he had fallen about fifteen feet to the ground, landing on his back on Mrs. Adler’s lawn. Luckily, he’d been okay after the fall and hadn’t sustained any serious injuries or broken any bones, but he had spent the following three to four weeks feeling like he’d been hit by a fucking Greyhound.

That’s how he felt now.

Like he’d been hit by a fucking bus. Twice. There isn’t a single part of him that isn’t pulsating with pain—his back, his shoulders, and his head. Oh god, his head feels the worst. It’s fucking killing him.

Joel’s eyelids twitch and he cracks them open ever so slightly, just enough that he can see the silhouette of another person hovering over him. He feels a hand at the crown of his head as the other continues to dab at his temple with the cool cloth. It feels incredible against his warm skin and even sort of soothes the pain.

He lets out a small groan and the humming ceases.

Finally, he manages to force his eyes open.

Joel hears a little gasp and the bed he’s lying on squeaks and shifts. He then hears a loud thumping sound as if something, or someone had fallen to the floor.

Although he’s still disoriented and his entire body aches with even the slightest movement, Joel manages to push himself up into a sitting position. Blinking rapidly, his blurred vision steadies itself after a minute and he glances around. He’s in a small, single room wooden cabin that has seen better days in its lifetime. Looking down, he sees that he’s lying on a bare, worn out mattress with his own jacket draped over him like a blanket. He racks his mildly concussed brain, trying to recollect what had happened—it takes him a minute, but one by one, the memories start flooding back to him. Joel had been leading mid morning patrol with Tommy when they had been ambushed by a large group of hostile raiders. He remembers shouting at his brother, telling him that he’d try and lead some of them off, away from the direction of their community. He’d succeeded and managed to pick off a few of the bastards that had been tailing him with his rifle, all except for one. The very last thing that he remembered was the sound of a gunshot behind him before his horse went down and he’d been thrown off and knocked out.

Everything after that was nothing but a blur.

Joel takes another look around the cabin and that’s when he sees you.

You’re on the floor, backed up against the wall near the foot of the mattress. Your eyes are wide and round, like a deer caught in the headlights. Your chest heaves, rising and falling rapidly—you remind him of a helpless, frightened animal that had been cornered by a vicious predator. You clutch the handle of a switchblade up against your chest with the blade pointing downwards, holding it so tightly in your hand that Joel can see the skin stretching tightly over your knuckles.

“Who the hell are you?” He grimaces slightly, his own voice causing his head to throb.

You don’t reply.

Joel moves onto his next question. “Where am I?”

Again, no response.

He tries again. “Are you alone?”

Silence.

Joel takes a better look at you.

You’re young. You couldn’t have been older than your late twenties, perhaps even your early thirties although that might have been a bit of a stretch. You had that look about you, one that had become all but too familiar to him in the last two decades—the exhausted appearance of someone trying to survive in the post outbreak world. Your face is tired and worn, but somehow still soft and youthful at the same time. You might have looked a little rough around the edges, but you’re still the prettiest goddamn thing he’s seen in a long, long time.

Joel speaks again. “Who are you? Where the hell are we?” When he’s met with complete silence for the fourth time, he raises an eyebrow, feeling annoyed. “You gonna fuckin’ say somethin’ or what?”

You can only stare at him, your fingers wrapped around the handle of your knife in a vice-like grip.

Joel frowns.

Are you really that fucking terrified of him?

Or perhaps you can’t hear?

Only one way to find out, he thinks to himself.

He raises his voice, asking once again, “Who are you? Where are we?”

You wince, your features twisting in discomfort.

Oh, you could fucking hear him, alright.

Joel swings his legs over the side of the mattress, his movement causing you to shrink back further against the wall, almost as if you were trying to become a part of the old, rotted wood. He holds up his two hands, demonstrating that he has no plans to move another muscle towards you. “How long have I been out?”

He tries to show some patience and gives you a minute, gives you a chance to respond, but when you say nothing, he can’t help but sigh out in frustration. Just when he’s about to force himself to come to terms with the fact that he wouldn’t be getting any kind of answers out of you, you lift your free hand and hold up three trembling fingers.

His stomach sinks. “Three days? I’ve been out for three fuckin’ days?”

You give him a nod so tiny and so subtle that he would’ve missed it had he blinked.

“Fuck,” Joel curses, hanging his head. He begins to spiral.

What happened to Tommy? And the others?

Did they make it out alive?

And then Ellie’s face flashes in his mind, causing the blood in his veins to run ice cold.

What could she possibly be thinking right now after he’d been missing for three whole days? Who was taking care of her and looking after her while he wasn’t there?

He needed to get back to Jackson—he needed to get back to Ellie.

He wasn’t sure how he would be able to do that if you didn’t start talking soon and answering his goddamn questions.

Lifting his head, Joel looks over at you again.

“You all by yourself?”

You hesitate, but then nod in reply. Yes.

Joel sighs, his tense shoulders relaxing. That’s a start. “Listen, I’m gonna need a little help here, alright? I don’t remember much ‘bout what happened. I’m part of a community. I was out on patrol with my group when we were attacked by raiders. There were too many of them and I tried to lead some of them away,” he explains. He might not have known what had happened after he’d been thrown off of his horse, but the fact that he’s in your cabin and he’s alive help him piece at least one part of the puzzle together. “Wait a minute. Did you—did you save me out there?”

Sucking in your bottom lip, you nod again.

Stunned, Joel’s eyebrows raise up towards his hairline. “You fuckin’ serious?” he can’t help but question in complete and utter disbelief. Skeptically, he presses, “But how? What happened out there? How did you get me here all by yourself?” His queries spill from his lips one after the other despite knowing most of them, if not all of them, would go unanswered.

You look overwhelmed by them—by him.

Figuring it’s best to take it one slow step at a time, Joel stands up and he cautiously walks over towards you. He holds out his hand. “S’alright,” he assures you in the most gentle voice he can muster. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

You refuse to loosen your grip on your knife, but you accept his hand and allow him to help you up to your feet. Given that you didn’t lodge the blade straight through his chest, Joel would say some progress had been made.

He releases your hand and takes a step backwards to give you your space. He isn’t too sure if you can’t talk or simply don’t want to talk—still thinking you’d been the woman he’d heard singing when he had drifted back into consciousness, he guesses it’s probably the latter.

Joel tries to think of questions he knows you’ll be able to answer without having to speak.

“How long have you been by yourself?”

Shifting anxiously from one foot to the other, you hold up one finger.

“Sorry darlin’ but that don’t really help me much,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Are we talkin’ one week? One month?”

You make a gesture with your hand. Keep going.

“One year?” He doesn’t bother hiding his blatant skepticism. “You’ve been completely alone for one whole year?”

You point at him. That’s right.

Joel is beside himself. He’s almost in awe over the fact that you’ve survived on your own for so fucking long.

“You got any other weapons besides that knife?”

You nod over towards a bow and sheath of arrows next to your backpack.

“You’re kiddin’ me. That’s all you’ve got?”

You narrow your eyes at him.

Hey, it’s a good weapon and it saved your fucking life, thank you very much.

“Sorry. Just can’t imagine that thing would do much against a clicker. ‘Specially if your aim is shit,” Joel muses. He notices the offended expression on your face and quickly moves on. “You don’t have a gun at all?”

You reach behind yourself and pull out a colt pistol from the waistband of your jeans. You finally set down your knife and then show him that you’re low on ammunition and don’t have any more. Tucking the gun back into your jeans, you step around him and walk over to a corner where his rifle is propped up against the wall. You pick it up, make your way back over to him and hand it over.

I believe this belongs to you.

“Thank you,” he utters quietly, taking it from you. “And I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout the gun, either. I honestly don’t think I’d be standin’ here alive if you hadn’t done whatever it was you did out there.” His eyes try meeting yours. “I’m serious, darlin’. I owe you one. I really fuckin’ do.”

You shrug, too timid to meet his gaze.

“I’m Joel,” he says after a minute, setting his rifle down. “What’s your name?”

You simply stare at him.

“Oh that’s right,” Joel mumbles sheepishly. “You can’t—” He stops himself, but he’s sure you know what he’d meant to say.

You can’t talk.

“You got a pencil or somethin’ to write with?”

You snort and roll your eyes at him. No, sorry. Silly me totally forgot to pick up a pack of pencils while I was out scavenging for supplies the other day.

Joel chuckles and holds up his hands in defense. “Figured it was at least worth askin’,” he says. “It’d be kinda nice to know the name of the person who saved my fuckin’ ass, you know.” He clocks the way the corners of your mouth threaten to turn upwards into a tiny smile at his remark. “How ‘bout a map? You got one of those so you can show me where we are?”

You hold up a finger, as if telling him to give you a minute. Digging into one of the front pockets of your pack, you pull out a large map of the state of Wyoming. It’s severely creased, as if you’ve folded and unfolded it hundreds of times. You hand it over to him and as he holds it out for you, you point to your current location.

“Jackson’s ‘bout fifteen miles south from here,” Joel murmurs as he scans the map. Suddenly, his dark brown eyes flicker over your wrist—the long sleeve of your thin gray shirt had hiked up, exposing severe discoloration and scarring that went all the way around, marking your skin.

Noticing where his gaze had wandered off to, you quickly retract your hand away from the map and tug your sleeve down back into place. But it’d been much too late. He had seen the mark, clear as fucking day.

Joel awkwardly clears his throat and for the sake of not causing you any discomfort, he pretends he hadn’t seen a goddamn thing. He turns his attention back to the map. “Remember how I told you I’m a part of a community? It’s in Jackson and it ain’t all too far from here,” he states, peering up at you from over the top of the map. “The town’s gated and it’s secure. You’ll be safe there. If we head out right now, we can make it there by nightfall—”

You back away from him, shaking your head.

I’m not going with you.

He cocks an eyebrow at you. “Look darlin’, I don’t mean to offend, but you ain’t gonna last a whole lot longer out here on your own, especially not in a place like this with winter right around the corner. If you don’t starve to death, then you’ll fuckin’ freeze to death.”

You glare at him and lift your chin.

I’ve been doing just fine on my own, thanks.

Having read your mind, Joel sighs. “Alright, fair enough. You’ve gotten this far by yourself, but that don’t mean you gotta turn down an offer for some help. Just come with me to Jackson—”

You shake your head even harder.

The last time that you had agreed to go back with a stranger to their camp, you’d been imprisoned. Tortured.

Joel observes you, and it doesn’t take him very long to connect the dots between the scars around your wrists and your refusal to leave with him. His hard, stony face softens. “Listen sweetheart, I ain’t all too sure ‘bout what’s happened to you,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “But I can assure you that you ain’t gotta worry ‘bout a thing this time around. Just come with me and I’ll prove it to you.”

You toss him a skeptical look.

“Jackson is a safe place,” he swears. “My brother runs it along with his wife and a small council. There’s families, lots of children—hell I’ve got a kid myself. Teenager. Her name is Ellie and she’s fifteen years old.”

Your lips part slightly and your eyes glimmer with something that looks a lot like recognition, though Joel can’t be too sure what had prompted it. Perhaps you’d known someone with that name once in your life.

“There’s plenty of food, running water, electricity,” he lists off in an attempt to sway you. “It’d be a shot at a normal life. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Crossing your arms, you lift your chin again.

You’d heard that before.

Why the hell should I even trust you? Why should I trust this place is what you say it is?

Joel bites back another frustrated sigh.

Normally, he wouldn’t bother to put up with such stubbornness. He wasn’t one to plead or beg and part of him almost wanted to give up so he could be on his way, but you had saved him from being killed. He owed you his fucking life. He had to get you to go with him. He wouldn’t give up until you agreed to go to Jackson with him.

“I’ll let you carry your weapons,” he offers as a compromise. “Hell, you can even walk behind me with your gun pointed at the back of my fuckin’ head if that’s gonna make you feel safest.”

You squint at him. Really?

“Or that bow of yours,” he adds, chuckling softly. “It’s your pick, darlin’. Whatever’s gonna make you feel comfortable. I’ll trust you not to shoot an arrow through the back of my skull—all I ask in return is that you at least make an attempt to trust me too. I think that’s a fair enough deal. Don’t you?”

You bite your bottom lip.

I don’t know about this.

“I really don’t wanna leave you out here all alone,” Joel says, taking a step closer towards you. He finds himself feeling surprised that it hadn’t startled you and he only hopes that means that, to some degree, you trust him already. “Please. You saved my life—and I know you probably don’t need me savin’ yours, but at least let me take you to Jackson so you can see for yourself what we’ve got goin’ on there. If you don’t like it and you don’t wanna stay, then we’ll load up your pack with food and supplies. We’ll put you on a horse and you can be on your way. You can choose to leave and no one will lift a finger to stop you, I’ll make sure of it. How does that sound?”

He waits, giving you a chance to think it over.

Finally, after a minute, you sigh and reluctantly nodd your head.

Okay. I’m gonna try and trust you.

“Good,” Joel says, softly. “Now get your stuff and let’s head out before we start losin’ daylight.”

#joel miller series #joel miller story #joel miller #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x oc #joel miller angst #joel miller pedro pascal #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #joel miller imagine #the last of us fanfiction #fic: to hell and back

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358jours · 1 year

Text

Jing Yuan x GN!Reader⎢Bird in my hands

Word Count⎢1840

Genre/Tags⎢SFW, fluff, Reader has wings, wing grooming, softness and non-sexual intimacy, written and posted before game launch⎢Crossposted on AO3

Jing Yuan, now labeled ‘Dozing General’ behind doors, used to reign upon the battlefield in his younger days. His awareness, his foresight, his strategy, his instinct, his strength, all made him terrifying to fight. With the aid of the lighting element, few were the enemies he wasn’t able to take down. Perhaps the no man’s land was waiting to be claimed by him, to be renamed “Jing Yuan’s land”.

He wasn’t perfect of course, he had his share of lost battles. But he had led his men to victory far many more times than he ever had defeat.

Peace has claimed Xianzhou since then. Everything has changed, and no longer does he need to kill for victory. The battles moved from warfronts to conference rooms. Through diplomatic negotiations, treaties, alliances, trades, the living conditions of the citizens improved. His did too.

He has adapted, and every day still uses the many skills he learned on the battlefront. He is meticulous in his routine, planning everything so that no problem arises. Perhaps another person would’ve complained about the mental toll. But he is Jing Yuan, to deal with the consequences rather than preventing them is not his style. Better be safe than sorry as many say, and surely, all of this is why he follows the path of erudition.

He savors peace in his own way. Taking a nap, laying in the sun, going on a stroll, enjoying the way he can just be bored– those are all the fruits of his hard work. His drowsy demeanor makes him appear lazy in the eyes of others, but he is content knowing none have to deal with his “actually acting like a general” persona. It is much less enjoyable for everybody.

He was often compared to a lion back on the battlefield, and it still fits him now, in different ways.

You were attributed to his flagship, the Xianzhou Luofu, not as a soldier but as a scout for reconnaissance and investigation. After all, there is little use in making you a regular fighter when that pair of wings on your back gives you many other opportunities. Bird people aren’t the hybrid norm in Xianzhou as it is the known territory of Foxians.

Perhaps this is why you caught his attention– his subconscious feline instincts reacting to your rare avian attributes. Natural prey and predator, or something along those lines. He had listened to his urges once– to tease you for one of your miscalculations despite being barely acquainted general and subordinate. The face and noises you made had been far too entertaining. Playfully bothering you and seeing your honest reactions to his banter became one of his favorite pastimes.

Which is why when he finds you squirming around, he doesn't announce his presence. You are trying to reach something on your back, stretching yourself into unspeakable positions to achieve your goal, but with no luck. The curses leaving your lips constantly make the general raise an eyebrow. He has never heard you swear this much in a single instance.

As much as your floundering entertains him, it is getting a little painful. “May I help?”

“Ah!” To say you jump in surprise would be an understatement. Your wings flap instinctively, and bam, into the ceiling. Your landing is quite off too. You grasp at the top of your head with your hands, ‘ow ow ow ouch’. Yanqing, passing by right at that moment, laughs his heart out. The loud sound rings out throughout the halls, even after he is gone. Your embarrassment deepens.

Finally you turn around. “Is there anything amiss, General?”

“It seems you are struggling with something. I was wondering if you needed my aid. I’d rather you don’t end up with a concussion.” Jing Yuan laughs.

“I– I’m pretty sure a concussion is harder to get than simply this, sir.” You look at the floor, abashed. He only chuckles, his trademark lazy smile on his face. One moment pass, another, and finally you cave when your eyes meet his. “As for help, well… Something in my wings is bothering me and I don’t know where I put my brush. Just combing through with my hands is usually fine but my arms are errr too short for this I fear. If you have the spare time I would appreciate the help. I’m a bit embarrassed to ask you that as you are my superior though.”

All in one breath. Jing Yuan smiles a bit more. “Of course, to be allowed to touch a bird-person’s wings, isn’t that the highest honor possible?”

Your hands scratch the back of your head sheepishly before you turn around to lead him somewhere else. He follows, nonchalant. Though you’re trying your best not to open them in enclosed space, he sees your wings flutter every now and then. He wonders how long it has been bothering you, where you’re taking him to. The only sounds covering the silence between you two are the clanking sounds of his armor and your footsteps.

He gets his answer when you two walk into a somewhat large room. Judging by the furniture, it’s half a lounge. But by the hammock suspended in the room and personal items scattered all over the place, it’s half a private bedroom. It’s not located in the living quarters either. He sees you remove your shoes and put them in a shoe rack by the door. The tension in your body seems gone in an instant. He inquires then, “Is this your room?”

“Technically it’s no one’s, but I’ve furnished it and have been living in it the longest. Please remove your shoes and come here once you’re done.” You walk to a chest in the corner, and take out a bunch of pillows that you throw on the fluffy rug.

He does as you say and puts his boots by the rack. It’s odd, having to remove his shoes in a bedroom, it’s a habit he lost with time after he was assigned this ship. It’s something he does when he gets back to the mainland, something he does when he visits friends. Even in his own room, he has grown out of it.

The wooden floor creaks under his weight, until his feet land on the soft and fluffy rug. He arranges the pillows around before he sits down cross legged. He’s honestly surprised by how nice it feels.

“Yanqing and I found this room together, it was pretty much empty back then. I was sleeping in the shared quarters, which was quite a problem since every time my wings would move in my sleep, it’d wake someone up. I asked him if I could have it as my own. He already has his own quarters, so I could have it as long as he could visit anytime. He likes to nap in the hammock and take care of his sword here whenever it rains.”

You come to sit before him, your back facing him.

Jing Yuan blinks slowly. His mind is computing what you just told him. He hadn’t considered that aspect of you having those wings, he had viewed them –and you by extension– as an advantageous asset, and forgot to take other situations into consideration. This is proof that he still has shortcomings, even in his meticulous planning. “I apologize, I would have prepared something had I known sleeping arrangements were going to be an issue.”

“Ah no, no, it’s me! We didn’t tell anyone about it and besides, it worked out in my favor at the end of it.” Nervousness suddenly takes over you, afraid you accidentally offended your superior.

“Do not worry, you have not offended me. Besides, this is your personal space, we are equals here. Please don’t treat me as your superior when we are alone, yes?” He only laughs. The second information is something he has to verify himself– “I’m glad you are so close to Yanqing.”

“Ah I wouldn’t call it ‘so close’, I’m not sure if we’re even true friends. He’s a good lieutenant when he needs to be, but the rest of the time he’s… I’m not sure how to say it, I don’t think I’m anyone special to him. He’s so extraverted and friendly, it’s hard for anyone to dislike him, or to not tell him whenever they need help with something. He probably knows all the latest gossip too.” you laugh too.

“That is true. I’m lucky to have him as my lieutenant.” With your back facing him, you don’t get to see his relieved expression, or the way he smiles at you so fondly. “Are you ready?”

“Ah! Yes, of course!” Your wings stretch wide, and Jing Yuan is impressed with the size of them. No wonder sleeping has been a problem for you. “You can pretty much go through the feathers like how you would with your hair. Though they’re pretty sensitive, they’re also sturdier than what most people believe. Do not hesitate if you have to use strength.”

The general hums in response. His hand slowly touches the base of your wings, curious. He has pet small birds in the past, those who didn’t fear him due to his laidback aura. But your feathers are different, for obvious reasons. They are all lined up almost perfectly, their colors much more vibrant up close. They’re incredibly soft to the touch, the smoothness surprising him somehow.

While he’s very tempted to, he has to do more than simply pet your wings. He’s smart however, and figures he can go at a slower pace so he can enjoy this feeling a bit more. It’s a guilty pleasure he won’t mention.

It’s his first time doing this of course, but somehow it feels like he has much more experience. He starts combing through the feathers with much care, paying attention to each bump and irregularity. He massages the wing bone before his hands go back through your plumage. You told him he could use more strength, but he’s skilled enough not to. He removes dead feathers so very softly that you don’t feel it. He notices your form relaxing gradually. Your back slumps bit by bit, your wings slowly getting closer to touching the ground. Pride blooms in his chest.

He’s not sure how much time has passed, but once he’s done with both wings you’re sitting asleep. You stir, and when he realizes you’re about to fall, he catches you in his arms. It doesn’t seem to bother you all that much as you try to make yourself comfortable against his armoured chest. He thinks about his options carefully, what were his planned duties for the day. But… he is the Dozing General for a reason.

He’s careful when he moves to lay on his back, avoiding big sounds made by his armor. You, already in dreamland, don’t seem to mind it and only protest when he moves your head to put a pillow under it.

With the both of you comfortable, Jing Yuan finally closes his eyes.

#jing yuan x reader #star rail x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #jingyuan x reader #x reader #x winged reader #hsr #nekonohanashi

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marvelmusing · 4 months

Text

Earned It

Pairing: Mafia!Aleksander Morozova x Fem!Reader (Modern AU)

Summary: Aleksander Morozova has specific tastes. Nikolai knows this, which is why he invites you to join him at one of Morozova’s parties in the hopes of fostering a business partnership. Once you set eyes on Morozova, you are more than happy to play the part of pawn.

Warnings [18+]: sexual content, dom!Aleksander, pain kink, exclusive kink party, semi public spanking and nudity, sir kink, praise kink, hints that the reader was used as an incentive for a deal between Aleksander and Nikolai

My Masterlist

It won’t be much longer before you lose your patience.

Bent over a table, you manage to moan when Nikolai swats at your ass cheek instead of groaning in frustration. He’s too gentle. It’s driving you up the wall.

He had asked you to be his plus one for this unconventional party, hosted by a potential future business partner - Aleksander Morozova - in an attempt at forming an alliance. Despite the rumours you’ve heard about Morozova, you had agreed to help your friend.

The two of you had discussed what you would be comfortable doing together at the party, though Nikolai seems to have misunderstood just how enthusiastic you are about public spankings. All too soon, it’s over, leaving you unspeakably dissatisfied.

He helps you stand upright again, looping his arm around your waist and smoothing your dress down as he looks down at you.

“You okay?”

“I thought you would have committed to the role a little more,” you remark quietly.

“You’re my friend,” he protests. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

While his words are sweet, you’re too on edge to say anything except,

“Could you get me a drink?” He nods.

Tugging at the hem of your dress a little self consciously, you move towards an empty sofa at the side of the room. Irritation prickles over your skin, a dissatisfied pout puckering at your lips as you sit down with a small huff.

Closing your eyes, you slump your head against the back of the sofa, delighting in the dull thud that reverberates through your skull. Irritated by the events of this evening, you continue to bang your head half heartedly against the soft edge of the furniture.

The repetitive motion helps to relieve some of your frustration - until someone grasps a fistful of the hair at the crown of your head, meaning it stings when you move to drop your head back against the sofa.

As your eyes snap open, you’re greeting by the sight of Aleksander Morozova standing over you.

“I don’t condone self inflicted pain at my parties.”

Heat burns through your body, prickling from your scalp down to your stomach that flips as his eyes lock on yours. His gaze is frighteningly direct and your thighs shift as you squirm in response to his attention.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Nerves have you nipping lightly on your lower lip, which makes Mr Morozova raise a dark brow pointedly at you. He hooks his hand beneath your chin, putting pressure on your lips with the pad of his thumb. Instantly, you release your lip from between your teeth, cheeks scolding hot.

“Good girl.”

The sharp breath that escapes you is involuntary and you are ten times more aroused now that you were when Nikolai was attempting to spank you.

“Let me guess,” he muses, stroking his fingers delicately over your cheek in a manner that has you leaning into his touch. “Young Mr Lantsov wants to do business with me, and thought inviting a pretty thing like you would sweeten whatever deal he hopes to offer me.”

A frown creases at your features and you begin to shake your head. Mr Morozova mirrors your expression mockingly with a raised brow and your stomach flips. He smirks.

“He didn’t?”

“I- I don’t think he did,” you stammer.

Mr Morozova laughs, tilting his head back as the bright sound escapes him. His laughter fades and he considers you for a long moment, continuing the motion of his thumb circling your cheek. Then he releases his hold on your face.

“Stand up.”

The loss of his touch is briefly upsetting, but you do as he says, smoothing your dress down nervously as you stand. Mr Morozova circles around the sofa, sliding between you and the piece of furniture before he sits down, claiming your seat for himself.

He takes a hold of your hips, guiding you to stand between his open thighs. Even sitting down, he’s able to reach for your chin, directing your gaze to meet his.

“I’m going to bend you over my knee now. Is that alright?”

Startled desire pools in your stomach as your eyes widen at his question.

“Please,” you whisper.

He pushes your dress upwards over your hips, revealing your lacy panties to him. The sight of his eyes darkening makes you shiver. He touches you leisurely, stroking over the lace covering your mound and pressing his thumb into your hip.

“Would you like to take these off for me?” he asks, his tone light. Instantly, your eyes flicker up to the rest of the party. There are plenty of eyes on you - mostly due the man in front of you. “You don’t have to,” he adds softly and you believe him.

Glancing back down to his eyes, you feel a sudden burst of confidence. The way he’s looking at you has warmth spreading through your body, making you eager to do as you please - and right now you want him to see you.

Hooking your thumbs under the waistband of your panties on either side of your hips, you slip them down easily, keeping your eyes locked on Mr Morozova’s. He smiles widely.

“Good girl,” he praises. “Such a beauty.”

The weight of his gaze is heavy as he admires you. It makes you squirm. Then he does as he promised, bending you over his lap so that your ass is on display for him. Mr Morozova scoffs.

“He didn’t leave a single mark on you.” A shudder runs through your body as he rubs his hand over your cheeks, his palm smoothing across every inch he can. “That simply won’t do. Will it, darling?”

“No, sir.”

“It’s unacceptable, leaving you wanting like this.”

You nod in agreement.

When he starts out gently, swatting your cheeks at a lazy pace, you whine and kick your feet lightly in protest. He lands a harsh crack to your backside that has you crying out, the skin there burning in the wake of his hand. He pinches your cheeks between his fingers and you whimper.

“Being neglected does not give you the right to act disobedient,” he scolds you in a low voice that makes you burn internally. “You will get what I give you and be grateful for it.” He places his hand at the back of your neck, giving a firm squeeze. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

He settles his hand back down onto your ass, petting the tender skin.

“That’s better.”

Every strike that lands has you sinking deeper into the sofa, into him. Arousal is thick and cloying in your body, filling up your mind like molten honey. The only sensation you are able to focus on is his hand as it meets whatever portion of your skin he deems worthy of his attention - and he appears to value every inch you’ve offered him.

His encouragements make your thighs quiver and butterflies swarm in your stomach as he praises you for withstanding something that you delight in. He makes every second of the pain worthwhile, ensuring that every spot he strikes makes you moan with a pleasure that makes you throb with need.

Tears prickle in the corner of your eyes and it isn’t long before they spill down your cheeks, hot and salty as they smear over your flushed face. When he finally stops, your mind is hazy. A blissful lightness has filled your limbs and your gaze is unfocused as he turns you onto your side so that he can see your face. The beat of your heart is no longer in your chest, it’s between your legs.

“That was what you needed, wasn’t it?” he muses quietly, stroking his thumb over your cheek to wipe at the half-dried tears there. Nodding weakly, your eyes flutter shut. The image of his smile is burnt into your closed eyelids.

He continues stroking your cheekbones, his fingers tracing absentmindedly over your jawline and across the pulse point in your neck.

“Poor darling,” he murmurs. “Are you tired?”

Blinking heavily, you nod. Fatigue weighs down on your eyelids and the urge to curl up in the safety of his arms is incredibly appealing. He seems to notice, helping you sit up in his lap.

“That’s it. Come here.”

He drapes a cosy blanket over your body, his hands wandering beneath the fabric to squeeze reassuringly at your thighs, encouraging you to relax. It’s easy to press your face into his chest and you soon sink into slumber.

When you wake, you’re being lowered onto a plush mattress in a darkened room. It takes half a second for you to realise who is smoothing his hands down your bare legs, before he tucks a soft duvet over your body.

“Did you make a deal with Nikolai?” you ask Mr Morozova sleepily. He nods.

“I did.”

Exhaustion has buried itself into your body, a pleasurable ache spreading over your backside that has a giddy smile spreading over your face which you attempt to hide as you curl your arms around the nearest pillow.

“Good.”

The corner of his mouth quirks darkly as your eyes flutter closed again. He presses a kiss to your temple, his arms encaging you as he leans over your body.

“Sleep. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

marvelmusing Tag List: @dreamlandcreations @blanchedelioncourt @idaofinfinity @slytherheign @ellooo0ooo @vixenofcourse @dumb-fawkin-bitch @jane-arthur @ilikefictionmen @budugu @watersquirtpewpewboomm @mysweetlittledesire

S&B Tag List: @motheroffae @daddymaster21

Aleksander M Tag List: @nyctophiliiiiaaa @jazmin2211 @wooya1224 @seronsalk

BB Characters Tag List: @rachlovesactors @noortsshift @aikeia @weallhaveadestiny @two-unbeatable-beaters @idohknow @vaguekayla

#aleksander morozova x reader #aleksander morozova imagine #the darkling x reader #the darkling au #shadow and bone au #shadow and bone x reader

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clerc16 · 2 months

Text

gorgeous lies

summary: is it a gorgeous lie, or is it just a dreadful truth?

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader

warnings: a little angst, open ending i guess? cursing, mentions of a rocky relationship

Normally, you didn’t think about the concept of soulmates. It didn’t cross your mind. Until you met Charles; and that changed your whole perspective.

He was always there with you, for you; and you were always there for him. That’s just the way it was.

Relaxing days off were a necessity in your relationship. Calm days spent tangled between white, crisp bedsheets while small, sweet nothings were whispered and short stories were shared. Both of your lives seemed to stop once these days occurred - you were only thinking about each other while the world went on with their lives.

Honesty was very important, too. Both of your promises and words were always fulfilled. It was like an unspeakable vow; it was never really officiated but it was known.

Well, that’s what you thought anyway.

That’s what you thought, until the day you mistook Charles’ phone for yours. You tried unlocking it, but you realised that the Face ID didn’t recognise your face until it was too late.

“mate just tell her u should take a break. it’s better than to lead her on when u don’t even portray ur real feelings” read the text message. You didn’t even know who it was from - maybe Pierre, maybe Joris, maybe Arthur or Lorenzo - and frankly, you didn’t care.

You left as soon as you could. No explanation, no reasoning.

“my love, is everything ok? i’m here if u need me” Charles’ text said. You read it over so many times you memorised it. The fact he easily called you my love when he was unsure of his feelings. The way he easily made you believe him even when he didn’t believe himself.

The way you were so unbelievably attracted to him, like two opposite ends of a magnet, and all that just shattered.

Seconds turned into minutes, minutes turned into hours, hours turned into days. And Charles’ phone never got a notification that you responded.

Naturally, he came over to your house after two very long days. When you saw him on your doorstep, you wanted to slam the door in his face. But you didn’t. Instead, you ‘invite’ him in.

“Are you here to lie to me again?” You stammer. His eyebrows furrow as his eyes look deep into yours.

“What?”

“Or are you here to tell me we should take a break?” You continue. His face contorts as he finally understands what you’re referring to.

“My love, it wasn’t what it looked like-” he begins, but you cut him off as you laugh.

“Don’t my love me right now. I’m not stupid. I’m not a child. Just... get it over with, Charles. Please, just go.” You respond, your voice cracking.

Hearing the evident pain in your voice as it cracked caused his heart to crack, too.

And without another word, he was gone. Forever? Possibly.

Days dragged on like years. Days were spent crying; out of sadness, out of guilt, out of regret. They blended into one another but each one of them stuck out, sharp as a pin.

The one day that stood out the most, though, was the final day of a devastating week. Friday.

A knock on your door caused you to groan as you forced yourself off the couch.

“Is this Ms... L/N?” The man at the door asked. You hummed shortly.

“I have a delivery for you,” he says with a small smile as he places a huge bouquet of your favourite flower on your front door. You thank him as you drag it inside.

You weren’t stupid. You knew it was Charles.

Attached to the flowers was a note. You sighed as you opened it and began reading.

“Y/N,

I promise, none of this was a lie. Well, maybe some of it. But none of it was negative, I swear. It may seem like it was all a lie, but it wasn’t. Everytime I called you my love or told you I love you wasn’t a lie. None of it was. Please give me a chance to explain. I owe you an explanation, please let me do it.

I love you, I swear.

- Charles.”

You sigh once more as you fold up the note, the decision already clear in your mind.

thank you for reading! i hope this was worth it, please don’t be a ghost reader :)

#charles leclerc #f1 #charles leclerc x reader #scuderia ferrari #f1 x reader #f1 x you #charles leclerc imagine #formula 1 #charles leclerc x you #fanfics

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greatstormcat · 3 months

Text

Into the Fire

TF141 x f!reader

Part 6

Series Masterlist

TW: MDNI 18+, violence, injury description, blood, horror elements, character death, p in v, rough sex

AN: this is it, the last part of my mini epic and I am so happy you’ve all stuck with me with this. It’s great to see how many people enjoy my version of Gaz! And it’s been great to write for the rest of the characters as well. Now enjoy 🖤⚔️🛡️

Cold dread settles into the pit of your stomach at the guard’s words, and talk of boats appearing in the harbour as if by magic. Squires hurry in carrying weapons and armour, Price and Simon give orders and begin to direct the defensive forces. A hand grips your arm and you turn to see Laswell pulling you from your seat.

“Come on, let’s get you somewhere safe,” she says firmly, her expression grim. With a final glance at Kyle, who gives you and Laswell a brief nod, you let her escort you from the room. Already you can hear distant yelling echoing through the halls, screams of fear and pain, the clashing of steel on steel as the fight enters the castle.

“Keep with me,” Laswell says, trying to reassure you and distract you as you wind your way through the twisting halls.

You come to an abrupt halt as Laswell freezes, peering around her you see Valeria standing there, blood smeared on the short arming sword in her hand and on her clothes.

“I just killed one of the enemy,” she announces before either of you can question her. “Come, it’s safe this way,” she says, gesturing for you and Laswell to follow her.

“Where were you?” Laswell asks firmly, not moving and slowly edging you behind her. As you shift, you see her pulling a dagger from a belt sheath hidden at the small of her back. Frustration flicks quickly across Valeria’s features, darkening her eyes further as the Steward refuses to take the bait.

“Doesn’t matter, I’m here now,” she shrugs, and you notice the tightening of her grip on her sword. “Graves wants her, now give her to me.” She lunges forward, sword raised to stab into Laswell’s guts. Laswell reacts with incredible speed, hand lashing out and knocking the other woman’s wrist away as though she knew it was coming. She shoves you harshly to the side, bouncing you from the wall and sending you crashing to the ground with an undignified grunt. The two women grapple, Laswell slightly hindered by her skirts but still managing to overpower the smaller woman.

You clamber to you feet just as Valeria is struck with the pommel of Laswell’s dagger, knocking her out cold.

“Are you okay?” you ask, beginning to move towards her but something stops you dead in your tracks.

A wave of cold nausea makes you stagger, almost doubling over as it feels as though all the warmth in the air is sucked out by something. An unspeakable feeling of dread prickles your skin, and you want to curl up and hide, but something in your chest pushes back, a tiny spark of heat, that forces you to turn your head and look back down the corridor. It’s as though the torches shrink back, too afraid to burn as the dark figure steps around the corner.

“It’s Graves…” you hear Laswell whisper, the name too apt for the creature. He walks towards you, stepping over Valeria’s unconscious form and ignoring Laswell. Her eyes go wide as he ignores her, and she takes her chance to lunge with her blade at him as he moves past. A tendril of pure darkness and shadow slithers from beneath his cloak and cracks out like a whip, sending her reeling backwards into the wall with tremendous force, and she crumples to the ground. The tendrils grow in size and number, climbing the walls around him and spreading like twisted vines everywhere except where the torches burn on the walls.

“There you are darlin’, I’ve been looking for you,” he purrs, grinning to show those rows of inhumanly sharp teeth. His skin is the pallor of the undead, pulled tight over the bones beneath. You get the impression he was once handsome, but now he looks as he is, a shadow of a human. “You’ve got a little passenger in there, haven’t you?” He continues as he walks closer. “I can’t let you walk around with that.”

Simon’s words surface in your mind: run. You turn and sprint away from Graves, hearing his frustrated snarl as you do, and you try not to imagine the sight of him chasing behind you. In your terrified state you go the only way you know by heart from where you are, which is right towards the healer’s work rooms. If you’re lucky you can get there and bolt the door before he reaches you, that’s the only plan you have. Shouts and screams echo around you as you run, fighting guards and knights spilling through archways and doors.

Something screams in your head that the enemies are different, they move in a staggering walk, helmets covering their faces. One nearly knocks you over, tugging its axe from the skull of a downed guard and turns to you at the last moment. Its helmet has been lost and a rotted, eyeless face turns to you.

They’re dead already… an army of risen corpses at the command of The Shadow, Graves. You rush past the inhuman warrior, your speed redoubled in a bid to get away from that as well as the creature chasing you.

You make it to the healer’s rooms and throw open the door desperately before plunging inside. Graves is close behind you, his dead eyes meeting yours as you push the heavy door closed, but his shadows pin the door open as he approaches. Although it's futile you push against the door but there is no hope to close it.

You smash into the table, thrown back by the force of Graves ramming into the door, and you slide across the surface taking everything on the surface with you. Glassware shatters beneath you, cutting into your hands and knees as you land painfully. The brazier tumbles in a shower of sparks and burning coals, rolling across the flagstone floor, coming to rest against your skin. You blink, looking down at the still burning black lump, and then at a smash bottle of alcohol that still holds some of the volatile liquid.

“C’mon darlin’, let’s get this over with,” you hear Graves taunting you as he moves around the table.

You lift the coal in your hand, the skin hot but not burning, refusing to blister and blacken as it should. The liquid in your mouth irritates your nose, eyes watering and streaming from the burn of neat alcohol.

“What the..?” No…!” he shouts, thrusting a wall of darkness between you as you blow as hard as your lungs will let you. The spray ignites on the coal in your hand and a spray of fire blossoms from your lips, shredding the shadows and coating Graves. You keep blowing until your mouth and lungs are empty, but something shifts and lets go, leaving you in that same conflagration and ensnares the lich.

He screams and howls, twisting and writhing as the living flames devour him. A storm of fire fills the room, your clothes and hair whipping in a frenzy around you as you stand up, but only the undead creature burns. Slowly, in a daze, you step backwards, moving away from the lich as he curls in on himself, smoking and bubbling tendrils of shadow falling limp and twitching to the ground as they burn, and you edge towards the door. Wrenching your eyes from the horror you turn to the door and find Kyle, bloodied and stained, staring at you in disbelief.

“You still alive?” Kyle asks, eyebrows raised in concern. He holds out his hand, and you step through the flames on trembling legs until you grasp it, letting him pull you out of the fire yet again. He smells of coppery blood and sweat as you bury your face against his chest, ignoring the hardness of his chainmail against your skin, and focusing on the tightness of his arms around you as he pulls you tight against him.

The flames die down, leaving a congealed black mess on the floor by the hearth, but everything else is unburnt. As you glance over you swear you see something shining flutter away and up the flue.

“Come with me, let’s get you out of here,” he mutters into your hair and leads you away towards the main courtyard.

The main doors of the keep stand open, wounded and dying guards lie where they fell, and the crumpled corpses of Grave’s risen army are scattered between them. It seems Shepherd put his trust in the lich’s dead army and brought few living combatants with him, and now the Baron kneels on the ground before Price, blood leaking from a blow to his ribs. You see the other Simon and MacTavish behind him, coated in blood and gore, Farah and Alex nearby just as stained and bruised from battle.

As you near them, you hear Price and Shepherd speaking, the tip of Price’s sword pressed against the bald man’s throat.

“I am not going to beg for my life, not from you or anybody else,” the Baron wheezes, hand clutching at the gushing wound in his side, leaking through his fingers and onto the floor.

“Wouldn't do you any good,” Price replies. His eyes narrow slightly and he pushes his full weight behind the hilt of his weapon, sliding it into Shepherd’s neck with a crunching of cartilage. There’s a wet, strangled sound and you turn away until you hear the heavy thud of the man falling to the ground dead.

“It’s not over,” Price grunts. “Where’s Graves?”

“Dead, well, completely dead,” Kyle answers. “She disintegrated him.”

Farah catches your eye and nods at you, a small satisfied smile on her face.

“Then we owe you our thanks, healer,” Price says, wiping his blade on Shepherd’s cloak before sheathing it as his hip. aswell emerges from the keep looking pale and dazed, helped by Alejandro. Beside them, Rudy drags a bound Valeria, spitting curses and threats, her head still bleeding.

“I’m sorry, it was Valeria who opened the gates,” Alejandro snarls, ignoring the woman’s poisoned words. “She’s yours to do with as you see fit.”

“She goes to the cells, I’ll deal with her later,” Price sighs, shaking his head and he glares at Valeria. She struggles against Rudy’s grip, but you suspect it is for a show of defiance rather than any real intention to try and escape. If she broke free now, anyone in the immediate vicinity would gladly slice her in two.

The clean up is exhausting, so many dead, so many wounded. The rotting corpses left by Graves and Shepherd are carted away and burned, their ashes scattered into the sea to be swept away by Alejandro and his crew. The charred remains of The Shadow and likewise disposed of, the oily mark left on the floor scrubbed and scrubbed until it fades away from sight. Price has Shepherd’s remains removed by the priests and taken to be embalmed for his kin to retrieve, if they wish to do so. You work day and night, caring for those that can be saved.

Laswell makes a full recovery and her wife takes care of her.

It feels like days until you finally sit down and rest, body aching and mind about ready to unravel completely having not slept in a bed while tending to your patients. You make it back to your own chambers, feet dragging on the floor as you shuffle through the door and slump at the table. After rubbing your hands over your face you notice the bowl of apples before you, a smile creeping to your lips as you admire the shining red fruit.

“You’re not going to start throwing those again?” Kyle asks from the doorway, and you pick one up.

“I don’t think I have the energy to do it, even if I wanted to,” you smile over your shoulder at him. He shuts the door and walks over to you, gently taking your hand and pulling you up to stand with him, and carefully taking the apple from your hand and placing it on the table. You smirk as he does so.

“You’ve not had time to talk so I kept out of the way, but I wanted to say how proud I am of you. You saved a lot of people by taking on Graves like that,” he tells you, his face sombre.

“So you saved my life, and I was in your debt,” you say, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “But now I’ve saved lots of lives, so does that mean you owe me a debt now?” you grin despite your fatigue. His expression softens, and he smiles, pulling you against him by gripping the softness of your hips.

“I suppose that’s right,” he agrees. “So, I’m yours to do with you please.” His eyes linger on your lips for a moment, and arousal ignites in your tired body.

“I think, I think I’d like my knight to take me to bed,” you reply, and you see his pupils flare at your possessive choice of words.

“I am yours, but you are still mine,” he whispers, leaning down so his lips brush softly against your cheek.

“I think I can live with that,” you sigh, letting your eyes flutter closed as he presses a kiss to your neck. He does as you ask, with great care he guides you to your bed, slowly undressing the pair of you until you lie on the soft, clean sheets and he lies beside you. One rough hand glides over the swell of your stomach and cups one of your breasts, while he leans over and kisses your lips, kneading the plump mound and catching your nipple between his finger and thumb.

His kisses become more demanding, his hand roaming across your skin, caressing and squeezing whatever he can touch, and your heart pounds in response. Your tiredness ebbs away, replaced with a desperate need for closeness, to feel alive and most importantly, for him.

“Kyle, you need to fuck me,” you rasp out hoarsely, and him smirks, his cock already hard and leaving a wet trail as it rubs against your thigh.

“Do I?” he grins, voice low and deep, and you feel his chest rumble against you. “I’d better do as My Lady says.” Without preamble his shift between your thighs, spreading them wider than necessary so he can admire your glistening pussy. Watching your face and drinking in your expression, he sinks himself slowly into your aching heat, the stretch making your arch beneath him.

“Is that what you needed?” he groans, voice laced with gravel as you tighten around his length.

“Fuck, yes,” you trill back at him, clutching at his biceps as he holds himself above you. He draws back and fills you again, and again, each slap of skin against skin pulling a reedy moan from you. Your fingers curl and you nail dig at his skin, and your legs wrap around his lithe hips, urging him deeper inside.

“You want more?” he hisses into your ear, cradling your head between his forearms. You burble an incoherent agreement, and he tenses his arms against your shoulders before pounding into you mercilessly. It’s nearly impossible to breath as he pins you below him, fucking you with all his strength, and your pussy makes lewd, wet noises. You pull him harder with your legs, muscles tightening and your orgasm building much quicker than you’d anticipated. Every thrust pushes you closer to the edge as every nerve sparks with pleasure, and your mind goes blank, registering only the feeling of being completely surrounded and filled by Kyle.

The tension crests, the pleasure peaks, and you wail as you come, clenching around his cock enough to make him moan and his hips stutter. Your gasp in greedy lungfuls of air, sweating blossoming on your skin and his, and he slows the motion of his hips to a lazy rolling. Once the waves ebb, his places a gentle kiss to your lips.

“Hmmm… that’s one,” he grins, dark eyes sparkling down at you.

“What d’you mean?” you whimper, aftershocks catching at you still as he grinds into you.

“I mean,” he mumbles against your lips, “we’ve only just started.”

—————————————————————

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