#I know he ain’t pull the trigger but I know he put eyes on him

[vandme12]

Blood, Guts, and a Lifetime Warranty- Ronin x Reader

WORDS : 11732

TRIGGER WARNING : Graphic Violence, Gore, Murder, Dark Themes

CHARACTER USED : Ronin from Killer Chat!

SUMMARY : On the way to the wedding, Dressed in black, He really did it in his way didn't he? You really had a husband right now. He proposed.

INSPIRED FROM THE ART : @scary-brainrot I love their art! ahh! This was already in my drafts, I finished it!

The art's link (The one I got inspired from)

90 followers special

“That old man keeps asking when I’ll get married again.”

Annoying. Worse than annoying. Like a mosquito buzzing in your ear when you’re already halfway to losing your mind.

The garage smells like oil, rust, and Ronin—something metallic, something alive, something that clings. You could go home, but home is a ringing phone and voices that won’t like the answers you’d give. They love you. You love them. But they wouldn’t love him. Not the way you do.

Some distant uncle, some wrinkled remnant of family dinners and polite disappointment, would take one look at Ronin and say something sharp, something final. And Ronin? He’d roll his tongue along his teeth, slow and deliberate, like a lion deciding if a gazelle is worth the chase. He’d smile too wide, say something that’s both a joke and a promise of violence.

You’d defend him, though. Because you’re his. Because he’s yours.

A year, almost. Two sick minds spiraling around each other like dying stars, feeding off the heat, off the destruction. You learned more than you should. Became something sharper, something better, something that fit in the hollow of his ribs. And Ronin, patron saint of pretty rot, never lied about the world. He just pulled back the curtain and let you see it for what it was.

He loves you, but he doesn’t say it. He shows it in the way he exists—raw, unapologetic, a brush dipped in something obscene, painting your name in places no one else would dare.

And you?

You see it now. The way he sees things. The way they were always meant to be seen.

Face it, darlin’. You lost the second you met him.

The sound of metal on metal, the slow grind of a wrench turning bolts, the scent of oil and rust clinging to the air like an old, familiar ghost.

You’re watching him—your little devil in disguise, though he’s hardly trying to hide it. Ronin leans over the open hood of a half-dead car, sleeves shoved up, grease streaked along his forearm like war paint. He works with a lazy kind of precision, every movement drawn out, every flick of his wrist deliberate, like he knows you’re watching and wants you to keep watching.

And you do.

Because how could you not?

He glances up, catches your stare, and his grin spreads slow and sharp, teeth flashing like a wolf playing at civility. His tongue drags along his teeth before he chuckles, a low, amused thing that slithers into your bones.

"What, darlin’? Ain’t never seen a man work before?"

You roll your eyes, but the heat crawling up your neck betrays you. He doesn’t miss it—he never does. He tilts his head, studying you like he’s about to make a meal of you, like he already has.

"Careful now. Keep lookin’ at me like that, and I might start thinkin’ you got a death wish."

And Ronin? He never breaks a promise.

He lets the wrench fall onto the workbench with a clatter, wiping his hands on a rag that does nothing but spread the mess further. Then he’s leaning on the car, watching you like he’s considering tearing you apart just to see how you’d put yourself back together.

"Y’know, a person like you could do better." His voice is slow, teasing, coiling around something darker. "Could find yourself a nice boy. One who doesn’t kill for fun, who calls his mama on Sundays, who wouldn’t snap your neck if you asked real sweet."

A pause. A smirk. That awful, wonderful, knowing look in his eyes.

"But you won’t. ‘Cause you like this, don’tcha?"

He takes a step closer, the space between you burning down to nothing. The heat of him, the weight of his attention, the sheer gravity of his existence—it's suffocating in the best way.

"You like watchin’ me. Like sittin’ there all sweet while I get my hands dirty." A slow grin. "Like knowin’ they’ll never be clean."

“You’re being too edgy again.”

Ronin gasps, all mock offense, pressing a grease-streaked hand to his chest like you just ran him through with a stake. "Too edgy? Darlin’, you wound me."

“You already established the bit, you don’t have to crank it up every time.” You cross your arms, leveling him with a look that should be stern, but the corners of your lips betray you.

He hums, considering. "Alright, alright. I’ll dial it back a lil’—for you."

But then you laugh. Because, let’s be real, you like this. Maybe not the whole performance, but the way he commits to it. The sheer audacity of him.

Ronin catches that little slip in your composure, and suddenly, he’s grinning again—your grin. That slow, teasing pull of lips that promises nothing good.

"See? You love it."

Before you can argue, he puckers his lips, exaggerated as hell, and throws a flying kiss your way. And then—the bastard throws it straight into the trash.

You shoot him a murder look so sharp it could split bone, but he just laughs, loud and unrepentant, striding forward without a care in the world.

And then, in the cheesiest, most dramatic display of affection possible, he plucks the imaginary kiss right back from the air, presses it to his chest like a treasured keepsake, and sighs.

"Alright, alright. I’ll keep this one." He pats his chest, eyes twinkling. "Right here. Close to my cold, dead heart. XOXO, baby."

You groan. He’s impossible.

“You’re an idiot.”

Ronin grins. "Yeah?"

"An idiot for idiots."

His grin stretches wider, teeth flashing. "Oh?"

"So idiotically idiotic it’s actually impressive."

That does it. He throws his head back and laughs, a sharp, delighted thing, full-bodied and reckless. Hands still smudged with oil, still clutching onto the ghost of that stupid, cheesy kiss, he leans in like he's about to whisper something profound. Instead—

"And you—" he drawls, slow and indulgent, like he’s savoring the words before he spits them out. "You got the energy of such a bad bitch. Or a bastard. Take your pick."

He flicks his fingers, like he’s throwing dice, like fate itself is something he can gamble with.

"Somethin’ real nasty about you, sweetheart. Somethin’ sharp. A bite to that pretty mouth. Ain’t that a treat?"

His eyes are dark with something unreadable, something between admiration and hunger, like he wants to see what you’ll do with his words. If you’ll bite back. If you’ll play along.

Because Ronin? He’s always playing. And he’s hoping—praying, even—that you’re the kind of idiot who won’t let him win too easily.

"It’s... nothing."

Ronin tuts, tilting his head, eyes gleaming like a wolf that’s caught the scent of something bleeding. "Oh, but somethin’ must be trickin’ your head, darlin’. I can hear it rattlin’ around in there." He leans in, voice dropping to something just above a purr. "C’mon now. Whisper your prayer to the Devil. What’s on your mind?"

You shoot him another murderous glare, sharp enough to cut, lethal enough to wound. He loves it.

And worse? He blushes.

It’s fleeting—a flicker of warmth, a betrayal of blood rushing to his cheeks—but it’s there. And then, just as fast, he throws his head back and laughs, wild and unrestrained, like you’ve just handed him the funniest joke in the world.

The audacity. The gall. The sheer joy in his eyes, like he’s never been happier than in the presence of someone who genuinely wants to kill him.

Because let’s be real—isn’t that his favorite thing?

Ronin wipes at his grin like he can smother it, but it lingers, curling at the edges. "Goddamn. If looks could kill, sweetheart—" he whistles low, shaking his head, "—I’d be six feet under already. You tryin’ to make me fall harder?"

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Ronin’s already grinning like you did.

"What?!"

You don’t even give him a chance to answer before you pinch both of his cheeks, hard.

Ronin yelps, muffled by your hands squishing his stupid, grinning face. "Owww—darlin’, what the hell—?" He grabs your wrists, but not to stop you—no, just to hold on, just to feel you, because he likes it when you get your hands on him. Even when it’s to hurt him.

Especially when it’s to hurt him.

You tug his cheeks just a little harder, watching as his face scrunches up, his nose wrinkling, eyes narrowed in exaggerated pain. "That’s what you get for talking like that."

His words come out distorted, voice wobbling from the force of your grip. "Talkin’ like wha’?"

"Like you wanna die by my hands, idiot."

Ronin wheezes out a laugh, finally prying your hands away—but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he flips your grip, lacing your fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like it’s his right.

"Ain’t my fault you’re so damn beautiful when you’re thinkin’ about killin’ me." His voice is softer now, but the playfulness lingers. His thumbs ghost over your knuckles, a mockery of tenderness, a real display of it all the same.

"Y’know," he muses, leaning in, voice dropping low, "if you ever do get sick of me, darlin’... at least make it interesting, yeah?"

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but you don’t pull away.

Ronin, grinning like he just won something, kisses your knuckles

You blush. Disgusting. You look away, like that’ll save you, like he won’t see it anyway. Like he won’t catch the way your fingers twitch in his grasp, like he won’t feel the heat you’re trying to will away. Like he won’t eat it up.

“You said live, not die.”

Ronin’s grin flickers. Just for a second. Just long enough for the mask to slip, the wires beneath to spark. Then—

“Oh, darlin’.” He lets out something between a laugh and a sigh, tilting his head, studying you like a painting he can’t quite decide how to ruin. “Now, that’s just cruel.”

You roll your eyes, yank your hands away, shove him for good measure. He staggers back with an exaggerated stumble, hand over his chest like you just stabbed him through the ribs. Dramatic. Always. Even when it’s real.

“Gotta admit,” he says, pressing his palms together, as if in prayer, as if he’s ever prayed to anything other than the void, “that’s a new one. You? Wantin’ me to live? Be still, my dead, black heart.”

You cross your arms, glare. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

There it is. That look. The one that’s all teeth, all sharp edges and something deeper, something raw. Something hungry. He wants you to fight him. He wants you to win.

You don’t humor him. You don’t move. You stay exactly where you are, which is somehow worse.

Ronin watches. Waits. Always patient, when it matters. Always willing to let the moment stretch, to let the silence settle, just to see what you’ll do with it.

“Go on, then.” He lifts his chin, dares you. “Say it again.”

Your stomach twists. You hate him. You hate that he knows exactly how to get under your skin, exactly how to pull words out of your throat like he’s got his fingers wrapped around your voice. You hate that you let him.

“You’re such an idiot.”

He smirks, tilts his head. “For idiots.”

“So idiotically idiotic.”

His grin widens. “Say it.”

You swallow. Fine. You meet his gaze, steady. “Live.”

Something shifts.

It’s subtle. A breath held too long, a flicker behind his eyes. Like you just flipped a switch he didn’t know he had. Like you just changed something.

Then, just as fast, he laughs—loud, reckless, full-bodied. He steps forward, gets right in your space, doesn’t touch, but you feel it anyway.

“Darlin’,” he purrs, “you keep talkin’ like that, and I might just have to listen.”

Your heartbeat stutters. Unacceptable. You shove him again, harder this time. He doesn’t even pretend to stumble, just grins like you handed him a gift.

“You’re insufferable,” you say, turning away.

“You love it.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Ronin chuckles, something quiet, something softer than it should be. You feel the heat of him at your back, a presence that lingers, that stays even when he isn’t touching you.

Then, finally, he steps away. Leaves you with the echo of his voice, the ghost of his grin.

“Live, huh?” he mutters, almost to himself. Almost.

"Guess I can try."

And damn it—you hear the smile in his voice. That soft, dangerous edge, like he’s filing it down just for you. Like you gave him something new to chew

Your phone buzzes—loud, persistent, annoying—because of course it does. You sigh, already knowing who it is. That special brand of chaos only one person in your family can bring.

Before you can grab it, Ronin’s faster. Always is. He snatches your phone like it’s his right, thumb dragging across the screen as he answers the call with a lazy, cocky swipe.

"Hello, sweetheart’s personal assistant speakin’—" He pauses, lips curling when the sound of someone shouting blasts through the speaker.

"Hey! When will we meet the boy?!" The voice is rough, familiar, and exactly as you feared. "I’m looking at some photos—"

Oh no.

"—of some nice boys. I’ll send them to you. Tell me which one you like, so the family can arrange a date. Get you two to know each other better—"

Silence.

A beat.

Then—Ronin laughs. Real loud, too—like he wants them to hear it, wants it to stick. His head tips back, neck exposed, all sharp teeth and sharper intentions.

"Well, shit," he drawls, licking his teeth, voice sweet as poison. "You’re settin’ up a date for my baby? Kinda rude, ain’t it? I mean—" His free hand slides to your waist, casual and possessive, squeezing like he owns you. "—I’m right here."

Your stomach drops. "Ronin—"

He ignores you, because of course he does.

"I get it," he continues, mock sympathy dripping from every word. "I mean, who wouldn’t wanna line up a few pretty boys? But—" He sighs, dramatic as ever. "—gotta break it to ya, pops. They’re already taken."

The line goes silent—for a second. Maybe two. Then—

"Who the hell are you?!"

Ronin’s grin stretches, and oh, he’s enjoying this. Loves the fire. Loves the fight. He leans closer to the speaker, like he’s sharing a secret. "The Devil, baby. Didn’t they warn you?"

You slap his arm, hard, but it only makes him laugh more—warm and bright, like setting a match to gasoline.

"You—!" The old man sputters, full of righteous indignation. "You think this is funny?!"

"A little," Ronin purrs. "Kinda cute, actually. Y’care about ‘em so much you’re hand-pickin’ their future? Adorable." His fingers curl against your hip, deliberate. "But—" he hums, voice sinking into something darker, rougher, "—no one’s takin’ ‘em away from me, old man."

He means it. You feel it in the weight of his touch, the way his thumb circles your skin.

"Ronin—" you hiss again, trying to take your phone back, but he’s not done. Not even close.

"Look," he says, casual as hell, like this is a friendly chat. "I’m a real thoughtful guy. I’d love to meet the fam. Hell—" he chuckles, "—maybe I’ll even bring a gift. Y’know, to show my appreciation."

You don’t like the way he says "gift." Not one bit.

"You’re out of your damn mind," the old man snaps.

Ronin’s smile turns razor-sharp. "Yeah, well—" he tilts his head, brushing his lips against your ear, voice dropping to a whisper only for you. "—I’m your kinda problem now, aren’t I?"

Your heart pounds—too fast, too much—and you’re torn between wanting to strangle him and... something worse.

The phone crackles—your family’s favorite brand of righteous fury practically vibrating through the speaker.

"You arrogant little—what kind of punk thinks he can talk to me like that?!" the old man barks, voice sharp enough to cut. "You think you’re funny?!"

Ronin, being Ronin, grins wider—which should be illegal, really, because no one man should look that pleased while actively causing problems on purpose. His eyes gleam, wicked and bright, as he leans against the workbench like this is his personal entertainment.

"Funny?" He clicks his tongue. "Nah, old-timer, I’m hilarious."

Your head drops into your hands. Of course. Of course he’s not backing down. Not when there’s someone willing to bite back.

"Ronin—" you try, voice tight, but he holds up a hand—shh, baby—without even looking at you.

"So," he drawls, like he’s savoring every second of this. "How many poor suckers you got lined up for ‘em? Five? Ten? You hopin’ one of ‘em’s got a personality, or just flippin’ through the catalogue ‘til you find a pretty face?"

The line crackles again. Then—"You listen here, you little shit—"

"Nah, you listen." Ronin’s voice drops—still playful, but there’s an edge under it now, jagged and dangerous. His smile never wavers, but the temperature in the room feels ten degrees colder. "They’re not goin’ on any dates. Not with your pretty little lineup, not with anyone." His head tilts, lazy, like he’s considering how much trouble he feels like starting. "Y’see, they’re already busy—with me."

You pinch the bridge of your nose, torn between wanting to melt into the floor and… God help you, wanting to drag him down by his stupid leather jacket and kiss the smirk off his face.

"What the hell kind of guy are you?!" the old man demands, voice still boiling.

And that’s it—that’s the line Ronin’s been waiting for. He lifts his hand, fingers splaying across his chest like he’s been personally offended, but there’s a gleam in his eye. Something feral. Something viciously proud.

"Oh, darlin’ didn’t tell you?" His smile turns razor-sharp, voice syrup-sweet. "I’m their worst decision. And their best one."

"YOU—"

"Careful now," Ronin warns, mock-gentle. "Wouldn’t wanna get your blood pressure up. Though, hey—if you keel over, I’ll send flowers. Maybe."

Your mouth falls open. "Ronin!"

He shrugs, but his arm wraps around your waist, tugging you against him like he’s staking a claim. "What?" he says, all innocence. "M’bein’ polite."

Polite.

The old man, meanwhile, sounds seconds away from an aneurysm. "You punk! What the hell do you even bring to the table?! Huh?!"

Ronin hums, pretending to think—tapping his chin like this is a serious question. "Well," he finally says, drawing out the word like it’s a punchline, "I’m real good with my hands."

You choke.

He winks.

And that’s when you’ve had enough. With a furious swipe, you rip the phone out of his hand and hang up before anyone can make things worse. For a second, there’s silence—just the hum of the garage and your heart pounding in your ears.

Then, of course—Ronin laughs.

Deep and delighted, like you just handed him the best gift he’s ever gotten.

You whirl on him, shoving at his chest. "Are you INSANE?!"

He doesn’t budge. Just catches your wrists, lazy and loose, still chuckling like he’s having the time of his life. "A little," he admits, dragging your hands up to his lips. He presses a feather-light kiss to your knuckles, saccharine and smug. "But you love it, don’t ya?"

Ronin’s eyes narrow the second the old man’s voice blares back through the phone—louder, angrier, like he’s just realizing exactly who he’s dealing with.

“AH, FUCK—IT’S YOU! PUNK, EMO ASS, KID—”

Your head drops back with a groan. Oh, great.

The rant barrels on, unstoppable. “Look, kid. They told us ‘bout you—yeah, yeah, we didn’t even mind your ass. But then we heard you don’t like marriage. Christian-type stuff.”

Ronin snorts under his breath, lips twitching. "Oh, no. Anything but the sanctity of holy matrimony," he mutters, loud enough for you to hear, and you felt shitty—because, of course, he’s not taking this seriously.

The old man is not amused. “Look, respectfully—I get it. Some people don’t like the religion shit, fine.” A breath hisses through the receiver. “But this is an event. My lil’ baby is either gettin’ married—or gonna.”

You don’t miss the way Ronin’s jaw flexes at the word "baby."

“So, please—stay outta their way.”

Before you can respond—before Ronin can sharpen his tongue into something lethal—your patience snaps. You snatch the phone from his hand and, with zero hesitation, hurl it across the garage. It hits the wall with a satisfying crack, falling in two pitiful pieces.

The silence that follows is deafening.

For once—he doesn’t laugh.

Ronin watches you—sharp, calculating—like he’s peeling back your skin with his eyes, memorizing every new layer you reveal. His head tilts just a little. Something about that look makes your chest feel tight—too much, too fast.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair, like it’ll somehow smooth out the mess in your head. But when you glance back at him—he’s still looking. Still waiting.

And his voice—God, his voice—comes out too soft. “Somethin’ on your mind, darlin’?”

You look away.

His grin creeps back in, a little too sharp. “Y’know I love it when you get shy,” he teases, but the edge in his voice gives him away. He wants the truth.

Your heart stumbles. You press your lips together, fighting the way your thoughts swirl—loud, messy, too much. But the words—the real words—don’t come easy. Not when it’s this.

Still—you reach for him. Slip your fingers into his, warm and solid and steady. It’s too intimate for how casual you’re pretending to be, but he lets you.

You swallow hard. “…You don’t like these things because of—”

But you can’t finish. Your voice trips over itself, and rather than push through, you stop. Let it hang. Force yourself to smile. “It’s fine.”

Ronin doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stays locked on you.

You squeeze his hands a little tighter. “I’m happy. With you.”

It’s too honest. Too raw. And his grip tightens—like he’s daring you to take it back.

For a beat—he says nothing. But something shifts behind his eyes, and you know—you just know—that those words are going to stick. He’ll hold onto them like a blade tucked under his skin.

You lean up, quick and light, and kiss his cheek—lingering just long enough to feel the heat rising under your lips.

“I’m gonna go home,” you murmur. “Sleep well, Ronin.”

His fingers twitch in yours—tight, like he doesn’t want to let go.

But then—he does. And the smile he gives you as you pull away is dangerous—a promise.

“G’night, Darlin.”

The walk home is quiet. Too quiet. The kind that sticks to your skin and makes your head buzz. You told yourself it was fine—you’re fine—but the weight in your chest doesn’t quite lift, no matter how many deep breaths you take.

When you finally get home, the house is dark. Silent, except for the faint hum of that damned telephone still on the hook. You don’t touch it. Not tonight.

You kick off your shoes, peel off the day, and crawl into bed. The sheets are cold—too cold—without him. But you don’t think about that.

Not yet.

You’re too tired to fight your thoughts, so you let them fade. Let sleep pull you under.

Ronin doesn’t sleep.

Not well, anyway—not when you’re gone.

He stays in the garage long after you leave, leaning against the workbench with a half-finished cigarette burning between his fingers. Smoke curls through the air—thick, acrid—something to keep his hands busy while his mind spins.

That old bastard’s voice still rings in his ears. “Stay outta their way.” Like he’s some stray mutt sniffing around where he doesn’t belong. Like you’d ever let anyone pull that leash.

A dry chuckle slips past his lips. As if.

You told him to live. And you said it like you meant it. Like you wanted him to stick around. For you.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Because Ronin’s been circling the drain for years—grinning all the way down—and then you came along. Got your hooks in him. Made it hard to fall when you’re the one holding on.

And he likes it. That’s the worst part. He likes the way you look at him—like he’s more than just teeth and blood and bad habits stitched together. Likes the way you call him an idiot and still hold his hands like you’re afraid to let go.

It’s addictive. You’re addictive.

And maybe—just maybe—he’s not ready to lose that yet.

The cigarette burns down to the filter before he flicks it aside, crushing it under his boot. His fingers twitch against his palm, and for a split second—he thinks about calling you. Just to hear your voice. Just to prove you’re still there.

But he won’t. He doesn’t want to spook you. Not when you’ve already given him so much.

Still—he’s not gonna sit here all night stewing like a lovesick idiot.

So, he grabs his keys, swings his jacket over his shoulders, and slips out of the garage with a devil-may-care grin.

If he’s not gonna sleep, he might as well have some fun.

You don’t hear the sound of his bike pulling up outside your house around 3 AM. (Just kidding)

You don’t hear the quiet creak of the gate as he slips through, or the soft thud of his boots against the porch.

The lock clicks. A sound too soft for anyone else to notice—but you do. Always.

You move without thinking, bare feet against cold floors, fingers brushing the knob before you twist it open. And there he is.

Ronin.

He’s leaning against the doorframe like he owns it, like he’s got all the time in the world, but there’s something heavy in his stance. Something coiled too tight. His knuckles twitch at his sides. The silver glint of rings, catching low light.

You don’t ask why he’s here. You don’t need to.

Your hand curls around the front of his jacket—warm leather, worn soft—and you pull. He doesn’t resist. Never does, not when it’s you. He’s already moving before the door even clicks shut behind him.

The house is still. Silent, save for the muffled hum of appliances, the faint tick of a clock somewhere down the hall. But his breathing—his—is loud in your ears.

He smells like smoke and metal and something else—something darker, sharper, like midnight and mistakes. It clings to your skin as he steps closer.

You don’t bother turning on the lights.

His hands find you first. Of course they do—always greedy, always starving—palms dragging against your waist, thumbs pressing against your ribs. Heavy. Like he’s reminding himself you’re real.

Your breath hitches when he curls his fingers into the fabric of your shirt, knuckles brushing bare skin. He feels it. You know he does, because his mouth curls—barely—and he lets out a low, breathy exhale, like this? This is exactly what he came for.

You tug him through the dark, back to your room, back to your bed—his bed, when it suits him—and he follows without a word.

The door shuts behind you both. Quiet. Like a secret.

He shrugs off his jacket as you sink onto the mattress. The leather hits the floor in a careless heap, rings glinting as his hands hover—hesitate—before he touches you again.

Always touching. Always taking.

You make room for him without thinking, shifting under the sheets as he crawls in beside you. He’s warm—too warm—like he’s been carrying heat under his skin for hours.

You should shove him. Call him an idiot for coming here in the middle of the night. But you don’t.

Instead, you curl against him, and he… melts.

His arms slide around your waist, pulling you close—closer—until there’s nothing left between you but breath and heartbeat and something too raw to name. His nose brushes against the curve of your neck, and his fingers twitch where they rest against your back.

He holds you like you’ll disappear if he lets go.

And maybe that’s the point.

His face presses into your shoulder, too much teeth against soft skin, but it’s not rough. Not really. Not when you know how much he wants this—needs this—even when he won’t say it.

Especially when he won’t say it.

He’s touch-starved in the way only someone like him can be. Starved for you, specifically. Like it isn’t enough to watch from the edges. Like he needs to feel you—to sink in and never leave.

You trace your fingers up the back of his neck, nails dragging gently against skin. He shudders. His breath stutters against your throat.

His grip tightens.

He won’t ask you to stay like this. He won’t ask for anything. But you know he’d take it if you let him.

And tonight?

You do.

You let him tuck his face against your collarbone. Let him wrap himself around you like he’s trying to crawl under your skin. His hair tickles your cheek—soft, messy, human—and for all his edges, all his sharpness, he’s warm. Solid. Yours.

His heartbeat slows against your ribs.

You stay like that. Minutes. Hours. Maybe forever.

And when his hand slides under your shirt—fingers curling against your spine, not asking, just holding—you don’t stop him.

He’s quiet, after that. Quieter than usual. Like maybe, just maybe, he’s finally gotten what he wanted.

Morning comes slow. Too slow, and somehow too fast.

The bed’s cold.

His warmth—his weight—is gone, and you feel it before your eyes even open. There’s no leather-jacketed mess tangled in the sheets, no sharp grin waiting to bite at you the second you stir. Just empty space where he was, where he always is, until he isn’t.

You sigh. Of course.

He never stays. Not all the way.

The sun bleeds through the curtains, golden and soft, but it does nothing to fill the ache curling behind your ribs. You push yourself up, stretch the stiffness from your limbs, and try—fail—not to think about the way he clung to you last night. The way his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, even when he had you pinned close.

You don’t know why you keep doing this. Letting him crawl under your skin. Letting him take whatever he wants, however he wants. But you do. Again and again and again.

Your throat feels tight. You swallow it down.

The floor is cold against your feet as you slip out of bed. You move through the motions—shower, brush your teeth, dress yourself like you’re preparing for war. Your usual uniform. The world doesn’t stop turning just because Ronin decided to ghost you.

Not that it’s a surprise. It’s what he does.

Still—you check your phone. Just once.

Nothing. No texts. No missed calls. No smart-ass messages left for you to find.

Figures.

You yank open the closet door, grab your work bag, and sling it over your shoulder. The weight is familiar. Easy. You focus on that—the rhythm of routine, the comfort of habit—because if you don’t, you’ll think about the way he felt in your arms. The way he held you like he wasn’t sure he’d get another chance.

You don’t have time for that.

Keys. Wallet. Phone. You snatch them off the counter and head to the door, locking up behind you with the kind of practiced ease that doesn’t need thought.

Outside, the air is crisp—too bright, too sharp for a morning that feels this heavy—but you square your shoulders, lift your chin, and walk.

A job’s a job. And yours won’t wait.

By the time you make it to the office, your face is carefully neutral—expression smooth, words sharper than you mean them to be. No one notices. No one ever notices. You bury yourself in your work, losing hours to reports and phone calls and emails, because it’s easier than letting your mind wander.

But it does,

Slaughterhouse: Losers Very Good—a bloodstained corner of the internet where psychos, freaks, and murder hobbyists hang out like it’s a dive bar no one sane would step into. Coded from scratch, like everything Ronin does. Meticulous. Untraceable. Home sweet home.

And you?

Offline.

He hates that.

You’re too good to him. You let him touch you—hold you—and somehow, you’re still here. Soft edges in a world full of jagged glass. He doesn’t get it. Doesn’t deserve it. And yet.

Ronin leans back in his shitty leather chair, boots kicked up on the desk. The glow from his monitors bathes the room in electric blue, half-lit shadows stretching across the mess of papers, knives, and half-finished projects. One screen blinks with a list of names. His little collection of degenerates.

If he’s gonna do something for you, it’s gotta be good.

He cracks his knuckles, spins a blade between his fingers, and pulls up the first chat.

🐺 K9 (V):

Ronin: sup, robo-cop.

K9: Don’t.

Ronin: aw, missed u too, sweetheart. anyway, i got a question. hypothetical. romantic. u know what that is, or does ur metal heart not compute?

K9: I’m blocking you.

Ronin: no u aren’t. u love me. listen, if you were, hypothetically, in love with someone—(gross, i know)—what would you get ‘em?

K9: …You? In love?

Ronin: hypothetical. duh.

K9: A knife. Through the heart.

Ronin: aw. that’s practically a marriage proposal, k9. but srsly. i want ideas. gimme somethin’.

K9: Why do you care?

Ronin: because, steel-toes, for once in my godforsaken life, i want to be nice. write that down.

K9: …Whatever the hell you are, I do respect you for wanting to do something. Get them something meaningful. Personal. Something no one else could give.

Ronin: ur such a sap under all that righteous fury. thanks, babe. xo.

Ronin grins to himself. Meaningful. Personal. Easy words when you’re not the one tangled in it. Still, not useless. And if nothing else, bothering V is a highlight of his day.

Next.

💀 LUCA_IS_SO_COOL:

Ronin: sup, sunshine.

Luca: YO DUDE. YO. YO. THE DEVIL IS IN MY DMS WHAT’S GOOD

Ronin: don’t wet ur boardshorts, prettyboy. i need ur expert advice.

Luca: BRO ASK AWAY. I AM AN OPEN BOOK OF RAD WISDOM.

Ronin: so, imagine someone who’s not me (obvs) wants to do something nice for their, uh, partner. ideas?

Luca: BROOOOOOO BROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO ARE YOU IN LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE DEVILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL

Ronin: chill. ur embarrassing urself.

Luca: NAAAAH THIS IS EPIC. OK OK OK OK. GET THEM SOMETHING FUN, MAN. SOMETHING THAT MAKES ‘EM LAUGH. OR LIKE. A DATE NIGHT. EVERYONE LOVES A DATE NIGHT.

Ronin: yea? what do u get feli? a golden shrine?

Luca: BRO. SHE DESERVES IT. LOVE OF MY LIFE. 10/10 WOULD MURDER FOR HER.

Ronin: u r so cringe it makes my teeth hurt.

Luca: NAH, MAN. THIS IS PEAK RELATIONSHIP. EMBRACE IT. TREAT ‘EM RIGHT.

He closes the chat before Luca can start writing you two’s wedding vows.

🎀 Angel (Angelic):

Ronin: hey, sweetheart.

Angel: Shouldn’t you be doing crimes?

Ronin: multitasking. i need a gift idea. something hot. spicy. devilishly irresistible. like me.

Angel: LMAO. You? Being romantic? Is this the apocalypse?

Ronin: c’mon, sugar. help a devil out.

Angel: Fine. Jewelry’s always a classic. But not basic. Custom. Something only you could give. Bonus points if it’s dangerous.

Ronin: deadly and pretty. like you. i’ll keep that in mind.

Angel: You’re welcome, loser.

Alright. Custom. Unique. That he can work with.

One last stop.

📚 Felicite:

Ronin: Hey Feli

Felicite: What do you want, Ronin? I hope you're doing fine!

Ronin: thought you academics liked answering questions. gimme ur best gift idea.

Felicite: For who?

Ronin: nosy. for my business.

Felicite: Books are an easy choice. But if you actually care, do something personal. An experience. Something only you could give.

Ronin: huh.

Felicite: For the record, Luca’s losing his mind. I think you broke him.

Ronin: lol. love that.

He leans back, phone tossed onto the desk. Mind buzzing.

Something personal. Something only he could give.

He taps his fingers against his thigh, a slow rhythm building. Yeah. Yeah, he’s got ideas.

hitmeuppp

goreboy: oi, sunshine. u busy killin’ or can i bother u for a sec?

hitmeupp: ✨ goreboy in my inbox?? is it my birthday?? ✨

goreboy: i’m the gift that keeps on givin’, baby. don’t forget it.

hitmeupp mm, flirty today. what’s on your wicked little mind, devil boy?

Ronin: hypothetically… let’s say i wanna do somethin’ nice for someone. y’know. romantic. cute. sweet. whatever. ideas?

hitmeupp: 👀👀👀 waitwaitwait—you?? doing something sweet?? for a special someone?? ohhh i am LIVING for this.

Ronin: don’t make it weird.

hitmeupp: too late, babe. so, what’s the vibe? like, do you wanna melt their heart? make ‘em blush? get ‘em to kiss you senseless? give me the deets.

Ronin: …all of the above, probs.

hitmeupp: aww, you’re adorable when you’re down bad. okay, listen up:

Custom gift—something only you could give. Unique. Dangerous, if you’re feelin’ spicy.

Surprise date—not boring, tho. They like you, so they probably have a taste for the unusual.

Handwritten note—bonus points if it’s a little unhinged. People LOVE that stuff.

Ronin: a note? what, like “roses are red, violets are blue, i’d kill for u, baby, it’s true”?

hitmeupp: LMAO okay, poet, calm down. but yeah—personal. even psychos like a little sentiment. and you’ve got that whole devilish charm thing, use it.

Ronin: u sayin’ i’m charming?

Misaki: 😏 darling, if i didn’t have standards, Stil no

Ronin: Ouch

hitmeupp mmm, promises, promises. now, get outta my inbox before i start liking you.

Ronin: too late, sunshine.

hitmeupp ugh, you’re impossible. good luck wooing your lover~ 💕

[Slaughterhouse Server – Main Chat]

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: AYO. EVERYONE SHUT UP. BIG NEWS.

Angelic: ??

hitmeuppp: what, did u finally find a brain cell?

Angelic: Doubt it.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: NO. BIGGER. Y’ALL. RONIN DMed ME ABOUT GIFTS.

K9: …The hell?

Angelic: wait. hold on. pause.

hitmeuppp: ✨ omg no way ✨

Goreboy: Liar.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: BRO, I SWEAR. HE ASKED ME FOR GIFT IDEAS. LIKE—SOMETHING ROMANTIC. I’M NOT EVEN KIDDING.

Felicite: …what's wrong about it luca?

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: HE’S SIMPIN’.

Angelic: That's fine?

K9: This is stupid. Who cares.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: LMAOOOO LOOK AT THIS HATER. HE MAD ‘CAUSE NO ONE’S SENDING HIM LOVE LETTERS.

goreboy: you’re gonna lose a limb, surfer boy.

hitmeuppp: awwww the devil’s BLUSHING~

Angelic: no because why is this actually the most interesting thing to happen all week

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: I’M NOT EVEN DONE. Y’ALL. HE DIDN’T JUST DM ME. HE DMed EVERYONE.

K9: ......

Angelic: Hold the fuck on—

hitmeuppp: 💀💀💀 GOREBOY OUT HERE TAKING A SERVER-WIDE SURVEY ON HOW TO WOO HIS BOO??

Felicite: Oh my god.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: NAH BECAUSE THIS IS TOO GOOD. IMMA SAY IT. HE’S SIMPIN’ FOR Y/N.

Ronin stares at the screen.

The nerve. The audacity.

These punks. Absolute ingrates. He gives them a space to thrive, to indulge their weird little murder hobbies, and this is the thanks he gets?

He’s cool. Ice-cold. Too smooth to care. …And yet—

The corner of his mouth twitches. A little.

They’re all still going.

hitmeuppp: if it’s NOT y/n i’m actually gonna riot.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: BRUH WHO ELSE WOULD IT BE??

K9: I hate all of you.

hitmeupp: WAIT. HOLD UP. What if Y/N SEES THIS???

Ronin’s heart skips.

Yeah. What if?

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: OMG OMG OMG I’M GONNA PING ‘EM.

goreboy: don’t you dare.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: @Y/N @Y/N @Y/N HEY, BESTIEEEE~

Ronin grips his phone a little too tight. He should stop this.

He won’t.

Because somewhere—deep down—he kind of likes it.

Angelic: luca omg ur gonna get us all murdered.

hitmeuppp: worth it.

K9: Idiots.

Felicite: …This is sort of cute.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: NAH THIS IS LORE. I HOPE Y/N SEES THIS.

Angelic: fr. like imagine logging in and seeing the whole server clowning on ronin for being a lovesick freak.

goreboy: y’all must have a death wish.

Ronin exhales sharply through his nose.

[PRIVATE GROUP CHAT – “Ronin Babysitting Squad”] (Created by Angelicc)

Members: Angelic, Eviscerator1990, Ai Hua, Goreboy

Angelic: this feels like a weird intervention

goreboy: this feels like a weird mistake

Eviscerator1990: Shut up, kid. We’re here to help.

Ai Hua: 🙂 what’s wrong?

Ronin blinks at his screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. This is humiliating. Why did he think letting Vince of all people into this would be a good idea? The guy still thinks dial-up internet is modern technology.

And Ai Hua? Pure terror in the form of a woman. Always smiling. Always watching. Respect

He should leave.

He doesn’t.

Eviscerator1990: So. What happened.

goreboy: nothing happened, grandpa.

Angelic: that’s not what the ENTIRE SERVER says~

Ai Hua: 🤔

Eviscerator1990: Be honest. You wouldn’t DM all these punks unless it was serious.

Ronin sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. Why the hell is it these three? Of all people.

His thumbs hover—then, finally, he types.

goreboy: hypothetically. if i wanted to do… something. for someone. what’s a good gift?

Silence. Too much silence.

His stomach twists. Mistake. Huge mistake.

Ai Hua: ❤️

Eviscerator1990: …Is it Y/N?

goreboy: who else?

Vince sends three dots. The dreaded “typing…” lingers for a long, long time.

Ronin’s jaw tightens. Here it comes.

Eviscerator1990: Son. You got it bad.

Ronin groans. He should burn the server down. All of it. Reduce it to digital ash.

Ai Hua: 🙂 good.

goreboy: good??

Angelic: she’s right tho.

Eviscerator1990: So. What kind of thing are you thinking? Big? Small?

Ronin exhales, tilting his head back against the couch. Big? Small? Hell if he knows.

You’re good to him. Too good. And all his sharp little edges don’t feel quite so sharp around you. It’s annoying. It’s addictive. It’s yours.

goreboy: …something they’ll remember.

A long pause. Ai Hua is still smiling. Vince sends an emoji that looks suspiciously like a knife. Angelic? Predictably losing her shit.

Angelic: oh my god. oh my GOD.

goreboy: do not.

Angelic: no because this is so cute i’m gonna DIE.

Vince, at least, is playing it straight. Mostly.

Eviscerator1990: Personal. That’s what you want. Something that means something.

Ai Hua: 💌

A love letter. Of course Ai Hua would suggest something that sappy.

Ronin scoffs—but he doesn’t immediately shoot it down. Weird.

Eviscerator1990: Back in the day, I’d leave my girl notes on the bodies. You know—real romantic.

Ai Hua: ❤️ he did. very sweet.

goreboy: romantic is one word for it.

Angelic: okay okay but what does y/n like?

He knows. Of course he knows. Your coffee order. The way you hum under your breath when you’re lost in thought. How you scrunch your nose when you’re about to call him an idiot.

You like him. Which is the real problem.

goreboy: they like me.

Angelic: ugh barf

Eviscerator1990: Okay. Make it about you, then. Something only you could give.

Ronin blinks. Something only he could give.

The thought sticks—hooks deep. A dangerous idea, curling slow and warm in his chest.

Ai Hua: 🙂 you’ll figure it out.

He hates how much that simple, sweet little emoji makes him feel seen.

Eviscerator1990: Don’t mess it up, kid.

Eviscerator1990: Listen, kid—when you’ve been married as long as I have, you learn a thing or two.

Ronin immediately regrets his life choices.

His fingers hover over the keyboard. He considers leaving. Deleting the server. Moving to a cave and never speaking again.

goreboy: oh god here we go

Angelic: oh god here we go

Ai Hua: 🙂

Vince, undeterred, continues typing like he’s delivering the gospel.

Eviscerator1990: Our wedding? Best thing I ever did. No question.

goreboy: what, was it a bloodbath?

For a second, nothing. Then—

Eviscerator1990: Nah. Garden wedding. Real classy.

Ronin nearly drops his phone.

goreboy: you. YOU. Garden wedding??

Eviscerator1990: Yeah. Had flowers and everything. I wore a tux. Looked sharp as hell.

Ai Hua: ❤️ you did.

He can feel Angelic vibrating through the screen.

goreboy: no.

Ronin scrubs a hand over his face. This cannot be real life.

Eviscerator1990: Point is— That was my gift to her.

That hooks him. Annoying, sentimental, and probably too much sugar in his bloodstream—but it sticks.

goreboy: you’re telling me the best thing you ever gave her was a wedding?

Eviscerator1990: Yeah. ’Cause it meant forever. I mean, don’t get me wrong. She still scares the hell outta me.

Ai Hua: 👍

Eviscerator1990: But that’s how you know it’s real.

There’s a long pause. Ronin swears he can hear Angelic trying to choke down her squeals.

Ai Hua: 🙂 do you like them enough to marry?

His heart lurches.

The words hang there—quiet, patient.

Ai Hua doesn’t push. She never does. It’s not her way. She just lays it out, all soft-spoken and warm, like a mother easing her child into something bigger than they understand.

And for once, he doesn’t know.

goreboy: …kinda?

Angelic: KIND OF??

Eviscerator1990: What kinda answer is “kinda?” Either you want it, or you don’t.

Ronin huffs. He leans back on the couch, biting the inside of his cheek. Want. What a word.

goreboy: i want them. i want them to stay.

Ai Hua sends a heart. Just one.

Ai Hua: 🙂 then maybe… Do it your way.

His way.

His mouth curves. Dangerous. Wicked. Oh, he can do that.

Ai Hua: I’m sure Y/N likes you enough.

Something in his chest twists.

Likes him enough to deal with his bullshit. Likes him enough to stay, even when he’s all sharp corners and messy feelings. Likes him enough to keep his name on their tongue, even when it’d be easier not to.

Ai Hua: Whatever you give them that lasts longer— They’ll love it.

He blinks. The words sit heavy.

Ai Hua: Because it’s you. That’s how I feel about my husband.

Quiet. It’s too quiet. Even Angelic—who lives to make everything her business—doesn’t send a single obnoxious emoji.

And Ronin?

He stares at the screen, stomach flipping, heart hammering out some rhythm he refuses to name.

He doesn’t do forever. Doesn’t play nice, doesn’t stick around, doesn’t—

But for you?

Yeah. Maybe he does.

goreboy: Thanks

Eviscerator1990: You’re welcome.

Ai Hua: 🙂 good luck.

Angelic: this is the CUTEST thing that’s ever happened in this cursed server...

Ai Hua: 🙂 one more thing.

His thumb hovers over the exit button. Something about Ai Hua, though—you don’t ignore her when she asks.

goreboy: what.

Ai Hua: It’s fine.

He frowns.

goreboy: what is.

Ai Hua: The way you love them. It doesn’t have to be a wedding. It just has to be you.

He freezes.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Something sharp scrapes under his ribs.

You.

He’s not soft. Not simple. Not the kind of guy who shows up with roses and a ring and a stupid, starry-eyed smile. But you don’t want that. Never have.

You want him. Exactly as he is—rough edges, black heart, wicked mouth.

And maybe—maybe—that’s enough.

Ai Hua: They love your style. Show them it, my son.

His mouth twitches.

goreboy: did you just call me your son?

Eviscerator1990: We kinda adopted you, kid. Sorry. No returns.

Ai Hua: 🙂

A beat of silence. Then—

goreboy: tch. whatever. not like i needed another family.

Ai Hua: ❤️ but you have one.

His chest aches. Stupid. Sentimental. Unbearable.

Eviscerator1990: And hey— Our kids keep asking when they’re gonna see Uncle Ronin again.

His laugh slips out before he can stop it—low, breathy. Of course they do. Little gremlins.

goreboy: tell ‘em i said to stay in school.

Ai Hua: 🙂 they want to be like you.

Oh, hell no.

goreboy: no they don’t.

Eviscerator1990: One of ‘em tried to make a fake server last week. Called it “Slaughterhouse Jr.”

goreboy: i am not responsible for that.

Ai Hua: 🙂 you inspire them.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. This is a nightmare.

goreboy: y’all are gonna give me grey hair.

Eviscerator1990: You’d still be pretty.

Angelic: oh my god.

Ai Hua: 🙂 will you be okay?

For a long time, he doesn’t answer.

Will he be okay? With this? With you—taking up space in his chest, clawing your way under his skin?

He already knows the answer.

goreboy: yeah.

And for once—just once—he means it.

goreboy: thanks. or whatever.

Ai Hua: 🙂 anytime.

Now onto, you and him

goreboy: Hey, darlin’.

A simple text. Too simple. He never starts like that without a plan. Trouble in four letters.

You barely get through your day before your phone buzzes again. And again. And—

goreboy: what, too busy for lil’ old me? tragic.

goreboy: bet you’re sittin’ there missin’ me, huh?

goreboy: wait—don’t tell me. you’re makin’ heart eyes at your desk or somethin’.

goreboy: don’t blame you. i’m a lot to miss.

He’s annoying. Even through a screen. Even when you know he’s probably lounging somewhere, all long legs and lazy smirk—half-bored, half-plotting his next move.

Still. Your heart gives that stupid flutter. You glance at your phone, biting back a smile as you finally reply.

You: you left without saying anything :(

A beat. Then—

goreboy: oh, baby. don’t tell me you’re poutin’.

You roll your eyes.

You: maybe.

He’s quick—too quick.

goreboy: fuck. now i really wanna see it.

Your cheeks warm. He’s unbearable. Always poking, always pushing. And yet—

You: you didn’t have to leave so fast.

His next text comes slower. As if he’s thinking. You imagine him slumped in that busted leather chair in his garage—legs spread, boots kicked up, twirling a screwdriver or some other sharp thing between his fingers.

goreboy: duty called, sugar. had to open up the garage. wouldn’t want my precious toys collectin’ dust.

You: you’re ridiculous.

goreboy: and yet, here you are, talkin’ to me anyway.

You: i’m soft for you, obviously.

A whole minute passes. When he finally replies, it’s slower. Something tugs beneath the teasing. Something heavier.

goreboy: hey.

goreboy: you’d like… whatever i did for you, yeah?

You blink. Where is this coming from?

You: of course.

goreboy: nah, i mean— like. if i did somethin’ stupid. you’d still like it, right?

Your lips curl. So that’s it. The devil himself, circling the point like a shark.

You: depends. how stupid are we talkin’?

He sends a dramatic sigh emoji.

goreboy: unbelievable. here i am, barin’ my heart and soul—

You: pfft. heart and soul, my ass.

Still, you soften. Because under all the bravado, you can hear it—the little twist of hesitation. And that? That gets you every time.

You: whatever you’re scheming, yeah. i’ll like it. because it’s you.

You hit send before you can overthink it. Let him sit with that.

And oh, does he. For a second too long. When his next message comes, it’s something softer—something unguarded.

goreboy: dangerous thing to say, sweetheart. you know i’ll hold you to it.

You bite your lip, warmth curling in your chest.

You: i’m counting on it.

He doesn’t answer immediately. You imagine him leaning back, teeth sinking into his lower lip, mind working a mile a minute. Because that’s the thing with him—he never stops thinking. Never stops wanting.

And you—you’re the worst of it.

His brain tells him he shouldn’t care so much. But his heart? His heart’s already tangled up in you.

goreboy: s’pose i’ll have to cook up somethin’ real special then. can’t have my darlin thinkin’ i don’t care.

It makes your stomach flip.

You: i never think that.

Another pause. You swear you can feel his smile through the screen—soft, a little crooked. The kind he only ever lets you see.

goreboy: I....see...

Uptown has an alley they call Purgatory.

It isn’t pretty. Never was. A place where sunlight doesn’t dare creep, where the air tastes like rust and regret. Blood dries black against the brickwork—his blood, most days. Or someone else’s, when he’s feeling generous. It smells like piss, garbage, and death.

A shithole. Perfect.

This—this—is where Ronin Beaufort decides to propose.

Because where else? Where better? It’s where you kissed him for the first time, after all—the devil himself, knuckles raw from the man he’d left twitching at your feet, teeth red and grin wide. You’d kissed him anyway. Kissed him like you meant it. Like he was something worth keeping.

And Ronin? He’s not one to let things go.

So, he makes a plan. A fucked-up, perfect plan.

The first body is easy.

An uptight corporate asshole. Buttoned-up, boring, all crisp lines and no soul. Ronin cracks his skull open like a candy shell. Blood spatters wide, painting the concrete. Nice start. But not enough. Not for you.

The second one’s better. Messier. He takes his time—drags it out. A real piece of work, some wannabe kingpin, all bark and no bite. Ronin guts him slow, pulls pretty red ribbons from his stomach. He uses the crowbar for the heart—your heart, darling—and carves it deep into the brick. Wide, jagged, dripping. Personal.

When it’s done, he steps back, tilts his head.

Huh. Cute.

He’s still admiring his work when his phone buzzes.

Angelic: yo, goreboy, you rang?

Of course, she picks up. She always does—his favorite little devil with a halo, sharp-tongued and twice as nosy. And yeah, he could’ve asked anyone, but Angel? Angel gets it.

goreboy: need a favor.

Angelic: what’s in it for me?

goreboy: the eternal satisfaction of servin’ the devil?

Angelic: pfft.

He snorts, tongue running over his teeth. Predictable.

goreboy: fine. order me somethin’. rings.

Angelic: wait. back up. goreboy’s proposing?

He glares at his phone like it personally offended him.

goreboy: shut up.

Angelic: aw, you’re getting soft. what kind? black diamonds? skulls? molten lava straight from hell?

“Funny,” he mutters under his breath. But she’s not wrong. Your ring—your ring has to be perfect.

goreboy: black. gothic. whatever screams “marry me"

The typing bubble appears. Pauses. Then—

Angelic: lucky you, i got a guy.

Of course, she does.

goreboy: knew there was a reason i kept you around.

Angelic: anything for the devil. even if i gotta play cupid for my ex.

He rolls his eyes. “Christ.”

goreboy: Thanks Angel, Won't give up my child for a week.

Angelic: I'll just kill it again

Yeah. Yeah, he would. Not that he’d admit it.

goreboy: whatever. send me the bill.

Her last message comes fast—too fast. He can hear the smile.

Angelic: oh, darling. it’s on the house.

goreboy: Send it, you know- I don't do these Angel.

Angelic: You're cute, No. Just take the rings

He huffs a laugh, shoves his phone back in his pocket. One thing down.

By the time the sun starts to dip, Purgatory looks like an art installation straight from hell. Bodies like broken marionettes. Blood like paint, dripping in slow, thick rivulets. And at the center of it all—the heart.

Your heart.

His.

If he had one.

And if he didn’t? Well. You stole it anyway.

Ronin leans against the wall, crowbar still sticky in his grip.

What the hell is he doing?

Proposing.

Fucking proposing.

He should be laughing at himself. Should be smirking, at least. But his jaw ticks, his fingers flex, and there’s something ugly crawling under his skin—a feeling he doesn’t like.

It’s not the blood. Not the mess. That’s easy.

It’s you. It’s always you.

And the worst part? The sick, stupid, beautiful part?

He wants this.

Wants you.

He wants to keep you—ruin you—for as long as you’ll let him.

His phone buzzes again. Another message from Angel—this time with a picture.

The rings.

Sleek. Sharp. One for you, one for him. Bound in black, wrapped in silver. Yours is thinner, more delicate—but not by much. No diamonds. No fluff. Just you and him, the way it’s always been.

Perfect.

He huffs a breath, tongue clicking against his teeth.

Yeah. Yeah, this’ll do.

It’s almost cute, really.

If you ignore the bodies.

And the blood.

And the fact that he’s doing this the only way he knows how—messy and wrong and completely, utterly him.

He swipes the sweat from his brow, steps back, and admires his work.

A heart, jagged and dripping. A graveyard of the unworthy. Rings on the way.

And for you? Anything.

Even this. Especially this.

Because when the time comes—when he kneels, all cocky smirk and bloodstained hands—you’ll say yes.

You have to.

(And if you don’t? Well. He’s never been good at taking no for an answer.)

Ronin lights a cigarette, lets the smoke curl in his throat.

The devil himself, on one knee.

Christ.

What the hell has he become?

Yours.

And God help anyone who tries to take that away.

goreboy: hey darlin’~

Your phone buzzes against the desk, and you barely glance down before his name flashes across the screen. Of course, it’s him.

you: hey yourself. what’s up?

goreboy: what’s up? tsk. rude—can’t a guy check on his favorite little writer?

You smile, shaking your head. Always like this.

you: oh? i’m your favorite now?

goreboy: pfft. babe, you’ve been my favorite. since day one. don’t let it get to your head, though. my heart’s fragile, y’know.

you: lmao, fragile?? you??

goreboy: i’m delicate. like a flower. 🌹

You roll your eyes, biting back a laugh. Ridiculous.

you: what do you want, ronin?

goreboy: what, a man can’t just miss you? ‘sides… i’m bored.

Of course, he is. The devil himself, restless as ever.

you: poor baby. what am i supposed to do about that?

goreboy: come see me.

You blink at the screen, heart skipping. Oh.

you: …right now?

goreboy: yeah.

you: where?

goreboy: purgatory.

Your brows furrow. He’s teasing. He has to be.

you: lmao. you’re joking, right?

goreboy: when do i ever joke, darlin’?

A pause. Then—

goreboy: seriously. come by. just for me.

You bite your lip, warmth blooming in your chest. This—this—is why you’re in too deep.

you: fine. what’s the occasion?

goreboy: pfft. gotta have a reason? but if you must know…

Another buzz—

goreboy: maybe i got somethin’ for you.

Your heart stutters.

you: something? what kind of “something”?

goreboy: you’ll see, babe. gotta keep a little mystery alive, yeah?

You roll your eyes—fondly, though. Always like this.

you: okay, fine. any special requests?

goreboy: oh, now we’re talkin’. dress in black for me, sweetheart. if you wanna, anyway.

You tilt your head, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He’s playing, but there’s something beneath it—something serious.

you: you like gothic, huh?

goreboy: on you? hell yeah.

you: good. ‘cause so do i.

goreboy: ...perfect.

Is it your imagination, or did he just… stammer?

you: did you just freeze up?

goreboy: shut up.

The alleyway known as Purgatory is as familiar as it is haunting—a place you want to hate but can’t. Your heels click softly against the cracked pavement, the air thick with the scent of blood, metal, and something distinctly him. It’s always him. Even when he’s nowhere to be seen, his shadow lingers like an inescapable ghost.

Tonight, though, there’s something different.

Your black dress clings to you like a second skin, just the way he likes it. You don’t want to think about why your heart’s racing, or why you dressed up like you were meeting someone important. But it’s him—you know it’s always him.

And when you turn the corner, your breath catches in your throat.

A heart.

Not just any heart—A jagged, messy thing carved into the wall in dripping red. Blood, fresh and dark, soaks the concrete like an offering. The heart is wide and chaotic, edges splattered like he couldn’t help but make a mess. But in the center, etched with the brutal precision only he could manage, is your name.

It’s wrong. It’s so wrong. And yet—your pulse flutters. Your stomach twists in that awful, dizzying way it only does with him.

A soft metallic scrape echoes behind you—the unmistakable sound of a crowbar dragging across the pavement. Your skin prickles, and you don’t have to turn around to know who it is.

“Damn,” his voice purrs, smooth and sinful. “Look at you, sweetheart.”

When you do turn, he’s leaning against the brick wall like the devil himself, framed in the neon glow. Ronin.

Black beanie pulled low over his burgundy hair, the devil horns stitched into the sides making him look every inch the trouble he is. His leather jacket gleams under the dim light—studded, spiked, with a pair of rusty scissors sticking haphazardly through the shoulder. A red ‘X’ pin glints beside it, careless and dangerous. Beneath, his black t-shirt clings to him—faded skull design stretched across his chest like it belongs there. His maroon pants hang low on his hips, ripped just enough to tease, and the chains hooked along his belt jingle softly with every move.

And—God—the piercings. Silver glints along his ears, across his tongue when he grins, and the delicate sword pendant resting against his throat? Unfair.

He’s looking at you like he’s starving. Like you’re already his, and tonight, he’s reminding you of it.

“You came,” he murmurs, dragging the crowbar behind him as he approaches. “Knew you couldn’t resist me, darlin’.”

Your throat tightens as he stops in front of you—towering, all six-foot-one inches of bloodstained disaster. There’s that wild glint in his blackened eyes, something feverish and yours. The air crackles between you, electric and dizzying.

His gloved hand reaches out, and before you can react, his fingers lace with yours—gentle, almost. His touch is rough, warm, and when he lifts your hand toward his mouth, your heart stutters.

“A devil’s gotta mark his territory, huh?” he hums, lips brushing against your knuckles.

And then—he kisses your ring finger. Soft, deliberate—like it means something. Like it means everything.

Your face burns, and you try to pull your hand away, but he doesn’t let go. His thumb traces slow circles over your skin, almost absentmindedly—like he’s savoring the feel of you. Always touching. Always wanting.

“What—” your voice catches, breathless. “What is this, Ronin?”

He grins, sharp and wicked. “You like it?” he asks, tipping his head toward the bloodied heart. “Told ya I had something for you, babe. Can’t say I’m not romantic.”

Romantic.

The mess—the blood—the sheer violence of it—this is how he shows it. Twisted, wrong, and so perfectly him. And the worst part? You love it. You love how much he’s willing to ruin things for you.

“You’re insane,” you whisper, but your fingers curl against his palm like you don’t mean it.

“And yet,” he drawls, dipping closer—his lips ghosting against the shell of your ear, “here you are.”

You shiver.

He steps back just enough to meet your gaze, head tilted, that cocky tilt to his lips—but something softer lingers underneath. Something unsure.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” his voice drops, smooth and low. “Whatever I do… you still gonna want me?”

The words shouldn’t hit you as hard as they do. Because underneath all the bravado—beneath the teasing and the devil-may-care attitude—he’s asking if you’ll stay. If you’ll keep coming back to him.

If you’re his.

And you should be scared. You should. But instead, you brush your fingers against his jaw—soft, almost too soft.

“Of course I do, idiot,” you murmur, and his breath hitches—just barely. “I always want you.”

For once, he doesn’t have a comeback. Just stares at you like he can’t quite believe it. Like you’re something precious.

And when he kisses you—slow and bruising, like a promise..

His arms curl around your waist—possessive, like he doesn’t plan on letting go anytime soon. Dressed in black and soaked in sin, he pulls you against him, his voice a low murmur against your ear.

“Sorry, lover,” he drawls, smooth as silk but sharp enough to cut, “you can’t look back now.”

The neon red light hums around you both, staining everything it touches—casting the blood-slick walls in a glow that shouldn’t be beautiful, but it is. Because it’s him. Because it’s you. The blood, the guts—it all looks like a twisted love letter only he could write.

And the heart—still dripping on the wall with your name carved into its center—feels like a vow.

A promise he’s daring you to accept.

He leans back just enough to drink you in, eyes black as the void and twice as deep. The silver glint of his piercings catches the light, but it’s the look in his eyes that makes your heart twist. Something dark. Something dangerous. And God, something that’s only for you.

“Pretty, ain’t it?” he muses, like the whole bloodstained mess is just a casual art project. But there’s something else in his tone—something softer when he adds, “Made it special, darlin’… just for you.”

You should say something—maybe call him out for how utterly insane this is—but your tongue feels too heavy, trapped between your teeth as you try to process everything.

It’s a lot. He’s a lot.

And yet, your body betrays you—pressing closer, heart fluttering against his chest like a trapped bird. You hate how easily he pulls you under, how effortlessly he spins you into his gravity—but there’s no escaping it now.

He tilts your chin up with one gloved finger, lips curving into a slow, wicked smile. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he teases, “Cat got your tongue? Or are you just too busy fallin’ for me?”

You try to roll your eyes. Try. But his touch burns, and when he lifts your hand to his mouth—again—you forget how to breathe.

His lips brush against your knuckles—slow, deliberate—before they linger on your ring finger. It’s so soft you barely feel it at first. Just the faintest pressure. Something warm. Something cold.

And when he pulls back, there’s a glint of silver wrapped around your finger.

Your breath stutters. Your heart stops.

A ring.

Not dainty. Not soft. It’s him—jagged edges, blackened silver with the faintest blood-red inlay spiraling like a twisted promise. It’s heavy against your skin, unapologetic in its meaning.

And you didn’t even notice him slipping it on.

Your head snaps up, eyes wide, but he’s already watching you—waiting.

“Ronin—” your voice catches, and you don’t even know what you’re about to ask. What this means.

His grin widens, devilish and sharp. “What’s the matter, babe?” he coos, as if he didn’t just slide a ring on your finger like it was nothing. “Thought you liked surprises.”

You blink—once, twice—your thoughts spiraling, and he takes advantage of the silence. His hand slides along the small of your back, pulling you flush against him while his other hand traces absent circles over the ring.

“Fits perfect,” he hums, pleased with himself. “Guess that means you’re mine, huh?”

Your heart does something awful and traitorous in your chest.

He’s too much. Too close. And you—you’re letting him do this.

Still, your fingers twitch beneath his—testing the weight of the ring, the feel of it like a brand. Permanent.

“You—” Your voice trembles despite yourself. “You didn’t even ask.”

His laughter spills out, low and rough. “Baby, if I asked, would you really’ve said no?”

You hate how easily he’s right.

The gloved hand on your back slides up—tracing the delicate curve of your spine—until it rests against your neck. He tilts your head back, just enough to force you to meet his eyes. Dark. Intense. Yours.

“You’re not mad, are ya?” he murmurs, voice softer now, like there’s actually a part of him that cares. “’Cause I can take it back if you don’t want it. If you don’t want… me.”

His mask slips—just a little—and your stomach twists at the vulnerability he tries so hard to hide.

But you don’t let him pull away. Not this time.

Instead, you curl your fingers into the leather of his jacket, grounding yourself in the heat of him. Your thumb brushes over the ring—cool against your skin—and it should feel too much. Too fast. Too everything.

But all it feels is right.

“Idiot,” you murmur, and his grip tightens like he’s terrified you’ll slip away. “I’d never take it off.”

The relief in his expression is palpable—masked by a cocky smirk, ]

His lips barely part from yours when he whispers it—low, rough, like a vow dragged from somewhere deep inside him.

"Promise you," he murmurs, the words brushing warm against your mouth, "this is forever… or ‘til one of us dies."

And just like that, your brain short-circuits.

Your breath hitches. Your body freezes. You’re too stunned to speak—because, what the hell?

Forever. Forever with him—the blood-streaked, chaos-wrapped mess of a man currently holding you like he never plans on letting go. His hands are still warm against you, firm, and there’s no teasing lilt to his voice. No wicked little joke behind his words.

He means it. Ronin means it.

And for a heartbeat—just one—you can’t process it. Can’t wrap your head around the weight of what he’s just given you.

The silence stretches. Grows heavy between you. And for once, he’s the quiet one.

When you lift your gaze to his, wide and unguarded, his expression is almost… shy.

Ronin Beaufort—The Butcher, the devil himself—looks like a goddamn kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

His lips twitch, like he wants to smirk but can’t quite manage it. His hands fidget slightly on your waist—restless energy bottled under his skin. And his eyes? Pitch-black and wide open, like he’s waiting for you to either run or ruin him.

He shifts his weight from one boot to the other, shoulders hunching the tiniest bit like a kid who just handed over a crayon drawing and is desperately hoping you’ll stick it to the fridge.

"Uh—" His voice cracks just a little—a little—and you swear you catch the faintest flush creeping up his neck. "You’re… gonna say somethin’, right?"

You blink at him. Still speechless.

He fumbles. Actually fumbles—one hand pulling back to rub at the back of his neck as he huffs, "I mean—c’mon, babe, this is kinda the part where you either kiss me back or tell me to go to hell."

The confidence—the usual devil-may-care arrogance—is still there, but it’s softer around the edges. Fragile in a way he never lets anyone see.

And you—oh, you’re doomed.

Your heart does a weird little flip in your chest as you stare at him, still clutching onto your waist like you’ll vanish if he lets go. He’s so much—too much—but under all that swagger and bloodlust, he’s just… Ronin.

Your Ronin.

The idiot who drags you into alleys for romantic blood-and-guts displays. The devil who slid a ring on your finger like it was nothing. The man who—no matter how sharp his tongue is—would burn the world down for you.

“Wait,” you finally manage to choke out, the word soft and breathless. “Did you… are you actually serious?”

His face scrunches up like you just personally insulted his entire aesthetic. “Babe. Did I stutter?” He lifts your hand again, thumb brushing against the cool metal band still snug on your finger. “Or do I gotta get on one knee to spell it out?”

And oh, he’s pouting.

The Butcher—slaughterhouse king, nightmare in leather and spikes—is full-on pouting.

You bite down on your lip, hard, trying to hold back the laugh bubbling up in your chest. He notices—of course, he does—and immediately narrows his eyes.

“Don’t you dare.” His grip on your waist tightens in warning, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “I just poured my goddamn heart out, and you’re laughin’ at me?”

And suddenly—you can’t hold it back.

The laugh escapes—light, breathless, overwhelmed—because what else are you supposed to do when your psychotic, bloodstained boyfriend is acting like a needy kid who just gave you the world’s most chaotic proposal?

His brows knit together in mock offense. “Unbelievable,” he grumbles, though his tone is softer—fond—as he watches you melt into laughter. “I give you my heart on a bloodied silver platter, and this is the thanks I get?”

“I’m not laughing at you—” you try to protest, still breathless. “It’s just… you’re… cute.”

The second the word leaves your mouth, his whole body jerks.

“Cute?!” He repeats it like you’ve committed a personal crime. “I just did the most metal, romantic shit on the planet, and you call me—” He drops his head against your shoulder, groaning. “—cute. Jesus Christ, I’m losin’ my edge.”

You wrap your arms around him without even thinking—pulling him closer, fingers curling into the back of his leather jacket. He smells like smoke, leather, and something distinctly him—something you could drown in if you’re not careful.

And in the middle of the bloodstained alley, wrapped in his arms, you realize there’s no escape. Not from this—not from him.

And, God help you, you don’t want one.

“Hey, Ronin?” you whisper softly against his neck.

“Hmm?” His voice is quieter now—hopeful, like he’s trying not to get ahead of himself.

You tilt your head just enough to press a soft kiss beneath his jaw, feeling the slight hitch in his breath. “I’m not taking it off,” you promise. “Ever.”

For a split second, he’s still. Frozen. Like he doesn’t quite believe it.

And then—he’s kissing you again.

The world could burn, and you wouldn’t care—not when he’s in front of you like this. Eyes blacker than sin, lips swollen from kissing you like he’s starving, and hands gripping your waist like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

But right now, he’s the fragile one.

Your devil—loud, reckless, always too much—is holding his breath. Waiting. Like your next words could either save him or shatter him.

And God, you love him.

Your fingers brush against the ring on your hand—cool metal, heavy with meaning—before you slowly reach for his. His hands—rough, calloused, stained in ways that can’t be washed clean—tremble just a little as you lift his left hand in yours.

"You gave me one," you murmur, soft and steady, as you slide the matching ring onto his finger. "It’s only fair I make you mine, too."

His breath catches. He doesn’t say a word—doesn’t even twitch—just watches you with this raw, unfiltered intensity that makes your pulse race.

When you finish, you lace your fingers together, feeling the cool press of metal against your skin. He’s yours now. Yours in the same way you’ve always been his.

And when you speak again—voice barely above a whisper—it’s not for show. Not a tease. Just the truth, laid bare between you.

“I’ll love you forever, Ronin Beaufort.”

Something cracks in his expression—something wild and vulnerable and so, so real.

And you’re not done.

“I’m happy,” you admit, voice trembling just a little. “Happy I met you. Happy I get this—us.” You pause, and there’s this ache in your chest when you smile, soft and almost shy. “Maybe it’ll be destructive. Maybe it’ll last forever. I don’t care how it ends, Ronin… I just want it with you.”

His grip on your waist tightens—desperate—like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he lets go.

And you don’t. You just lean closer, until your lips barely brush against his, and whisper the words that have been burning on your tongue since the day he dragged you into his twisted little world:

“I love you, Ronin Beaufort.”

For one breathless moment, he doesn’t react.

And then—he moves.

He crashes into you, mouth slanting over yours with bruising intensity, like he’s trying to brand those words into your skin—into your bones. Like he wants to crawl inside your heart and never leave.

It’s messy, overwhelming, and so perfectly him—and you give yourself to it completely.

His hands slide up your back, pulling you flush against his chest as he devours you—sharp teeth grazing your bottom lip, a low growl curling from the back of his throat like he’s trying to consume you from the inside out.

When he finally pulls back—just enough to breathe—his lips hover over yours, and his voice is wrecked.

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot.”

The words are rough, but his hands tremble where they hold you. “Why would you love someone like me?”

Your heart squeezes, and you don’t even hesitate.

“Because you’re you.”

And, for once, he’s speechless.

No snark. No teasing. Just the weight of your confession sinking into his bones—binding you together in a way no bloodstained vow ever could.

He drops his forehead against yours, breathing hard, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “You better be sure, sweetheart. ‘Cause you’re stuck with me now.”

Your fingers tangle in the chains hanging from his jacket as you grin. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

His lips barely ghost over yours, teasing, waiting, giving you a chance to breathe—but you don’t take it. You can’t. Because then he kisses you.

And God, he kisses you like he means it.

Like he’s sealing the promise in blood and breath, branding it into your bones with the press of his lips. His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go. Like he needs to hold on just to make sure you’re still real.

It’s slow and deep—no rush, no hesitation—just pure possession.

Your heart pounds. Your fingers tangle in the chains on his jacket, desperate to keep your balance because he’s overwhelming. He always is.

By the time he finally pulls back, you’re breathless—dazed—barely clinging to reality as he huffs out a quiet, wicked laugh.

Then—he grins. Sharp and smug, eyes flashing with something wild.

"Oh, that old man won’t shut up about how we’re not married, huh?" He snickers, tapping a gloved finger against the ring on your hand. "Guess you better show it off, sweetheart. Be loud ‘n proud about it—rub it in his face."

You don’t answer.

Because you’re still dizzy from his kiss...

It's gonna be a long night

[intoxicated-chan]

Daryl Dixon request! You and Daryl have just recently got together a few months ago! You and Daryl wander off from the group when you're on the road too look for food water ext, you both get a bit frisky and your sexual tension builds(maybe a bit of bickering), but it’s dangerous, so Daryl takes you against the tree your legs wrapped around him your back against the tree a gun in hand just in case a walker hears, but he’s also kissing you to muffle your moans 💕💕

𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐫

Summary ➳ Daryl fucks you against the tree. (Idk what else to say) 

(A/n) ➳ I am not made to write smut! Most of one-shot is just fluff and only a couple hundred words is smut... I’m sorry.   

Word Count ➳ 1.4k 

Content Warnings ➳ Female reader, sexual content, mainly fluff, little smut, typical TWD violence, swearing, pet names (Sweetheart, darlin’), getting caught but not knowing? Unprotected sex, p-in-v, outdoor sex, creampie... 

“I ain’t gonna say it again.” You pushed Daryl as the two of you walked through the empty streets. “Move your damn ass.”  

“Stop yer damn whinin’.” Daryl retorted. “And I know yer ass ain’t talkin’ crap when ya nearly lost yerself in places like this and I had to find ya.” Finally, he picked up his pace, just like you wanted him to do for the past two hours, maybe more. 

You rolled your eyes, arms crossed and scoffed but quickly shut yourself up when you tripped on your own feet.  

“I heard that.” Daryl commented.  

“Piss off.”  

“Swearin’ ain’t gonna scare me away sweetheart.” He chuckled and stopped, loading his crossbow as he caught sight of a lone walker. “Yer stuck with me.” He murmured, aiming the crossbow with a finger on the trigger.  

“Sadly.” You playfully sighed, standing back as you let Daryl deal with the simple threat.  

How long has it been? Three- no, four? Yes, four months. You both had strayed from the group, a habit you both developed over the past few months, much to the group’s dismay. 

“Top that.” Daryl said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He walked to the dead walker, putting his foot on its head to pull the arrow out of its skull. “Now, ya sure we ain’t lost?” He asked, wiping the blood from the arrow.  

You shot him a grin, unfolding your arms and placed them on your lips. “Lost? Please, I could navigate these roads blindfolded.”  

Daryl raised an eyebrow. “Remembered that happened when I left ya with Rick.”  

“Please, don’t remind me.”  

“Then stop lyin’.” 

You shook your head. “Then do you have any idea where we’re headed, Dixon?” You asked, as you pulled at the straps of your bag, trying to relieve your shoulders.  

Daryl shot you a glance, his smirk turning into a genuine smile. “Jus’ followin’ the trail, darlin’.” He answered in his trademark gravelly voice. “Ain’t like we got a map or somethin’.”  

“Well, let’s hope your tracking skills are as good as you say they are.”  

He huffed but then laughed, his eyes moving to what’s in front of them for any sign of movement. “Trust me, (Y/n), ain’t no walker gonna sneak up on us while I’m around.”  

Your smile dropped by the sound of rusting in the bushes beside the road. Daryl aimed his crossbow while you unsheathed your knife. Slowly, they approached the source of the noise, ready to attack. 

But you gasped, a small rabbit darted out from the bush, scurrying away into the distance. Daryl lowered his crossbow.  

“Looks like dinner jus’ ran off.”  

You clicked your tongue, sheathing your knife as you reached into your bag. “Guess we’ll have to settle for canned beans again.” 

The two of you decided to make camp when you noted the sunset, and you knew it would be some time before you reached the group. Daryl gathered dry twigs and branches, making a small fire.  

Sitting side by side on makeshift logs, you both shared a meal of canned beans that were heated by the flames. The fire flickered over the silence, luckily, you both were comfortable.  

Though you side eyed Daryl when he refused the spoon, he found it easier to eat with his hands. Daryl looked at you as you ate, noticing the pistol he had given you for protection wasn’t on or near you. “Where’s the gun I gave ya?”  

You hesitated for a moment, scrapping the sides of the can with your spoon. “I... I couldn’t get it to work.” You admitted sheepishly. “It feels like it’s clogged.” 

Daryl sat his half-eaten can of beans to the side and licked his fingers clean. He reached down to your bag to retrieve the pistol, examining it near the fire. His brows furrowed in concentration as he tried to find the issue.  

As he worked, you couldn’t help but stare. The way his rugged features were softened by the firelight, the way his gruff hands moved with such precision... It made you rub your thighs together.  

He was always skilled with his fingers, making you crumble and become weak with just his hands.  

“-Good to go.” Daryl’s voice made you jump, catching the pistol in time before it hit the ground. “Test it out.”  

You looked around. “Here?”  

“There’s a silencer on it for a reason.” 

“And waste bullets?”  

“Ya gonna complain or try it?”  

Daryl pointed at a tree not far but barely visible. “Try it,” he stood, motioning for you to stand. But you just stared at him. “C’mon.”  

You stood and looked where he pointed, it was a tree with a giant rock to its left side. You gripped the pistol and aimed it.  

Daryl moved behind you. “Ya gotta straighten your posture.” He murmured, his voice low, his hot breath hitting your ear. “Like this.”  

Gently, he adjusted your stance, his hands lingering on your shoulders for a moment, longer than necessary. His hands, his voice, his breath... It all sent shivers down your spinel, a sensation that sent a rush down to your cunt.  

“Is this better?” You said, your voice barely audible. 

Daryl nodded, you couldn’t see but there was a faint smirk. “Much.”  

“Should I-” You stumbled when you felt his hands come on your hips, you felt your face starting to burn. “Daryl?’ 

He hushed you. “Don’ think.” He replied softly. “Go on, fire it.”  

“I can’t.” You retorted. “Walkers are nearby-” 

Daryl snatched the gun and pushed you against a tree, you didn’t see it coming. “Guess I gotta keep ya quiet.” He muttered, leaning in. “Think I didn’t notice ya starin’? Oglin’ me? So damn desperate.”  

“Ain’t my fault.” You said, shrugging, trying to act natural. “Looking like a goddamn meal.”  

“Wanna taste?” Again, he spoke in your ear, nearly making your knees buckle.  

“Please.”  

“Then shut up.”  

He used his free hand to pull you in a kiss, the hand that held a pistol remained by the side of your head. You immediately returned the kiss, your arms wrapped around his neck.  

God, he tasted so good. He smelled so good, some fucking how. Or maybe it was your nose playing with you, but you didn’t care. You needed more of him.  

You then jumped on him, using your own strength to keep you upright. It startled Daryl as he didn’t expect it.  

Daryl's hand squeezed your ass, gaining a moan from you.  He pulled back. “Gotta keep quiet for me.” He said. “Think ya can do that?” 

Yu didn’t understand a single word that came out of his beautiful mouth, but slammed your lips against his, becoming addicted to him.  

“Do me a favor.” Daryl hummed against your neck. “Unbuckle my pants for me.”  

Maggie froze in place, lifting his hand up to stop Carol. “Did you hear that?” She murmured, it sounded like a whimper or maybe a moan.  

“Sounds like a person.” Carol responded.  

“Might be survivors.”  

Nodding in agreement, Carol followed Maggie as she cautiously followed the source of the nose. Moving slowly and carefully, her guard was on high alert.  

But she didn’t expect to see Daryl with his pants around his knees with your legs around his waist. The strap of your tank top fell past your shoulders, exposing one of your breasts.  

It looked like his lips were glued to yours, he only took a couple of moments to catch his breath before they were back on you.  

Carol sighed and covered her eyes turning away, honestly, she wasn’t surprised. She just didn’t think you both go as far as to do it out in the open.  

“That doesn’t look comfortable.” Carol commented.  

“It isn’t.” Maggie replied. “Should we-” 

“Let them get it out of their systems.” Carol grabbed Maggie’s arm to walk away.  

Daryl had you up against the tree, your back throbbing from the uneven trunk digging into your skin. Your lips are most likely swollen by now, saliva dripping down your chin. 

There was something thrilling about being fucked out in the open with danger nearby. But there wasn’t a single ounce of fear with Daryl holding the pistol. 

He felt your fingernails digging into him as he fucked you, he was getting off on it. 

Your moans were always cut off, as well as your words. He took pleasure in seeing you getting frustrated.  

Daryl felt your walls tighten around him, desperately trying to hold him in, chasing an orgasm.  

And when Daryl comes, he does it inside. He manages to go deeper than before. You slumped against Daryl, eyes shut.  

“don’ go sleepin’ on me now.” Daryl now had you standing on your feet, his only hand keeping you up as he looked around. “We got a couple hours before day. I say we use ‘em.” 

© Intoxicated-Chan 2024, I do not allow my work to be copied, translated, modified, adapted, or put on any other platform without my permission. 

Taglist ➳ @celtic-crossbow , @mrdixon , @duffmckagansbandana , @raspberryslxt , @lor-geeked , @thegeorgiahuntsman , @snailss , @xmaeyonaiise , @suniloli , @ladylincoln , @of-storms-and-sadness , @annhells , @sexyxdylanxobrien , @TWDgal , @yoowhatthefuck , @oikawarz , @mylifeinthetardisforever , @let-love-bleeds-red , @virginsexgod69 , @scudslut , @theesexystallion , @yondus-girl , @raoudixs , @sleep-queen , @gyustarzzi2 , @stunt-lads , @Lettersfromyourlove ,  

[kissenturine]

boothill,, gunplay. thats the thought,, if ur comfortable writing that ofc ofc

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐃 boothill x m!reader — 1.4k words, not proofread, minors do not interact

TO NOTE: gun play, slight chocking, boothill puts his gun in reader's mouth, boothill kind of bends reader over, boothill also makes reader jerk off, uh boothill kinda mean-ish, he pretends to shoot reader, aftercare is not written but it is given! lmk if i missed anyy :3

KAI SAYS: hello guys,, shorter than usual bc ive landed myself in the er due to multiple reasons haha (chronic hives, low blood pressure, fainting spells, dehydration, etc) and i miiight not be able to post until like next weekend maybe (?) so so soso sorry for the inconvenience aaargh, writing this in the hospital too... not dying tho everything super minor so!!

The first time you ever saw Boothill pull a gun was at a training centre. He said something about wanting to work on his aim, and so he decided to head there, late at night. No one else was there—just the two of you.

Boothill pulls out his gun, flicking a few bullets into the spinning revolver with practiced ease before he pulls the trigger. A loud ‘bang’ fills the room, followed by the sound of his metal bullets clinking to the floor after the shot.

“Well color me stoked.” Boothill grins, showing off his sharp teeth. “Seems I ain’t that bad after all!”

“Well, you were always good with guns, anyway.” You respond, returning Boothill’s grin with a smile of your own. He was indeed good with guns, and it was undoubtedly attractive.

Boothill’s hands spin the revolver, watching the metal clink. It was much too fast for you to see, so you didn’t know which one ended up landing. Boothill is quick to draw his gun again, smirking as he pointed it at you—straight into your chest.

“Boothill?” You question. “What are you—”

You are cut off by the loud sound of his gun shooting. Your eyes shut and you winced instinctively, your body tensing up for the bullet that was about to hit your skin.

…Yet it never happened. 

Cracking one eye open, you peer at Boothill cautiously, only to find him gripping his metal abs, a roaring laugh rolling from his lips. “Oh, darlin’ you know I’d never shoot ya!” He laughs again, though this time it was softer. “C’mon, love, I’d never hurt ya.” He murmurs sweetly as he makes his way closer to you, his gun still in hand.

He presses the muzzle playfully against your chest, trailing it up and down your abdomen. Boothill’s smirk only widened as he slipped his gun—along with the hand holding it—under your shirt. He presses the muzzle right against your nipple, watching you shiver at the cool metal.

“Boothill.” You whisper firmly. “What’re you doing?”

He says nothing, only continuing to drag his gun against your skin, sending shivers of delight across your body.

Eventually, his gun finds its way to the hem of your pants. Boothill gives you a wicked smile before he uses his free hand to yank down your pants and boxers, exposing your half-hard cock. “Well, ain’t that a pretty sight.” He cooes, letting the muzzle of his gun rest against your tip.

“Jerk it for me, pretty boy.” Boothill says. You blink up at him, confusion filling your face.

“Huh…?” You question.

“I said.” Boothill groans, pressing the muzzle of his gun harder into your tip. “Jerk it for me, or else I’m gonna be shootin’ this pretty lil’ dick o’ yours.” Boothill wouldn’t really. You knew that. He said it himself. And yet… the fear that he would is still there, forcing small tears to well in your pretty eyes as you looked up at him desperately.

“O-Okay.” You comply, wrapping your hand around your shaft as you slowly start to glide your closed fist up and down.

“Good boy.” Boothill praises, and his voice makes your dick twitch against his gun.

You move your hand, squeezing as you get to your tip and rolling your thumb to spread your precum. You throw your head back, moaning loudly as Boothill rocked the muzzle of his gun in time with your hand.

“Look at ya.” He groans, his free hand going to squeeze at your throat. “Gettin’ off to my gun pointed at ya.” Boothill smirks, rolling the revolver again until the familiar ‘click’ sound resounds around the room. “Pretty thing, d’ya even know what this could do to you? Or are you too dumbed down already?”

“Stop teasin’” You whine, your hand's pace slowing as you turn your gaze away from Boothill’s. “Not that dumb yet…”

“Yet.” He repeats, removing his gun from your dick. “Think I can change that real quick, no?” A sharp laugh escapes Boothill’s lips as he suddenly hoists you up and off the barstool you sat on. He spins your body with only a smidge of grace as he lands you roughly on your stomach against the table, your ass now facing Boothill.

“Aeons, you’re so pretty…” He murmurs, his hands roughly groping the fat of your ass. “Can’t believe yer all mine…”

A whine slips from your lips, high and pathetic as your eyes flutter closed. “Yeah…” You whisper. “All yours…” You feel Boothill drag the muzzle along your back—sliding it under your shirt, before he pulls his arm up, tearing through the thin fabric. You shiver at the newfound cold, goosebumps prickling your exposed skin.

You hear the zipper of his pants as he pulls it down, pulling out his cock and tapping it against your clothed ass before he’s yanking down your shorts. Boothill traces a metal finger around your puckered rim, eyeing you carefully. “Such a cute ‘lil hole…” He whispers out breathlessly. “Can’t wait to fuckin’ destroy it.”

The instant Boothill stops speaking, you feel the tip of his metal cock push past your hole, stretching you out more than you could ever imagine—despite doing this with him before. “Boothill.” You moan out, eyes fluttering as you crane your neck to look at him—only to have your face pushed right back into the table by the shove of his gun against the back of your head,

“Stay still f’me, pretty.” Boothill groans, easing his cock into you. The more he pushes in, the more painful the stretch is… And yet, the more painful it is, the more pleasure your body seems to derive from it. Boothill is only halfway in when you feel like you’ve been stuffed to your limit. A pathetic sound escapes you and you feel his gun press down harder.

Boothill removes his gun from you, using it to force your head to the side. He leans down, spitting a thick glob of spit all over the muzzle, smirking as it gets his gun all messy. “Open.” He taps it against your lips, making sure to smear his spit all over. Boothill’s smirk only widens when you follow, opening your mouth and letting his muzzle sit between your pretty lips. “Atta boy.” He whispers, thrusting with full force his cock into your awaiting hole.

“Boothill…!” You moan out, though it’s muffled by his gun pressing against the flat of your tongue. Your thighs tense at the sudden pleasure. A gurgly whine leaves your throat. “I can’t—”

“You can,” Boothill growls, pressing his gun deeper into your throat. His thumb goes to spin the revolver, making sure it lands on a slot with a bullet before continuing, “and you will. Ya know why, cutie? ‘Cause you're my good boy, and good boys take what they’re given.”

He sets a brutal pace after, thrusting into you relentlessly. It doesn’t matter how you plead, all Boothill does is press his gun further down your throat—until you’re sure your lips will bleed from the stretch. Eventually, his tip knocks against your prostate, sending you over the edge. Your dick squirts a load, all over the table and floor, yet Boothill doesn’t falter.

“Look at you, cummin’ like a slut.” He groans, and his pace seems to increase. He’s suddenly going harder, faster, everything that makes your head spin with the added overstimulation.

You cry against the gun, tears welling in the corner of your eyes. Boothill seems to enjoy the sight, leaning down to kiss softly against the back of your neck, his free hand wrapping around your waist and fisting your spent cock.

“That’s it…” He coos. “You think ya can give me one more?” His hand increases, matching the rhythm of his thrusts as he knocks into your prostate again and again and again. “C-C’mon, need t’do it together.” You nod your head eagerly, drool slipping from between the corner of your lips and his gun.

Boothill thrusts harshly, finally sending you over the edge for the second time, and you feel his metal dick twitch in time with you. Your eyes roll back, ecstasy overwhelming you as Boothill pumps a thick, sticky load into your ass, painting your walls white.

“You’re so good f’me…” He coos into your ear, sliding his gun slowly out of your mouth. With a familiar click, the resounding sound of a gunshot echoes throughout the room as he shoots his last bullet into the table—right by your head. “You’re always so good an’ pretty with my gun…”

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @helloanime @kiekole (send ask without anon to be added)

© KISSENTURINE. do not translate, plagiarize, edit, or repost

[rimaiahwrites]

Know better

Connie catches you playing with his gun… short spanking, bratty behavior, softish dom!connie, sub!black!reader, aftercare, fluffy.

———

Your stomach growled as you stood up from the bed and went to the kitchen to grab something to eat, then went to sit in the living room with Connie, “hi my handsome boyy.” You grinned as you leaned in to kiss him on the lips. He ignored you, mumbling a quick “wassup” while aggressively clicking on the buttons of his controller.

You huffed loudly, Connie was paying you no attention today because he was too busy on the game with his homeboys, eren, jean and ony. You pouted and laid your chin on his shoulder “Bubba you’re not paying attention to me” you whined. His eyes still glued to the tv not hearing a word you just said but apparently all the boys talking through his headset did because you could their loud asses asking for you to say hi, so you grabbed the headset from Connie and placed it on your head. “Hi boys yes it is I the princess.” They all chuckled and each said their hi’s and hello’s.

“Where you been at girl?” Eren asked, the group hasn’t hung out in a minute because normally the kickbacks were at yall house but since Connie been working way more lately nobody has really had the time to hang out.

You huffed and looked over at Connie giving him the side eye, “nothing just at home dealing with your annoying ass brother he’s been ignoring me all day-“ before you really finish Connie snatch the headset from you. You flipped him off and grabbed your phone to go back up stairs. “She tripping y’all know she spoiled as fuck.” Stomping your back up stairs to your room to find something to do and just as you walked past the dresser Connie’s gun was just sitting there. Curiosity got the best of you and you grabbed the heavy weapon, it looked so big in your hand compared to the way it looked in Connie’s. You pulled your bonnet off and posed in front of the mirror with it in your hand, your finger off the trigger. You giggled.

Maybe I need one I look like a boss bitch for real. You thought.

“Y’all niggas tripping man gimme my shit!” You whispered yelled putting the gun up and pointing it at the mirror playing like you was a gangsta like mr. baldie down stairs. You kept playing around with his loaded gun saying all the things you hear him say to people whenever he has to pull his gun out, which was only twice because he always tries to be on his best behavior when he has you around, he didn’t really like you seeing him like that or to put you in a position to be harmed with the nonsense he deals with. you were his little princess and he wanted you kept in the dark about all the stuff he puts himself into.

So he definitely didn’t playing with his gun so imagine the shook on your face when his deep voice said loudly “what the hell is you doing?” snatching the gun out your hand and placed in his waist band. “Huh? Nothing I-I was just-“

“Just what? Playing with my loaded gun? Which you know you ain’t supposed to be doing you know the rules”

“I know i was Broad you wasn’t paying me any attention!” You pouted crossing your arms, he fake pouted back and bend down to your height, “oh so you think just because I wasn’t going you my full undivided attention for a couple hours you can break the rule and go against what I say?” Hissed as he sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at you very angrily like he was up to something, it made you very nervous so you stayed as far away from the bed as possible. “Co’ mere” he said lowly making the come here motion with his finger, you stood there hands behind your back playing with the end of Connie’s over sized shirt that laid at the back of your thighs.

“Now y/n.” He said sternly making you jump a little as you made your way over to him. He grabbed you and flipped you on your face, your face was planted on the bed and your ass laid across his legs. You gasped when he pulled your shirt- well his shirt up over your booty and pulled your pink lace panties down to expose your bare skin.

“Con please no.”

“You know you ain’t supposed to be playing wit’ daddy’s gun, you know better so what happens when you don’t follow the rules?”

“I get Punished, but-“ he chuckled and pulled his hoodie off.

“Ain’t no buts, you getting 20 and don’t lose count because if you do imma start over.” He said raising his hand high up and smacking you hard on the plump of your ass making you jump, you gasped loudly reaching back to grab his hand.

“Move your hands, now put them under your chin.” He popped your hands making you whine and quickly hide them away from him. He spanked you again, the tears began to come, you tried your best to keep the sobs in but his rough hands kept coming down on your bottom so hard making it sting.

What made it even worse was you weren’t used him being so mean, your daddy has barely raised his voice at you let alone spank you as a punishment, the most he has done was give you light soft spanks when you would act up when he was in your guts. You almost didn’t know if your were crying from the pain or your feelings being hurt.

“Papa please no more!” You cried

“Nah I already told, never touch my guns so why I come up here to see you playing with it?” He asked hitting you again. You almost couldn’t get your words out

“I-I didn’t put my finger on the trigger!” You screamed.

“That doesn’t matter I told you not to touch it at all, what if you accidentally shot it? Huh? What if you accidentally shot yourself?” he was so mad and you could tell by the way his grip on your waist was getting tighter and his hand was coming down harder making your ass jump, his hand felt hot and your ass you were sure was a bright red by now. Him even thinking about you hurting yourself with HIS gun made him feel a little sick, he didn’t play about you.

You were on the last five spanks and you just couldn’t take it anymore so without thinking of the consequences you reached back and grabbed his hand looking him in the eyes with your big brown teary eyes. “Papa please no more m’ so sorry won’t do it again..” you pouted, you felt like you were in a daze. Connie could see it in your eyes that you were deep in sub space, you looked so far gone. His heart melted and pulled you up to face him.

“Ok baby no more.”

He grabbed your chubby cheeks and kissed your lips softly.

“You won’t ever do that again mama?” You shook your head fast. “I p-promise, never ever again.” You sniffled. Putting your head in his neck breathing his scent in deeply. He smiled and leaned back against the pillows resting against your headboard, he rubbed your back trying to sooth your sniffles and hiccups. He looked down and saw that your bottom was a dark red and big hand prints covering it. He put his hands on it and you jumped a little and let out a whine. He cringed a little, his poor baby he thought even if it was for your own good.

“I just wanna keep you safe and I can’t do that if you don’t listen to what I tell you sweetheart you understand?” You nodded your head still keeping your head in between his neck and shoulder. After a few minutes of silence you spoke very softly keeping your voice very low. “Are you still mad at me?”

“Look at me,” he demanded holding your face in his big vainly hands. “I’m not mad anymore ok? And you did such a good job at taking your punishment mama, my big girl.” He mumbled kissing you all over your face and neck.

“You deserve a reward for taking it like a good girl, what do you want? A new Prada bag? Shoes? Ice cream? Anything you want.”

“Mm…” you said patting your chin in thought. “How about a new bag and ice cream?” And Connie agreed because you were his spoiled good girl…most of the time.

———

Might do a part2 cuz it’s not as long as I wanted but just wanted to get this out

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

reader pronouns: she/her

Daryl burst into the clinic like a mad bull. Maggie did her best to slow him down and explain. Down the hall, you easily heard the whole thing as you did your best to hold perfectly still as Denise stitched you up.

"The hell is she?!" Daryl roared.

"Just calm down. She's fine," Maggie was insisting. You could picture her with her hands out, trying to slow him down.

"Fine?! She got fuckin' shot! Dun tell me it's all fine," he growled back.

"Daryl—"

Heavy boot steps approached down the hallway. "You might as well tell him we're in here, let him in," you said to Denise.

"Kind of in the middle of something here," she replied, not taking her eyes off the delicate work she was doing on the wound near your hairline.

There was a moment's hesitation outside the door and then Daryl knocked loudly. "Hey—Denise? Can I—"

"Come in, Daryl," you responded loudly. He burst in and his eyes whirred over you. "Hi," you greeted him calmly.

He was clearly relieved to see you vertical. You couldn't move as Denise was still stitching the bullet graze on the side of your face. His face clouded over with a shadow as he peered at you.

"It's just a graze, Daryl."

A flame seemed to flicker in his eyes. "On yer head," he emphasized. "Which means ya were damn fuckin' close to bein' dead."

You winced as the needle pricked a particularly tender spot and Denise muttered an apology. Daryl began to pace in front of you.

"Who the hell would want to shoot ya in the head?" he demanded, his agitation almost growing with every passing second.

"A lot of people want to kill me. I take pride in that," you joked wryly.

"This ain't a fuckin' joke, Y/N!" he barked.

Luckily, Denise had just finished and she dabbed briefly at the wound with a bit of gauze and then put down her tools. "I'll just be—I'm gonna—" She pointed awkwardly at the door and rushed past Daryl and out into the hall.

A thick, heavy silence fell. His gaze was intense. You shrugged and gave him a look. "What do you want me to do, Daryl? It's not like I asked for this."

"I want ya to stay alive," he said forcefully. "And if that means ya dun go outside the walls anymore—"

You scoffed and slid down off the table you'd been sitting. "Don't. You of all people—don't even say it," you warned him dangerously.

Daryl gulped and some of the heat of his anger left him. He chewed on his bottom lip anxiously and paced another line in front of you. "Well—what then? Cuz we can't have ya gettin' fuckin' shot."

"What's the difference? This world is trying to kill all of us, every day, one way or another. The only difference with this is that I know the asshole who pulled the trigger."

Daryl nodded. "Alright. Then we pull the trigger on them first. Cuz I ain't gonna have ya dyin' on me."

"We?"

"Yeah. We. I don't give a shit what this is, ya ain't alone on it. I won't let ya be. I can't."

Prompt: "Who the hell would want to shoot you?" / "A lot of people want to kill me. I take pride in that."

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Diabolical 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, extreme profanity, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Billy Butcher

Summary: your neighbours has some strange friends.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“Ah, cunt!” 

The man’s voice rolls under your door. His accent adds a certain slant to his words that makes them sound even harsher. You hover your mug in front of your lips, steam curling from the freshly brewed tea, as your eyes drift over in detest. 

You lower it and carry it with you to the door. You lean in to see through the peep hole. The same dark hair, the same long black jacket with the patch on one shoulder, and the same lumbering form. He thumps again on the door across the hall. 

“Hughie, open up, ya skinny cunt.” 

He uses that word again. Your lip curls and you huff. He keeps on. 

You slide back the chain and your adrenaline pumps into your chest. You flip the lock back slowly and pull the door in an inch. You peer through the space as the man checks his watch and grumbles. 

“Where are ya, Hughie?” He grumbles and shakes his head. “Big fucking stick bug, won’t answer ya phone, won’t come to the door...” 

“It’s not very nice language, is it?” You chide. You’re just as surprised as the man as he stands straight and freezes. He turns to you stiffly as you let the door open a little more. 

“Eh? And who are you, then?” He tilts his head this way and that as he growls. 

“I live here. Who are you?” You say defiantly. You sip your tea to keep your nerves under wrap. 

“Wouldn’t you like know, sweetheart?” He snickers. “Oi, you ain’t happened see the skinny one lives over here?” He jabs his thumb behind him. 

You stare at him. You shake your head again. His eyes narrow and flick up and down. 

“Too good for the likes of us, eh? You and your fancy porcelain? What’s that? Royal Daulton Cuntware?” 

You gasp and bat your lashes. “Excuse me, I haven’t been rude. I’ve only asked you to keep it down. Other people live here besides your friend and they don’t appreciate hearing your profanity every morning.” 

“Eh,” he gives a crooked smirk, “you listenin’ for me, sweetheart?” 

“I don’t know you, sir, and I shouldn’t like to.” 

“Ain’t ya so proper? Sirs and shouldn’ts and tea.” He taunts. 

You take a breath and back up, “I would only appreciate a little consideration, but thanks. Have a lovely day.” 

“Oi, go on and hide then, darling.” He tugs on his lapels and squares his shoulders. He chuckles again. 

You stop the door before you can shut it all the way. You bristle at his laughter. “I don’t think you’re funny.” 

He chortles again. He steps closer and you go rigid. You can’t measure up to a man like him. You still the tremour in your hand before your tea can slosh towards the brim. 

“Well, I think you’re right hilarious. Why don’t you go on? Tell me, eh, are you more offended by the shit on my boots or the onion on my breath?” 

You steel yourself as you grip the door tightly. “Don’t come any closer.” 

“Ah, I don’t got that sorta time. Whatcha think a brute like me would do then?” He stops and plants his feet wide. 

“You needn’t be so impolite--” 

“Needn’t--” he mimics. Before you can stop yourself, the tea splashes across his face and chest.  

You recoil as the porcelain drips in your hand and you gape at his stunned grimace. His blue eyes flash and you kick the door shut as you retreat. You put the chain in place and twist the lock. You press your back to the door and listen, heart pounding, and wait. 

His treads scuff on the floor and he sighs. The floor groans as he moves and you watch his shadow beneath your door. Yet, no banging comes at the door. 

“Ah, bollocks, that’ll stain.” His grumble follows him down the hall. 

You have no idea what you were thinking. A man like that is dangerous. You don’t need his name or anything else. You can tell just by looking at him.  

You’re not the sort to associate with the type. You didn’t think your neighbour was either. Then again, you only know Hughie because he dropped a sock in front of your door. He didn’t stay to chat as he snatched it and chased that pretty blonde inside. 

You turn and stand on your toes to see through the peephole. He’s gone but you don’t dare go out and make sure. You’ll do best not to show your face again. Just drink your tea and hide, like you always do. 

[bobbyseyesmile]

Attitude | Part 3

Summary: Y/N has to think about what she wants: a rather safe life with Shane but she‘ll lose her sanity and might explore parts of her own mind she must sacrifice or will she put a bullet, between his perfect brown eyes, as the rational side of her brain tries to advise her.

A/N: soo uhm, i‘m sorry (no i‘m not lol) this is filth. HAVE FUN also thanks to my lovely @angel-litter who inspired me to write a third part

Characters: Dark!ShaneWalsh x Reader

WARNINGS: age gap (reader is 18+) / explicit sexual content, swearing - I can’t stress enough that this is a dark fic: Shane is a mean motherfucker and just takes what he wants. Don’t like, don’t read. You’ve been warned.

Trigger warning: dub-con | 18+

🔞 MINORS DNI below the cut! 🔞

➻ Part 2 [M]

The sun was setting over the horizon, casting long shadows over the prison walls. The world was quiet, save for the distant groans of walkers and the occasional rustle of leaves.

The group had settled for the evening, a small fire crackling in the front yard, warming the people who stood guard for the night. Shane Walsh sat on the outskirts, cleaning his gun with practiced ease. He glanced up, his eyes narrowing as you approached.

"Something you need, princess?" Shane drawled, his voice tinged with mockery.

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. "Just checking to make sure you’re not planning to run off again. Wouldn’t want the group’s supposed protector to abandon us."

Shane smirked, his eyes glinting with mischief. He knew exactly what you were getting at: On last week’s supply run he disappeared for hours, nobody knew where he went and Rick got nervous as the hours passed by. When the sun began to set Shane casually walked towards the prison, not even batting an eye that almost everyone was looking for him.

Everyone but you. You kept telling yourself to stay away from him, not getting pulled into the dark abyss that surrounded Shane Walsh. He was a hothead and dangerous as he preferred to work alone instead of teams.

Your father worried a lot about the future; your mom’s pregnancy wasn’t helping at all. Thankfully you found the prison and its large protective walls that kept you save; as long as everyone was willing to do their part.

Except Shane fucking Walsh.

Shane’s eyes shamelessly wandered over your body, relishing the memories when you were a whimpering hot mess. His whimpering and hot mess. The older man knew exactly what chokehold he had over you and he so wished to make that chokehold a reality.

“Don’t worry about grown men business, little girl. Get your sexy ass back to the others, I’m sure your daddy needs you to count all the peas in the kitchen.”

Rage boiled inside your stomach and you stepped closer, heart pounding in your chest as its been months since you’ve been this close to him. “You know, Shane, it’s a wonder you keep others and yourself safe with that big ego of yours. Must be hard to fit through the doorways.”

It wasn’t your best comeback but something in his eyes flickered; a tiny hint of anger that washed over his face, giving you a feeling of satisfaction.

Shane chuckled, leaning back and taking in the sight in front of him. "My ego ain’t the only thing big but you already know that, don’t you baby?”

Heat rose to your cheeks, but you refused to back down. "Don't flatter yourself. You're just a big fish in a small pond."

"Oh, is that so?" Shane stood up, his towering presence making your heart race even more. He stepped closer, bodies almost touching. "You seem pretty interested in this big fish even though you try so hard to stay away from me."

You gulped and put a hand on his chest to keep some distance between, afraid someone might be watching you. “Sh-shut up, Shane.” His large hand wrapped around your wrist, giving it a harsh tug to close the distance between your bodies. You let out a small whimper; music to his ears and it made him contemplate the idea of fucking you right here right now.

“Careful, lamb, or I might need to remind you of your past lessons… but you’re not entirely hating the idea of that, do you?”

Your pulse quickened at his words, a mixture of anger and desire swirling within you. You turned your face to escape his intense stare, but Shane was relentless. His grip on your chin was firm, forcing you to face him again.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you. You wan’t me on your side, ya listen? Don’t push me away or ya won’t like the outcome.”

His voice was low and dangerous, each word sending shivers down your spine. Your breath hitched as you met his gaze, the raw power and emotion in his eyes both thrilling and terrifying.

“Shane-“ you whimpered “You’re hurting me.”

His dark eyes glistening with excitement. “Good. I know you like it.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding in your chest. You hated how he made you feel, how he could so easily break through your defenses. But beneath the anger, there was something else—something that scared you even more than Shane’s crazy look. You were falling for him. Falling hard.

Shane's hand moved from your chin to your neck, his thumb brushing against your pulse point. "You feel that?" he asked, his voice softer now, almost tender. "That's your heart racing because of me.” His thumb continued to caress the soft skin until he positioned it under your chin, chocking you in a harsh grip.

“And I bet that’s your sweet lil' pussy, all flustered and dripping, begging for my cock. Ain’t that right, girl?”

As fast as his grip appeared on your neck it also disappeared as your father turned around the corner.

“There you are, sweetheart!” he spoke, voice soft and filled with love as he laid eyes on you. “Your mom needs you in the infirmary. Hershel’s already with her.”

Rick’s eyes wandered between you. “Everything alright here?”

“Well, I found Y/N wandering all alone out here. She should be inside after curfew.” Shane clicked his tongue as you threw him a spiteful glance. A smirk played around his lips as your father agreed.

“He’s right, Y/N. You know the rules; only the designated guards are allowed outside after 10 pm.”

“But, dad-“

“Zip it, honey. Go help your mother, she’s having another nauseous episode.”

“Great…” you whispered under your breath but softened your gaze when you noticed your father’s look. He was tired. “Okay, I’ll look after her.”

“That’s my baby girl.” he gave you a kiss on your forehead before starting to walk away. Shane waited for him to disappear around the corner before giving your ass a harsh slap.

“Ouch! What the fu-“

“Think of me when you bury your fingers in that sweet cunt tonight. As you do every night.” He whispered in your ear before giving you a slight push. “Now go.”

Almost two weeks passed and you managed to stay out of Shanes way, he was more impulsive than ever. Running around, barking commands and undermining your father as the leader of the group. You despised it, truly hated him and his behaviour but still you lied awake at night, thinking about his fingers and the way they would feel inside y-

“Y/N? Are you listening?”

You teared your mind away from the sinful fantasies it fabricated and turned your head towards your father. The group was sitting around a big table, eating dinner and discussing plans for the oncoming days.

“Huh?” you raised your eyebrows and saw as Shane frowned at you.

“Hell naw, she’s not even listening. Damn, Rick! She’s not fucking ready!” Your father sighed, rubbing his forehead in annoyment.

“No! I listened, I’m ready!” you quickly lied and Shanes eye twitched. He knew you were lying but of course Rick didn’t notice it.

“Really?” he asked and you quickly nodded, a tad to enthusiastic.

“Fine. Then it’s settled; you and Shane go on the supply run for this week.” You nodded once again, way less excited now and looked at Shane who had his arms crossed in front of his broad chest. “You listen to everything he says, is that clear, Y/N?”

Shane smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, she will, Rick. She will.”

The next day the afternoon sun was setting, casting a dim, ominous light over the abandoned neighborhood. You and Shane moved cautiously through the empty streets, listening for any signs of movement.

"Stay close," Shane ordered, his voice gruff.

"I can take care of myself," you shot back but he ignored your sassiness as leaves rustled in distance.

As you approached an old, dilapidated house, the distant groans of walkers grew louder.

"Great," you muttered. "Just what we needed."

"Inside," Shane barked, grabbing your arm and pulling you towards the house.

Shane pushed you through the door, slamming it shut behind you. He quickly pushed a heavy piece of furniture against it, barricading you in. The walkers outside pounded against the walls, their growls echoing through the house.

You anxiously paced the room, nerves on edge. "This is just perfect. We’re trapped."

Shane ignored you, his focus on securing the surroundings. "We’ll be fine. Just stay quiet."

You stopped and glared at him. "You always think you know best, don’t you?"

Shane turned to face you, his eyes cold and hard. "Someone has to keep their head on straight. You’re too busy playing daddies little girl."

"Playing what?!" your voice rose. "I'm trying to survive, just like you!"

Shane stepped closer, his presence intimidating. "You think you can survive without me? You’d be dead if it wasn’t for me."

Your heart pounded, a mix of fear and anger flooding your veins. "I don’t need you, Shane. I can handle myself." He laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. "You keep telling yourself that, princess. But we both know the truth: your little crush isn’t that little anymore. You’re pathetic trying to deny it.”

You took a step back, but Shane followed, his eyes dark with a dangerous intensity. "Why are you doing this?" you demanded but your voice gave away. "Why do you have to be so… mean?"

"Mean?" Shane’s voice was low and menacing. "You think this is mean? You haven’t seen anything yet. I’ve been holding back, but maybe it’s time you learned just how serious I am."

Your breath hitched as Shane backed you against the wall, his body towering over you. "Shane, stop," you said, voice trembling.

"Stop? Why would I stop? You need to understand something, Y/N. You’re mine. You belong to me. And I’m not letting anyone, or anything, take you away."

Shane studied your eyes; they were filled with a mix of fear and defiance. "You don’t own me, Shane. I’m not yours to control."

He leaned in, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin. "You think you have a choice? You think you can just walk away? You can’t, I won’t let you, ever.”

His lips crashed onto your own, fierce and demanding, his hands roaming possessively over your body. You tried to push him away, your brain telling you to get away from him but the wetness between your legs mocked you. Your own body betrayed you.

Shane’s hands gripping your waist, pulling you against his hard chest, his touch a mixture of possessiveness and arousal. You let out a moan as his knee pushed against your clothed sex, roughly rubbing you through your jeans. You needed more, more of him.

“Shane-“

“Shut up.” He spit back, his fingers ripping the button off your pants. “All I want to hear are those pretty moans, you understand?” You wanted to protest but the look in his eyes made you change your mind so you just nodded. “Good girl.”

You sighed when his fingers finally touched you, he stroked them over the drenched material of your panties. “Of course.” he mocked and shoved a finger inside your entrance.

He set a fast and rough rhythm but you didn’t mind, all that mattered was the pure bliss that slowly spread through your system. “M-more.” you begged and it made him snort.

“Needy little whore. You can’t handle more but I’ll give it to you anyways.” A second finger entered you, spreading the tight walls to his liking.

Shane watched your face, your hooded eyes and slightly parted lips with a small whimper escaping here and there. But he needed you to understand that you were his, there was no escape from him. He needed you to scream his name.

“Fuck, darling, your little cunt is tight. This I will enjoy-“ You opened your eyes and glanced at his hardened cock, his tip red and angry and glistening with precum. Shane knew you were a virgin and it almost made him lose his mind as he imagined taking your innocence away for the first time. He saw the fear in your eyes and he loved it.

He lifted you up, slowly pushing inside you, watching all the emotions washing over your face and you never looked more beautiful to him.

“I c-can’t-“ you whimpered and he came to a stop, waiting for your eyes to open. When you did you saw his eyes soften, almost tenderly. But just a moment later you noticed the smirk around his lips. “You will.”

His cock suddenly entered you with such a force it squeezed all air out of your lungs, leaving you gasping between his chest and the wall he had caged you in. The sharp pain made your brain panic but your body, oh your body welcomed him with such ease it was almost embarrassing.

“Shit, you’re so fucking tight-“ he groaned and his fingers dug into the soft skin at your hips. It would leave marks, you were sure, but couldn’t care less.

The pain slowly faded into a completely unique and new feeling, a feeling deep inside you. Something your fingers never managed to even scratch the surface of it. You bit your lips till you tasted blood, his length filling you up at a relentlessly pace. Shanes hand circled around your delicate neck, the grip of his fingers began to tighten leaving you chocking around them. The lack of air left your brain in a hazy state.

You weren’t even sure how it was possible for him to be this deep inside you; his length made it seem impossible but your body proved you wrong as your hungry cunt swallowed him whole. Shane felt his release approaching the more he watched your face and listening to your sloppy moans.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your mouth hung open for a silent cry but nothing came out as your orgasm washed over you in intense waves; your blood rushing in your ears as you came all over his dick.

Shane roughly claimed your lips once again, dominating the kiss as it left you literally breathless. His grip on your waist increased, threatening to break you in half as he fucked you through both of your highs. He gave one final thrust before he came hot and heavy, painting your insides white.

The euphoria from your first time quickly vanished as you felt the warm liquid dripping down your legs. Shane noticed the panic in your eyes and let out a hoarse chuckle.

“Thought I was joking when I said I’ll never let ya go, huh? You’re fucking mine forever, princess.”

The rational part inside you was ready to run, to grab the nearest object and bash it over his head but the other part, the part that was hopelessly in love with this psychopath of a man, stayed still.

Accepting your new fate as you felt his lips on your ear:

“And I’ll kill everyone that comes between us.”

[harringtonstilinski]

I Wish You Would - Gator Tillman

Author: @harringtonstilinski​ Characters: Gator Tillman x Reader Word Count: 9,975 Warnings: fluff, angst, reader gets slapped, but it's not described and there's no signs of it happening, gator being super soft for his girl, Requested: no | yes; Smut: no | yes; car sex, protected (m+f) A/N: Hi, friends! I know I said I would never write for Gator, but I had an idea in my head and I had to get it out. I hope I did Gator justice! Also, he calls reader Dollface, and Roy(gross) calls her Little Darlin'. I've never written anything like this before, so please check the triggers above. Some of these scenes were hard for me to write. BUT, if you like this, please do not hesitate to reblog and give some feedback, whether it be in the reblogs, comments, or my inbox. As always, read at your own risk and enjoy 😊

HIGH SCHOOL, SENIORS, FALL 2009

“Surprise, shitbird.”

You couldn’t help but look up from your book to roll your eyes at the boy in front of you. Shaking your head, you went back to look at the words on the pages before your head popped up again at hearing a kid say, “Stop it, Tillman.”

Sighing, you closed your book and stood, approaching the two males. Tapping the instigator on the shoulder, you said, “Hey. Tillman.”

He turned around to face you. “What?”

“Follow me.” You waited for him to nod his head before you wrapped your arm around his, making sure he was going to follow you. Once you two were truly alone, you turned to him, fire in your eyes. “What the heck, Gator?”

“What do you mean? That’s the boy that wouldn’t leave you alone.”

“Yeah. In the first grade! We’re freaking Seniors now, Gator! He’s left me alone since I told on him.”

He just looked at you confused, so you sighed and elaborated, “My mom ended up talking to his mom, who’s married to one of your dad’s deputies. Apparently, his dad got onto him and said that if  he didn’t stop messing with me that he would put him in handcuffs and bring him to my house to let my dad beat the shit out of him while his stood and watched.”

Still confused, Gator said, “But your dad works for mine, too.”

“Oh, my god,” you breathed. “That’s not the point, G. The point is that he’s left me alone for years, so there’s no need to beat the kid up over it.”

Sighing and looking down, Gator nodded. “I’m sorry.” Looking back up at you, Gator looked into your eyes for a second before pulling you into a hug, which you gladly returned. Pulling back, he rested his hands on either side of your neck, his thumbs gently brushing the underside of your jaw. “You coming to the game tonight?”

“I haven’t missed one yet,” you replied. “I’m ain’t gonna start now.” Smiling at him softly, you leaned into his touch, not wanting the moment to end.

You and Gator had been best friends prior to preschool, your dads working together and your moms best friends since the both of you were about two years old. Throughout the years of playdates and outings your moms had planned, you ended up developing a crush on Gator, and he you, but you two obviously never said anything to each other.

“Good,” he said. “‘Cause I’d kick your ass if  you did.”

Laughing, you shook your head, wrapping your arms around his middle for one more hug as the bell for the last class of the day rang. He reciprocated the hug, wrapping his own arms around your neck, gently, before kissing the top of your head.

“Hey, Tillman!” a voice rang out, causing a sigh to sound from you as the person ruined a moment between you and your best friend… one you might not get again after the game.

~~~

“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” Gator seethed, hobbling around his room on crutches as you laid on his bed on your stomach.

It was a couple of weeks after that game. Gator had gotten tackled pretty badly by another player, a cornerback, and broke parts of his leg. Needless to say, Gator was pissed and still is.

“I’m tellin’ ya, dollface. He’s got it coming.”

“G–”

“He did that shit on purpose,” he said, stopping to face you. “He’s got another thing coming, and–”

“You've got another thing comin',” you sang, giggling at the unamused look on Gator’s face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“He’s not gonna know what hit him. Literally.”

Rising from his bed, you stood in front of him, looking at him like he’s the only boy left in the world. Whispering, you said, “You can’t get in trouble with Roy again because of you acting on impulse. I know- stop -” Gator sighed heavily, like  he didn’t want to hear your words. “I know the guy hurt you and basically shut down your career, but that doesn’t mean that-” He then tried to look away from you, but you put your hand on his chin to guide his eyes back to your own. “Look at me - that doesn’t mean you go and retaliate.”

Gator sighed and brought his forehead down to meet yours. “I know, but I’m so pissed off that I don’t know what else to do other than hurt the one who hurt me.”

“I know, G.  I know.”

You both looked at each other, something in the air shifting as you both started leaning towards each other. Just as your lips were about to touch, a knock sounded on his bedroom door. “Gator! Take Little Darlin’ home. It’s getting late.”

A shiver ran down your spine at the nickname that Roy gave you as a child. “I hate it when he calls me that,” you whispered. “It’s creepy.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a creepy motherfucker anyway,” Gator whispered back. Bringing a hand up, he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “Come on, dollface. Let me take you home.”

Once the two of you exited his room and got to his truck, you smiled a little as you got comfortable in the passenger seat. “Thank goodness he broke your left leg,” you said, a smile on your face as Gator put his crutches in the backseat. “Or else the Creep would have to take me home.”

Gator chuckled as he slid into the driver’s seat. After starting the truck, he started the journey to your home, the radio playing quietly as background noise. You loved riding with Gator; just the two of you.

When Gator got his driver’s license, the two of you would drive down all the back roads with the windows down, blaring whatever song or band the two of you were into at the time. It was your favorite thing to do before Gator’s football career got a little bit more serious last year.

Now, as you’re riding with the windows down and listening to the music that’s quietly playing, you closed your eyes, reminiscing.

“What’cha thinkin’ about over there?” Gator asked.

With a smile on your face, all you could do was happily sigh before replying. “Just thinkin’ about how we used to do this all the time before you became super popular last year.”

“Hey. What have I told you about all that? I’m still the same Gator–

“Just a little bit tougher and meaner.” You air quoted the word tougher because to you, Gator was nothing more than a big teddy bear with big emotions. To everyone else, he was the hardass, popular quarterback that had dreams of making it big.

“Only to everyone else. Not to you.” He snuck a glance at you before putting his eyes back on the road, his crush growing tenfold. Sighing, he pulled into your driveway, your dad standing outside on the porch, his cellphone up to his ear.

Since you had your window down, you heard him say, “Yup. They just pulled up. Yup. Will do, Roy,” before he hung up and stood near the steps, his arms resting on the railing as he leaned over just a touch. “Let’s go, kid!”

Sighing, you looked over at Gator, who had opened his door to get out of the truck. “Gator, stop. You don’t need to get out. Not with your leg. Stay. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. He and your father didn’t get along that well. Your father expected more out of him, just like Roy did, and when Gator didn’t deliver to Roy’s standards at home, Roy would tell your father, and well… you get the picture.

“Yes, G. I’m sure.” You leaned over and kissed his cheek which caused him to close his eyes and let out a deep breath, your lips lingering for a moment before softly whispering, “Good night, Gator.”

Opening his eyes, he turned his head to look at you, gently resting his forehead on yours. “Good night, dollface. I’ll see you in the morning.”

With that, you got out of the truck and walked up the five steps to your front porch, your dad’s voice stopping you as he said, “You can do better than that little lizard boy.”

All you could do was close your eyes, trying not to let the tears you could feel building up fall over your lower lash line. “And mom could do better than you.” You walked into the house without a care in the world, knowing what was to come at that comment.

Later that night, you laid in your bed, silent tears streaming down your cheeks, feeling the remnants of your fathers hand.

The next day at school, you avoided Gator, not wanting to talk about what happened after you walked into your house the night before. You knew he was still sitting in your driveway, waiting for you to enter the house before leaving, and seeing the small interaction with you and your dad. You had also heard that he took a tire iron to the kid that broke his leg, after he promised you he wouldn’t.

You successfully avoided Gator the remainder of the week, knowing that you just sealed your fate of your friendship possibly being over.

~~~

FALL 2019, TEN YEARS LATER

A lot happened in the last ten years since you started avoiding Gator, but you kept up with him through rumors and stories at school, as well as news articles and such through college and most of your adult life.

Now, at the age of 27, you find yourself back on the Tillman Ranch with your father and mother in tow. “Why do I have to do this?” you asked, sitting in the backseat of your dad’s truck. 

“Because we haven’t seen them in a long time,” your mother said. “You haven’t even asked about Gator since your senior year of high school.” Turning to face you, she asked, “By the way, what happened there? You two were so close. I just don’t–”

“Mother, please drop it. It’s not important.” Sighing, you straightened your back before smoothing down your hair. “Let’s get this over with.”

Exiting the truck, your lip curled up slightly in disgust. Roy was standing on the porch, a beer in hand, smiling at your family of three. “John! It’s about time y’all got here!”

Wrapping an arm around you, your father answered, “Had to convenience this one here to get dressed and in the truck.”

You stiffened, remembering the night that everything changed for you and your friendship with Gator. Giving a tightlipped smile, you looked at Roy, and sarcastically said, “Just so happy to be here.”

“Jess and Maude will be happy to know that you’re here,” Karen said, coming to stand by her husband.

Jessica and Maude Tillman, Gator’s half twin-sisters, were born the year after you stopped talking with Gator. You babysat them while going to the local college in the next town over for a little bit of extra money.

Your smile softened a little at hearing the twin’s names. Before you could go and see them, however, Roy directed you all the back of the house, where a long table was set up. “Seems like y’all still do big Sunday dinners.”

“Well, little darlin’, when you’re a Child of God, you gather the family around and have a nice dinner,” Roy said, wrapping his arm around your shoulders.

You quickly moved away and turned to go into the house to retrieve a glass of the stronger liquor you knew Roy had, but seeing a certain person had you stopping dead in your tracks. You knew what he’d done with his life since you “broke up” with him all those years ago. 

He had his hair slicked back with it faded on the sides and the back with two slits on the left side of his head. A black button down donned his chest, a watch on his left wrist and a pair of jeans on his legs, with a pair of boots.

“Damn,” you whispered.

“Hey, dollface,” Gator said softly. “It’s, uhh… it’s good to see you.”

You just stood there, basically gawking at him as he walked down the steps. Snapping out of whatever trance you were in, you said, “Uh, y-yeah.” After the two of you kissed each other's cheeks in greeting, you stood there for a moment, taking in his scent. “Y-you, too, G.”

Letting out a breathy chuckle, he said, “Haven’t heard that single letter in ten years.”

Without missing a beat, you said, “I know. I know. I’m sorry.”

“Hey.” Gently cupping your jaw, Gator shook his head, brows furrowed. “Don’t apologize for that. I don’t know your reasoning for it, but just know… that I forgive you.”

Leaning into his touch, you smiled softly, replying with that same softness in your voice. “Thanks, G.”

“Anytime, dollface.”

“Gator. Little Darlin’--”

You shivered at the use of those words. “I always hated when he called me that. Still do.”

“Come take your seats so we can say grace and eat.”

~~~

After what seemed like a calm dinner the night before, you and Gator exchanged numbers; you getting a new phone after high school to separate yourself from the town of Lehigh, and Gator because of his multiple run-ins with his coworkers.

You learned that night that Roy made Gator deputy, what with Gator being a nepo baby and all. When your dad offered you a front desk job at the station, you declined and moved out of state to attend college.

Now, as you look out of the passenger side window of your dads truck with your head resting on the window, you find yourself going right back to the Tillman Ranch. 

“The girls are at school, so you won’t be able to see them today,” your father said.

“That’s fine,” you softly replied. Picking your head up, you wondered, “I wonder if they still have Aurora.”

Aurora was a beautiful American Quarter Horse that was gifted to you when you were about 7 years old from Roy. Back before you know big of a big creep he was.

You left her behind when you left Lehigh, and you never stopped thinking about her.

“I wonder if she’d remember me,” you whispered, more to yourself.

“Of course she will,” your dad said. “Horses have great memory. Just go–”

“Slow.  I know.”

Getting out of the truck after your father parked, you slowly made your way to the barn, seeing a man leaning on the gate, a cigarette in hand. Deciding to ignore him, you leaned against the gate, as well, immediately spotting your beloved horse.

She was being led by Roy’s employee, Bowman, into the barn. “Hey, little miss.”

“Hey, Bowman,” you replied, never taking your eyes off your horse. “How she been?”

“She’s been good.” He stopped in front of you with Aurora. “Been keeping her healthy, been getting her exercise.”

“Still giving her apples and carrots?” you asked, reaching your hand out. Aurora sniffed your hand before nuzzling her nose on your palm. A smile graced your face.

“She remembers you,” Bowman said, a small smile on his own face.

“I was afraid she wouldn’t.” You looked up at him, seeing him looking in the direction behind you.

“I’ll leave you to it.” He leaned forward a little to whisper in your ear, “If you wanna ride, she’s all set for ya. Just hop the gate like old times.” He then turned around and walked off, not giving you a chance to reply.

You ignored the footsteps behind you, hearing Roy’s voice not 10 seconds later. “What happened?” he asked.

“You send a man to do a job without all the information, how can the job be done?” the man next to you said. 

Deciding to be nosy, you turned your head over your shoulder, watching as Gator, dressed in a police uniform and black ballcap, stepped forward, asking, “Yeah, what are you?” He hit the man's back before asking, “The Riddler?”

You tucked your lips between your teeth to keep from giggling. The two of you loved the Batman movie growing up; the one with Michael Keaton and Jack Nicholson.

“You say the woman is a woman, a…” the man said, slightly turning his head your way, looking you in the eyes. “How do you…?”

Since you don’t know what he’s talking about, you shake your head ever so slightly, letting him know you don’t have a clue.

“Housewife.” Turning to face Roy and Gator, he continues, “Never do you mean she is, for real, a tiger.”

“You saying you couldn’t handle some girl? 100 pounds soaking wet? Huh?” Gator asked, hitting the man in the arm.

“G,” you whispered, not realizing you even spoke at all until he looked at you.

The man took a drag from his cigarette as Gator continued, “It was on the wire this morning. This half-wit shot up a fillin’ station outside Beulah. Murdered the clerk. Killed a state trooper. Put a hole in the leg of another.” He chuckled. “And this retard’s partner with a cracked skull and his face half burned off in the morgue.”

All you could do was stand there and look at Gator, wondering what happened to him for him to end up just like his father.

“You say housewife,” the man replied. “So, I bring one guy. You say tiger… that’s a different guy. Cost you three times.”

“Did they take her?” Roy asked. “The police.”

Before you could think about your words and stop yourself, you asked, “Wait. I thought you were the police. Who the hell are you looking for that’s not right here in Lehigh?”

“Dollface,” Gator whispered, causing your eyes to shift from his father’s to his own hazel ones. He looked at you with a look that said he’d either tell you later or to just drop it.

Answering Roy, the man said, “Fled on foot. Possibly home. Possibly to the wind.”

Gator thought it was funny, the man’s riddles, but Roy wanted to stay on topic. “Could you find her?” 

“She could be found.”

“Who’s she?” you asked, more to yourself than anything.

“Where people go, the thoughts they have, these are known to me. Instincts. Who flees, who fights. It’s a question of price. The job it was, not the job you said.”

Looking at the left side of this man’s head, you just now noticed a gash, blood covering the area with some on his temple, going down halfway to his cheek. 

“Pain and suffering.  A man, missing an appendage, self-sewing his own skin. Scarred for life, he’s told. And then this new ask. Hunting a tiger. And it forces the man to ask: why you want the tiger?”

After a few second pause, Roy answered, “She’s my wife.”

“Don’t tell him shit,” Gator quietly said. Walking up to his father, he whispered, “I already said I can handle this. We know where she lives now. Her alias.”

Looking back at your horse, you sighed, running a hand down the bridge of her nose before walking up to the two Tillman men. “If someone could kindly tell me what the hell is going on, I’d much appreciate it.”

Putting a hand on Gator’s chest, Roy pushed him back a few steps, now seeing what the hell happened with Gator. Looking down at you, Roy said, “She made vows to me. A pledge. In sickness and in health.” He looked back at the man, continuing his words. “Consider it a debt unpaid, leaving me in limbo. Husband yes or husband no. See, she hid from me nine, ten years. Interest accrued. Until the debt could no longer be paid with money. Then, one day, there she is, fingerprints in the system. Now the limbo can end, the debt can be collected. Tell me something, friend. If a man is pure, his actions are only ever good. You believe that?”

You looked over at Gator, seeing the bad standing in front of you, but knowing there’s nothing but pure good sitting deep inside his bones.

“I’m a nihilist,” the man replied.

“What the fuck does that mean?” you and Gator asked at the same time.

“I believe in nothing.”

“You believe in money,” Roy said. “Yeah?” At not receiving an answer from this man, Roy said, “Well, thanks for your help. Go on with Gator. He’ll get you paid.” Looking down at you, he said, “Why don’t you go with him, little darlin’? Catch up after all these years.”

“Dad,” Gator said.

“Original plus pain and suffering,” the man said.

Holding your hand out to him, you asked, “What the fuck is his name?”

  Ignoring you, Roy said, “Yeah, of course.” Looking at Gator, he said, “Take it out of the rainy day fund. Fixing place.”

Confused, you looked at Gator, wondering what the fixing place was.

Looking back and forth between his dad and the man, Gator said, “Fixing place. Right.” Landing his eyes on the stranger you still don’t know the name of, he said, “Come on, numbnuts.” He turned his head, looking at you. “Come with me, dollface.”

You walked around Roy, following Gator. “What the fuck, G?” you whisper-shouted. “What the hell happened when I left? What the fuck is the fixing place?”

Grabbing your hand, he laced your fingers together, sighing. “A lot. I’ll tell you everything later.”

Somehow along the way, the man ended up in front of you and Gator. He had released your hand to grab a container from his pocket; that container holding chewing tobacco, also known as dip.

“You dip now?” you asked, crossing your arms.

Shrugging, Gator replied, “It’s better than smoking.”

“They’re both equally bad.”

Gator put the dip container back in his pocket as the man bent over and picked up a cigarette off the ground.

“I’m not saying, but you understand,” Gator said, looking at the man. “I had to rough you up a little back there. You coming up snake eyes and all.”

As the three of you walked, you looked off to the side, seeing a couple men with shotguns through the bushes.

“With her being such a tiny bird, which…” Gator snickered. “Ya’know… they used to be dinosaurs.” 

“Oh, my god,” you whispered. You looked at Gator, noticing that he put his hand out toward you, he silently asked you to stop while he and the man took a few more steps forward. 

The man turned to face Gator with the cigarette in his mouth, the latter spitting out some of the disgusting dip.

“Hundreds okay?” Putting his hand on the man’s arm, Gator forced the man to turn around before turning to face you to mouth cover your ears.

You did as he asked, watching as he took the gun you didn’t notice he had from the holster, holding it out toward the man. Looking through the bushes again, you now saw that the two men were standing in front of the man, their guns at the ready.

“Surprise, shitbird,” Gator said.

The man turned and flicked his cigarette at Gator, who dodged it while pulling the trigger on the firearm, the sound causing you to jump. You watched as the man grabbed Gator’s right arm, hearing his bones crunch before the guy put his hand on Gator’s junk, squeezing, knowing the pain it’s causing your best friend.

Tears sprung to your eyes as you heard Gator’s muffled screams. You continued watching as the guy retrieved a gun you definitely didn’t know he had while pushing Gator back, pointing it over your best friend’s left shoulder and firing off three rounds, Gator’s shouts ringing out in your ears over the shots.

Everything else seemed to happen in a blur. One moment you’re watching the events unfold. Next, you’re kneeling beside Gator, hand in between his shoulder blades as he vomits from all the pain he’s experienced in the last 5 minutes.

“Little Darlin’,” Roy said.

You chose to ignore him, instead focusing on your best friend. “It’s okay, G. You’re gonna be fine.”

~~~

After you took Gator to the hospital to get cast on his broken arm and then back to his house, you drove back to your parents house, trying to get a little of sleep, but as you watched the sun rise with a cup of coffee in hand, you realized that you didn’t get not a lick of sleep.

You went about your day helping your mom around the house before you decided to go see Aurora again, riding her for about an hour before you spotted Gator watching you, a small smile on his face.

When you got off of her, you stroked her neck, letting her know what a good girl she was before Bowman took her back to the stable for some treats and rest. Without a word, you followed Gator towards a man-made hot tub, seeing that Roy was sitting in it.

Since the two of you were a good ways away from him, you looked at Gator, noticing that he was wobbling. “You walkin’ like that ‘cause of that guy grabbing your balls?”

“Be lucky you don’t have these,” he replied. “Hurts like hell.”

You’ve also noticed that since being back in Lehigh, your filter was off because you said, “I know a way to make them feel better.”

Gator chuckled, and you… well, you were mortified. “Glad to see your sense of humor is still there.”

“Yeah,” you replied. “Me, too.”

Silence followed as the two of you stepped closer to the wooden tub. Gator stepped up on it, groaning. You tried to hide your chuckle behind your hand as you walked beside him on the ground, not wanting to be near Roy.

“You gonna make it there, sunshine?” Roy asked.

Since you had stopped to the side of Gator, you watched as he rubbed near his dick and balls, sighing. “Fucker got the drop on me.”

Looking at Roy, you asked with complete and utter disgust, “When the fuck did you get nipple piercings?”

Ignoring you, he asked Gator, “Tell me her name again?”

“Uh, goes by Dorothy Lyon now,” he replied. “Lives in a suburb outside the Twin Cities.”

“Married, you said?”

“Going on ten years. Husband owns a car dealership, some kind of… uh, Korean model.”

“Koreans make cars?”

“I guess.”

“Oh, dear heavens,” you whispered, looking out at the land to your right. “You two need to get out of this stupid town more.”

“Anyway, she’s got a daughter. Names Scotty. She’s about nine.”

Roy took in a breath, one that sounded angry before a man came over the radio, saying, “Roy, we got FBI here.”

Grabbing the radio with a fat cigar in his mouth, Roy said into it, “Let’s send ‘em up.”

“Wait. The fucking FBI?! What kind of shit have you two gotten into?” you asked. Noticing Gator has his hand out a little towards you, you stopped talking to see what was about to take place.

“What do you want me to…?” Gator asked.

“Ahhh, don’t worry about it,” Roy answered, just as two FBI agents walked up the wooden tubs deck. 

Gator walked backwards, gently grabbing your arm and pulling you up on the deck with him, his arm going around your stomach as he pressed your back to his front. “Just go with it, okay?” he asked. His voice was quiet enough to where only you could hear as you softly nodded your head.

“Hard day at the office?” the male agent asked.

“Like the sign says, he’s a hard man for hard times,” Roy answered. “And by he, I mean me.”

Watching as the agent handed a card to Roy, you took in a breath,  feeling Gator’s fingertips lightly rub against your stomach as his father read the card aloud. “Agent ‘Ja-Queen’.” Roy handed the card to Gator, your eyes catching it.

“It’s Joaquin,” the agent said. Gesturing to his partner, he added, “This is Agent Meyer. We’re new in the Fargo office. We thought we’d come by, see why you weren’t enforcing any of our laws.”

“What laws?”

“Oh, you know,” Joaquin replied. “Gun laws, drug laws. Any of the half-dozen other American laws passed and ratified by the US Government that you don’t seem to recognize.”

“Well, Agent Ja-Queen, I think you’ll find that there is no one on God’s green earth who is a greater enforcer of the laws of this land than Roy Tillman.”

You inwardly groaned, tilting your head back to rest on Gator’s shoulder, feeling his lips meet your temple. That kiss that was doing things to the pit of your stomach.

“Why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ here?” Meyer asked.

“But…” Roy said. You could hear the smile in his words. “...what you need to know is that I am the law of the land. Elected by the residents of his county to interpret and enforce the Constitution given to us by Almighty God.

All Agent Joaquin did was hum his answer, which prompted Gator to add, “Freedom.”

Being a smartass, you raised your hand in the air, saying, “Amen and amen. Thank you, God!”

“You know, I hear that word a lot around here,” Agent Meyer said.

“You’re just so nonchalant,” you said, picking your head up. “I wish I could be that nonchalant.”

“I’m curious,” she said, not acknowledging what you just said. “What you think that word means.”

“Agent, if you don’t know what freedom is,” Roy said. “I don’t think me saying the words out loud is gonna teach you.” You watched him from the corner of your eye turn his head towards you and Gator. “Why don’t you two go and do your chores?”

Tapping your side, you and Gator stepped forward, seeing the white card being flung from Gator by your head. Grabbing your hand again, he said, “Let’s go, dollface. Come help me with my chores.”

~~~

“Come help me with my chores, he said. What he failed to fucking mention is us actually getting into his fucking cop car to drive to the fucking hospital.”

“Dollface–,”

“Don’t you fucking dollface me, Gator Tillman,” you said, pointing at him. “I’m not the one keeping fucking secrets here. You told me you’d tell me what was going on and you fucking haven’t.”

Taking a deep breath, he twisted in the passenger seat of the truck another officer was driving, turning to face you. “You wanna know what’s going on? I’ll tell ya. When you left, I was torn apart. I wanted to follow you, but Roy wouldn’t let me; told me I had to stay here and help run the Ranch. You know how tough it was for me growing up. My mom dying when I was young, Dot coming in and then leaving, and now Karen and the twins. I got into some messed up shit over the years. All I wanted was to know that you were safe. All I wanted was–”

He stopped himself as you felt tears build on your waterline. “All you wanted was love and validation from your father,” you whispered. “That’s all I ever wanted from you, and all I ever wanted from mine as well. G, we both had shitty lives, but that doesn’t mean we follow in our father’s footsteps.”

“At least you got out.”

“But I also came back and stayed,” you whispered. “I was supposed to leave after dinner last night, but all I could think about was my best friend and how much he might need me to stick around.”

“I’m glad you did,” Gator whispered back.

It was silent for a moment before you heard him take a breath. “We were looking for Dot, and we found her. Dad’s on this hellbent… whatever you wanna call it… to get her back at the house.”

“Why’d she leave?”

“The abuse, dollface. She knew if she stayed–”

“She’d die by the hands of Roy.” You sighed, deeply, not knowing what else to say. “What about you? Did you go through the ranks at the station or did your dad just appoint you Deputy ‘cause of you being his nepo baby?”

That made Gator chuckle. “Uhm, I guess a little of both?”

“Well,” you said, knowing your filter is forever gone. “The uniform and baseball cap is a good fucking look on you.”

“Let’s go, babe,” he said. “We gotta ask a patient a few questions.”

~~~

As the two of you walked down the hallway in the hospital, you could hear a male’s voice and female’s voice grow louder as you drew closer. With your hand in Gator’s, you suddenly felt nervous.

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay,” Gator said, his voice soft. Stopping his steps, he turned to look at you, and you him. “I’m gonna have to be hardass, so… just…”

Sighing, you said, “Let you do your job.”

Nodding, Gator released a breath. He kissed your forehead before turning back to take a step forward, but stopped himself and looked back at you with his head tilted a little. “I need that filter back on, though. Can’t have you fucking up my job.”

You couldn’t help the smile that formed on your lips. “Okay,” you whispered, letting him lead you into the hospital where a man sits up in the hospital bed, a woman standing at the end in a police uniform.

“What do you know?” Gator said, stopping for a second before looking down at you. “It’s a party.”

You quietly giggled before he walked the two of you to the end of the bed right before the female officer started speaking.

“Indira Olmstead, Scandia Police Department,” she introduced, shaking Gator’s hand.

“Ah,” he said. Looking back at you, he said, “Look, baby. A city girl.”

“Well, we prefer women these days.”

“He’s old school,” you said, wrapping your hand around his upper arm to look over at her. With a smile on your face, you added, “There’s no getting him out of that mindset.”

“Well, the rest is accurate.”

“How can we help you, stranger?” the man asked.

You couldn’t help but feel extremely bad for him, seeing him laying in that bed. A thought ran through your mind; is the persona Gator brought up the day before? The one with the hole in his leg?

“Sheriff’s Deputy,” Gator said. “Stark County.”

Because you felt bad for this man, you quietly said, “He just needs to ask you a few questions.”

“Sounds like you had a mix-up in my neck of the woods last night, which–”

“They run a pretty tight ship, so…” you interrupted. Feeling Gator squeeze your hand, you squeezed back while rubbing your hand up and down his arm, trying to let him know that it’s okay. “He takes it personal when bad people show up.”

“This job will grind you down if you take it too personal,” the man said.

“What can I say?” Gator said. “I like being on the right side of a gunfight. Especially for my girl here.” You two looked at each other before he took a breath and looked at Officer Olmstead. “Heard you say you had a picture of the perps?”

“Uh, victim,” she said. “Female.”

“Right. Saw something about, uhh, a woman got taken. Or escaped or something?”

You inwardly groaned, realizing that he was bad at playing dumb.

“We think these fellas grabbed her up in Minnesota,” Indira stated. “Taking her to points west when the trooper pulled them over.”

So, now some more pieces were falling into place. Dorothy, who you now know is Dot, was taken by who you think is the man that was in the barn speaking in riddles. He and his partner, whoever that is, stopped a gas station where all hell broke loose. This man in the bed in front of you was caught in the crossfire and now has a hole in his leg, most likely from being shot.

“She killed one, the recidivist Donald Ireland, I think they said,” the man said. “The other one got away.”

“Sounds like a real Comanche, this female you’re hunting,” Gator inquired.

“Like I said, I got a photo,” Indira said. Gator reached over and took her phone from her hand. “Excuse me.”

“G,” you whispered to only where he could hear. You watched him as he scrolled through her photos.

“So, what, she some kind of criminal, also?” he asked.

“What are you doing?” you asked, still in that same super quiet tone.

He clicked on a photo, their voices dying out as you looked at a photo of Dot, holding a mugshot sign at a police station. You watched as he deleted the photo, Indira not even looking in your direction.

“Oops,” Gator said, bringing you out of your own moment. “What’d I do? Babe, what’d I do?”

Shrugging, you said, “I don’t know. I zoned out.” Which wasn’t a total lie.

“What’d’ya…” she asked, taking her phone back.

“I must’a, I don’t know,  I pressed something,” Gator responded.

“Darn it,” she quietly exclaimed. “You deleted the victim, her photo.”

“Yeah, this man here and technology never saw eye to eye,” you said. “I used to sit beside him in computer class, teaching him how to open up a writing document.” You chuckled. You did have to do that once, so, again, it wasn’t a total lie.

“Especially now,” he added. Bringing up his hand, he said, “This wrist-breaker,” while shaking his hand, a small groan passing his lips.

Dumbass.

“No, no, it’s my fault,” Officer Olmstead said. “I’m not sure what I was thinking bringing the one.”

“Mistakes happen,” you said. “Happens to all of us.”

“Well,” the man said. “I hope you find her. “If it was her, saved my life, I think.”

“Oh, no, she’s home,” Indira said. “A little worse for wear but intact.”

Looking at Gator, you saw him quickly move his eyes towards her, his hand squeezing yours like he got the answer he wanted. 

“Strangest thing, though,” she continued. “Despite all evidence, she’s claimin’ it never happened.”

“Never… what now?” the male asked.

“Says nobody broke in, says she wasn’t taken. Just went for a wander for ten hours and then came home and cooked breakfast.”

“Cry for attention, sounds like,” Gator muttered. “Drama queen trying to make her husband sick.”

“Who said she has a husband?”

Again, you squeezed his hand, a little harder than before.

Chuckling, you said, “He’s just assuming, ya’know.”

“Description said 30s in the police report, so…”

“Well, all I know is, the woman I met broke loose like somebody who knows how small the cage can get,” the man said. “Wish you had that picture. Like to meet that woman again, thank her.”

“For what?” you asked.

“Far as I can tell she’s the one got you shot in the first place,” Gator said.

“Oh, the job got  me shot,” he said. “She was just… trying to get free. But you know what they say; protect and serve.”

Gator chuckled before he said, “Yeah, I’m down with protect, but…” He looked down for a moment before looking back and saying, “I ain’t in the service industry. I’m in the kicking ass and taking names business.”

He pulled out a vape that you didn’t know he had, inhaling the chemicals and blowing the smoke out, the scent of the vape filling your nostrils. 

“You two have a nice day,” he added, tipping his ball cap at Officer Olmstead before looking at you and saying, “Come on, dollface.” 

You followed him willingly back down the hallway. Deciding not to question where he was leading you, you found yourself in the alleyway, another one of Roy’s officers standing against the wall. Gator helped up into the backseat of the truck before getting into the passenger side. He looked at the officer, a smirk on his face as he said, “Consider that bitch flummoxed,” as the truck started moving in reverse.

Oh, Gator, you thought to yourself. What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?

~~~

You hadn’t realized you’d fallen asleep until the sounds of This is Halloween from The Nightmare Before Christmas met your ears, not to mention it being dark outside. You moaned, the ache in your neck causing you some uncomfort.

“G,” you groaned. “I’m hella thirsty, and I want a snack.”

“Okay, dollface. Hey,” he said. “Pull in here. She’s wanting something inside, and I gotta take a piss.”

You heard the inhale of breath before smelling that flavor of the vape. Something has shifted between you and Gator since those agents showed up. He’s held your hand, called you baby or babe, your arm wrapped around his as you two stand in silence. It’s something you can’t quite pin, but you know something has definitely shifted.

The officer driving the truck pulled up to the door as Gator turned in his seat to face you. “Stay here, okay? Don’t move.”

Not wanting to take that chance, you nod your head and lean back against the seat, observing Gator as he asked the officer if he wanted a pop, to which he said no and got out. Your eyes shifted out of the window,  watching as Gator gets out and walks to the door just as a guy walks backwards out of the store, hands full of items he’d just bought.

You tapped on the window, yelling out “G!” before he could do something irrational, watching as he disappeared into the store. Not five minutes later, you jumped at hearing a thud on the window on the driver’s side of the truck, seeing a body before hearing gurgling noises.

“Oh, my god,” you whispered. “Gator, please hurry.” Tears sprung to your eyes as you watched the officer’s body slide to the left of the truck right before you heard Gator’s voice say, “I got us some jerky, dollface,” before ripping the top off with his teeth. “Well, me. It’s the spicy kind.”

Getting into the car, he added, “Better keep these windows down. You know what spicy foods do to me.” You could hear munching coming from the front seat, silent tears falling down your face.

“Oh, here,” he said, reaching back to hand you your $3 water and bag of chips. You tentatively took it from his hand, setting it down in the seat beside you as you heard Gator say, “Fuck, that’s hot,” and the tale tell signs of a soda bottle opening.

As he took a swig from the bottle, you saw him from the corner of your eye looking back at you. After swallowing the liquid, he asked, “Dollface, you okay?” before turning back to the front, asking himself, “Where is this guy?”

“G-Gator,” you said, voice shaky and quiet.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Outside.”

“Wh–” 

You guessed he looked out the window at the side mirror because he quickly ducked down in the seat, saying, “Baby, get down.” You did as he said, not wanting to get yourself killed like that officer that was driving the two of you.

Gator kept repeating, “Oh, my god,” as he got out of the truck, but not before saying, “Stay in the truck.”

“Gator,” you cried, not listening for even a second.

The two of you walked to the back of the truck, your hands covering your mouth as you squealed, seeing the guy laying dead on the ground, a cardboard sign stabbed into his chest that read YOU OWE ME.

Gator, with his gun drawn, looked around, breathing heavily before saying, “Oh, shit,” before looking down at the guy and repeating his words.

“Gator, call your dad,” you said. When he didn’t make a move, you shouted, “Gator, call your dad!”

Hearing the desperation in your voice, he holstered his gun to grab his phone, calling his father and asking him to get your location as quickly as he could.

Gator ushered you into the truck before dragging the man into the bed. When he got into the driver’s side, he drove off to a dark spot of the lot, not wanting to be seen by any passersby.

Roy pulled up about 15 minutes later, the two of you getting out of the truck.

“Called you directly,” Gator said, walking toward the back of the truck. “Didn’t want this going out on the wire.”

“Little Darlin’,” Roy said in surprise. “Why are you here? Why is she here?” The last question was directed at his son.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you gestured toward the bed of the truck. “G didn’t know what to do with him, so he stuck him back there.”

Roy looked at the dead man before exhaling. “Then where were you?” Looking at you, he asked the same question.

“I was draining the snake,” Gator replied. “Two minutes in and out.”

“I-I was in the backseat. I saw it happen. Just… too shocked to call anyone.”

“Did you get a look at the tape?” Roy asked, looking dead at Gator.

Gator sighed before saying, “State cops took the whole system last night on account of the other thing.” Scoffing, he looked over at you, disappointed with himself at bringing you along in the first place. Looking back at his dad, he said, “Can you believe this guy? Coming back to the scene of the crime? Like that?” He gestured to the dead man. “Talk about big balls.”

“Yeah, well, I bet yours shriveled up a little bit on account of him getting the jump on you,” Roy said. Looking at his son, he said, “Again.”

Letting his anger get the better of him, Gator took off his cap and threw it to the ground, exclaiming, “Son of a bitch!” before yelling out into the air, leaning back a little. 

“Alright, are you done?”

Scoffing, you couldn’t believe that Roy was treating his son this way. 

“Tell me again where you found this Munch guy?”

“I-is that really his name? Munch?” you asked, voice still shaky.

“He says it,” Gator said. “Ohh-lah, and I-I, I didn’t find him. I found his partner.”

“What, the guy with his head in the toilet?” Roy wondered.

Sniffling, you looked at each Tillman man. “W-Wait. There’s a guy with his head in the toilet?”

“Dead,” Gator said, quickly turning his body towards you for a moment before looking back at his father, who he nodded his head at.

“Alright, well, first order of business,” Roy said, sighing. “Little Darlin’ needs to go home. Second order of business, we need information, find out who this guy is. Priors, known accomplices, known hangouts. Then we smoke ‘em loose.”

“If he comes for us again?” Gator asked.

“Oh, believe me, he’s coming,” Roy snapped. “Sleep with your hammer cocked is my opinion, if you sleep at all.” He looked away from his son, muttering, “Jesus.” He picked up the sign and looked at it for a moment before placing it back on the tailgate of the truck. “Alright, the truck goes in the ditch. Alvie behind the wheel. Tell Bruno to report the cause of death as accidental. Then… go to his fiancee’s and break the news.”

“What are you gonna do?” Gator wondered.

“Don’t worry about what I’m gonna do, alright?”

Incredulously, you looked up at your best friend’s father, releasing a quick breath to show your emotion. “Excuse Gator for being a little worried about his fucking father!”

“Doll, it’s okay,” Gator whispered.

Completely disregarding you, Roy spoke to his son. “You’re oh for two here, kid. How do I teach you how to be a winner, you keep losing all the time?”

Your anger started to bubble to the surface, all the adrenaline you were feeling from seeing a murder starting to take shape.

Gator, wanting to impress you still after all those years, says, “I swear to God, him versus me, man-to-man, I’d wipe the floor with him.”

“Yeah, right. Like High Noon? Only happens in the movies, son. Real life, they’ll slit your throat while waiting for the light to change.” He walks away back to his truck, starts it and takes off while Gator walks up to the tailgate and lifts it to close.

“I’d like to slit his fucking throat,” you muttered.

~~~

When Gator finished the tasks that his father had set for him, he started to drive you home in complete silence. Once you noticed that you two were almost at your never-ending driveway, you looked at Gator, and said, “I don’t want to go home. I don’t think I can be alone after what happened tonight.”

He didn’t say anything; just kept on driving. You had wished he played the radio so that he couldn’t hear your soft cries, but you felt his hand on your thigh, you knew had heard you.

Sighing, he squeezed your leg softly. “Doll, I’m–”

“No,” you said, sniffling. “Please don’t. Not right now.”

“Okay,” he whispered. He never moved his hand from your thigh; the placement feeling like… home to him. It felt like home to you, as well. You never wanted him to move it.

“Hey, G?”

“Yeah, dollface?”

“Back in high school–”

“Oh, shit. Here we go.”

Chuckling at his reaction, you looked over at him before your quiet laughter died out. “Uhm… did you hurt that one kid with the tire iron after you told me you wouldn’t?”

Gator went dead quiet, not wanting to say a word. Of course he did, but he didn’t tell you because you had stopped talking to him and hanging out with him. “Why you askin’?” “Because I heard a rumor that you did, and I want you to be straight with me and tell me the truth.”

Sighing, he lightly squeezed your thigh before parking the vehicle in his designated spot. It was quiet for a moment before he nodded his head and said, “Yeah. I did.”

“Gator–” you sighed.

“Listen, I wanted revenge on the little fucker. I coulda gone all the way if he hadn’t broken my leg. Woulda had–”

“A better life?” you asked.

Gator nodded, turning his head to look at you. “I felt like I didn’t have a choice.”

You turned in your seat to face him, cupping his face. “You listen to me, Gator. You always have a choice. Even now, you have a choice. Just because you’re 27 doesn’t mean your choices stop. Your whole fucking life is full of choices. You just have to make the right ones.”

“Can I make one now?” he asked.

“Of course,” you said, brows furrowed.

Without so much as another word, he leaned forward and pressed his lips on yours, giving you the kiss he’d been wanting to give you since you both were sophomores in high school. A kiss that you reveled in, and returned with great passion.

You hadn’t even realized that you climbed over the middle console to straddle his lap. Breaking the kiss for a moment for some much needed air, you breathlessly asked, “Are Karen and the girls home?”

Looking around you, Gator roamed his eyes across the yard, not seeing her car. “I don’t see her car, but she could’ve parked somewhere else.”

“Feel like moving this one somewhere else? Don’t want anyone seeing us, right?”

“Seeing us make out?”

Leaning your head down on his shoulder, you sighed out his name, feeling his shoulder shake from laughter.

“I don’t care if they see,” he said, lifting your head. “I’ve been waiting for this fucking moment since I saw you the other day. Ya’know, other than the times when we were teenagers.”

“You wanted to fuck me then?” you asked, his answer coming out as a nod. Lightly hitting him in the shoulder, you smiled and said, “Why didn’t you ever say anything? I would have!”

“Well, we can now,” he said. “Get your beautiful ass in the back.”

Giggling, you awkwardly made your way to the back seat, watching as Gator also made his way into the back with you, hitting his head on the vehicle’s ceiling a couple of times. Looking up at it, he muttered, “Motherfucker,” before wrapping his arm around your back to guide you to lay down as he kissed you.

You grabbed as his vest, doing your best to take it off before growling in frustration. “Get this fucking thing off, G. It’s pissing me off.”

He chuckled, sitting up the best he could without hitting his head… again. You watched him expertly take off his vest and accessories, biting your bottom lip. Reaching forward, you grabbed the bottom of his shirt not tucked into his pants and pulled up, removing the shirt off his torso. 

Leaning back over you, Gator kissed you with more heat than before, his cock starting to strain in his pants. Pulling back, he kissed your cheek and jaw, working his way down to your neck. “I can’t wait to fuck this pussy. I’ve been dreaming of it for years, dollface.”

“Fuck, Gator,” you whispered. Closing your eyes, you let your senses heighten at the feel of his lips  on your neck, whimpering when you felt him suck on your sweet spot, his tongue licking over the mark he just made.

“That’s to let everyone know that you’re mine, doll. No one else’s. Am I clear?”

Nodding, you opened your eyes, looking him dead in his. “Y-Yes, sir.”

Growling, he lifted you  up to remove your shirt and bra, his eyes going straight to your breasts before going back to your own eyes. Laying you back down, he caged your head between his forearms, gently brushing your hair back. 

“What?” you whispered, gently brushing your hands up and down his sides.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered back.

Looking down at the patch of hair on his chest, your reply of, “You’re only saying that because I’m topless and you saw my breasts.”

Gator put his finger under your chin and raised your head the slightest bit to look into your eyes. “Yes, your breasts are beautiful, but you, dollface, are more beautiful.”

Tears filled your eyes as you took in Gator’s words. You valued being called beautiful more than any other adjective people use to describe someone’s looks. “So are you.” At the look Gator gave you, it made you laugh.

“You’re, like… handsomely beautiful,” you added.

“Okay then,” Gator said, softly. Placing his lips on yours, he decided then and there that he was going to make you his, no matter what. Pulling back just a little, he whispered, “Just so you know, dollface, I won’t go slow. I will risk tipping this fucking truck over as I pound that pussy of yours.”

“O-Ooooohhhhh, shit,” you stuttered, watching as Gator unbuttoned and unzipped your pants.

He guided the material down your legs along with your panties, taking off each shoe to make it easier. Once you were completely naked underneath him, Gator did his best to finish undressing himself before reaching into the front of the truck to retrieve a condom from… wherever he was reaching, you couldn’t see.

As your eyes met his, you watched from your periphery as he rolled the condom onto his hard cock before leaned back over you, placing his lips on yours as he slowly, but not so gently entered you.

“O-o-o-o-oh, ffffffffffffffuuuuuuuckkkkkkkkkkkkk,” you moaned, reaching up to grab the back of his head. True to his word, Gator started to pound your pussy with just force that the truck, indeed, started to shake. “Just like that, G. Oh, my god, don’t stop!”

To better balance himself above you to look into your eyes, Gator placed his palm on the window, adding to the shakes of the truck. “God, you’re incredible!” he moaned, cupping your face.

You’d dreamt of this moment since your senior year of high school, just months before you stopped talking to Gator. You had thought about breaking your own silence with him by asking him to have sex with you, but you refrained, sticking to your guns, especially after he broke his promise to you.

Gator leaned down and kissed your lips with such fervor, you almost forgot how to breathe. “Yeah, yeah,” he moaned. “Almost there? Almost there?”

You couldn’t speak, this moment with him feeling in-fucking-credible. “I’m almost there, Gator. Don’t stop! If you do-” Moan. “I’ll cut your fucking dick off and feed to you.”

He chuckled, leaning down to kiss you again. His chuckle turned into a full on laugh when he heard pounding on the window above your head.

The both of you looked up, seeing none other than Roy Tillman standing there with your father, a look of shock on your face that quickly turned into one of pleasure as you felt Gator’s finger touch your clit.

“Fuck, Gator,” you moaned, not caring that your father was watching you get fucked.

“Gonna fuckin’ come for me, dollface?” Gator asked. “Gonna fuckin’ come all over this cock?”

“Yes,” you groaned. “I’m gonna come all over your cock. Oh, my god, I’m coming. Gator, I’m coming. I’m-” Your words were cut off with the loudest moan you’d ever done, loudly whimpering as your climax washed over you, your core turning sensitive. “Gator, I’m getting sens-”

“I’m almost there, dollface,” he groaned, dipping his head into your neck. Letting out a loud moan of his own after a few more thrusts, Gator was spilling into the condom, the both of you wishing it was you he was spilling into instead of the condom.

Gator decided to voice his thought, saying, “Fuck, that was amazing, dollface.” Looking up at you, he added, “But I wish I had come inside of your pussy rather this fuckin’ condom.”

Laughing, your hands cupped his cheeks, bringing him down towards your lips in a sweet kiss. 

Before the two of you could sit in the post-sex bliss, the knocking on the window sounded again, this time Roy’s voice coming through the window as he asked, “You two done?”

Looking from Gator to Roy, you replied, “I wouldn’t mind round two.”

“Get the hell out of the truck,” your father said, walking off. 

After your father and Roy walked off, you looked at Gator for a brief moment before the two started laughing, almost hysterically. “Come on, doll,” Gator said. “Let’s get you cleaned up and dressed.”

About ten minutes later, the two of you were dressed and walking into the house, ignoring both of your father’s stares as you walked through the kitchen and to the stairs, where Gator had stopped you just to kiss you.

Pulling back, he looked at you, a slight smile on his face. “I’ve always loved you, dollface. Did you know that?” With a smile on your face, you leaned up just the slightest, a smile on your face as you replied. “Yes, and I you, Gator Tillman.”

Pushing a piece of hair behind your ear, Gator said, “Now, here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna take you into my bedroom, eat this pussy until you’re coming all over my face, and then I’m gonna make the sweetest love to you before I pound that pussy once again until us and my sheets are covered in cum and sweat. What do you say?”

“I say…” You stepped up a couple of steps, now standing a little higher than Gator with a playful smirk on your face. “What are you waiting for, G?” Turning your back to him, you started walking up the stairs before looking back at him, squealing as you watched him run after you before you, too, bolted up the steps and into his room, ready for round two.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N 2:  hi, friends! this is probably the longest standalone fic i've ever written, lol. let me know what you thought! again, please do not hesitate to reblog and give some feedback, whether it be in the reblogs, comments, or my inbox.

Additional Notes: as i stated above with the triggers, i've never written anything like this before. some of these scenes were hard to write. if you did read and you were triggered by it, please do not send me any hate comments or messages in my inbox for something of mine you read knowing what the triggers were. i just let my imagination run and this is what it came up with it.

~~~

Forever / Everything Taglist: @stiles-o-dylan24 @stixnstripesworld @fandom-princess-forevermore @quanticobae @mischiefandi @kellyashcroft @lauren-novak

Gator Tillman Taglist: @ali-r3n​

If you’re tagged and didn’t want to be, please let me know.

Italics wouldn’t let me tag!

~~~

*Please don’t post my writing anywhere else without my consent. The author of this work will always and forever be @harringtonstilinski​.

All characters, story lines and plot, aside from y/n and her storyline & plot, are all of the work of Noah Hawley.

*These works contain material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited.

No part of these works may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

Posted on January 4, 2025

[lostberet]

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ MOB DAYCARE teaser | min yoongi (m)

𐙚 synopsis: After almost meeting Satan himself, Agust D is forced to take a hiatus from his underwork mob work. However, during his hiatus, he is stumbled upon a 4 year old. And so far, being a guardian is harder than being a mob leader.

༘⋆ genre: explicit (18+) ; angst , romance , violence, suspense , smut ; haegeum au , gang au , parenthood au .

༘⋆ disclaimer: Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, Manipulative behavior, Violence, Mention of death, eventual smut, Sexual themes, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

༘⋆ a/note: coming back with a new series even though I have not yet started HeartBurn, but I will soon!

NEXT

Have you told Agust D, the Panther mob clan leader he would be left to die 2 years ago, he would have laughed in your face before pointing a gun to your face and pulling the trigger. 

Have you told him he would be in a scenario in which he had to take a hiatus from his work a year ago, as he lay in the hospital, he would not believe you. He would not put a gun to your head, in fact, he would only shake his head. Because a year ago, he would have been almost sent to meet Satan himself. A year ago, he would have almost lost his life, a taste of death. And he didn’t like it.

Agust D stared blankly at the toddler sitting on the stairs outside his home. His mouth was dry as the burning sun stabbed his back. The man looked up at the sun, squinting. August D had been forced to leave work- his dirty work for a while. He had been taken to the mountains, far from the underground base to recover. Far from the city..

So far.. From the city.. So why was a toddler sitting on the stairs of his home? 

“Ay.. kid?” Agust questioned, his voice cracking from the dryness. The toddler only looked up at him, big eyes staring back at him, “where’s your mom? Dad?” 

The child only stared at Agust for a second. A second was enough for Agust to notice the sunburn cheeks of the child as well as the dried tears and dirty face on the child. As he stared hard at the child the kid’s bottom lip trembled before bursting into sobs, standing from where he sat and running towards the man. Startled by the sudden approach, Agust took a step back, catching his balance as the toddler hugged his leg, “mama!” 

The child cried as he gripped onto the older man harder, “ay! I ain’t your mama!” 

After an unsuccessful mission of leaving the child, Agust took him into his home. Setting him down in his beautiful living room with cartoons playing on the TV. With a frown on his face, Agust turned to look at his main group, “Whose fucking kid is this?” 

He received confused looks and frowns, “hyung..” The younger man started, clearing his throat, “there is no one living on this mountain..” Agust's face scar itches, causing him to wince, his head turning to meet the other, “so you’re saying this kid just got dropped off and left to die?” Agust grumbled, “Jungkook, please..”

“Jungkook is right, hyung,” Namjoon stated, looking up from his phone, “A possible failed kidnapping?” Agust- Yoongi stared back at Namjoon, “find this kid’s parents.” 

And as his team left his home, Yoongi looked back at the child, who stared at the TV, his small fingers in his mouth as he bit his nails. Biting the inside of his cheek, Yoongi called back to the group, “and bring some clothes for this kid, too.”

2024 © LOSTBERET, all rights reserved. please do not copy, plagiarize, translate, repost, or steal my work.

[justagalwhowrites]

The Savage and the Sanctuary - Prologue

Tommy offers Joel help one last time. The prologue to The Savage and the Sanctuary, a no outbreak TLOU story found on Tumblr here.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

CW: Grief. Mentions of child death. No use of Y/N. Whole fic will be explicit so minors DNI, 18+ only.

Length: 1.3k

Fic Masterlist | Masterlist | AO3 | Next Chapter

“If you think I’m not going to fight for what’s mine, you’re insane!” 

Joel remembered the woman on the screen. She was young, beautiful, her perfectly made up face snarled in rage. He remembered her. He always remembered her. 

He remembered the scene, too. 

Sarah had loved this show. She was obsessed, one of her friends at school put her onto it and she watched it all in a matter of weeks on Netflix. 

Joel had hated this show. There were drugs and sex and Sarah was just 13 when she watched it but he’d been such a sucker for her that he let her. He’d always been a sucker for her. He always gave her whatever she asked for. 

Maybe that had been wrong.

Maybe if he’d stood his ground more, maybe if he’d been a better father instead of just giving his daughter whatever she wanted, she wouldn’t be dead. 

“Mr. Miller?” 

Joel looked away from the television, reminded that he was in the hospital and that it must be after 3 a.m. by now. The nurse stood in the doorway, an almost pitying look on her face. 

“Your brother is here to see you.” 

Joel just went back to watching the TV. The woman he remembered was still there, beautiful face streaked with tears.

“I can’t believe you,” she whispered. She was a good actress, he thought. Convincing. She sounded like she was in pain. He doubted someone like her even knew what that would really feel like, what that would really sound like. He did. He knew. 

“Joel.” 

He looked to the door, his brother standing there, the early morning beginnings of a beard on his chin, in athletic wear instead of the suit he saw him in so often these days. He looked back to the TV. 

“You can’t keep doing this, man,” Tommy said, coming in and standing beside him. The woman on the TV raised a gun. “You can’t keep beating the shit out of people you don’t like, I can’t keep trying to buy them off, Maria can’t keep talking you out of trouble with the cops… Hell, I only really talked Maria into it this time because it’s the anniversary of the day she… we know it’s hard but you’re this close to ending up in deep shit with an actual rap sheet, man.” 

She screamed and sobbed as she pulled the trigger. 

“Joel.” 

The woman panted for breath before lifting the gun to her temple. It cut to commercial. 

“Sarah loved that show,” Joel said, looking away from the TV to see Tommy close his eyes and shake his head with a sigh. 

“I know you’ve been strugglin’,” Tommy said, crossing his arms and looking at him again. “And I don’t blame you, alright? What you’ve been through… I’d be a wreck too. I know it ain’t the same but it killed me too, for a while, losing her that way. Can’t even imagine what it’s like for you. But Joel… it’s been three years now. You can’t keep destroying yourself like this, you just can’t. It’s killing me to watch you do it but I don’t got it in me to keep saving you. I cannot let you drag me down with you, not now, not with…” 

He clenched his jaw for a moment, looking back toward the door and back at Joel again. 

“Maria’s pregnant.” Joel’s heart clenched. “She’s my focus now. I want to be there for you, Joel. Lord knows I owe you after everything you did for me but I can’t do it at the expense of myself or my wife and my kid. You understand?” 

Joel nodded slowly, looking to his boots. There was a dark spot on the left toe, the leather never really clean from the blood. 

“Here,” Tommy held out a business card.

Joel frowned. 

“Think I know how to get ahold of my own brother.” 

“This ain’t for me,” Tommy said. “It’s my hiring manager. This is the last thing I’m doin’ for you, Joel. Come and work for me. I can help you that way, make sure you’re not out there on your own. You don’t got the formal training of the other guys but we can handle that. Christ knows you got the raw skill, just ask the asshole whose face you rearranged…” 

“He’s lucky that’s all I did,” Joel snapped. 

Tommy ignored him. 

“Once your hand heals up, we can get you started,” Tommy said, card still out. Joel took it, running his fingers over the embossed lettering. “I want to help you, Joel. I want to be there for you. This is the last way I can do that. Understand?” 

He just looked at the card, Miller Security in large letters, Military Grade Personal Protection in smaller ones below. The email address was for someone named Marlene. 

Joel had probably met her at some point but he didn’t remember her. Joel had been to a few company BBQs and happy hours for the private security company his brother had founded about six months after his daughter died. 

Tommy used to work alongside Joel, the two of them taking contracting work together. If wasn’t easy work but it was satisfying. Joel liked building things, liked working with his hands and seeing the physical manifestations of his labor. It wasn’t a bad life, in hindsight. Not since he’d blown it. 

After his daughter died, Joel couldn’t keep working. He tried, after a few weeks, to get back to it but he sometimes showed up drunk, sometimes didn’t show up at all. It wasn’t long before he was fired and word spread. Soon, he got shot down for every job he tried for. He’d screwed over not just himself but Tommy, too. 

That’s how Tommy came to create the security company to begin with. He had a few old special forces buddies move back to town looking for work and Tommy realized he had a lot of highly trained men with time on their hands at his fingertips. What better way to put them to use than to start a security company?

The business took off. Joel was proud of him. Or, as proud as he could be while the rot of guilt gnawed at him for letting down his then struggling brother so badly he needed to start his own fucking business to fix it. 

And now his brother - six years his junior, the kid he’d promised his mother he’d look after when she was on her death bed - was offering him a job after bailing him out at least a dozen times in three years. 

“I want to help, Joel,” Tommy said. “Please let me. Work with me, get back on your feet, have a support system. I want to help but you have to let yourself be helped. Please.” 

Joel tucked the card into the pocket of his shirt and looked at Tommy, a pleading look in his eyes. Eyes that reminded him of Sarah. 

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll email in the mornin’.” 

Tommy closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Thank you,” he said as a nurse came in around him. “I’ll be out here, give you a ride home…” 

“We’ll have him out quick,” the woman smiled kindly as Tommy turned to go. “I’m here to handle discharge. Can you confirm your name and birthday for me?” 

“Joel Miller,” he said. “September 26, 1982.” 

“Oh!” She looked up from the chart and smiled at Joel. “Happy birthday!” 

Next Chapter

A/N: Welcome to The Savage and the Sanctuary! I like to introduce my new fics as I'm finishing up an existing one. This likely won't get chapter one for a few weeks yet but you never know what might happen! I hope you're excited to go on this journey as Joel learns to find himself again after surviving the loss of Sarah. There's a lot of angst and excitement and smut ahead! Fingers crossed you enjoy the ride.

Love you!

Taglist: @christinamadsen

[stargirlfics]

Misbehavior

Joel Miller x Black F!Reader

Summary: It’s the first and last time you ever talk back to his face

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, post-outbreak, Joel and Ellie are settled in Jackson, established relationship, brat tamer!Joel vibes, smut: rough sex, unprotected vaginal sex, orgasm denial, hair pulling, spanking mentions, dirty talk

Word Count: 3.1k

Cannot stop thinking about Joel’s sick little smirk here! I want him to put me in my place so bad, hope you enjoy this one!

It’s the way Joel Miller looks riding his horse, a hunting knife on his hip and a rifle held expertly along with the reigns in his broad hands that makes your skin prickle and your breathing deepen. 

Spring is still yet thawing the cold woods ahead of you but you only feel heat staring at his sturdy shoulders, sturdy everything actually, that you knew to be a fact, smiling to yourself about it as your own horse trailed closeby just a few feet behind him. 

Being paired with him and being with him period felt right, natural, like somehow this was always where you were meant to be in this life. 

You trusted each other now, able to move in silence like this, with his steady and well adjusted trigger finger and your sharp eyes, pointing out tracks, watching for signs of life, listening for infected or raiders, the two of you undoubtedly working well together. 

In fact everyone in Jackson said so, especially Ellie, but if any of them knew just how much of a brat you’d been to him in the beginning they’d be surprised you were together at all. 

It’s not that you and him got off on the wrong foot, but keeping him just on the edge of aggravated kept you at a safe distance away from acting on your distracted, midday, late night thoughts about him. 

He was wary of strangers anyways and back then you were unknown to each other and gaining trust had taken time but eventually you stopped keeping each other at arm's length.

Started seeing each other around the stables more often, or rather you saw Ellie there and quickly learned that wherever she was, Joel wasn’t too far behind. 

You remembered showing her the way around the barn, where supplies were kept in case she ever needed anything, noticing her interest in the animals, encouraging it, indulging in her never ending questions because you only wanted to see her smile. 

In retrospect you think that’s why Joel tolerated your game of push and pull, why he warmed up to you in the end, because you were someone his kiddo approved of. 

Funny how things could change, how a relationship could form in between quiet glances and soft smiles, weathered walls falling at the brush of his hand against yours and that smooth drawl saying your name as if it were sacred. 

That was then and this was now, patrolling the perimeters together in the moonlight. 

A soft toned whistle that loosened from his lips caught your attention, spine straightening at the signal that was just for you and him. 

“Hm?” came your distracted hum, huffed in response while you picked up speed so your horses were walking almost side by side then. 

“I heard you went out on patrol completely on your own the other night, yeah? While knowin raiders have been close, ain’t that right? So I’m only going to say this once…start explaining.” 

His voice is clipped, a quiet, contained anger in them reminding you of his sharper edges, the ones you’d only caught glimpses of, heard whispers of, that visceral part of him that only raged to protect the people he loved most. 

Joel would never hurt you, if you were certain of anything it was that, but there were times where you wanted to feel even just a fraction of his wrathful touch, to be reminded of what he’s capable of, knowing he could make it hurt in the best way.

It’s the thought along with the shiver rolling through your limbs that makes your pace falter, as you scramble for words and then for air next when all you were met with was dark eyes cutting a pointed glance your way. 

“Fuck…ok yes, I did but it was only because there was already a group of us nearby, it felt safe. They sent someone back to get a message to me that they found tracks, a stag, just needed my help finding him. Then one of Tommy’s guys escorted me back, it was fine.”  

“Doesn’t mean you should have gone on your own, I  don’t give a damn how safe it was.” 

“Hey! I’ve been hunting and going on patrols by myself long before you showed up,” you shot back at his harsh retort, suddenly feeling defensive. “I know these woods like the back of my hand, I could be blindfolded and still come back with more game than you, old man.”

He scoffed at your insult, another heavy glare coming right after. 

“I don’t doubt that for a second, darlin. Just wish you would have told me is all I’m sayin.” 

There’s weight in his words, a deeper meaning you pick up immediately and you know he’s right and there’s no denying that you’d be chewing him out ten times worse if he’d done the same, the risk of losing each other an easy nerve to strike after all that’s happened. 

A beat of silence punctates the air before you’re speaking again, tone much softer, apologetic. 

“I hear you. I should have at least told you and I’m sorry I didn’t, I wasn't really thinking in the moment. Thank you, by the way, for caring about me enough to say something.” 

You hoped he could hear the guilt laced in your words, and the gratefulness of them too, still getting used to someone so wired to protect which never failed to make your heart flip. Nobody told you it could feel like this. 

“S’alright, of course I care. I don’t wanna downplay how skilled you are either, I just hate thinking of something happenin and not being there you know.” 

That had you smiling a little, pulse fluttering at the reminder of your feelings for each other, the gravity behind what he was saying. 

Gently you let your leg nudge his, both your horses slowing as you came to the edge of the perimeter you were watching.

“I promise it won’t happen again.” 

The softening edge of Joel’s eyes were visible now as he looked at you, giving you a firm but approving nod. 

Silence settles between you again, only lighter this time with feelings eased and things smoothed over though for you, there was a leftover kind of excitement stirring in your tummy. 

Your ears were still ringing with the gruffness of his voice, an antsy energy in your limbs at how stern he had been. Heated distraction lodged itself front and center in your mind, thoughts of Joel handling you just as harshly as his glares had been making you squirm in your saddle. 

A low chuckle interrupts the tiny sparks of a dirty daydream you didn’t even realize you’d fallen into until now. 

“What’s so funny?” you feign innocence. 

“Nothin, just think it’s cute when you get that look on your face, only happens when you’re hungry…or when you wanna be fucked.” 

Again, you were left scrambling for words for the second time tonight, heart hammering in your chest at the way the last few words slid from his lips, dripping with some unspoken invitation. 

“I-don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Disagreeing is pointless when you know he can see it written across your face but you refute anyways, adding a bit of attitude to your tone. 

Joel huffs another laugh, clicking his tongue while he encouraged his horse to move again, back in the direction you’d come. 

“Hm, you were so ready to agree with me just a minute ago, now you’re back to sassin me?” 

“Maybe I am. What’s so wrong about that?” you shrug and roll your eyes for good measure. 

He was opening up all the right doors and you were almost too eager to walk through them, craving the part of Joel you knew could get mean.

“I’m really gonna have to do something about that mouth of yours, huh,” he sighed, amusement curling around the edges of his lips. 

Butterflies danced in your core as you smirked back at him, finding your footing quick, “Oh I should hope so, I’ll be waiting.” 

It’s what you leave him with as you surge forward, not straying too far from his line of sight, but enough so that he has some distance to cover. 

Joel gives you a few seconds, lets you think you’re gaining some kind of upper hand before he sets out after you, a tick in his jaw and a hungry itch in his hands. 

–

It’s only a day later that you realize how screwed you are, facing down the stark reality of this little game you started. 

He had cornered you, finding you in the hall leading to his bedroom, a dark glint in his eyes when he tells you it’s an empty house tonight, just you, him and unfinished business. 

The tip of his boot moves to give your heel a light tap then, prompting you to move. 

“Want you in bed, sweetheart. Now.” 

There’s a suspended moment before you’re sealing your fate, pushing the pendulum fully in his direction.

“I don’t really feel like listening to you though, so I guess you’ll just have to make me…if you can even handle it,” you tip your chin up, trying not to be intimidated by the way he’s crowding your space. 

Your skin tingles, never having talked back to him so flat out before. 

Then you realize he’s already got you where he wants, strong hands snaking around your middle until he’s got one on your hip and the other reaching for a fistful of your hair, gripping firmly before he’s moving you forward, pushing you through the doorway. 

A sharp gasp bubbles up from your chest and he’s laughing darkly.  

There’s no use in resisting or struggling but you do anyway, finding a thrill in how easy it is for him to keep you locked in his grip, liking the aggressive pinch of his fingers as he moves your limbs for you, bringing you over to the bed, forcing you to bend over it.

Shaky hands reach for purchase against the sheets as Joel slides his palms over your ass, humming to himself. 

“I keep thinkin bout spanking this pretty ass of yours raw but you’d probably enjoy that too much wouldn’t you?” 

All you can do is whine, too worked up to think of anything witty to say which is probably for the best. 

No time was wasted, nothing held back, no teasing to be had, the two of you desperate now, needy. 

The heated skin of your thighs meets cool air as Joel strips you down, yanking at your clothes carelessly, so what if the fabric tears in his hands, he just needs you bare and underneath him already. 

You work on your top half, wriggling out of your t-shirt, tossing your bra to the floor, moonlight setting the brown of your skin aglow; Joel would have called you an angel if he didn’t know just how wicked your sweet self could really be. 

It’s not long before your cheek is pressed to the bed, hips high in the air, the dripping mess that you are on display as he fits himself behind you. 

He grins, undoing the buckle of his belt with one hand while the other braces against your hip, pressing down, deepening the arch in your back. 

Fuck. 

The arousal swirls achingly across your body, thighs clenching as you watch, his worn flannel falling the ground next to your jeans, your eyes feasting on the expanse of his shoulders, down over his chest, down to where he was drawing himself out, already stiff, flushed and aching to be buried deep. 

“Remember how to tell me if you wanna stop?” His question is one you’re expecting, nodding with a soft whine when he moves to grind his cock against where you’re wet and eager, your hand reaching back to tap a sequence against his skin. 

He seemed to approve of your demonstration, his free hand coating the rest of his length in your slick with a few dirty strokes of his fist before pressing against you, the tip catching and your walls yielding, letting him sink inside. 

“Oh..Joel!” your moan is strained, punctuated with a gasp as you stretch around him, tenderly accomodating to his size. 

There isn’t much time to adjust before he’s rolling his hips and pulling back, pushing an exhale from your lungs when he thrusts back in, nudging deep. 

“Goddamnit, sweetheart. Look at you.” 

There’s so much reverence in his voice, big brown eyes sparking wide with pleasure, so much so you think he just might have forgotten about your earlier insolence. 

But then he’s pulling his hips back and snapping them forward roughly, setting a steady pace that has you panting and crying out, peering over your shoulder at him as he starts to pound into you. 

It’s a sight that makes you clench around him, your ass bouncing back against his hips, the muscles in his forearms, his biceps, tensing from the effort. 

You feel your mind going hazy but a sharp smack to your thigh catches your attention and you realize there’s nowhere for you to run as Joel curves over you.

“Uh uh, it’s not gonna be that easy. You wanted to be a brat so bad, now I’m gonna fuck you like one.”

The hand that had been on your hip smoothes up your back, gripping the back of your neck with a firm squeeze before letting his full weight drive his hips down hard. 

Your teeth bite at his covers, loud pleas and moans barely muffled as he finds that spot, the one that always makes tears well in your eyes. 

Joel relishes in how your body trembles when he keeps himself angled there, watching you choke out apologies and pleas for more all in the same breath, his handprints bound to leave bruises on your skin from the way he’s holding you.

He knows you’re already sensitive, and your body already spent from keeping yourself upright through his thrusts, ones that still weren’t faltering, but he also knew you liked that it hurt so good too. 

“Joel, please I’m gonna-” you begin to sob, feeling the pressure in your core deepen only for it to dissipate as you’re eased off his length a minute later. 

You let your body sink, collapsing onto your tummy with a defeated cry, turning around to face the man who so rudely denied you an orgasm, whatever valid reasonings he had be damned. 

Stepping out of his boots and jeans fully now, you open up to him completely, no longer shy about wanting this so bad, encouraged by how much he seemed to be having fun too, more arousal dripping from your swollen folds at the intensity, the security in knowing he’d take care of you. 

You’d pissed him off with all your sass but you knew he’d never push you past your limits and it’s why you give in so easily now. 

Coherent thoughts fade from your head when Joel finally pulls you down towards the edge of the bed by your ankles and moves between your legs to guide himself back inside you easily, rough hands shoving your thighs back towards your chest so he can split you open and watch as he does. 

Any sense of time or day melts away, your only focus being Joel, only able to feel him, what he’s doing to you, whimpering out curses and moans as he bounces you on his cock, thick fingers reaching down to find your clit. 

The bliss and the pressure build again, making everything hazy once more, eyes fluttering with each thrust now cause you’re too fucked out to concentrate on anything but how good he feels. 

But Joel is watching, studying the pretty faces and sounds you make, one of his hands quick to find its way into your hair again, grabbing a fistful and pulling firmly and slowly, tilting your head up so you can’t do anything but look at him.  

“No, no you focus, right here. Right here, darlin.” he grits out and clinging to his forearms is all you can do to keep yourself steady. 

His other hand leaves your clit to grip at your jaw for a moment, strong legs spearing his hips into you over and over all the while, the wet gush of your pussy taking everything he gives you makes heat settle in your cheeks and spread across your chest. 

Wrecked moans are swallowed by messy kisses, the prickly stubble of his beard against your neck driving you crazy. 

Everything about him makes you clench, your thighs threatening to tighten around his waist the more he gives you. 

But you wanted him to be mean and he hadn’t forgotten, delivering a few searing smacks across your inner thighs, a warning that told you to be good and keep them spread. 

“That’s it, now she’s learning ain’t she. Just needed me to fuck those disrespectful thoughts out of your head, huh.” 

“Yes, yes, fuck yes! Need it so bad!” your wanton cries make his teeth clench while your toes point and curl. 

Everything in you burns molten, succumbing to Joel’s coarser treatment, his fingers, his lips, his cock knowing all your sensitive points and playing to them expertly. 

There’s no reprieve, no break in how soundly he fucks you, the bedframe creaking noisily from the movement, both of you sweaty and breathless but loathe to stop, so much desire washing over you at the frenzied passion in the eyes of the only man that could touch you like this. 

It was everything you had been daydreaming and craving, sobbing into your palm by the time Joel finally let you have what you wanted. 

You came hard, the pleasure drawn out for so long the climax of it shattered you, leaving you feeling soft and weightless against the mattress as he chases his own release, finding it swiftly after you. 

-

It’s much later that you’re tucked against him, a dreamy and well satisfied tilt to your lips as you sink into his touch, those deadly, brilliant hands of his caressing soft circles into your skin, against the places he knows he gripped with force tonight. 

He checks in with you now and then, making sure the comedown doesn’t hit you too hard, only soft words and praise for you now, a few sweet kisses left along your shoulder as you drift in and out of sleep together, exhausted and content beyond words. 

In the quiet of his room you giggle that you swear you’ll never be such a brat to him again but even you can’t deny that if this was what the consequences were, you just might have to talk back to him more often. 

Joel knows it too, gleaming eyes narrowing as he warns that your wicked little mouth is next in line for a lesson if you so dared. 

Oh..well maybe you’d be catching an attitude again much sooner than you thought. 

---

A/N: Eeep it is here! This one took me some time to write just cause I feel like I get in my head about writing Joel correctly a lot of the time and with this including rougher sex it was a little bit of a struggle to write at times but I like how it turned out in the end and I hope this was steamy and fun and hot and that it feels real to the character too! Thank you so much for reading!

Let me know what you think, pls thirst with me!

some tags, no pressure! @eupheme @wyn-n-tonic @ozarkthedog @moreofem @fagen @black-fairy3 @persona-enthusiast @fluffyprettykitty @earlgreychiffon @tarrenterror25 @federalchickensoup @jolly-polly @inklore @babiiface95 @targaryenvampireslayer @chezamanda @simplykenni @allaboardthereadingrailroad

[myveryownfanfiction]

18+ MINORS AND THOSE WITHOUT AGE IN BIO DNI

tags: @illiana-mystery, @ghostlypie

warnings: swearing, menstruation, hunting a vampire nest, violence

“I said no.” Dean said, voice firm as we stood in the hotel room. I crossed my arms over my chest and stared him down. “That’s final (Y/N).” Sam glanced between us, hands frozen over the keyboard of his laptop.

“dean, it’s not fair and you know it!” I shot back. Deans jaw clenched and I raised an eyebrow.

“I’m gonna…” Sam said before slipping out of his chair and exiting the room. Dean sighed and rubbed his forehead.

“it’s a vamp nest (Y/N). They can smell blood.” He took a step forward and put his hands on my arm. “You’re bleeding ain’t you?” His eyes glanced down and I scoffed. “It’s blood isn’t it? And blood is blood!” I scoffed again and pushed him away.

“I’m coming dean.” I said. “Whether you like it or not. It’s a vamp nest dean. As you keep reminding me. And a big one. We’re gonna need the three of us.” Dean sighed.

“fine.” He said, throwing his hands up. “But I’m keeping an eye on you. One even gets close I’m shooting at will.”

“who’s will? And what did he do to get shot?” I teased as I went about gearing up. Dean started muttering under his breath and I sighed. Closing my eyes, I shook my head. I walked over to where he was standing and wrapped my arms around him. I kissed his shoulder and dean relaxed. “I know you’re worried. But I’ll be fine. Promise. This isn’t the first time I’ve been on a hunt while on my period. It won’t be the last. And you forget that I’ve had a long career before meeting you and Sammy. This isn’t my first time ganking vamps on my period.” Dean turned to me with shock on his face. I nodded and gave him a tight smile.

“(Y/N).” He said, holding tightly to my arms. “You haven’t…” I nodded and leaned my head against his.

“anything to survive. And wipe them out.” I leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Right?” Dean sighed and kissed my forehead.

“alright. You can come. But I have to be happy about it.” He said. I nodded and headed out to baby. The drive over was tense and quiet. Sam kept looking between dean and i, probably wondering what was going on. When we got there, we got out and checked ourselves over.

“everyone ready?” I asked. Sam nodded. Dean gave me a look before nodding.

“yeah. Let’s go.” He said. We pulled our guns and went in. It was quiet, making dean and I nervous. We shared a look and nodded. We fanned out and I took a deep breath to steady my nerves. I kept dean in my sight line as I headed towards the wall. I heard a shot to my left where Sam was and another vamp jumped out in front of me, teeth bared.

“Hi.” I deadpanned, pulling the trigger. The vamp fell back and another emerged.

“you shouldn’t have come here. We can smell you.” The vampire said. I raised an arm, keeping my gun level.

“didn’t realize I smelled that bad.” I said. “Hey dee? Do I smell?” There was a shot to my right and dean appeared next to me.

“no.” He said. “Thought you showered this morning.” I nodded.

“these suckers say they can smell me.” I said. Dean shook his head.

“told you not to come.” He said as the vamps started to swarm up. Dean and I ducked around each other, firing off shots as we went. I ran out of bullets and put my gun in my waistband. “You out?” Dean asked as I ducked under his arm and grabbed the knife from his boot.

“yeah.” I said, slashing a vamp in the neck. “But it’s fine. I got this.” I rolled away as a vamp got a little too close. I pinned the last one to the wall with the knife from my belt and slashed its neck, catching my knife on its way down. A shot rang out and I jumped. Turning around, I saw a vamp fall to the floor in front of me. Gulping, I looked back up at dean. His chest was heaving as he stared at me.

“like I said. I wasn’t going to take my eyes off you.” He whispered as I ran over to hug him. Dean wrapped his arms around me tightly, the fact that the vamp had gotten that close scaring the both of us. “But I will say I’m disappointed now.” I pulled back and frowned.

“what?” I asked. “Why?” Dean leaned in and kissed me hard, moving my hand down to his jeans. I giggled when my fingers made contact with his bulge.

“you were so hot doing that and I can’t even have you.” He whined. I laughed and pulled him in for a kiss again, tucking his knife into his belt.

“don’t worry dee. It’s only going to be a few more days.” I assured him as he picked me up. Carrying me out to the impala, he leaned his head against mine.

“a few more days too long.” Dean groaned. I laughed as dean put me in the passenger seat. “Sammy! Let’s go!” He honked the horn as Sam came out of the nest, tossing a lighter behind him to burn it to the ground.

[radioisodoped]

The sun had just barely come up when you started packing up your things, a couple rays of light streaming into the room and warming your back as you stuff whatever you can manage into your bag. The next settlement is a two-day hike away, but you’ve got plenty of supplies. You’ll manage. Once the spoils of yesterday’s scavenge are safely put away, you make your way to the stairs. The wooden steps creak as you make your way down, idly considering which road out of town would be best.

Stepping down onto the landing, you see his boots first. One leg casually crossed over the other on the dust-covered table. He’s already got his hand cannon pointed right at you, gloved finger steady on the trigger.

“Come chat, sugar. I didn’t come all this way for nothin’.” he drawls, smoke billowing out from under his tipped hat. A bloom of anger grows in your stomach when you see he’s gone through at least half the pack of cigarettes you had stashed away. Half your whiskey too, you knew you were missing something. Bastard. All of that was worth at least a small handful of caps.

You glance to the front door, your barricade still in place. A low whistle interrupts your thoughts.

“Where’s your hospitality? C’mon now, come and say hello.”

He punctuates it by motioning to the table with his gun. Bastard. You walk over, dropping your bag at his feet. Casual house calls aren’t something you associate with him. Before you can ask what he needs, he interrupts you. “Sit down, sweetheart. You’re makin’ me nervous.”

You doubt it. His hand couldn’t be steadier as you pull out a chair for yourself.

You get halfway through asking what he’s doing here before he interrupts again. “I’m still waitin’ on a ‘hello, how are ya’. Where are your manners?”

The games are getting old. You ignore his question and level your best unimpressed look at him.

“Are you here to kill me?”

He huffs out a laugh but doesn’t offer a response. You try not to let it phase you, reaching across his legs to grab the bottle of whiskey before you speak again. “If you are, I’d appreciate a heads up. Maybe even some last words, if you’re feeling particularly generous.”

He laughs again, shaking his head. “You and me both know I ain’t the generous sort. Though, that has nothin’ to do with whether you’ll die today.”

You take a swig from the bottle, watching out of the corner of your eye as he sets his gun down on the table. You’d never let him know it, but you’re a little relieved.

Another swig for courage and his gun out of hand, you feel yourself loosening up. The pretty little .44 holstered on your thigh could take the leg off a brahmin. You flirt with the notion of wrapping your hand around it and shooting him right through the ribs. Oh, you’d die. That’s an absolute certainty. He'd have bits of your head sprayed all over the room before you could get a second shot in. It’d almost be worth it to fuck up his day, though.

You watch him take a drag off of one of your cigarettes and a different thought forces its way to the front. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve earned your way out of a sticky situation

It won't be the last, either. You'll make sure of it. With death still on the table, you loosen your grip on the bottle and let it hang loosely from your fingers so the rim is just barely brushing over your bottom lip.

He tips his Stetson up and you can finally see his eyes, watch the slow drag of his gaze from your fingers to your mouth. You part your lips just enough that the tip of your tongue can pick up a drop of booze that's settled in the mouth of the bottle.

He smiles, half amused. You'll take it. With a small shake of his head, he speaks again. "I'm not here to kill ya, sweetheart, but I am here on business."

"Color me shocked." you mumble, "And here I thought you just missed my pretty face."

"Why can't it be both?"

You make a noise halfway between a scoff and a laugh, setting down the bottle. "Careful, Casanova. Keep that up and I might start thinking you like me."

Burnt lips split into a sleazy grin, cigarette hanging loosely between his teeth. He leans back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. "'Course I like you. Don't you remember when we first met?"

Your face heats. That memory had kept you warm on plenty of lonely nights. You'd guess with the way he's looking at you, he's just as fond of it. A little teasing wouldn't hurt, and you're not in the mood to inflate his ego any more than it already is.

"Which time was that?" you ask, leaning back and pulling your eyebrows together to mock a thoughtful look. "The one where you left me on my knees without returning the favor, or the second time you left without getting me off?"

His smile doesn't drop, but you see a muscle in his burned cheek twitch. You hit a nerve. Good. You haven't forgotten how he neglected all of yours.

"Last time wasn't my fault. You knew better than to get handsy somewhere we might get caught." he drawls, most of the humor gone from his tone. He had a point- that was a mess. And mostly your fault. You still had the scar to remember it. He tilts his head, continuing on. "That first time, though? I didn't owe you shit. Besides, with the way you're still running your mouth... Well, clearly I didn't use it hard enough for you to learn anything. Seems to me you got the better deal out of that bargain."

Not one to be outdone, you stand. His eyes follow your every move, watching as you walk over. He barely has time to drop his boots back onto the ground before you straddle his lap, his spurs clinking as he settles. He's already hard when you grind down against him, steadying yourself by gripping his jacket. He does nothing to help, just leans back and reaches for your leg. You arch your back, welcoming the touch, but he just unbuckles your thigh holster, throwing your .44 on the table beside his own gun.

You roll your eyes, rocking your hips again. "Paranoid old man. If I was going to shoot you, I'd have done it while you were eyefucking me."

He laughs, pulling the cigarette from his mouth and stubbing it out on the table while he responds. "You should've. Would've made me want you even more."

"Do you get this hard for everyone you're going to kill?"

He spreads his thighs beneath you, his hands landing on your hips to keep you flush with his bulge as he readjusts. "'Course not, darling. Just brats like you.”

You’ve never wanted someone inside you more in your life. You ache with it. You reach down to fight with his belt buckle and he snickers. “Slow down and enjoy it, sweetheart. Fuck, you’re the kind of person who’d complain if you were bein’ hung with a gold rope.”

“Yeah, well, at least I know the rope can get the job done.”

You don’t have time to bask in the jab before you're sliding off his lap, surprised to find him suddenly standing. His hand wraps around your throat before he wrestles you down onto the rickety table. The whole thing shakes under your back, threatening to break under the strain of your struggle.

“You got a big fuckin’ mouth on you.” He sneers, leaning down close and narrowing his eyes. “I oughta not let you get off again just to prove a point.”

“All that would do is prove me right. You aren’t good for shit outside of killing-“

The slap shocks you. You’re suddenly looking at the wall, the taste of blood coating your tongue. A beat. Then another. You wrap your legs around his hips, pulling him close until his cock is pressed right up against where you need him. He laughs under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief. “You crazy, insatiable bitch.”

He pulls his hand back, unbuckling his belt with a practiced motion that stokes the fire in your stomach. He slips his cock out unceremoniously, glove dragging over ridged skin. “You better be ready, sweetheart. I ain’t wastin’ any more time gettin’ you worked up. I told you I didn’t come for fun.”

Clothes are ripped and forced out of the way, his cock head pressing against your hole. He finally pushes in and you bite your lip, throwing your head back to stare at the stained ceiling as you moan out. “Yeah, but you’ll come for me, right?”

He hums, grabbing at your hips to pull you the rest of the way down his cock. “I always do.”

You choke on a moan, nails digging into the wood beneath you when he bottoms out. The whole table rocks as he thrusts into you, slow at first but gaining momentum quickly. This house was one of the safer places to be, but he wouldn’t afford you the luxury of a gentle fuck.

You know he could, if he wanted to. The grip on your hips isn’t painful, despite the punishing pace he’s set. There's something soft, reverent, in the way his hands drift over your clothes. Not like the way he touched you every other time you've had the privilege of his hands on you.

You're starting to think he really does like you.

The revelation unsettles you a bit. Not in a bad way, necessarily. You just didn't think he was capable of it. You watch the muscles in his neck tense as he holds back noises. You've bitten your lip raw for the same reason.

It's been a while for you. You'd had people since him, sure... but it wasn't the same. Never as satisfying as this. Maybe it's wishful thinking, but you think he might agree. He grunts and leans on one arm beside your head, chasing his own release. You want to make some smart quip, reminding him to slow down and enjoy it, sweetheart, but you think better of it. Your jaw still aches from the slap.

It's not long before he's unloading inside you with a groan, his eyes fluttering shut as his hips twitch against you. An unnatural heat reminds you to look for some radaway once he's gone, but you're distracted by his hand slipping between your bodies. Embarrassingly, it doesn't take much. Rusty or not, he knows how to use his fingers. The fabric of his glove drags along just right and you keen, back arching as you come around his cock.

He lets you ride the high, only pulling away when you go limp and start to pant. He pulls out, leaving you looking like a mess as he readjusts himself. He could still kill you. He might, honestly. You couldn't give less of a fuck if you tried. He holsters his gun as your eyes shut, enjoying the afterglow. Of course, he doesn't let you rest long.

“That was an awful nice treat, but we got things to do. Up and at ‘em, darlin'." He slaps the side of your thigh with a smile, jolting you out of your reverie. "We’re goin’ on a field trip.”

[jhoneybees]

Unknown.

Hi!!! So this fic is for the amazing @lustnhim, I absolutely love her writing so much it's not funny. Hope you like it!!🫶

Characters: Late 70s Elvis X Goth!reader

Warnings/triggers: Angst!, Mentions of God, paranoia about the unknown, life existence

Tags: @another-identityofmine @atleastpleasetelephone @i-r-i-n-a-a @theelvisprincess @thelonelyheart @polksaladava

_____________________________________________

Elvis shouldn't be thinking like this, thinking about what would actually happen when he dies. It’s 3 in the morning and he should be sleeping but he can’t help thinking that his Mama always told him, raised him to believe that one day he’ll go up to heaven and see his loved ones again.

But what if that’s not the truth?

Swallowing hard, Elvis fidgets with the silk bed sheets. Breathing through his nose as he thinks, lifting his hand to rest on the top of his belly, tapping it quietly. He turns his head over to the bible sitting on his nightstand, deciding to pick it up.

He flicks through the pages, trying to find the right bookmark he had left before taking a minute to breathe. “Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my father’s house there are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I prepared a place for you? -John 14:1-3”

Maybe he will get to meet his Mama again, he thinks to himself… but…what if he doesn’t-

“Baby?”

He lifts his head up, carefully gripping onto the edges of his bible. Elvis smiles small seeing you standing there in a black nightie with your luscious and long black hair draping beautifully over the front of your body, quietly sipping on a glass of water. “Hi, honey.”

“Everything, alright?” You ask, walking over to his side of the bed. Sitting down next to him reaching a hand out to touch his hand, you begin to intertwine your fingers with his as he puts his bible down.

“Yeah…Everything’s alright.” Elvis keeping his eyes lowered, he glances over at the book in his lap. Quietly, pulling the blanket up to cover his belly, he tries to distract his mind by watching your thumb caress his skin.

“It doesn’t seem like it. You tilt your head, quirking an eyebrow as you watch his face.

He looks up at you. “W-What do you mean? Ever’thing’s fine.” His sad and anxious eyes telling you a different story.

“Teddy bear…” You give him a knowing look.

He lowers his head back down at your hands, closing his eyes when you call him that name.

He listens to the sound of your glass of water being placed on the nightstand, breathing out as you move his bible to straddle his lap. Elvis glides his big hands up the sides of your thighs and your fingers go up to run through his slightly disheveled hair from tossing and turning in bed.

“Tell me.”

Elvis gazes into your eyes, looking at them silently. “Honey, I-”

“What’s troubling my Papa bear?” Gently rubbing the silky fabric of your nightie in between his index finger and thumb, he takes a deep breath as he takes his time to collect his thoughts.

“...W-What if I don’t get ta see my Mama again?”

You hum, quietly. “What if you don’t see your mama again?”

He thinks for a moment then nods. “Yeah… when I die…m-maybe there isn’t a heaven.” automatically wrapping his arms around your waist as you shuffle closer, your lower abdomen and his belly brushing up against each other.

“Are you afraid?” bringing your other hand up, you pick off a piece of lint from his hair.

“W-Well…yes! I-I’ve been told all m-my life that God has a home f’me up there for when I die but…what if that ain’t true?” He huffs, averting his eyes away from your calm stare.

“We’ll just have to wait, don’t we?” You respond, pushing his chin up with a long black manicured nail and pecking his nose with your soft lips. “We’ll just have to see.”

Elvis shakes his head, his gaze drifting away from yours again. You sigh. “Papa, it’s okay to think this way…”

Smiling softly as he looks back. You continue your train of thought. “We might end up going to this magical place called heaven…or we might end up just staring at dirt for eternity, we don’t know…” Staring softly into his indescribable blue eyes.

“But what we do know is that…” His heart melts as your delicate hand cups his cheek. “The life we have now is special and we have to keep remembering that…because there is no point in worrying about the unknown, is there?”

He grumbles. “N-No…”

“No there isn’t.” You smile. “All we can do at the moment is just live this life, okay? I have you and you have me.”

“Yer not gonna leave me, right?” He asks with furrowing eyebrows, grabbing the silk of your clothes in his fists. Watching as you giggle and shake your head.

“I’m all yours in this life.”

[notjustjavierpena]

Reunion - Part II: Clamp

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: This started out as a collection of a few requests. Then it became feely instead. Then a second chapter to Reunion. Read the first part here.

Summary: Homemade nipple clamps, toast for breakfast and a sudden confession. 

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: +18 smut, dad’s best friend joel miller, daddy kink, innocence kink to some extent, homemade nipple clamps, nipple play, PIV sex, rough sex, dirty talk, possessive sex, reader has post-sex feelings, joel does too. 

Word count: 3.1k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49869355/chapters/125892349

Clamp

Joel’s stomach growls loudly underneath you as you are cuddling in bed. He tries to deny it when you start fussing, but the way the noise repeats itself, traveling all the way up to your ear as you rest your head on his chest, makes him capitulate quickly. You get out from underneath the covers.

“Come on, I’m hungry but…” he says with a tinge of the stubbornness of a teenager as if eating is only an inconvenience and not a way of staying alive as well as healthy. He’d go hungry to touch you, and it’s almost sweet but you’d rather feed and hydrate him so he can go again sooner. 

You can feel it as he watches your ass when you move to the dresser in his room. There are a few pieces of clothing sticking out, and you yank at what you correctly assume is a t-shirt. Pulling it over your head, you are encapsulated in the smell of Joel’s fabric softener, a hint of his cologne too that doesn’t seem to want to come out completely. 

“I’m going to make some toast,” you say just as stubbornly, bending over to tie your hair up in a messy bun despite knowing you are not wearing any underwear. Joel groans behind you. 

“Ain’t playin’ fair,” he mutters bitterly, “Look at you. No panties and my shirt? Diabolical.”

You hear shuffling behind you but you actively ignore the footsteps coming up behind you. Instead, you secure a few stray hairs with the hairpins that you took out last night, trying to look busy when hands settle on your hips. 

“Turn around,” he tells you. You smile to yourself. 

With a few seconds delay, he adds a threatening ‘young lady’. You put on a pout and then face him, “Just wanna feed you, Daddy. Look at you. You’re already skin and bone.”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” he argues.

You shake your head, allow him to kiss you longingly for a little bit, “No, I like your tummy. You’re soft. Like you soft.” 

“Soft,” he repeats with a scoff, “I ain’t soft.”

And then, “And I always get what I want.”

Suddenly, his hands reach up to find the hairpins at the back of your head. He pulls one out, makes you furrow your brows as it tugs a little at the sensitive baby hairs there. 

“Ow, what are you doing?” You ask as he removes the second one. He holds them in his large palm, big enough to hide them completely from view. 

“Do you trust me?” He questions. He looks into your eyes expectantly, waiting for confirmation before he continues. You nod. He doesn’t go on.

“I mean yes,” you quickly add.

“Good girl,” he smiles at how well you are learning. Then he reaches for the bottom of his shirt that you are wearing, pinching the hem with his thumb and forefinger now that he has the pins in his palm. He yanks the shirt up until it rests above your breasts, “Hold this up f’me.”

You do as he says. The fabric skimming over your chest and the anticipation that is hanging in the air has made your nipples hard, standing in peaks and waiting for what is about to happen. You know exactly where this is going yet it still hits you when one of the pins clamp down on your sensitive nipple. 

You half-moan in beautiful pain, half-chuckle in surprise. It stings and pinches, but despite never having done this before, your body reacts a whole lot more by pulsing between your legs than by triggering your fight-or-flight response. 

Joel studies your face but you don’t give him any indication that you want to stop. He tugs a little on the pin to make sure it is secure and elicits a little sound from you. You’ve noticed his boxers are already starting to tent. 

“Next one,” he informs as if performing a mediocre task, his voice having dropped an octave. He sounds breathier, aroused. You don’t jump half as much when your other nipple is painfully pinched too, but the feeling of them burning together is so intense that slick has started to smear your inner thighs. 

“Now,” he yanks your shirt down, makes your arms fall to your sides and your toes curl as a pin nearly catches in the fabric, “Go make me some toast. See if you still think I’m soft then.”

“But…” you try. 

“Go on,” he says and crawls back into bed before you can play dirty and touch him on the front of his underwear. 

*

Making breakfast has never been harder. 

You are in a world of hellish lust as you enter the bedroom again, holding a plate with buttered toast in your hands. There is a slice for you too, but it’ll take a whole lot longer for you to eat your way through it than it will take Joel to wolf down his own two pieces. 

He sits on the bed in silence, chewing quietly and occasionally brushing a few crumbs off the top of his chest. You hope that he doesn’t see the way you try to rock down on the foot you have tucked underneath yourself because he’d laugh straight into your face. 

“Don’t start without me.”

You sit up straight at being called out and the shirt tugs at your tits. You hiss loudly, “Please.”

“In a moment, just gotta get clean first. Sit against the headboard, ‘n take off your shirt,” he leaves the bed to go wash his hands. He is painfully hard at this point. You nearly break the plate when you move to place it on the nightstand. 

“What’re ya doin’?” He calls over the tap running from the master bathroom. 

“Not getting fucked,” you quip. 

“Watch it,” he replies back as if unaffected. God, he is so much better at this than you.

You are completely naked as he reenters the bedroom. You’ve stuffed a pillow behind your back, halfway to lying down with your ass scooted downwards on the bed a little. Your pussy is flushed pink and glistening, presented, and your nipples are a good amount of shades darker from the blood flow having settled there. The burn is exquisite, but it’s the sight of Joel’s eyes going dark that makes you whine.

“Jesus,” he laughs quietly as he crawls between your legs. Even the weight of him on the bed makes a sound slip from your mouth, “Ain’t ya just an obedient little thing?” 

You blink up at him almost teary-eyed. He takes pity on you. 

“Let’s get these off,” he promises, kneeling to free his hands from having to support himself. He removes one homemade clamp, making you whimper in relief at the ceiling. The blood flow makes your heart pound, slamming painfully against your ribs whilst you anticipate the second clamp being removed.

Joel flicks your abused nipple instead. Your head snaps down to his grin, betrayal visible on your face. Your cunt reacts immediately, feeling too empty and fluttering as it tries sucking in something that isn’t there. 

Joel looks down between your legs. He smiles affectionately, creating an obscene contrast to what he is doing to you. He coos softly at your facial expression, it having turned pained and horny, “Shh… I’ll kiss it better, baby.”

He finally removes the second hairpin. There’s a second where he lets you cry weakly at the new sensation, but then he tugs at both of your nipples to the point where you don’t even have the brain power to say a sound. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan.

“Good,” he praises, relenting but only to rub the sensitive nubs with his thumbs in clockwise motions, “Don’t think about anything. Just think about this, princess. Feel good?”

It does. You nod. The gentleness behind the touches is soothing you more than you thought it could, the pads of Joel’s fingers bringing your heartbeat down a notch. He traces your areola, breathing a little more erratically at seeing your pussy jump without being touched. 

He tugs again, soothes again until your nipples are red and swollen underneath his fingertips. The clamps have done a number on you because you start to think you might be able to come like this, a growing pressure starting between your legs. 

But Joel isn’t going to let you. He straightens until he is upright again, swallowing thickly as he focuses his attention on your neglected cunt. He runs a warm hand down over your mound, your hips twitching in response to finally being touched. Joel’s breath hitches in his throat as he stares down at his shiny palm, “Why didn’t you say anything? Look at her. She’s weepin’.”

“Just needs you,” your doe-eyes are on full blast. 

“Mhm,” he agrees, lazily running two fingers through your slick folds until you sigh, “You took a lot last night. Think you can handle it?” 

“Want you to keep me sore, Daddy,” you push into his touch again. He swears under his breath, teasingly dipping his digits into your cunt but making no suggestion that he will follow through on what they’re doing. You bat your eyelashes, “Please.”

It does not take much more convincing. He calls you princess again but this time it is with a frustrated sigh. He yanks his boxers down over his hips to let his cock spring free, kicks his underwear all the way off, and lets them fall to the floor of the bedroom in record time. 

He is fully erect. Hard and beautiful. The head of his dick has turned a dark red from having been seeking your attentive touch since he watched you put up your hair. The tip impatiently weeps precome for you. You consider a blowjob for half a second because your mouth waters at the idea of tasting his salt and musk. 

Later, you think, some other time. 

He strokes himself a few times until the bead at the head spills down over the length of him. Your eyes never leave his cock, especially not when he slides it through your glistening folds to coat himself in your arousal. 

“Could come just like this,” you tell him and finally dare to look up into his eyes. He smiles back at you and it tugs at your heartstrings. You reach out to hold his elbows and lift your legs to wrap them around his waist. 

In one smooth motion, he positions himself and rocks into you without stopping until he has bottomed out. The girth of him never ceases to amaze you. It’s the same each time; he stretches your walls painfully until you whimper and tells you that big girls can take it. Ain’t you a big girl? You nod with your bottom lip between your teeth, chewing on it to suppress the pathetic little noise that’s bubbling up in your chest. 

It works for a moment but only until Joel tells you to breathe. The noise finally comes out and it becomes wanton when he starts fucking into you. He pounds you like yesterday and you can barely contain yourself anymore, whining and groaning as he gives it to you with the intention of making you sore all over. Your walls are already sensitive, and you hate to think that you haven’t actually been out of your state of arousal since you knocked on his door. It’s embarrassing. It’s infatuation. 

You let out a high-pitched squeak as he bucks up his hips, nudging at the front of your walls and searching for that little spot inside you that belongs to him by now. He finds it expertly, fits inside of you like you were made for each other. 

“There!” You plea whilst arching your back, “Daddy, it’s right—“

“I know where it fuckin’ is,” he leans down to kiss you, breaths coming out through his nose as he shoves his tongue into your mouth. You dig your nails into the back of his arms, making an attempt to move with him and oh God, you kiss him so deeply. 

“Say I’m the best you’ve ever had,” he growls when he pulls back for a breath that he can barely catch, sweat threatening to drip down from his brow. He has one hand on the headboard, making the bed rattle underneath the both of you, and the other lays over your heart. He applies just the slightest pressure to your chest. 

“You’re— baby, please,” you can barely find the words, gasping out into the room. The only thing you can think of is how important it feels to hold onto him as he drives into your cunt, scared that if you let go you’ll melt into the mattress and never see him again. You never want that to happen. You want to drown in everything he is. 

“Say it,” he gives you a particularly hard thrust, managing to put the hand on the headboard behind your head before you bang it into the wood. You don’t even think you would have noticed it if it had happened since you are so delirious already from being so fucked out. 

“Best— best I’ve ever had,” you stutter out between loud moans, the pleasurable tightening in your belly soon reaching a crescendo, “I’m close, oh f— I’m so close.”

“Careful, princess,” he notes as you almost swear at him, “Don’t make— shit, don’t give me a reason to stop.”

He wouldn’t, you think, he is as lost in you as you are in him. 

“Never,” you pant, noises climbing in pitch, “I’m gonna be so good for you, Daddy. Gonna come— oh God, please, gonna come on your cock!”

“Yeah,” his thighs flex, your legs squeeze harder around him, “Oh fuuuck, I can feel you— come on my dick, sweetheart. You can do it.” 

The tightening releases into sweet clenches. Your vision blanks for just a moment, your brain unable to focus on any other of your five senses except touch, and Joel touches you deep inside as his hips stutter and your walls milk everything he has to give. 

He fucks you through it, bucks his hips upwards to prod at your g-spot whilst you shiver and moan from the heat of your climax. It may be even more intense than yesterday despite how many highs he pulled from you. 

Everything stills. Time passes while you pant. The windows must be foggy by now. Joel slips out with a soft groan and kisses away the pained moan you let out when emptiness hits.

You are sure you are experiencing heat stroke as you try catching your breath. There are small beads of sweat scattered all over your chest and stomach, some collecting in the dip of your belly button. You feel like you are floating in the Sunday afternoon silence. A bird chirps outside of the window, and you catch yourself wondering why you haven’t heard it until now. He is too important, you think, so important that you filter out anything that isn’t him until he leaves you in this state of clarity. You love him.

Joel is staring down at you and you can see yourself in the reflection of his brown eyes. He glows just like you, filled to the brim with dopamine. His skin burns as you rub his arms where you have been digging your nails into them moments before. You wonder if he feels the same as you; like someone who is seconds from evaporating, bursting, something, unable to move, in love. 

You pull him down into yourself. He sticks to you in a way that would normally have you scrunching up your nose, but you don’t care about it right now because his cheek is pressed to yours. You giggle softly with post-orgasmic excitement. 

But then a thought reluctantly worms its way into your head. Why isn’t he saying something? You know why you aren’t, but why isn’t he? 

“Joel,” you say in confusion as he suddenly starts to break free from your embrace. He moves to sit up next to you, eyes the plate on the nightstand, and practically launches himself up from the bed so he can take it to the kitchen. 

You crawl across the bed without thinking as if you have the speed to catch his wrist before he is out the door, “Joel. Fuck, Joel!”

That catches his attention. Joel turns in the doorway. He sets the plate down on his dresser instead, “You know I fuckin’ hate that.”

“Well shit,” you continue and he visibly flinches. 

“Don’t say anything,” you don’t think you have ever warned him as he repeatedly does with you, “Don’t say anything, just come here.” 

You hold out your hands, still on your knees at the edge of the bed. You grab at the air, and after a brief pause, Joel gives in. He steps forward until you can hold onto his wrists, “Remember that time you wiped away my tears? The first time we… doesn’t matter. Point is I was sad and you were there.”

Joel avoids replying. He swallows thickly, jaw muscles tensing. 

“I just mean that you can talk to me,” you finish your speech which is barely a speech with a beating heart. There are so many butterflies in your stomach that they are making you slightly nauseous. You look at him expectantly, watching his eyes skim over your face, scanning for what you assume is genuineness. You won’t ask why he needs reassurance that you are telling him the truth. 

“I’m falling for you,” he breathes out. 

Of all things, you do not expect this. 

“Ditto,” you say back, eyes widening when you realize that it’s the word you have managed to blurt out. 

“Ditto?” Joel furrows his brow. 

You slap his arm, “Shut it. You know what ditto means.”

But then he bursts out laughing and your heart swells. He leans down over you, naked and vulnerable right there in front of you, and kisses you gently. 

He inhales deeply afterward, then asks the question that you want an answer to as well: “What in the world are we going to do?”

*

It comes out of nowhere a few weeks later when you’re home again. 

“You know Joel?” Your dad asks as if you have never noticed him in the many years he’s been your father’s best friend. You try not to freeze. 

“Yes, I obviously know Mr. Miller, Dad. What about him?” You sip your coffee, eyeing the crossword on the back of the newspaper that your father is holding up in front of himself. 

“Think he’s seein’ some new lady,” he replies but there’s no tone to his voice. 

You tense in your seat, setting down your mug to avoid dropping it if the news is about to break, “Why do you think that?”

“Don’t matter why, but she’s good for him, I can tell,” your father is still oblivious, “Just smiles more.”

“Ah, well good for him,” you pause briefly, “Can I get the crossword puzzle?”

“Sure, honey.”

As he rustles the paper to pull out the page, you stand with the excuse of getting a pen, but when you have your back to your father, you grin to yourself and don’t mind the butterflies that seem to have moved into your body.

Joel is right. 

What in the world are you going to do?

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Quiet One 6

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You live a quiet life, but your peace is fractured by a chaotic man.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, short!shy!reader

Note: have a good day.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

“So, what do you think?” Lloyd asks as he turns to you, outstretching his arms as he gestures to the endless hangers. “All yours. You got your pick.” 

You stand just inside the door of the walk-in closet. The space would take up at least half your apartment alone. You cross your arms as you glance along the rows of coloured fabric hung from the walls, organized in a perfect ombre effect of shades. On the far wall, there are shelves full of shoes and accessories, along with a vanity in the centre. 

“I know you’re a simple gal,” he grins, “but you don’t have to be anymore. Whatever you want, ain’t no mountain high enough and all that.” 

You nod and blow out between your lips. It all still feel surreal like a nightmare. You swallow and tamp down your discomfort. You didn’t hate the life you had. Your small apartment, manageable and tame. You prefer predictability, even if some might say it’s boring. 

“Erm, I dunno,” you slowly trail over to the other side of the closet. 

“Well, you could pick some shoes first. That might inspire you,” he suggests as he approaches you, “you don’t need to be too fancy, you know, you always look nice.” 

“Mm,” you nod,” thanks that’s...” 

You let the sentence hang. This is really freaking you out. Your chest feels tight and your head is buzzing. You shudder out a breath. 

“What... what am I choosing for?” You croak. 

“I told you, jellybean,” he puts his arm around you and pulls you against his side, “it’s a surprise.”  

He reaches to grab a hanger and holds it out at arm’s length. A blush-coloured satin dress with a bit of frill at the bottom of the skirt. It’s nothing you would choose yourself. 

“Sure, that’s nice,” you say, just to appease him. What else can you do? 

“Hm,” he hums, “you don’t like it?” 

“I didn’t say...” 

“You don’t sound very excited,” he pouts as he turns to you, his hand lingering on your hip, “none of it? I got it all for you.” 

“I’ll wear it,” you sniff, “I’m sorry, I’m just... I’m... adjusting.” 

You don’t know how else to explain it.  

He pushes his lower lip out and narrows his eyes, “sure, sure, makes sense.” He drags his hand off your hip and steps back, keeping the dress up as he angles it before you, as if he’s imagining you in it. “This is gonna look so hot, baby.” 

You do your best to stay placid. It’s harder as you heart pounds furiously. You can’t even begin to guess what he has planned but with everything he’s done and said, you know exactly what his intent is.  

“You should get washed up, huh? Then get dolled up. Like I said, won’t need much of that,” he winks, “you could walk in ass-naked and I’m sure you’d stun.” 

You can’t help how your mouth slants at his remark. 

“Alright, jellybean, let’s get you in the tub,” he lays the dress over the velvet bench and spins back, startling you as he grabs both hips and jerks you towards him with a growl, “can I watch? I promise, I’ll try not to touch. Yet.” 

You clasp onto his wrists with a yelp. He curls his lips eagerly and you repress your horror. You don’t want to antagonise. You don’t want him to get any worse than he is. 

“Um, did you want... to?” You murmur. 

“Fucking of course,” he urges you against him, “the things I want to do...” he smirks, “I’m quaking in my boots.” 

He bows to smother you with a kiss. His mustache pokes at your uper lip and up your nose as he hums and slides his tongue across your lips. You squeeze your mouth tightly shut but he pokes through, nearly choking you as he invades. You press your hands to his chest as he locks you into his embrace. 

Finally, he part and you gasp for breath. He snickers as you puff against him. Your skin is crawling as you wriggle in his hold. 

“Yum,” he purrs. 

He lets his arms fall away and quickly snags your hand. You let him drag you around to the door, your feet hollow as they move without a thought. Resistance is plainly not a choice. 

He takes you back into the adjoining bedroom, the one you awoke in, and through another door way against the perpendicular wall. He steps to the side as he tugs you forward and releases you. Your take in the sleek black walls and black tub, the silver shower head in a monochrome booth, and the ebon marble veined with sparkling white. 

“I get it, it’s going to take a lot of getting used to,” he boasts, “this is our home, sweet cheeks. Remember that. You treat it like your very own... it is. Just like me, all yours.” 

You pad slowly inside, if only to keep a distance from your captor. You won’t forget what he is. He can give you all the luxurious things but you remember the days of starvation, of terror. He can’t see himself for what he is but you do. 

“Face masks, body scrub, bath bomb, shower gel, bonnet, robe,” he points at the fluffy purple robe still around you, “slippers,” he flicks his finger towards the mat beside the door, “lotions, creams, everything you can dream of. Oh damn, I can call a nail tech if you want a fresh mani--” 

“Uh, no thanks,” ball up your fists, hiding your short-trimmed nails, “that’s not... that’s okay.” 

“Only the best for you, kitty cat,” he says. 

He strides forward and you flinch out of his way. He goes to the tub and cranks it on, water splashing out from the high faucet. He flips the silver lever to put the stopper in place and backs up. 

“Voila, all for you,” he declares, “I’ll just...” he looks around and backs up to sit on the fluffy cushioned stools near the wall, “sit and watch. If you need help getting your back, I got you.” 

He wiggles his fingers and gives a lecherous grin. You withhold a shudder and face the basin, the water battering the bottom. You step forward and peer down into the shallows. You clutch the front of the robe and peek over in his direction but not at him. 

He waits, silently. You sway, squeezing the fluffy fabric as you peer back at the water. You don’t know if you can do it. Not with him right there. 

“Whatsa matter, baby, you need help?” He shifts and you jolt.  

“N-no, I just...” you look down at yourself and frown. 

“Ah, you’re shy. I totally get it,” he coos, “you don’t gotta be though. Your beautiful, so you should be proud. Show it off, honey.” He clucks and shakes his head, “you know that’s the thing these days, all you girls, you’re so insecure, but you trust me, sweet lips, you got nothing to be insecure about.” 

Your stomach flips. You feel hazy. You try to shrug it off and drop your hands to the belt of the rob. You untie it. You’re really going to do this. Why? 

Because you’re afraid? Weak? Yep. 

You shed the rob and look around. You hang it on the hook behind the door and return to the tub. It’s getting deeper and deeper. You touch the bottom of your shirt and scrunch it up in your fists. Just do it quickly and get in. He can only see so much from over there. 

You pull your shirt off, nothing underneath. You push your pants down quickly, your underwear rolling down inside. The skin feels cooler then and tingles across your naked skin as you latch onto the tub and swing yourself over the edge. You barely get a foot under you before you submerge your body in the water. 

You sit up, legs bent, stiff on the porcelain as the water continues to rise. It’s not quite at your chest yet. If you let it fill all the way, it might touch your chin. As you watch the depth climb, you don’t notice him until he closes. You slide to the back of the tub as Lloyd cranks off the faucet. 

You notice how his eyes stray to you. Your legs stay bent in front of you, blocking most of everything. You shrink down, hunching your shoulders as he searches through the ripples. He tilts his head and cracks his neck as he exhales and backs away. 

“Take your time, baby,” he purrs as he rubs his chest. 

He sits again and you lower your head. You’ve never been this bare in front of anyone, rarely even yourself. You’re just not comfortable without some short of shield around you. Your eyes tinge with the threat of tears. You feel like you’ve been hit across the face. This is real. Really real. 

Your eyes flick up and you reach for the purple scrubby on the little black shelf. You just have to get through it. That’s what you’ve always done. 

👄

You stare into the open case. You’re not entirely unfamiliar with the concept of make-up. When you were a teen, you had a phase, and you’ve been to enough job interviews to wield a mascara wand. Still, the amount seems excess. 

There’s almost every sort of product in every shade. Some sort of tap you don’t know what to do with, highlighter, and finishing spray. It’s too much. Your look is either a bare face or nothing at all. More often the former. 

You fidget with a tube of lipstick, clicking the lid up and down. This is all so strange. What are you getting ready for? And why? This isn’t your home, this isn’t your life, and yet it’s all so perfectly planned. 

“Honey bunnnnnn,” Lloyd’s timbre has you dropping the stick. He strides in, flustered, holding up two ties. He’s half dressed. A pair of red velvet pants and amber satin button up. It’s not a look you would go for. “What do ya think? Which tie? Paisley or the stripes?” 

You shrug and shake your head. 

He clicks his tongue, “genius, baby, genius. No tie. You’re right. Just the jacket.” 

Your mouth falls open and you nod, “sure, yeah.” 

You look back at the vanity and huff. Your face is untouched. You sit in your robe in the walk-in closet, mulling over your misery. Self-pity is as inescapable as these walls. 

“What’s up, cheeks?” He asks, “you need some help? I’m thinking you could give a bit more colour to lips but keep the rest very subtle.” 

He crosses the floor and hovers behind you. You stir around in the case and take out two bottles of foundation. You’ve never really used that either but the shades are pretty close. He lays the ties down on the vanity, brushing your back as he does, and pulls back to grip your shoulders. 

“I tried to guess as best I could. Don’t know much about all that but the lady in the store was a blessing,” he massages your shoulders as he talks. You’re tense as steel. “But you know, you got perfect skin so...” 

“Mm,” you put the foundation back and peruse the little shelf alongside the mirror. You reach for the moisturizer. Your skin feels raw.  

“I like it, au natural. Touch of cream, little lash...” 

“I’ll figure it out,” you grumble. He’s kind of annoying. No, he’s really annoying. All of this is annoying. 

“Right, yep, I will get out of your way,” he bends and kisses the crown of your head, “lots of time.” 

He strolls out and you scowl at the mirror. Something about him is getting to you. You’re not an angry person. You’re a nice person. You don’t go out of your way to be around others but when you are, you strive to be pleasant. Or at least, out of the way. 

You spread the cream over your face, watching your reflection as if it’s someone else. Where did he come from? Why? This is some cruel trick because you only ever wanted to mind your business. 

You cap the bottle and put the moisturizer back. You fish out a mascara stick and brush it on your lashes then find a neutral lip colour to put on. Nothing special, just like you. Hopefully he sees that soon enough. 

You pack away the case and push it to the back of the vanity. You get up and go to the velvet bench where the dress lays. He’s plucked out a few things to go with it. A gold necklace with small diamonds speckled along it and a pair of beige heels.  

You peek at the door before you untie the robe. You shiver as your fingers brush your stomach. You close your eyes as you recall how he wrapped you up in a towel after your bath. His touches were more than deliberate but his intrusive gaze made you squirm more. 

You pull on the lingerie tucked under the dress. A thong. You’ve never worn one of those, and a satin and lace bra with no padding. Even as you pull the dress up your figure, you feel like you’re on display. You reach back, bending your arm until your elbow throbs as you push the zipper up. 

“Need some help?” Lloyd’s voice makes you wince. 

You sniff, “sure.” 

You hold up the bodice as he approaches. You refuse to look back at him as he nears. He tickles along your spine with a single finger before he tugs on the zipper. He pulls it up little by little, until the fabric is snug around you. His fingertips drift down your back and he spreads his hands across your ass. You gasp. 

Before you can step away, his hands glide around and he grabs you by the hips. He pulls you against him and rocks with you. He inhales your scent from above and sighs. 

“Jellybean...” he almost sings, “are you...untouched?” 

You lock up and grab at his hands, trying to free yourself. 

“Is that why you’re so shy?” He snickers and spins you around, hands going to your waits, “I’m honoured to be your first.” 

You gape at him, horrified. His intent hasn’t been hard to guess but said aloud, it is all too imminent.