#Put a gun to my head and paint the wall with my brains.
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y’all im stressed af can someone draw me a goofy narrator doodle i don’t care how good you are i just need cheering up and don’t wanna ask my regular art mutuals
thank you (if anyone decides to, you don’t have to)
#💥 — Narry’s Rambles#i am Joe’s Clenching Bowels#Put a gun to my head and paint the wall with my brains.#fight club#fight club 1999#narrator fight club#chuck palahniuk#the narrator fight club#fight club narrator#fight club the narrator#edward norton#ed norton#art#art req#college makes me wanna blow my brains out
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DPxDC "Pick Me Up"
The stream goes live on the first day of the school year. It's the usual song and dance - mad laughing, threats, poor jokes, terror, and about thirty kids huddled together in a classroom behind Joker's back. Tim recognizes it as one of the Gotham Academy classrooms. Dick can't imagine the horror those kids' parents must be feeling right now. Jason jokes about middle school traumatic experiences. Damian is feeling very justified for skipping classes today.
Bruce, all suited up in his Batman garb, is making his way to the Academy as fast as he possibly can. Those are kids.
Gotham is once again anxiously kept on the edge of their seats, watching as Joker decides to interview the kids on their learning experience so far. Something about leaving a good first impression on the new generation or some other bullshit. Most kids stutter over their words - it's true that Gothamites are way more composed when facing life-threatening events, but those kids are only fourteen or fifteen for the most part. They are not old enough to keep their cool in the face of a murder clown.
That is, until Joker points his camera at one of the girls. Black hair in a high ponytail, blue eyes without a trace of fear, a slightly displeased, even bored expression on her face. She looks straight into the camera, not even waiting for the laughing madman to finish his question, and deadpans:
"I don't think I like school. Pick me up, please."
Joker sputters.
"Not so scared, I see," he sneers, and, in the next moment, a comically large gun painted in purples and greens is pointed to the girl's forehead, "How about now?"
The girl scrunches her nose and makes a so-so gesture.
"It's kinda meh," she admits, "Like, yeah, points for style, but you know, size doesn't matter. It's all in the technique."
Dick snorts over the comms. It's a bad time for laughing, sure, but the phrase caught him off-guard. This is not what you'd expect to hear from a teen, and definitely not something you'd expect anyone to say to the Joker. Jason's comms are muted, but Barbara knows he also laughed a little.
"Technique, you say?" Joker hisses, pressing the gun closer to the girl's head, and she winces, leaning away from it, almost as if she is disgusted by the touch.
"Yeah, I mean, guns are not that scary anyway. What are you gonna do with them, blast my brains all over the floor? Been there, done that," the girl shrugs, "Kinda nasty, but overall, it's just like slime, only sticky." She pauses and looks to the side, seemingly lost in thought, "Huh, maybe we should have added Borax to it. Or was it baking soda?.."
"Listen here, you little brat," Joker's fingers catch the girl's chin, and his voice becomes sickeningly menacing. Bruce is almost there, just two more minutes. Tim is already grappling onto the wall.
But none of them get to finish.
"Put your dirty fingers away from my sister," a low, cold, and even in a way that speaks of barely contained fury, voice comes from out of the screen.
The camera spins, like whoever is holding it turned really fast, and everyone watching the stream sees a fairly normal guy standing by the window - a turtleneck and ripped jeans, same black hair as the girl, same blue eyes... Wait, they are not blue.
And that's not a guy.
The camera falls down to the floor, and there are a lot of panicked screams coming from the broadcast now, but none of them sound like children's voices. It's the screams of adults, of grown-ass men, and later, someone even claimed they heard Joker's scream among them, too. The picture on camera glitches a few times, and the angle is awkward, but everyone still gets to see how shadows in the room morph into eyes, wide open and green, and how the darkness grows sharp teeth, countless grinning mouths that don't belong to any faces.
Screams turn into gargling and then to quiet whispers, filling the ears of all those listening with countless words in languages they don't know.
Red Robin turns off the recording and looks to that same guy from the levestream, sitting across him on the couch. The guy - Daniel, or Danny, as he introduced himself - looks him in the eyes and raises an eyebrow.
"Okay, and?"
"How did you do it?" Tim asks for the third time this evening. Danny blinks.
"Did what?" He asks, completely incomprehending. Tim groans. He's been trying to get his answers, any answers at this point, from the guy for thirty fucking minutes already. So far, he's got nothing. Danny, whoever the fuck he is, proves to be the most annoying human being on Earth.
"Seven people in a coma, including Joker himself, with no physical injuries and none of the children remember a thing! How?!" He demands, and a girl's face peeks from around the corner:
"I remember!"
Tim snaps his head at her, "What do you remember?"
The girl pauses, blinks, and looks to Danny. Then shrugs, "My brother picked me up from school."
Tim drops his head down and breathes out in frustration. He can't force the information out of civilians, he is a vigilante, not a mafia.
"Would it make you feel better if I promise not to do it again?" Danny asks, and his voice is way too innocent for Tim to believe him. He raises his head to look the guy in his shameless, amused eyes.
"I hate you."
"Thanks," Danny grins.
#danny phantom#dc x dp#dpxdc#tim drake#batfam#batman#dani phantom#danielle phantom#eldritch danny#but he wont admit to it#cork prompts#i wrote this as a way to relax#theres zero plot to it#just danny being petty#and dani saying mildly concerning shit in camera#it was her first day in the new school#all in all it was a fairly okay first day
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Alucard nonconing Integra’s little sister because he simply doesn’t respect her as he does with his master, mainly cause shes shy and timid unlike her big sister?? 🥺🙏
tw: noncon, bullying, age difference, size difference, threats, abuse, gunplay, sadism, fear play, fuck or die, object insertion (gun)
All characters depicted are 18+
Alucard has nothing but respect for his master, obeying her every command and carrying out her orders to the letter, but this courtesy does not extend toward's Integra's family, or more specifically; her younger sister. Alucard doesn't hate the girl, as evidenced by the fact that her brains aren't painting the walls yet, but he sure as hell doesn't respect her in the slightest either, and that's putting it lightly.
He's practically just a bully around her, popping out from around corners or out from walls when she least expects it, intentionally scaring her, he finds it hilarious how easily frightened she is, laughing his ass off whenever she flinches or jumps at his sudden appearance, but his teasing doesn't stay harmless for very long.
Alucard's antics will quickly escalate from schoolyard bullying to outright harassment and abuse. He'll fire his gun mere inches away from her head, just barely missing her, and he'll also get much more handsy with her, groping her tits and hips and slapping her ass whenever she walks by.
That's not even the worst of it, Alucard knows how scared and uncomfortable his guns make her, and he uses that to his full advantage, rubbing his Jackal across her body, brushing the cold metal against her most sensitive areas before forcing the barrel past her quivering lips and demanding that she gets it nice and wet for her own sake.
"Oh stop crying, little bitch. My master isn't scared of guns, so why should you be? Now if you don't start sucking already I'll blow your empty little head off."
If he is feeling especially sadistic, which will be more often than not, Alucard will when even force his gun into her pussy, with nothing but her saliva to lube up the cold steel. He'll keep his finger right on the trigger, but never actually pulling it. The chamber is completely empty and the safety is on of course, can't have his chew toy dying too quickly now, but she doesn't know that.
Everyone in the Hellsing Organization will turn a blind eye to what Alucard is doing to her. Walter is content to let his old friend do whatever he wants, and Seras is too loyal to her master to say anything against him. Even Integra, her own elder sister, won't do anything about it, the very most she'll do is tell Alucard not to kill her or break any bones.
The absolute worse thing Alucard will do is forcing himself onto her, making her take his entire huge cock into her small virgin pussy. Alucard is much bigger and more well endowed than the average man, even by vampire standards, so it's going to hurt like hell when he forces every single torturous inch into her untouched pussy, it's enough to make her bleed, which just spurs the vampire on all the more.
He's big and rough, treating her like a sex toy and having no regard for any pain he might be causing her during the brutal fucking. Alucard is so much bigger than her that he'll have to lift her up to even get her shorter form onto his cock, her feet off the ground as he fucks into her, hissing venomous insults into her ear as he rearranges her cunt.
"Hah! Pathetic! Even Police Girl can take more than this without passing out! You really sicken me brat, you're not worthy of sharing the same blood as my master..."
Being a creative sadist, Alucard will almost never run out or ways to play with his toy, having literal centuries of experience to pull from. In fact, if she proves to be entertaining enough for the ever bored Alucard, he might even consider making her his eternal plaything.
#hellsing#hellsing ultimate#hellsing x reader#hellsing smut#headcanon#x reader#alucard#alucard hellsing#alucard x reader#alucard smut#reader insert
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Creepypasta Relationship HCs / Types! 𐙚⋆°.⋆ ( 1 )

Characters : Tobias Rogers ‘Ticci Toby’ , Evan Myers ‘HABIT’ x Reader
Word count : 2k
A/N : hello pookie bears! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) My request are open right now so please please please spam me with suggestions or fic ideas!!
Tobias Rogers ‘Ticci Toby’ : You were a new beginning, an artistic melody that painted the sky with strokes of light and color. Toby was a faded light, dimmed and jaded— but you lighted his heart ablazed. Once he touched a fragment of heaven, he knew he couldn’t turn away. Because, Toby was never known for being a selfless man.
Toby is someone who desperately wants to be loved— but with how his life turned out, being on the run during his late teens and early twenties, then serving the being that haunted him since he was a child— to put it lightly, Toby never had the time to connect with someone.
It does mess with Toby deep deep deep down— that he isn’t normal, that he can’t build strong relationships— like others do so easily, though it’s something he does crave— he isn’t that delusional; he knows he wouldn’t be able to maintain any sort of relationship anyway.
But that’s thrown out the window when he meets you— I fully believe Toby’s a ‘love’ ( lust ) at first sight type of guy. He tends to fixate on people, starts learning everything about them ( all the parts he likes, anything else he’ll block out.. like it doesn’t exist. ) projects his dream partner onto them, till he gets bored or they break the perfect woman perception— he had for them.
It’s probably a small / insignificant act of kindness that brought Toby’s attention to you.
Maybe it’s when you paid for his meal inna hole and a wall diner / or you helped him when he was injured( even if he doesn’t feel pain— the thought still counts ) / or maybe in passing you complimented his sense of style. No matter how you met Toby, he fell hook and sinker.
In a relationship, I feel that Toby would naturally go for someone more maternal. ( even if your the most masculine woman / person — he’d still project a motherly role onto you. ) He’s so used to older angry masculine male figures in his life— who call him crude names and make him feel less than.
He just wants someone who’s nonjudgmental. Someone who’d love him despite his ugly scars— to kiss them gently, love them like they are art on a canvas.
Toby knows that’s wishful thinking.. and you probably don’t even know he exists but a man can dream.
Toby daydreams about you ALOT, it pisses both Masky and Hoodie off cause the kid won’t do his darn’ job correctly— Masky is one bad day away from grabbing Hoodies gun and blowing Toby’s brains out.
TOBY IS SO AWKWARD IT HURTS.. he isn’t the most social guy ever.. the only real conversations Toby has is either with one his victims.. and Toby barely would call someone begging for the life a conversation— Two, Tim and Brian… and Toby fuckin hates Tim ( the feeling is mutual ) Then Brian… Toby doesn’t exactly have a problem with him.. but Toby thinks Brian a fuckin werido for even liking to be around Tim. Lastly— the voices in his head.. and I won’t elaborate on that.
So when Toby tries to talk to you.. he very creepy— like very fuckin creepy..
Unwavering direct eye contact, prolonged touches, Talking in an unnatural manner, like he’s reading off a shitty 2000’s screenplay.. it’s bad— so bad.. but Toby thinks it went amazingly! Honestly it went better then what he’s been imagining in his head!
I think Toby would try to be a flirt… but he’s straight up tremendous at it— but I wouldn’t recommend telling him that, he has a very small fragile ego.
Realistically.. Even if Toby bagged you, he wouldn’t be able to be with you for long— once his job is over he has to move towns unless..
Yeah, bro kidnapped your ass— are yall really that shocked??
Not gonna lie, getting kidnapped by Toby is lowkey the worst lol ( who would’ve thought?? )
That’s when you’ll learn the most about Toby— mostly how seriously deranged this fucker is.
You’d have to deal with his horrible psychotic episodes, where he trashes the whole fuckin cabin, screaming at you for not loving him back— full on man child tantrums.
Toby most definitely dissects animals for fun.. so good luck with the rotting smell of corpses in your bedroom.
When Toby comes back from ‘work�� he’ll always have a gift for you.. though don’t ask him who or where he got it from— just smile and say thank you.
Toby most definitely stole the password to Tim’s Hulu account.. yall watch anime together.
Toby doesn’t talk much, since he wouldn’t have much to talk about.. ( Toby also hates his stutter/tics.. so he’d rather hear your soothing voice instead of his raspy one ) but he’s a total nerd— Ask him a question about Star Wars and he’ll yap for hours.
Toby accidentally hurts you— more often then he’ll like to admit.. he doesn’t comprehend his strength— and it’s hard to understand a concept you’ve never experienced, so when you cry — he thinks you're being a big baby.
Toby is a DIY husband, always building something new when he’s home— cannot stay still.
You're gonna have to do all the cooking… This man eats like a 3 year old.
Toby loves you unconditionally— though depending on how you treat him, your experience with him will either be hell or decent..
also don’t try to leave the cabin, he’ll find you.
Evan Myers ‘HABIT’ : Evan is losing his mind, a parasite— a monster is taking over his body. It nibbles on his brain, whispering unsavory suggestions into his head. His thoughts aren’t his own anymore, neither is his love for you.
Evan is short-tempered, vulgar, and a bit of a smartass. Not everyone can handle somebody like him— yet there you are ( foolishly ) loving him through everything.
Evan feels his sanity slipping from his grasp, he knows he’s less than sane, that he’s borderline psychotic. He knows the right thing to do is to let you go. That he can’t even trust himself to protect you anymore— especially from himself.
Yet, he selfishly clings onto you, because you are Evan’s breath of fresh air, you're as gentle as a baby bunny, softly holding him throughout his night terrors. Gently patting his tears away with cloth, whispering sweet nothings into his ear— sweet empty promises that everything will be alright— that you’ll stick with him, no matter what— that nothing can take him away from you.
Evan can’t handle the thought of losing you, he’d actually start tweeking out. Especially if slenderman had something to do with it. ( Evan will somehow someway throw slenderman out the window just like he did the rake. )
But seriously— Evan can’t lose you. You are the rainbow after his storm. Evan is a whirlwind of contradicting emotions, yet— you're his only constant that pulls him out of his episodes. He can’t live without you.
You are his distraction, his comfort outside of the hell that is his life. All Evan wants is your touch, your undying nor revering love, and in return he’ll give his everything to you.
Correction: he'll give you everything BUT information on what he does with the EMH ( EverymanHYBRID ) crew.
He has you blocked on all social media, and changed the password to his computer, Evan doesn’t want you involved in his fucked up life.. well more than you already are.
Evan knows that you're not an fuckin’ idiot, there’s only so many times that he can come home with a new injury till you're catching on that the ‘workout’ videos aren’t all he’s doing.
But in Evan’s defense there’s only so many excuses he can make up about how these crazy ass scars keep on randomly appearing on his body— Or the weird brown stains on his jacket.
you're growing more suspicious— even if you don’t directly question him.. he can see in your eyes that you’re worried.
But if Evan were to tell you the truth ( he wouldn’t inna million fucking years ) he doesn’t even know how he’d start that conversation.
“Babe, don’t freak out but.. Y’know slenderman? Yeah, that tall lanky malnourished mother fucker’ that we made fun for having no face? so.. he’s real— surprise! Ohhh, and has been haunting me and the gang for months..and wanna know the best part? I never told you till now! Haha..” yeah no.. Evan rather uses his own body as a pin cushion for his knife collection than ever admit something as lundquist as that.
Evan believes ignorance is bliss ( but only when it comes to you. )
HABIT adores dumb little things, like you. He loves the way your eyes light up whenever he comes home from a long day of ‘work’. HABIT also loves your expressive facial features, how he wishes to contort it, to dismember it into something else entirely new. But what HABIT loves the most is the fact that the ‘man’ you kiss every morning, who you trust unconditionally and let into the deepest crevices of your body, isn’t who you think it is.
HABIT is an inhuman being that predates time itself. He doesn’t have any connection to humanity, only existing to find a suitable host.
It isn’t hard to get HABITS attention, in fact it’s pretty easy. It's just extremely hard to maintain.
But you're so awfully pathetic, kind soul, that he sorta ‘feels’ bad for you. That you ended up with a guy like Evan, and return him.
HABIT finds you interesting, specifically your selflessness. He notices when you go out of your way to help others, or how you consider his feelings whenever you make a decision, or whenever he’s upset, you always make ‘him’, his favorite food.
You're really as sweet as they come, and he’s the murder that wears your boyfriend's skin.
HABIT fucks with you a lot, ‘accidentally’ tripping you, moves your shit around so you can’t find it, constantly trying to scare the shit out of you— just to make fun of you for being scared.
HABIT brings you dead bunny corpses as gifts
HABIT isn’t used to preserving life, that was never really his cup of tea. He prefers breaking down his host, ( or their loved ones ) to their very limit, mentally and physically— till they're unrecognizable from humans or beasts.
Yet, now he does facial saturday’s with you / joins you in your everything showers / and lets you paint his nails any color you want.
It’s not that HABIT, gotten soft— he’s the same evil unforgiving ass mother fucker that possessed your boyfriend, ate a baby, and works with the fuckin slenderman and the rake, you cannot fix him.
HABIT lovesss to mock you, he loves making fun of his dumb little wife for asking ‘dumb questions’— he often flicks your forehead.
HABIT loves that you're a crybaby, he loves wiping your tears away condescendingly— like he wasn’t the one who caused them.
Most definitely daydreams about killing you.. more often than you’d expect— he especially thinks about it when yall are intimate. When HABIT holds you, tracing your body with his fingers— looks at you intensely like you're the only woman in the world— just knows he’s thinking about how you’d look if your organs were spilling out of your stomach.
HABIT unlike Toby can flirt— he never liked the whole brooding boyfriend type of thing— Evan had going on at times— HABIT in his words, ( not anyone else’s ) He’s a simply a little demon, a whimsical silly creature who does things for his own entertainment, and his current fun outside of fuckin’ with the EMH crew is fucking with you. ( sometimes literally )
May that be blowing into your ear, to make you shiver— or picking you up and carrying you, to see your shocked expression — or even holding you by your waist, while the EMH crew is around to embarrass you / prove a point to the group.
HABIT would do it especially when vinnie found out that he processed Evan— the shit eating grin, he would have as you invite Vinnie over to your place for dinner cause ‘he’s been looking stressed lately’ you’ll make Vinnie’s favorite meal, trying to make it feel like old times— but vinnie cannot even enjoy you and your thoughtfulness when your sitting on that monsters that’s cosplaying his best friends lap.. it’s making him sick.
‘Vinnie, are you okay? You.. look pale,’ you ask softly, drink in hand— you walk over to him, handing Vinnie a glass of water.
‘Yeahhh, Vinnie,’ you feel a strong pair of familiar arms wrap around your waist. ‘—What’s wrong buddy?’
ANYWHOO HABIT randomly telling you the most out of pocket shit and just smiles and says,
‘Sorry— hunnie, It’s a bad habit.’
#ticci toby x y/n#ticci toby x you#ticci toby x reader#ticci toby smut#ticci toby#slenderverse#everymanhybrid#evan everyman#habit emh#habit everymanhybrid#habit x reader#creepypasta#creepypastaxreader#smut
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Can we get Yandere Andrew x Medical Intern! Julia reader?: Julia’s father pressures her into a date with a “friend’s son” (actually a hitman hired to kill Andrew in exchange for the date) as part of his secret organ-harvesting scheme (the whole toxisoda Bs) which Julia knows nothing about. The plan backfires bc Andrew is insane+ typical gore stuff of tcoal, Julia tries to fight him physically but she fails bc she isn't built for fight and she ultimately breaks down under the weight of her father’s manipulation. In the end, she chooses to handle Andrew’s insanity, realizing she loves him just the way he is, lowkey smut, No Ashley involved.
Bonus plus if you reader is implied to be Peruvian or from any other south American country ( I'm craving drama)
Alright, but I can't guarantee that it would go like you wanted it.
No Escape [ Yandere Andrew Graves x Julia! Reader]

TW⚠️: yandere tendencies, bate/hostage situation, threat, murder, gore (I guess, I'm not good with this), reader takes place of Julia, female reader, some smut/nsfw/nsft/18+, reader is implied to be south American (but I suck at writing it).
A/n: I apologize for taking so long, and for not really following the request, or for not understanding it fully, or for my writing. You can criticize me on it.
"I just broke up with him beraly two months ago. Papa, I need some time before I start dating again." You've been going back and forth with your father over the phone.
"Time to do what?"
"To concentrate on college, my internship in the medical field, myself." You count out, hoping he would back off.
"Well, that's just selfish!"
"Papa, I want you to listen to yourself for a minute." You say dumbfounded.
"T-that's not what I meant. Listen, mi amor, I'm just asking you to give it a chance. He's nice. He has the looks, and he's rich! He works for that soda company. What was it called? Toxi-somthing?"
"Toxisoda? The company that is dealing with several lawsuits over many violations?" That was just plain suspicious, especially since your father was very vocal about his dislike for the company.
"Who cares about such small details! Beside, one's job doesn't determine if they're good. Just one date. That's all I'm asking from you."
You pinch the bridge of your nose in exhaustion.
"Fine."
"Wonderful!"
You really wish you knew what you got yourself into.
🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸
This date has been the most uncomfortable experience in your life. First off, your date, Michael, fit your father's description; nice, handsome, and can afford to take you on a dinner at a five-star restaurant. However, there was something uncanny about him that made you stay on guard. Second, since the start of this date, you felt like you have been followed.
All in all, you wanted out as soon as possible.
"I have an early shift tomorrow." That's a lie. "Let me pay at least half of the bill."
"No need." Michael stops you, holding your wrist, hovering over the bill. "I'll walk you back to your dorm."
Rats!
You tried convincing him that you'll be fine on your own, but he was very insistent to walk you back.
So while you were walking, you tried to keep your distance, but Michael was uncomfortably close.
The feeling in your gut was justified when his arm wrapped around your neck as he drags you into an alleyway.
You tried to fight him off, but he pointed a gun against your head.
"Give it up, Graves." Michael said, looking at a shadow cast by a building.
"Drop your weapon or I'll blow her brains out." He threatened, pressing the barrel against your temple, harder.
A metal clank, like a knife falling on the ground, was heard. And with a kick, a cleaver slides out of the shadow.
Michael's hold on you loosens as the gun was put down.
"That's what I thought-"
*Bang!*
And just like that, half of Michael's head was missing, with parts of it painting the wall behind you.
"Moron."
You fall to the ground once you got free, crawling away from the corpse in fear of what has happened just a moment ago. Jumping in fear when a hand comes in contact to your shoulder.
Green eyes, staring directly into yours. Those familiar green eyes.
You scream and try to run away but get pined to the ground. You tried to break out of Andrew's hold as tears start to pir out.
"No! No! I-... ha! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" You don't know why you are apologizing.
You stpped struggling, body trembling, sobs die down when Andrew's hand gently caressing your face. "Shhhh... shhhh. It's alright. It's alright now." He pressed his forehead against yours.
🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸
Quiet gasps and moans are heard in your room, along with the sound of skin slapping. Andrew was on top of you, thrusting himself into you.
Your arms wrapped around his neck as you two kissed.
His thrusts were getting deeper, and the knot in your stomach was tightening. You hold him closer as his last thrust made you see stars.
Panting out of exhaustion, you feel Andrew's hand caressing your face and removing stray strands of hair sticking to it.
"Don't replace me again."
🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸
"Uhh... the date didn't go well. No, papa, he didn't do anything. It's just- I don't want to talk about it.... Yeah, sure. I love you too, bye."
After you hang up the phone, you let out a sigh of releaf.
"Went well?" Andrew asked.
"Yeah." You say while going up to him and sitting on his lap. Laying your head on his shoulder as he wraps his arms around you and kisses your forehead.
A/n: and another request done.
#tcoaal x reader#andrew graves x reader#yandere andrew graves#x female reader#female reader#julia!reader
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Wail of the Silent 11/?
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Jason cuddled closer to the cool, hard chest underneath him. He was, metaphorically, floating in the clouds and content in his bliss.
Then the door to his room opened, and he fell back to Earth.
Jason jumped quickly, a gun in his hands pointing toward the doorway. Danny got up, uncaring that he was completely naked, his hands and eyes glowing green and pointing at the intruder.
“Holy fuck,” Nightwing yelled out, turning his face away, “It’s me, don’t shoot! And are you both naked?”
Jason was already embarrassed, having been caught by his older brother. Then, Batman, fucking Batman, showed up. Someone, please kill him. It would hurt less than this, and Jason would know. He had died once already.
‘Get out,’ he signed, desperate to save his last shred of dignity, ‘haven’t you ever heard of knocking?’
“I’m sorry, Jay, we thought you were in trouble! You were kidnapped in front of Batman by a weird creature after you had almost put a bullet in your head!”
‘Well, you see that I’m fine, get out!’
“We’re sorry—wait, why are you signing?”
Jason dropped his hands, unsure how to explain. He looked at Batman with fear. The longer he stared at the man, the longer the silence lasted, and the more scared Jason became. He could feel his emotions broadcasting from his chest. Only one person in the room could hear him, though.
Danny tied a blanket around his waist and got in front of Jason, effectively hiding him from his family, from his father.
“Jay, why are you signing,” Dick asked again, sounding angry. “Why is there a cut on your throat?”
Because my dad took away my voice! He wanted to tell him, to yell it at him, because our father chose my murderer instead of me, and I paid the price!
“I don’t care who you are. Jason wants you to leave, so leave!”
Danny’s voice was soft, but it carried authority throughout the room. Batman and Nightwing paused; their attention was away from Jason, but it was wholly dedicated to Danny now. Jason felt more nervous for Danny than for himself.
“Who are you,” Batman asked, “I recognize you even if your coloring is different. You’re the one who kidnapped Jason,” Batman growled.
Jason left the safety of Danny’s protection and signed at Batman angrily, ‘Don’t you dare! Danny saved me from that bitch and myself. If it hadn’t been for him, my brains would’ve been painting the walls of Arkham.’
Both Nightwing and Batman flinched at the reminder that Jason had almost killed himself.
“Jay lad,” Batman started saying.
Jason cut him off quickly.
‘Get out, we’ll be there soon.’
Batman and Nightwing hesitated.
‘Seriously, I don’t want to get dressed in front of you two. If you want answers, then wait in the living room. Or leave, that’d be better for me.’
“Jason, you were targeted by an unknown. We are not leaving,” Batman growled.
Batman nodded and turned away from them. Nightwing stared at Jason’s cut, making him feel more vulnerable than his nakedness. He wished that Batman’s greatest success hadn’t seen Batman’s greatest failure at his most vulnerable.
Jason saw Nightwing’s jaw clench before he left.
As soon as the door slammed behind Nightwing, Jason fell to his knees, tired and scared. Silent tears fell down his cheeks. He opened his mouth and gave a silent scream.
Before he could lose himself, Jason felt cool arms around his shoulders and a strong chest on his back. Danny’s core was humming, comforting Jason.
Jason let Danny do it. After all, he wasn’t alone anymore.
____
Dick turned Bruce around and punched square on the face. The older man fell in the middle of the living room.
Dick was livid.
Batarangs left a particular slice behind that could not be replicated by any other weapon on Earth. Even if that wasn’t the case, Jason’s reaction when Dick had asked who had given him that scar told Dick everything.
“Nightwi—ugh,” Dick didn’t let Bruce finish. He didn’t deserve to explain himself. Bruce had hurt his younger brother and had taken away his voice. Dick saw how deep the cut was. It was only by some miracle that Jason wasn’t dead!
“You arrogant bastard, why? Why?”
The punches and kicks kept raining down on Bruce. The tears that hit the exposed part of his face hurt more than any of the hits that Dick was giving him. He had not only hurt Jason, but Dick, too. After a while, Dick stopped the punches and fell on the floor beside Bruce.
“Damn you, old man,” he whispered, “damn you.”
Bruce knew explaining himself would worsen things, but he had to, “He was making me choose between killing the Joker or killing him. I chose the option to keep both of them alive.”
Dick looked at Bruce with renewed anger, “Get out.”
“Dick,” Bruce said.
“Get out, now! Or I swear to everything sacred that I will ignore your damned rule and kill you myself!”
“Dick,” He tried again.
“Don’t make me a murderer, Bruce. Leave now! I’ll take care of Jason.”
Bruce didn’t want to leave. Jason was with an unknown. Someone or something was chasing him, causing him to want to kill himself. Bruce had to take care of his son.
Bruce got up and left out the window. He looked back one last time. Dick had turned his back to him. It hurt Bruce, but he understood. He had hurt his sons. His children were in pain because of him.
Bruce could only hope that they would be safe.
No, he would do his part to find and eliminate this threat. Batman would not let his children or Gotham down.
Dick heard the window close. Words could not describe the turmoil of emotions he was feeling.
He knew Bruce wasn’t perfect. He found that out very quickly, fuck, he still remembered the punch to his face when Bruce had been grief-stricken over Jason’s death. So, how could he have put the vilest man to ever live over the son he had lost and gotten back?
Dick didn’t know, and he didn’t honestly care to know.
Besides, he had a younger brother to take care of.
But first, “Oracle, send this message to every comm even if they’re off.”
Something in his tone must have told Barbara that Dick wasn’t messing around because she did so with no hesitation.
The family deserved to know what Bruce had done.
Pissed off and protective Dick, my beloved.
I don't think Jason is going to appreciate Dick for telling the family what happened, but at least the family knows what Bruce did and gets to decide if they want to follow Bruce or not.
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The Soldier and the Smuggler
9. The Roof
Pairing : f!reader x Joel Miller. Wc: 5.3k
Warnings: yearning
Previous chapter

(my pic)
The mid-day, mid-July sun beams down incessantly. The heat is impossible to escape. Sweat sticks your shirt to your back and threatens to drip in your eyes if you don’t flick it from your forehead in time. You were right about your injuries slowing you down. Your head is so painful its nauseating, like glass shards have wormed their way beneath your skull and are shaving your brain.
Joel looks worse. His skin is sweaty and pale.
“You look like shit,” you tell him.
“Thanks,” he replies without looking from the path ahead.
You recognize the look in his eyes, worried that if he stops, he won’t be able to get going again. You kick a pebble as your foot sweeps the ground, it goes clattering on the dry, crumbled asphalt.
“We need to start thinking about water,” you speak aloud.
“I got about a day’s worth left,” Joel answers.
That will go all too quickly. To recover from major blood loss, you need to replenish all the fluid you lost. Not to mention just surviving in this heat. At this point, you need to start collecting puddle water.
Unfortunately, it hasn’t rained in weeks, and any ditches or holes you pass are bone dry. Still, you keep an eye out for anything that might cradle any spare drops of water.
Walking down the street, you keep in the shade of the buildings as best you can. However there is significant damage to the street in some areas, forcing you to climb up ledges of crumbling asphalt. The ground burns your palms as you climb.
Over the next ledge, you’re forced to come to a stop, staring down into the crater below. It’s huge, the width of a building and much deeper.
“That’s not erosion,” you mumble, staring into the depths. Broken pipes deep in the strata poke out of the steep walls. Peering down, the hole is deep enough that a fall in would likely result in a broken bones, “they bombed this place, didn’t they.”
Joel sighs looking for a way around, “Looks like it.”
"Where I was, the bombs did jack shit. Killed more healthy people than Infected and in the end the Infected always came back."
"Yep."
Bitterness burns your tongue, “Another thing to thank FEDRA for I guess.”
To bypass the crater, you end up backtracking and going down the next few streets over. A painted mural catches your eye, slowing your step. A giant anthropomorphic sabertooth cat jumping rope is painted on the large front windows of a building. His biceps bulge, fangs bared. Above the door in red paint against black is “Robbie’s Beast Gym”.
The image is so delightfully strange, it makes you stop.
“Hold up,” you call, Joel looks back at your voice, “I’m gonna check in there,” you nod your head to the gym.
He regards the gym with disinterest, standing with his weight on one hip,“For what? I don’t want to dilly dally all day.”
“Food? Water? I’m just gonna check quickly,” you bounce back. He still looks disapproving. “Just sit in the shade, I won’t be long.” You promise.
He doesn’t answer. You determine if he leaves you, you can catch up.
You hear him sigh before his footsteps follow.
The door is locked. You decide to break the window to gain access.
“Goodbye,” you say before hurling the brick through the window. The sound of glass shattering pierces your eardrums, amplifying your very unhappy bruised brain. You clap your hands over your ears and stand hunched over til they stop ringing. After awhile you slowly unfurl, regretting not thinking that move through.
Joel also looks less than thrilled, waiting with his gun in hand. When nothing comes hurling out the streets his puts it away.
“Watch the glass,” he warns as you jump the window ledge.
“You watch the glass,” you repeat as he jumps after you.
Dust has conquered every surface of the gym. It lays in thick layers on the front counter, on every rack and bench, on every mirrored wall. In a corner, at about knee height, a smiley face wiped into the dust is at risk of being erased by growing layers. You pause, tilting your head at the human touch. Did someone hole up here, sitting in the corner bored? Did they have the key? Why didn't they come back? The gym is for sure abandoned. The air is stale and still like a cave sealed off behind a rockfall.
You continue on, after leaving a friend besides the lone smiley face.
Joel’s grumpy presence searches the other corner of the gym. You see him head into the change rooms. The click of a button echos in the still space followed by a cone of light disappearing into the dark hallway in front of him.
You find the laundry section. A basket of folded and dusty hand towels on top of the dryer. You snag the cleanest ones.
The shoe rack has decent finds. Unfortunately you are no need of shoes. Your boots will hold up better than any tennis shoes.
You drop to your knees and check underneath, your cheek pressing into the dust.
“Bingo,” you reach your arm under the rack, your fingers just barely scraping the plastic. As you struggle to catch it, Joel speaks up behind you, “whatchu got?”
You scooch closer, stretching your arm til it feels like your socket is being pulled. Finally, you get a hold and pull it free. You hold up your prize. The bottle is florescent orange, a decent size, and bone dry. Joel does not look impressed by your find.
“Better than nothing,” you stand, wiping off the dust from your front.
Joel holds his hand out to you, a pair of sunglasses resting in between his fingers.
“For your uh,” he gestures to the sun outside, “head.”
Surprise flips your stomach, “Oh, thanks.” You carefully pluck them from his hand, a feeling of impending dread overshadowing the pleasant hum. You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. A deal you just unknowingly made coming to collect.
But nothing happens.
The sunglasses can only be described as ‘douche bag sunglasses.’ White square frames and colored lenses. Putting them on splashes you with relief. Your protective squint fades away.
Aware that you probably look ridiculous and wanting a way out of this strangely intimate moment you joke, “Most importantly, how do I look?”
Joel snorts, “Like an idiot.” And continues his search elsewhere.
“Perfect.”
The back office yields the best find. A sealed box with a faded mail address still taped on. Wiping the dust off so you can read the label, your heart rate spikes once the letters become legible.
Using your knife, you cut through the tape with fervor. Inside is packed from wall to wall with protein bars.
"Joel!" You shout, voice cracking in excitement.
Joel comes racing in two seconds later, his gun drawn, eyes wide. He stops short at you on your knees digging through the box, very clearly not being attacked.
"Turn around," you demand. He does, putting the gun away. You unzip the backpack hanging off his shoulders and start piling the bars into every pocket. They're thick, and even a handful becomes heavy. They’re probably very dry but they package says twenty grams of protein and two-hundred-eighty calories each. They're worth it.
“Ain’t a pack mule you know,” Joel grumbles as the pack gets heavier and heavier.
“Buy me a backpack and we can share."
Unfortunately there's only so much room the threadbare pack has to spare, and almost half the box is still left. You stuff what you can in your pockets, it feels criminal to leave all that food behind.
You shove the box under the desk where its at least somewhat hidden, before spreading out the maps you took from the visitor center on the desk.
"You got a pen?" You ask Joel. After some rummaging he produces a pencil in desperate need of sharpening.
"This is 17th street right?" You ask.
"Yes," Joel agrees. He joins you in peering over the map as you try to find the street on the map. "There," he points to it with a thick finger, "and that's where the crater was," he traces a small circle on the adjacent street.
You mark the map, first the crater then circling the general area of the gym with "food".
You stand up, folding the map and returning the pencil, feeling lighter than you have in recent memory, "So, worth the dilly dallying?"
Joel's eyes dip down your face and you realize you're smiling.
He shrugs, "Jury's still out, let's see how they taste first.” He walks away first. You shake your head clear.
The second half of the trek to the building is uneventful.
“Thought you said there’d be Infected,” you think but dare not say aloud. That’s the type of shit the Universe loves to throw right back at you, with fifty screaming Clickers.
“The note from the visitor center mentioned…other people in the city,” you dance around what you’re voicing, “That note was also years old, maybe even a decade.”
The way Joel chews on his lip before answering tells you everything you need before he even speaks, “Well patrolled streets are often quiet.”
“Great.”
Back out in the full sunlight, you're extremely grateful for whichever gym bro left his sunglasses behind that fateful day before the Outbreak. Your head still throbs but at least you aren't being stabbed through the pupils with radiation. You wonder if he's still alive, lamenting the loss of his favorite pair of sunglasses.
Judging by the sun, it's about an hour before dusk when you finally reach the building. Although that's more of a guess based on the temperature drop and lengthening shadows since the horizon is hidden behind layers of buildings.
Standing on the street in front of the building, you crane your head up and up to the top. There’s a sense of defiant power radiating from the panes of glass and steel. The front door has big black metal letters above the front door.
"Henry Douglas Whitmore Institute of Architecture and Design," you read out loud. Curiosity has you take in the beautiful monstrosity before you, taking a breather. You feel like you need to sleep for a week.
The entire front of the building is barricaded from the inside. Every window has furniture piled behind it, as high as you can see. Breaking glass will get you nowhere. The barricade makes you feel better and worse at the same time. A barricade that effective is definitely a bonus, but the human hand that built it fills you with a sense of dread. The area looks abandoned, but evidently it wasn't always.
Joel steps besides you, looking at the door, "Well, shit."
"Fire escape?" You suggest. The look on his face reflects your mixed feelings, but eventually he nods at you to take the lead.
When you find the fire escape in the back, a wave of dismay hits you. The drop is too high to reach. It looks like it got stuck halfway the last time someone used it.
You echo Joel from earlier, “Well shit.”
"Ok, I can give you a boost,” he nods at you and positions himself under the ladder, crouching a bit and cupping his hands on one thigh.
You flip your sunglasses to your forehead, cocking an eyebrow,“Uh, you sure about that, blood loss boy?”
He rolls his eyes, “You see a ladder somewhere? C’mon, I don’t wanna climb in the dark.”
“Fine,” you approach, nerves lighting your mouth up, “not like I mopped a bucket of blood off you this morning or anything.”
Standing toe to toe, this is the moment you’re dreading. Knowing you’re going have to touch him again. Shame floods you with the childishness of it all. You just would really rather not ever have to touch the man ever again. He’s the reason you’re in this fucking mess. If you were magic, you’d have it so you never saw him again, never have his green eyes look you up and down with a scowl, never hear him say your name with guilt in his eyes, defiance on his tongue.
But you aren’t magic. And it’s your fault. You’re too scared to go it alone, so you’re still walking besides him. Guess you have no pride anymore.
You grit your teeth as it sinks in with a bite that you sent your self-worth to the chopping block. The vow you made to yourself that you’ll sacrifice anything if it means survival strengthens you. And yet, there’s still the feeling that you’ve lost something, and you might never realize exactly what it was.
You realize your mistake too late. Lingering in the moment made it weird. You’re staring at the man lost in thought while he stares back at you in confusion. Staring at each other, waiting for the other to make the move, reminds you of the awful first time you kissed a boy.
In an effort to make it less awkward, you open your mouth and make it much worse, “Don’t make it weird, Miller,” you mock scold as you put a hand on his shoulder.
You expect him to roll his eyes and look away, angry or uncomfortable. He does neither. He keeps his face deadpanned, “You make nothing easy, do you.”
"Nope," You place a foot in his waiting hands, and when he bares your weight fine, you finally straighten up, putting your other foot on his shoulder.
Your core tightens in the fight for balance as you stand on his shoulders, reaching for the rung of the ladder. You feel Joel’s hands clamp down onto your boots, steadying you. Your fingertips scratch the bar, but not enough to fully latch on it. You have to raise to your tip toes, and with a grunt, Joel’s hands move to your calves.
Finally, both your hands are wrapped around the first rung. You have to twist your lower body to get some momentum to reach the next. With your full body weight pulling down, the ladder unlatches from its stuck position and with a loud clang finally slides all the way out.
With a yelp you loose your grip and fall, right on top of the smuggler waiting underneath. You hear the air from Joel’s lungs squeeze out in an ‘ooufh’ as you land on his chest.
You hiss through your teeth as your vision ebbs and flows, threatening to black out. Your head starts throbbing worse and worse from the fall, its like you can feel where your brain bounced off your skull. You know from past experiences that having a concussion makes getting a second scarily easy.
You are aware that the polite thing to do would be to climb off the man's chest you're lying on, so he can breathe. You promise to do that as soon as your head stops spinning like you've had five too many drinks. You slowly try to straighten out, pushing yourself up blindly. Unfortunately your hand misses the ground and you're pushing your weight off something jean-clad and soft that elicits a sharp grunt from Joel. He removes your hand and takes the liberty to gently rag-doll you off of him. You're ok with that.
"Sorry," you groan, lying flat on your back side by side with the smuggler.
"It's alright, I had five hundred protein bars to cushion me." He grumbles, slowly standing up. You can tell the sarcasm is hiding pain, falling on his freshly sewn up back with your extra weight might have ripped your careful stitches.
"Gonna be a long climb." You look up from the ground at the layers of ascending fire escape.
"Yep."
You know you're taking too long to stand back up. Joel reaches up and tests the ladder. It sounds a little sketchy, echoes of metal joints screeching in the air, but its in proper placement and goes no where bearing Joel's full weight. He waits for you at the first flight.
"You good to climb?" He calls down.
At the threat of him climbing with you on his back the way he belayed down into the sewers, you stand up with a groan. Your vision threatens to go but you clench your core and force blood to return to your head. It works, and with many a groan, you climb the stupid ladder successfully this time.
It indeed was a long fucking climb. Sixty stories. The wind picks up strength the higher you go, and finally standing at the top, it tugs at your hair and clothes with an insistence of a dance partner. The view was worth every second of breathless exhaustion. Being able to see in every direction fills you with a sense of security, a rare commodity these days. Good luck sneaking up on you now.
The visitor center where you started is a little green blob on the precipice of an empty ocean. The city spreading out from you has decayed and some buildings have collapsed so much they lean on their neighbors, the occasional great shuddering moan of metal reaching your ears from even this far away. And yet green has wormed her way in between nearly every crack of destruction, filling the wasteland with life.
It’s beautiful, in a desolate way.
The smuggler leads you inside a window, closing it behind you. You let him take point as you clear the floor with your guns drawn.
The stairwell and elevator have been barricaded. You and Joel have different reactions to this. He tenses further, his face hardening, preparing for the worse. You tense as well, but a glimmer of naive hope flickers in your stomach. Maybe the people from the note you carry in your pocket are still here. Maybe they reunited. Maybe they can help.
There's no one.
Once the whole floor has been cleared, its evident that you are still alone with the smuggler.
One of the offices had obviously been used by someone in the past. The couches are pushed together with blankets still on them, a little pile of empty tin cans in the corner. One wall has huge letters in black marker ,”DAD" with an arrow pointing to the table underneath. A piece of yellowed paper is the sole inhabitant on the wood surface.
You pick it up, your fingers shaking for some reason.
Dad, its Elise. I have no idea if you'll ever see this.
Its been two months since we got separated from you and Jordan. Mom wanted to wait here as long as possible. I think she planned on waiting here forever for you.
She died two weeks ago. We were looking for supplies in the city and got cornered by a bunch of Infected people. She held the door so I could run. I heard her scream, then it stopped. I didn't look back. I know she's gone. I did what she told me.
I can't stand it here by myself anymore.
I'm going home.
I'm sorry. I don't know what else to do. If you see this, please meet me there. I hope I see you guys again.
Your heart shatters. No matter how many times you reread the note, the words refuse to scramble into something different. All you see is a daughter, alone and scared, wanting to go home.
You take out the previous note and unfold it, gently laying it down besides this one. Father and daughter, lying side by side. Reunited.
You know the odds that either of them survived, much less ever saw each other again. This is likely the only reunion they ever got.
Joel enters the room a few minutes later, wordlessly glancing at you on the couch as you stare mindlessly through the window. Through your periphery, you watch as he takes in the writing on the wall, before glancing at the table. You're surprised when he picks up both letters, reading them.
With a heavy sigh, he places them back on the table.
"Do you think she made it home?" You ask.
You can tell the smuggler is close to not answering. His eyes flick around the room as he debates lying, or changing the topic.
“Joel," You demand. The least he could do after everything is answer your question.
"No," he replies, not an once of emotion audible in his voice.
You look out into the city. The sun has set, and the sky has been dipped in ink. The sea of buildings has been swallowed by darkness, monsters of all kinds hiding in the shadows of every corner.
"Me neither," you admit. Why would a world this cruel let a young kid who lost everything be reunited with her family. The short answer is it wouldn't.
You curl up on the couch, exhaustion and pain finally winning. You tuck your face under your arms, and wait for sleep to take you in his cold arms.
•·················•·················•
Joel knows he shouldn't stare. He can only imagine the creative and deeply personal insult you'd hurl at him if you were to wake up right now and find him glaring at you while you sleep. The blue light filtering through the window cradling your form, curled on the couch in a tight ball, ribs rising in deep even breaths; it was like watching a car crash. He couldn’t look away, morbid fascination of the dichotomy of how innocent you look in your sleep compared to the danger he’s shoved you in.
Realistically, Joel knows you don’t exactly fit the dictionary definition of ‘innocent.’ But all the violence you’ve wielded has been out of self-preservation. Which when compared to himself, Joel counts as innocent.
He looks away, “What a damn mess you’ve made of everything,” he thinks to himself.
Every time you speak to him, the sight of your beaten face lashes him like a whip. Joel refuses to let guilt creep in. Guilt accomplishes nothing.
He checks the roof in need for fresh air. Opening the door to the outside at the top of a stairwell Joel doesn’t remember climbing, the cool air brushes past him, drying the sweat on the back of his neck.
A structure built up on one corner of the roof beckons him closer. Upon closer examination, there are tarps set up and angled to direct water that falls into the mouths of barrels underneath. It’s a rain catcher. Only one barrel has any water, sealed tight, about half empty.
Seeing the handiwork, Joel can only assume it was the kid and her mother from the note that made the set up. Joel's chest squeezes at the thought of the young kid, journeying home, alone.
He banishes any trace of her from his mind. As he scoops water from the barrel, and sets up a small fire, its as if the rain-catcher just appeared there. It has no history, no long forgotten creators.
Joel is grateful for the darkening skies as the dirty wood from stray pallets left around burns pitch black smoke. There is no doubt there are hunters in the area. Any big city like this, away from operating QZs, is a breeding ground for the worst of humanity. The thought doesn't bring fear, only a wave of tiredness. A chore he'd rather avoid.
Joel sits by the little fire, boiling water and purifying it until its all collected. He fills the water bottle you found at the gym first. Guess it did come in handy.
When the time comes to kick out the fire, go back inside, Joel lingers. Staring at the licking flames, hypnotized for hours until only glowing embers are left. The wind picks up, and without the warmth of the fire, the cold nips into Joel's Texan bones.
He returns to you, barricading the office door, just in case. You're still asleep, curled in a ball like an armadillo, your fingers digging into your arms in a clawed grip. By the twitching and choked murmurs, its obvious you're having an intensely bad dream.
He shakes your shoulder, "Hey," he keeps his tone detached. He's not trying to be an asshole but he’s also desperate to keep from getting overly familiar, unaware that ship has already sailed.
Joel feels a detached connection pull at his chest when you jerk awake, fear in your sleepy eyes. How many times has he woken like that in the long years since the Outbreak? The same scene haunts his sleep every time he lays his head down, filled with soul-splitting pain and blood that exhausts him when he wakes. He hates and appreciates the nightmares at the same time. It's the only way he gets to see Sarah again, to feel her in his arms again, even if it's in the worst moment of his life.
You take the outstretched water bottle with the same wariness he's seen since he first shoved you in the van. Somehow that feels like a year ago but was only a few days past. He gives you space, sitting at the desk.
You stare at the carpet, sitting motionless. Joel tries to give you privacy in the small room while he eats an extremely dry protein bar. Then he looks over the maps. But when it dawns on an hour and you still haven't moved, Joel can't ignore it any longer.
The vacant look in your eyes is one Joel recognizes. He's seen it enough times reflected in the mirror, and in his brother's eyes. In fact, your hunched, frozen posture reminds him so much of when Tommy would give him the silent treatment, it rises familial annoyance in Joel's throat.
"You need to drink water," Joel snaps.
Your eyes don't move off the carpet. You give no indication you even heard him. It was like talking into a headwind. Joel's annoyance strengthens, shielding him from his growing concern. He's never seen you so still, so silent. Even in your sleep you twitch and chatter, grinding your teeth so loud he can hear it.
After a full minute of this, Joel snaps your name, unintentionally echoing a drill sergeant's tone, hoping it might jolt you out of it.
Still, you don't react. It was like the life has seeped from your body and left behind only the husk.
"Hey," Joel moves quickly, crossing the room and crouching in front of you, hoping to break whatever trance the carpet has pulled you into.
"You need to drink something," he tells you, opening the water bottle for you before replacing it in your hand. Your fingers are limp, so Joel places his hand over yours, closing your hand around the bottle so you won't drop it. "You're in some weird funk, but it will pass." He promises.
Hope tugs at his lungs when you sigh heavily at his words, at least you're listening now.
Joel looks up into your glazed over eyes, "I know I don't smell too good, so I'll get out of your space but after you drink something,"
Joel's psyche is swept to a much different time. Taking care of his little brother. Distracting Tommy from a scraped knee. Distracting Tommy from the sounds of their parents fighting. Protecting Tommy was the only thing that made his own hurt fade to a bearable ache. The Outbreak only amplified that. But eventually Tommy didn't want his protection, and all the things Joel did to keep him safe were turned against him.
When you finally look at him, and raise the water bottle to your lips, Joel feels that lost part of him shudder back into place.
You take a tiny few sips, and then your body takes over, realizing how starved you are for water. You down half the bottle before taking a breath.
A smile of relief curls Joel's mouth and he nods in approval, "Good."
As promised, he stands and backs up.
"While you're at it, eat this," he hands you one of your precious protein bars.
You have to saw your teeth through it, a grimace taking hold on your face, "eugh."
Joel laughs in relief. You have life in your eyes again. Anger, hurt, especially when you look at him. He'll take that over comatose any day.
You take the better part of an hour to nibble your way through the bar, in between sips of water. Then you make yourself comfortable digging through Joel's backpack. Mild discomfort pricks at him at his stuff being rifled through but he keeps silent.
You pull out the med kit again, gesturing to him with it, "You're bleeding again."
Joel's not that surprised, his back, has been burning ever since you fell on him. He assumes a similar position from this morning, sitting on the chair, leaning against the back, while you drag the other up behind him.
You clear your throat, "You gonna pull your shirt up?"
Joel fists the back of his shirt and pulls it over his head, telling himself the goosebumps on his skin is from the cool air, not his discomfort shedding clothes for a younger woman.
A suppressed shiver rolls through Joel at your feather light touch when tap your fingers along his back as you inspect the wound. You hum, "Yup, you ripped a few stitches."
Joel clears his throat, "Not that surprised."
"You didn't have to stand directly underneath me, you know," you chide softly, wiping the site clean, before the familiar poke of the needle punches through his skin. Joel latches onto the discomfort, focusing on it. Not focusing on your breath fanning across the back of his neck when you lean in close, or your cool fingertips pressing in to his warm skin.
"So," you speak up, "what the fuck are you gonna do now?"
"Find my dumb ass brother." Joel sighs at the amount of work he's going to go through.
"Tommy, right?" You repeat the name you heard the day prior.
Joel nods despite you being behind him.
Your next poke comes and then all movement freezes, you sit there unmoving for a few seconds, long enough that Joel turns his head half way in confusion.
"Your brother…is Tommy Miler?" You ask, a revelation finally dawning on you, "THE Tommy Miller?"
The juxtaposition of the awe in your voice compared to Joel's view of Tommy amuses him. "Yeah, that'd be the one. Took you long enough." Joel faces away again to let you continue.
You continue your stitch, pulling the thread taught, "He almost killed me once."
Now it was Joel's turn to be surprised, a strange protective warmth hardening in his chest, displeased at the thought, "Did he now?"
You on the other hand are nonchalant as you recount your meeting, "The Fireflies set up a trap. He set up a sniper's nest in the attic of a house. Shot the soldier in front of me. I crawled under a car and waited there til the fight was over. Fucking terrifying."
Joel has trouble thinking of what to say, he lands on ”I’m glad he didn't kill you."
"Me too." You agree, voice quiet.
Eventually you lean back, your warmth leaving with you, "There, you're done." The chair scrapes the floor as you stand, "Put your shirt back on, harlot." Your joke snips the tension in the air.
This patterns carries on steadily for the next few days. You spend most of the day sleeping, and when your dreams start terrorizing you, Joel wakes you up with the excuse of food or water. Once a day you check his stitches, checking for signs of infection though so far there is none.
Joel tries to hide his growing restlessness. If he was on his own, he'd be gone by now. He could leave you with enough food and water and be on his way. He wonders why he hasn't. But if there's one thing Joel Miller excels at, is burying unwanted feelings so deep they never see the light of day.
A/N: Originally, this chapter was 9k plus, but I'm still editing the last half so I'm cutting it into two to get it out there faster. I hope people aren't finding this one too 'filler' since I'm enjoying their awkward interactions building nice and slow. Thanks for reading!
#joel miller#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller x f!reader#my writing#joel miller x female reader#joel miller x y/n#joel x reader#the soldier and the smuggler
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the hunter! ; tangerine x fem!reader (smut, 18+)
read pt. 1 here | read pt. 2 here | read pt. 3 here
Tangerine expected someone else - but he'll do just fine with you, too.
(Based on that one scene from the Kraven The Hunter trailer where he turns around in that chair with the loaded crossbow)
warnings: kids, this is dark; this is like the darkest version of tangerine my brain has cooked up thus far; he is a sociopath by source sooo: manipulation; dub-con/non-con, coercion, gun kink, anger issues, crying, blood, murder/injuries, daddy kink, masturbation, slight dumbification, name-calling, pet names, corruption kink, spit kink
SO I SAW THE KRAVEN THE HUNTER TRAILER AND I REALLY COULDNT HELP MYSELF
"You fucking asshole!", you scream at the top of your lungs, bursting through the large door of your husband's office. It slams back into the lock just as you come to a halt on the expensive fur carpet in the middle of the spacious room.
His chair is facing the wall, a lit cigarette slowly glimming away in the ashtray. It lights up your rage like a match to gasoline.
"I am fucking speaking to you, you fucking dickhead! Can't you keep your dirty-ass dick out of that disgusting bitch you call a secretary for one day?", you are fuming, heart racing as you stomp down with your left heel, throwing your expensive and ridiculously small purse at him, missing the chair by nearly a whole foot. It crashes into the massive painting hanging behind the desk, where it leaves a nasty cut before falling to ground uselessly.
Your husband does not react and that, oh that, that get's you going alright, makes your blood race through your veins so hard you can hear it in your ears.
"I am fucking speaking to you -- turn the fuck around you coward!", you yell, hands clutched to tight fists, your jewellery cutting into the flesh.
Slowly, comedically slowly even, the chair turns. The man sitting in it puts his feet up on the table, legs clad in an expensive navy pin-stripe as he crosses them. And that --
That is not your husband.
The man, sitting in a chair that clearly isn't his, in an office that surely doesn't belong to him, is lean and a lot more handsome than the man you so reluctantly married a few years ago. His face is expressionless, bland like piece of paper, except for the anger pooling around his eyes. He is wearing an expensive looking pin-stripe suit and his hair is neatly combed back, 70s porn stache trimmed just as carefully - the only thing that looks out of place is the blood splattered on his face like freckles, one large splatter on his left cheek.
He is also pointing a gun at you. An actual fucking gun.
"And who the fuck are you, Lady?", he says, casually, but a little irritated nonetheless.
You choke on your own tongue, backing up a little. This is not good. It has your fight or flight kicking in, muscles in your back and legs tensing up and brain going numb, fingers starting to tingle.
"Don't ya move an inch", he growls, his gun following your movement. You freeze. You wonder if he will actually shoot you. You wonder what he is doing here.
"I-, I--"
The man rolls his eyes at you - pretty, pretty eyes; blue like the sea - and huffs out an exasperated sigh.
"Fuckin' answer me." His tone sends shivers down your spine and, if you did not already do so by his gun, you now know for sure that he is not playing around.
"I-", you take a deep breath, voice shaking and thin, "I- I am Markov's wife?"
It comes out more like a question, than an answer, really. You hope it will do; you hope he is happy with what is the - for you, rather sad - truth.
Tangerine cocks an eyebrow, leans back in the leather chair, gun still pointing at you. "'S that so?"
"Y-yes", you gulp.
"Didn't know he had a wife", he mutters, more to himself, really.
Tangerine can feel how the wheels in his head start to turn - the intel didn't suggest a marriage. It genuinely surprises him - not only because people in this profession rarely have spouses - but also because the young lady in front of him is way too pretty. Angelic, even. Too good for a boastful, careless cockroach of a criminal like Markov is. And he wants her, wants to own her. Wants to take take take. He wonders just how quickly she will break.
You, in the meantime, sense an opening.
"W-what do you want? I can g-give you money", you hastily stumble over the words, anxiety crawling up your spine, "A-all of it!"
The man raises his eyebrows, snorts amused. "No, love, I don't need your money."
"A-anything, p-please - just, just", and the dam breaks, eyes tearing up as your eyes zero in on the gun, "Just please d-don't kill me."
Something in his eyes changes, a dark shadow dancing over his face, eyebrows shooting up in surprise and then he pulls back the hammer of his revolver with his thumb. Your knees buckle a little as you hear the bullet snapping in place.
"Care to say that again, eh?" - Anything for your life, really.
"P-please don't kill me", you nearly sob, voice small and quiet, and you are ready, willing to put it all in there, "Please, I am begging you, Mister. I- I don't know why you're here, this - this is one big misunderstanding, I don't know anything about my husband's business. J-just let me go, please."
He does not move. You don't want to die, you are young, you still have a life to live. Maybe you will finally file for divorce. Maybe you will buy a house in Europe. Maybe, maybe, maybe -- You don't want to die.
"Please."
Tangerine says nothing for a moment, then his lips tilt up. "Tell me, love, d'ya beg for him that prettily, too? Or 's that just f'me?"
You blink. "What?", you blurt out.
"Jus' lemme hear it again, sugar - sounded so sweet, that."
You do not know what game he is playing but you really aren't ready to die yet either, so you give in.
"Please", you beg, looking at him with big, teary eyes - the barrel of the revolver stares back, a small black hole of ultimate death -, "Please, let me live." His lips tilt up and you decide to make a move on it, catch him off-guard.
"I-I'd do anything, I give you whatever you want!", you are growing desperate now, your brain trying its hardest to come up with something that will safe your ass. And that, that has his eyebrows knotting together.
The man seems to mull it over for a short while, eyes you up and down. Your skin tingles with it, feels numb and like it is on fire at the same time. "Did ya just say Anything, love?"
"I-I did, y-yes", and your voice grows desperate, "I'd do anything - just don't kill me, please, what do you want, I'll do --"
You ramble on and Tangerine rolls his eyes at you, exhales annoyed.
"Fuckin' shut up", he growls and you do, chin quivering a little with the tears still pooling in the corners of your eyes. You blink them away, sniffling a little.
"Here's what we're gonna do, love", he smiles cooly, shows his teeth like a predator, eyes drilling into you, "We're gonna have a little fun. And once we're done, I'll let ya go. How does that sound? Agreed?"
You have a suspicion what fun means, both, painfully clear and enforced by the way his gaze wanders over your body and you gulp. You really don't have a choice now, do you?
So you can hear yourself say: "Y-yes."
"Yes --?", he lifts his gun a little, gestures with it, "C'mon be a good girl."
Your eyes widen. You are not stupid; you know what he most likely wants to hear - you have met men like him before your marriage - and despite it making your stomach tingle a little it also makes painfully clear what he is imagining as A little fun.
Your voice is small, fingers fumbling with the hem of your tweed blazer. "Y-yes, Daddy", shivers run down your spine as his eyes turn dark dark dark, gaze transfixed by you and then he barks out a mean laugh.
"Fuckin' hell", what?, "I wanted you to thank me, you dumb fuckin' thing, not be a complete 'n utter slut about it."
Shame burns on your cheeks and you scramble for words - anything to say, to excuse or justify yourself - as mortification swallows you whole, crawls up your spine and mingles with your fear, has your head swimming.
"What a poor lil' airhead ya are", he grins at you meanly, "But I like it, go 'head, keep callin' me that. Probably gets you all wet, dunnit?"
You shake your head wildly - "N-no" - bottom lip quivering a little and he knows you are lying.
And Tangerine starts to grow bored. He has been feeling quite bored for a good while - since he blew Markov's lights out to be exact. He wishes he had not done it so soon, would have rather tied him up and let him watch how he has his way with his wife. Tangerine sighs, puffs his cheeks and let’s go off a breath dramatically, looks you straight in the eye.
"Alright, listen. I just don't have all day, so ya better get going, before I pop ya too", he waves his revolver at you, "Get undressed. 'n do it slowly."
You nod - I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to die - fingers brush over the first button of your blazer, as he interrupts you: "Ah ah ah, what d'ya say?"
Your eyelids flutter and your knees feel like giving in. "Y-yes, Daddy."
Tangerine hums deep in his throat. "Atta girl - now keep going."
With shaking hands, cold sweat pooling between your fingers, you start to slowly unbutton the first few buttons of your costume's blazer. It's a Chanel tweed set, since you had just been out with some friends for lunch, before one of them told you about what had she'd seen yesterday. Part of you wishes you had never left the restaurant, just shrugged it off and ordered another drink instead. You don't even know why you fight for this marriage - you never really spoke to him; he never touched you or even really looked at you - not that you minded that much. But it's losing your status, the money he brings in, that you'd miss and thus, you had grown a nice pair of manicured claws over time.
See where that got you.
Your blazer falls to the ground with a thud and Tangerine licks his lips. And that is when another part of you, very quietly at the back of your mind, is a little glad you came here. It's in his eyes mostly, a strange and unknown hunger, like an animal gone wild. And it ignites something in you, shoots pleasure straight down your loins and has your breath hitching.
No one, no one has ever looked at you like that, like he is close to dashing over the desk and swallowing you whole, eating you up and ripping you apart with razor-sharp teeth.
Your blouse follows next, as you pop open the first few buttons, pulling the thin fabric out of your short tweed skirt. It flows to the ground shortly after, leaves you in your bra, skirt, and heels. Tangerine does not give you as much as a few seconds to accommodate to being partially exposed to him, his eyes gleaming dangerously.
"Skirt's next, darlin'."
You inhale audibly through your lips and Tangerine chuckles quietly at that as you unhook the clasp on your skirt, slooowly pulling down the zipper at the side. You feel ridiculous, like a very bad caricature of a housewife stripping for her husband. It's nothing like you imagined it to be, fingers buried deep inside of you, imagining your husband to be someone else, someone prettier, someone who valued you - someone who you'd love to get dirty for. You don't feel sexy or tempting - but to him you certainly do look the part, the way your body quivers and shakes, all shy by avoiding his gaze.
The expensive tweed falls to the floor and you step out of the fabric of your clothing, pooling around your feet. You gulp, carefully looking up at him. You wonder if he likes what he sees, if it's enough for him to spare your life, to --
Tangerine's heart skips a beat, a sharp noise erupting in his ears. The lingerie you are wearing, a stunning pale-pink lace set, hugs your curves nicely and leaves nothing to the imagination - with the way your nipples poke through the bra, the string cupping your cunt, dipping a little into the cleft of your folds.
He can also see the damp patch on your lacey string and it makes his dick rock-hard, pressing against his slacks. He lifts an eyebrow, as he looks at you. "Who would've thought", and you blush, swallowing, "He married a common whore."
The humiliation burns on your cheeks, turns them red and your mouth goes dry, but there's also fresh wetness pooling between your legs at his words. Oh, you are fucked.
He reads you like an opened book, watches you shifting uncomfortably. "Say it", he whispers softly.
You swallow, licking your lips, before replying quietly: "I am a common whore - Daddy."
"That you are, darlin', aren't ya", Tangerine grins, "Get that bra off, show me what ya got."
You reach back and unclasp the soft lace, pulling the strings over your shoulders and down your arms, carelessly throwing the fabric to the side. Tangerine tilts his head a little, his eyes assessing your tits. He seems satisfied, waves his revolver at you.
"Touch yourself, I wanna see those pretty tits movin'", swallowing, your hands come up, damp with cold sweat and cup your tits, bouncing and squeezing them a little, pressing them together. You do not dare looking at him, gaze focussed on the desk instead, hands brushing over your breasts.
You just started rolling your left nipple between your index finger and thumb, gasping quietly, the slight pain and pleasure running straight between your legs as he suddenly moves. You flinch, arms immediately clutching around your exposed chest while he gets up, deliberately strolls over to you.
Maybe he is not satisfied, he surely isn't, it must've been too little, not enough he's gonna kill you, kill you, kill you --
"Such perfect fuckin' tits", he weighs his revolver in his hands, the metal of it clinking against his rings, and closes in on you. "Have ya been touched often?", the barrel of the gun hooks underneath your chin and your lift your head with it obediently, looking up at him. Adrenaline pumps through your veins, your eyes big and teary again. You don't think he's one to slip on the trigger but it still has anxiety crawling up your spine - don't kill me, don't kill me, don't kill me --
"Answer me, ya stupid twat."
You just wish he would take that fucking gun away from your face.
"N-no", you answer truthfully. The last time you had sex was literal ages ago, in your time at Harvard. Since your parents had married you off you haven't been touched by another fucking human being, assured so by the constant observation of your husband's men. He was allowed to cheat, but God forbid you had some fun. So, you had retreated to fucking yourself, lacking any physical contact, making every single time you masturbated feel shallow and incomplete. Tangerine watches the way your face changes as you reminisce.
"Oh, ya poor thing", he coos, his hand coming up to cup your cheek and you look up at him, "Bet that felt horrible, didn't it?"
And you nod, his thumb caressing your cheek and you get a first good look at him. He is really pretty. The blood looks good on him, bright red in a glooming contrast to his blue eyes. Your head swims with it a little. "How did that make ya feel, eh?"
"Lonely", you croak, before you can stop yourself, a few tears running down your cheeks, pooling between his fingers and rings.
He hums in his throat. "Bet it did", something dances across his eyes, "D'ya want someone to take care of ya? D'ya want to stop feeling so bloody lonely all the time?"
The truth behind his words runs you over like a freight train, barely leaves you wondering with how he got that about you so fast, brain erupting in a static noise.
You do. You feel lonely, locked up in a golden cage of money and bodyguards, with no one opening its door to spend some time with the little bird inside.
"Y-yeah", you whisper, blinking away the tears.
"Wanna know something, love?", and you nod, carefully, not to spook him into shooting, "I could be that person. How's that sound, eh? I could keep ya safe -"
Tangerine's hand leaves your cheek and touches your waist instead, a feather-light touch that has goosebumps spreading all over your body.
"I could touch ya -", his hand sprawls over your lower back, "'N keep you happy, get ya lots'n lots of pretty, sparkly things."
Your breath hitches, brain slowly growing mushy because - because, despite the gun underneath your chin, that does sound heavenly. It sounds easy. Painless. Better. A little exciting even.
"C'mon, how's that sound?", he coos, hand running over your back, to your side again, thumb toying with the hem of your string.
"Sounds so good, Daddy", you sigh, images of a new life, a different life flashing by.
"Mh, I know it does. I could take you with me, make ya mine. You'd love that, wouldn't ya?", his fingers dance over your abdomen, dipping lower and between your legs. His thumb presses down on the damp patch, rubs over your clit, his bracelet rustling.
And it is like your brain has completely given up, surrendering yourself to this very handsome man. But you just can't since - "I-I am married", you croak, a little helplessly, like you don't quite know what to make out of that either.
He does, anger flickering behind his eyes like someone pulled a lighter out and ignited his gaze.
Tangerine growls, the barrel of his revolver pressing against your temple roughly, thumb rubbing smaller circles over your clit through your dampened string, "You belong to me now, d'ya understand? There's nothing he can do about it, y'hear me?"
"Y-yes Daddy, I do", you whine, eyelids fluttering and small tears running down your cheeks.
"Oh, stop fuckin' crying - I can feel how wet ya little cunt's gotten, fuckin' slut", and you blink up at him, a small gasp escaping your mouth as your gazes meet through teary eyes.
You just look so fucking hot to him. Adrenaline from his kill still pumps through his veins and it makes him so so mad, his ears ringing. He feels like he is about to fucking burst and your tears only spurr him on, making something in his stomach growl, stretching its claws out.
Tangerine is too far gone already, everything tinted red red red and he just wants to lash at you, bury his teeth in your throat and end your life like that, bury his dick deep inside of you and feel you twitch around him while blood spurts from your open wound, flows from your mouth. He wants.
But you are also so very very pretty to him, tears running down your cheeks, lips plush and quivering a little and nipples hard like glass, testing his patience with the way they poke out at him.
"Or actually, don't", his lips curl up into a cold smile, "I like to see you cry, hm? Y'real pretty like this."
And you sob heavily, his words making your head swim. Pretty pretty pretty - when was the last time someone called you pretty?
"Oh, darlin'", Tangerine whispers, gun grazing your temple, thumb rubbing small and hard circles on your clit, "Don't be hurt by Daddy, hm? I don't mean to hurt ya, now do I?"
"N-no", you shake your head a little, "Di-didn't hurt m-me."
"Mhm, you are such a good girl, aren't ya? Never hurt by your new Daddy, eh?"
You shake your head again but this time, his face grows stern. "Ah ah ah, words, love. Use your words."
"N-no, y-you could never hurt me."
"Yeah, I couldn't, how could I? I can say anything to you, call you whatever I like and you would never be hurt, would ya?"
And you do not want him to be angry, do not want him to think that he could hurt you - so that he doesn't accidentally slip and does just that - and you notice that fresh tears stream down your cheeks.
"I-I wouldn't, no", you blink away the tears and Tangerine smiles at you.
"That's right. I can call you whatever I like", his thumb speeds up and you moan sweetly, "What d'ya think? Doesn't slut fit you well?"
He says it with such adoration that you cannot help but sigh, nodding. "Y-yeah, it does", you reply quietly, ready to wear it with pride.
"Alright then, slut - take that sorry excuse of a panty off."
You follow his command, shaking fingers hooking underneath the hem of your string, pulling it down slowly.
"Faster, you dumb fuckin' slut."
"Uh-huh", you mumble, nodding, and hastily shoving your string down your legs until it falls down and pools at your feet - a pretty pink on a bright fur carpet. Now, with being fully naked, you feel incredibly vulnerable.
You still wonder if he really won't hurt you. You decide that if you stick by rules, he most likely won't.
Tangerine slowly walks around you, like a predator surrounding its prey, then comes to a halt behind you. The barrel of his revolver presses against the nape of your neck and then glides over your body - down down down - cold metal against warm skin, and then he reaches around your waist. The gun grazes your abdomen and slips between your legs, barrel running cooly through your folds. And you can't hold back the moan crawling up your throat, parting your lips, has you inhaling sharply.
"Yeah, that's more like it, innit?", he rubs the cold metal along your folds, "I can fuckin' smell how wet your cunt is."
And you can hear it, too - the way your pussy squelches obscenely around the barrel, wetness dripping down your thighs. Your knees buckle as the metal rubs along your clit, has you moaning shyly.
Tangerine wraps one arm around you, holds you upright with your back pressed flush against his chest and your heartbeat starts to pick up as you feel his hard dick pressing against your ass, hotly through his slacks.
"Lift your leg, love", he whispers, moustache brushing over the shell of your ear and you comply like you are a fucking robot, and his large hand wraps around the back of your knee, holds your leg up. You mewl as the gun wanders further, barrel brushing against your hole and then dips in with barely any effort, so so slick by your juices and your breath hitches, whole body trembling as the cold metal enters you.
"O-oh", you gasp dumbly, your body sacking back against him. The barrel isn't too big, barely larger than a finger, and rather short but it still feels - good? Tangerine starts to fuck you with it slowly, moves the gun in and out of you and your head swims with the thought, that he could just pull the trigger and blow your lights out, could leave you here bleeding to death.
Your legs start to shake, anxiety and lust mingling dangerously, and in a desperate attempt for any leverage your hand shoots up, reaches back and finds the back of his neck, clutches onto it, fists the pristine white banker's collar of his shirt.
"Yeah, that feels fuckin' good, dunnit?"
"Uh-huh", you breathe, the cold metal pumping in and out of you has lust pooling your stomach and you look down to where his tattooed arm wraps around your waist, where the black sparrow and the golden bracelet vanish along your pussy - watching the way you can see the grip and trigger moving against your folds.
You should be scared, afraid of him and afraid of the gun fucking into you - but you just aren't. Lust washes over your brain, makes everything go just a little hazy, wraps you in cotton candy - hot and syrupy, sweet.
"My god - shit", you breathe, your cunt aching to be touched and you wish for the barrel to just be a bit longer, able to fuck you properly, reach the parts only his cock could - the one that's pressing against your ass hotly, pulsing through his slacks. Instead, you roll your hips once, best you can with his iron grip on your thigh, meeting the thrusts of his gun.
It has you whining, the way the cold metal presses against your hot and slick skin, throwing your head back, resting on his shoulder. Tangerine moves in, like a hungry animal, lips and stache brushing over your exposed shoulder, tickling the naked skin while his eyes wander down your body - taking in your desperate thrusts, bouncing tits and hard nipples. You are fucking hot, maybe the hottest thing he has seen in a while, hotter than the tarts he fucks sometimes.
You seem clean - innocent and virginal and it nearly makes him bust a nut thinking about you: on all fours crawling towards him, sucking his cock until your throat bruises and you are a crying mess, tied to the bedposts taking him like a good fucking personal sex doll would. He groans against your skin, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your leg.
The sound has you vibrating. It leaves you wanting, wanting to feel more, to feel full; to hear more of him, more of where that came from. You can't hold yourself back. "D-daddy", you moan, the feeling of his hard dick pressing against you and the warmth that his firm chest radiates leaving you a little dizzy, "N-need your cock."
Tangerine chuckles against your shoulders. "Oh, now you're wantin' something, eh? What about me, love? What about our little deal?"
"'S for y-you, too", you whine helplessly.
"Oh no no no", he sounds genuinely amused, presses the gun snugly against your aching cunt and your legs tremble, "Don't ya try to get me all soft 'n shit, hm? You'll lose, love, you'll lose."
His tongue darts out, licks a fat stripe over your neck, testing your sweat mingling with your expensive perfume. It takes all his willpower not bury his teeth into your soft flesh until he draws blood and life fades from your eyes.
"N-need m-more", you gasp, hole clenching around the short barrel, cunt needy and aching and squirting against his fingers and the gun in anticipation.
"Well, then -- Why don't ya show me how you got yourself off all those years, hm? Show me how to work that sweet cunt of yours", his lips brush over the nape of your neck and your knees buckle at the soft touch, "Show Daddy how to do it."
Tangerine pulls the gun out of you and you gasp, eyelids fluttering, hole clenching around nothing at the loss, wanting the friction back and he slowly puts your leg back down. His hand brushes up your thigh and waist, rests on your shoulder, presses down a little. And you turn to puddy in his hands, knees giving in and you sink down, landing on your knees with a soft thud.
The fur feels soft around your knees and you lay your head back obediently, looking up at him through hazy eyes. You can see him swallowing, licking his lips. His revolver drips with your juices.
His hand grabs your chin, slight pressure on your throat and then he moves in, rubs his crotch over the back of your head. You can feel his hard, big dick against your skull and you can't help your mind from wandering there, wondering how might he taste.
"Feel that? That's what ya fuckin' slutty behaviour does t'Daddy", he bows down, grins at you and then, without warning, spits.
You flinch as his saliva hits your face, lands across your forehead and you cheeks. His thumb spreads it out, rubs it into your skin and you moan, humiliation pooling in your stomach and shooting down between your legs.
Tangerine chuckles, straightens back up and the hand leaves your face, your throat. "Spread ya legs, I wanna see what's gonna be mine."
You comply, sitting down on your ass and planting your feet in front of you, heels digging into the soft fur. He strolls around you, makes is way back to the desk.
"'N you fuckin' whore better put on a fuckin' good show for me, too", he growls, "It's what ya want, innit? Be a good girl f'me?"
It kind of is. The part of your brain that just doesn't want to die is oddly silent. There is something else, something that buries its claws deep deep in your mind and tears and tears and tears until everything is a little mushy and your brain complies - good girl good girl good girl.
Tangerine leans against the table, crosses his feet and places his hands on the edges, gun dangling from his slender fingers. "C'mon love, ya better don't wanna keep me waiting."
You look down at yourself and a surprised gasp leaves you mouth - you are incredibly wet, thighs sticky with your own juices. You run your fingers through your folds in awe, feeling your own slick, and you moan as you brush by your clit. You need more, body and cunt aching for it and your index finger starts to rub over your clit.
Squelching sounds erupt between your legs and you mewl at the sensation, your cunt so responsive, hole fluttering and your free hand darts out, grabs the fur beneath you.
"Such a pretty fuckin' cunt ya got", and your gaze darts up at him, stomach doing a funny little flip as your eyes meet his, breath hitching in your throat.
Tangerine licks his lips, gestures with his gun. "Rub faster, I wanna hear more of ya sweet moans, slut."
You comply immediately, rubbing your clit faster and you do moan for him, gasping with the pleasure shooting through your body, igniting your nerves. You throw your head back, not waiting for his next instruction, adding a second finger, rubbing large and quick circles around your clit, hips bucking and rolling against them, heightening the sensation.
Arching your back you moan and gasp, lust swallowing you whole and taking over your brain - eradicating anything and everything despite the need to feel more more more.
"C'mon, I know you wan'it, push one in and finger yourself", and your other hand flies to your wanton pussy; index finger briefly, impatiently circling your hole before eagerly dipping in, burying itself deep in one quick thrust. You hiss, quickly exchanged by a sweet gasp as you bottom your finger out.
You start to move it in and out of you, rubbing it along your walls and you can't help but sink onto your back, mewling as it enters you deeper, slips back in more easily. You feel so so dirty, naked in nothing but your jewellery and heels with his spit across your face, but you have never felt better either.
"O-one more, please", you beg, "Please, let me have one more."
Don't you just beg so prettily? He wonders if you will beg like that when he will shove a plug up your ass and fuck your throat, stuffing your cunt with a vibrator. He wonders if you will ask for another one to fuck your ass.
Oh, he will ruin you alright. "Since you ask so nicely", he coos, "Go ahead, slut. Whatever ya need."
Pushing a second finger in, the circles you rub on your clit become smaller and faster. You moan in rhythm with your fingers thrusting into you, curling them a little. Your legs go a little limp, knees darting away from each other, giving him an even better view of your assault on your pussy, the way your slick spreads up to your thighs. Your cunt gushes around your fingers as you force them in deeper, squirts against your hand.
Tangerine watches you coming apart smugly, weighs his revolver in his hands. Who would've thought a simple gun was enough to get you to buckle, give in and surrender yourself to him?
You are his now, he will never let you got. He will keep you and train you and make you needy and dumb for no one else but him.
The thought nearly makes his chest burst with the power trip it sends him on, and he spreads his legs a little, feels his hard cock pressing against his slacks. He can't fucking wait to get in that sweet sweet cunt of yours - show you how a real man fucks his wife, fucks what belongs to him. Tangerine can see, even from where he is standing, that you are fucking tight - the way your hole stretches around your delicate fingers has him licking his lips.
He can't fucking wait to claim you.
"Yeah, I can see he never fucked you properly", Tangerine rasps, shakes his head in silent disapproval as you mewl, arching your back, "I'd take care of you, y'know? Y'want that, don't ya?"
You nod nod nod, moaning as your fingers brush over your walls, stretching you out as you scissor yourself open - thinking about how good his huge fucking dick would feel inside of you instead - your hole fluttering around your digits.
"Bet ya do, lil' slut. Daddy's gonna take real good care of ya, ya'd never ever have to think again. Jus' lemme do the thinking."
"Shit, please, yes", you moan, rocking down on your fingers, pushing a third one in. You are so so full, juices squelching around your hole and wetting your hand and the fur underneath you but it's not enough. You start to pump the in and out of you quicker, deep thrusts hitting the spot inside of you just right.
"Yeah, I'd tell you exactly what to do", Tangerine hums, "I'd be coming home and tell my little slut to bend over the fuckin' kitchen table, stuff her tight 'n needy holes, 'n what would she say?"
"I-I'd thank y-you", you nearly cry out, your whole body feeling light and shuddering at the thought.
"Mhm, atta girl - and if I put ya pretty throat on a leash? Drag ya through the house and stuff ya full of toys? What would ya say to Daddy?"
"T-thank you, Daddy", you huff, chest heaving with your rapidly approaching orgasm, legs tensing up and toes curling.
"And what would ya say when I let ya cum, slut?"
"Thank you!", you sob, the two fingers on your clit rubbing mercilessly, your other hand fucking you hard and fast.
"That's a good girl. Lemme hear it then, cum you fuckin' whore."
Your orgasm hits you like a fucking train, your cunt pushing your fingers out as you convulse around them - a high pitched chant Thank you thank you thank you falling from your lips. Your arms fall to the side uselessly as you ride your orgasm out, wave after wave of warm squirt wetting the fur, as you moan and roll your hips, leaving you breathless.
Your eyes flutter open as you hear footsteps, see him approaching. He is still holding his revolver, the outline of where his large cock is pressing angrily against his expensive trousers.
"Too sad your husband couldn't just see that, eh?", there is genuine joy marking Tangerine's features, making his bright eyes gleam.
Oh shit - that reminds you of something.
"W-where is he?", you croak, legs still shaking with your recent orgasm, body sinking into the fur.
"Oh, love", he seems to smile at you, but his eyes don't join in on his lips tilting up, "He's right 'ere, ain't he?"
He points his revolver away from you, to the side and your eyes warily follow the movement. There is nothing there except the locked closet and --
And a dark pool of something on the ground, a trail of it slooowly creeping your way over the polished floor boards. It looks like-
You stretch your arm out, fingers darting out and the index finger dipping into the liquid. It's still warm and sticky.
And red. It does not take a genius to get what it is.
Tangerine licks his lips as he watches you, how realization creeps in, changes your facial expression. You look horrified and his dick twitches at the sight.
He closes in on you, bows down over your exposed body and grabs your hand roughly, pulls it in. "Would'ya mind cleaning that up f'me, love?", and your eyelids flutter and you do, like you are on autopilot, licking your dead husband's blood from your finger.
"Mhm", Tangerine hums and you gag a little around the metallic taste, which makes his face light up. He pulls his finger from your mouth, unbuckles his belt instead. "I think, I really might just keep ya."
"Y-you said you'd let me go", you gasp as his hand dips between your legs.
"Well, love - change of plans, innit?"
#tangerine#tangerine bullet train#tangerine x reader#tangerine x y/n#tangerine imagine#kraven the hunter#kraven#my writing#smut#bullet train#bullet train 2022
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grip on the barrel (toji fushiguro x reader, 18+)

rating: explicit 18+, minors do not interact!
tags: pwp, shameless smut, canon universe, hate sex, misogynistic and sexist language, degradation, gun kink, muzzle kink, masturbation, semi-public sex, vaginal sex, co-workers, not for the faint of heart
A/n: the following content contains some pretty intense gunplay, and some seriously fine toji content, you have been very warned! on ao3 here!
word count: 2.3k

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“I didn’t think you were the type to torture someone after they spit out everything they know.”
“I didn’t think I would be hired to work with a brat like you.”
The man in front of you methodically wiped off his stained knives before putting them in an engorged purple worm you couldn’t believe was real. You shook it off.
“Maybe if you weren’t so bold in how you handle your missions, I wouldn’t have to help your sorry ass, Toji.”
The man says nothing, choosing to lazily stride ahead of you to the rendezvous spot in the tunnel of back alleys.
Although you were hired specifically for your information-gathering skills and methods, you were not fully briefed on the assigned target, the ‘Vessel.’ Yet here you are, with the secretive organization’s lead hitman at their disposal, Toji Fushiguro.
You catch up to him, pointing a conniving finger at the side of his face. It’s the same side that has that harrowing scar on his mouth.
“And what you did back there? I’ve been doing this as long as you, Toji, and we both know a chump that’ll start talking after a few punches. Bringing in the damn armory fucks up our plan when you start cutting off tongues.”
“Let’s get one thing straight, little lady.” He turns to you, towering over your figure with an intimidating presence that is overly purposeful. The blood on his chest from the mission is prominent, with no intention of him to hide it. “I don’t play when there’s money on the line. If you don’t follow my lead, we don’t do the job right, and you’ll end up like them. Got it?”
You step up to him, unbothered by his threat. He cocks his head at your audacity to challenge him.
“I can work fine on my own. Not my fault your m.o. is shitty enough to have a girl like me work with you.”
“The only time I work with girls like you is when they have hands that please me. Don’t get ahead of yourself, sweetheart.” He clicks his tongue at you, rubbing his neck. To him, you’re a pest he’s stuck with that he has no intention to entertain.
“I’m sure they get paid to please you. Must be dehumanizing to fuck a hardass.”
“They’re the ones that end up giving me money. I do too well for them.”
“Jesus, gag me.”
“With that attitude, I won’t.” His comebacks come out with ease, yet they make you want to die on the spot.
“Look, I know you know more about this stupid vessel than the organization does. Not only that, you reveal classified client information to the only suckers that you decide to keep alive. That doesn’t sound like getting the job right; it sounds like you don’t care what’s best for the clients if it’s in the way of your fucking ego. Likely, you don’t even have the brain capacity to process what I just said.”
His face clicks to you as it contorts in anger. In a flash, his fingers fly to your hair, pulling your head by the scalp to yank your eyes to him. His other hand pulls a gun from the creature and aims at the thick of your temple.
His face levels with yours, now flush against your ear.
“I don’t need a wench like you talking shit to me. All you women are good for is being fucked.” His words are like daggers, piercing violently into your ear in booms.
Toji moved quicker than you could process, and your breath hitches from his hands on you. He slams you against a brick wall and the barrel of the gun presses against the side of your head. His hands roughly tangled in your hair, and his annoying mouth pressed to your ear again.
“I got no brain, huh? Say that shit again when I paint yours all over this fucking alley.” His tone is purposeful; the words are annunciated as he buries the gun to your head. He wants you to be scared enough to submit under him.
You should back down now—say you’re sorry about pissing him off and to let you go—yet you’re the opposite of scared. Your hastened breaths seem to be from the terrifying scene presented to you. That’s the natural reaction from someone else in your position.
You try to pry yourself off, only succumbing to his raw strength. But Toji can see the change in your eyes when the weapon is turned on you and your bodies feel so close.
Mmph.
You moan from the hands that hold you, making any words of defense hold no weight. You scramble from his hands to grasp any dignity, but the eyes that were once blazed in hellfire are now doused in curiosity.
“Oh, interesting ,” Toji says, pulling you close as he looks at your heated face. His face is irritatingly smug. “I guess I was right about you, little girl.”
“You fucking asshole,” You seethe. “Just put me down.”
“Oh, do you really want that? I can tell by your eyes that you fucking love this, don’t you?” He glides the handgun down your face, sliding down your chin and now firmly planted on the corner of your lips. “I can shut that dirty mouth up if I wanted to.”
“Like hell you could.”
But you can’t deny the sensation in between your legs when he points the gun at you. He rubs the barrel of the handgun, twisting it against your skin as if to carve it into you.
This same man has killed more people this week than nights in a year. He tortures with no remorse and kills with no feeling—a cold, calculated monster who now turns all of his sadistic tendency towards you. You were so close to death that you could practically taste the power from the barrel that could shoot into your skull at one pull of his finger.
And you can’t help but moan again.
You can’t help but pant from feeling overwhelmed by the dangerous man in front of you. It was like spinning a life-or-death roulette, with each second more thrilling than the last.
“You’re drooling like a mutt. You’re the craziest bitch I’ve met.” Toji laughs. “Why don’t you show me you’re more interesting than women I use off the job?”
Your bloodstream fills will rage, caging your body from total submission. But you know he has you cornered: your biggest turn-on has been revealed.
“You fucking deaf? You can’t do anything better than every girl that’s opened her legs for me.” He snares.
“Asshole.”
Your mouth moves to suck on the gun. The hard rubber of the silencer clacks with your teeth, and your lips clasp a ring around the barrel.
You’re not stupid to know that there are a few more shots in his magazine. Toji shot in the ceiling earlier to intimidate the grunts you got information from. He’s only a trigger away from blowing your head off, yet the level of danger has you moaning on the gun, half-lidded and legs trembling against Toji’s calloused body.
“Jesus,” Toji says.
You notice a glint of exhilaration in Toji’s eye, and a jolt of arousal runs down your spine when you feel the pressure of the gun increase.
Toji shoves the silencer down your throat, watching your lips swallow it down and eyes begin to water.
Above all, Toji was more interested that you haven’t pulled away from the long barrel shoved down your throat, instead your cheeks hollow out. You choose to take it in your mouth, now sucking enough to taste the bitterness of the gunpowder still left on the muzzle.
“Thought I was just some hardass, hm? Now I have you gagging it down like a slut.”
He pulls it out of your mouth, watching you cough out.
“Bastard, I know you like this too.” You say, “You wouldn’t keep going unless you liked it.”
“With some girl thinking she’s all that?” Toji forces your body on the ground with your back flush to the brick wall. “What I want is to have you squirm.”
“I’d like to see you try.” Your ass hurts from that fall, causing you to shift your legs.
“Easy.”
You don’t think you should’ve shifted, as Toji eyes narrow on them. In one fluid motion, he grabs your legs before ripping your cargo pants off of you. He didn’t even spare a second to look at your black lacy underwear before tearing it off. Within seconds, he already has you stripped bare on your bottom half.
Then he grabs his gun again.
“Don’t keep them closed.”
Toji’s hand split into your thighs, cracking them open with sandpaper palms. Even his grip is brutish, and you see your soft skin squish from it. When you tried to close your legs, it seemed that he would wretch your plump thighs wider. He puts himself between them.
You can see the lights in his eyes go off when Toji’s face contorts to sick pleasure. He grabs the gun and dives it between the aching apex of your thighs.
The second the cold muzzle of the gun touches your clit, you feel a wave of warm fuzz. You practically melt into the touch. He languidly rubs it against you, watching you twitch against the gun in sick intrigue.
“Such a deprived slut.”
“And you’re a sick fuck.”
Yet, both of your eyes are glued to the scene. Toji is practically fucking you with the gun with the way it rocked into you. You moaned against him, reveling in the way he could easily mutilate your body if he wanted to. It all made the gun slick against you faster.
A devilish smirk came to your face.
“Put it in.”
Toji raised an eyebrow, obviously persuaded by your offer yet not wanting to give in without pure degeneracy.
“Touch yourself before I do.”
No, this man wants to defile you without holding back. You could practically gag, yet it was lost on the erotic sound on your tongue. You fucking hate Toji, yet you’re hate fucking at its finest with the Sorcerer Killer.
You gather your juice on your fingers before diving into your pink bud of nerves. The thousands of nerves screamed in lust when the skin contacted.
“Shit.”
Toji’s eyes gall to your hands, watching you fuck your sensitive clit. Your hand flicks back and forth so fast that invites Toji to thrust the silencer into you. You feel your walls stretch to the gun, screaming from the pain of the rugged ridges, yet your legs shake from the ecstasy.
The way that Toji grips his trigger makes you lull your head back. Your fingers start to work a pace that rocks you closer. You feel so close, but you stop before you can cum. You want this moment to last.
Toji could give less of a fuck what you wanted.
“Who said you could stop?” Toji says, starting to thrust it inside you at a degenerate pace. He grabs your hair, lunging into your ear.
“Keep. Going.”
You grunt in annoyance, yet you comply like a dog.
Your fingertips come back to your pink bud, rocking your hips against your hand slowly. Toji’s body is pressed against you, focusing on panting and sucking your sensitive ear, encouraging you to keep going. He grunts into your ear, lips taking your lobe, biting it hard enough for you to squeak, thrusting the barrel fast enough to make you cum; it’s all so sadistic, yet you didn’t stop him.
Toji rustles his hand out of your hair and down his pants, popping his hard erection out before immediately beating it off. The way he starts to pant from the sensation, from the vision of you, was both annoying and so enticing. You displayed your dripping arousal to him, watching the movie that was his cock bucking into his hand.
You ram against the wall from the sheer intensity of Toji thrusting his silencer into you, erotic noises come out of your mouth, ripping out of you when Toji bites down on your neck. It was the catalyst for your entire cunt to burst in pleasure.
You burst into animalistic moans as you cum on Toji’s gun, and he sure as hell loved it. He helped you ride that despicable orgasm with each deep thrust of the gun hitting your cervix. The pleasure was so overwhelming your thighs hugged against his body, and you lunged into the crook of his neck. You bit down on the flesh of his shoulder mid-climax, fully enthralled by sheer pleasure that it was almost too much to bear.
Once Toji pulls out of the gun, he eyes down the creamy substance that stained the black exterior. It dripped down like honey before it lifted onto Toji’s tongue. He swallowed it with an insatiable hunger, practically rolling his eyes when his lids fluttered.
“The roughest girls taste the sweetest,” He groans erotically. “It makes me want more.”
“Like you could’ve taken it further,” you panted, starting to get up.
Toji scoffs.
“Oh, that would’ve really killed you,” He darkly laughs, “and I need you to make it to the rendezvous. I’d rather die than have to carry you there.”
“If you keep your vulgarity, I would rather die than have you touch me again.”
“Don’t be like that. I can catch you on a day we're off and easily break you in like a fucking bottle. Get a little vacation from work; I’ll make sure your little legs can’t get up again.”
“Don’t count on it, asshole. Don’t think we’re buddy-buddy just because you made a girl cum for once.”
“Just admit it. You loved it like a filthy little vixen.”
“In your dreams.”
But Jesus, if he can make you feel like that without his dick, you can’t imagine what full-on sex with a cold assassin is like.
There is no fucking way to save this business relationship now.
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ao3 | tiktok | kofi | masterlist
#fanfic#x reader#fem reader#reader insert#jjk#jujutsu kaisen#toji fushigro x reader#toji fushiguro#jjk toji#toji smut#toji x reader#my fanfic
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Renegade!Ink
Info post about the au
(If characters seem OOC ((Out Of Character)) it's beacause I'm going off of my own interpretations/headcanons/fandom versions. So please be aware of that)
More info under the cut (Info is subject to change at any time. Info may be added to as well)
-Jobs in the group: builder, scavenger
Weapons of choice: giant paint brush/paint, paint gun
-Head canon voice: ???
-Uses They/Them or It/It’s. Identifies as nonbinary.
-The paint vials they wears gives them emotions, they can take multiple vials at once to get different effects. If they doesn’t take any they become semi-emotionless and their eye lights tend to be a lot more boring that what they’re normally like, e.g. duller colours and not as crazy shapes.
-Their eyes can be any shape and colour the most common shape though is a yellow star with a blue pupil. Tends to change any time they blinks, though if Their brain is buffering and they go blank brain their eyes might not change even after a few blinks.
-Has really bad memory, and also has a bad attention span. It doesn’t really seem to affect them too much, just in the past it used to annoy people, but due to the apocalypse it hasn’t really been a problem for the group. Since it’s not like they need to remember much and they’re basically seeing everyone every day so they’re not forgetting anyone either.
-Can use their paintbrush to heal themselves, e.g. if they break a bone they can just paint over them to repair them.
-Unsure on where their own tattoos came from, they never had them when they were a kid, but at the same time they can’t recall when they appeared. They’re partly unsure if they’re markings or tattoos.
-Always has paint on their face, even when they clean it off it's not long before another one somehow appears.
-Will write things on their scarf. So their scarf will often have smudge stains and writing on it. May also have little doodles on it. To add to this if someone writes something on their scarf after a bit they will assume they’re the one who wrote it, which others can do to trick them into doing something.
-No concept of danger, they can very easily heal themselves with their paint. To add onto this they sometimes struggle with what is right and wrong. May just do something because they think it would be funny or interesting.
-Sometimes has antisocial behavior, but normally Blue and Dream can reel them back to reality and keep them in check. It just doesn’t register to them that some behaviour isn’t considered the norm. The others in the group tend to partly understand that Ink works like that, and tend not to question it too much.
-Before the apocalypse, they were arrested a few times for graffiti. Now often does graffiti everywhere they goes now, because it’s not like anyone can tell them not to do it anymore. The rest of the people in the group use some of the artwork as landmarks.
-Has a “Leap first, think later” kind of mindset when it comes to things. They do things because they want to, and don’t care about consequences, “What fun is life if you're always overthinking.”
-Used to argue on Twitter about random things, would basically find anyone with an opinion and make up a worse opinion just to argue, half the sides they took during arguments they never actually stood by, they were just doing it because it was funny.
-Can use paint as a sort of ‘bag of holding’, being able to store up to 20 items which they can access at any point as long as they have paint. E.g. reaching into a paint bucket to pull out items or put items in. Works on any large quantity of paint.
-Their room looks like a tornado hit it, artwork all over the walls, floors and ceiling. Things strewn about the rooms, to anyone it looks like chaos, but to them, it’s organized chaos. If they ever tried to tidy they’d instantly forget where things are.
-Has broken the 4th wall a few times. Don’t question how they know about the 4th wall, they will not understand. And it freaks everyone else out.
-Doesn’t tend to realize when people don’t like them, or maybe they just don’t care. If someone has ever told them why they hate them, Ink would have forgotten within a few minutes. They don’t have time for that negativity, it sounds like their (other) issue not a them (Ink) issue.
-Sometimes trips on their scarf, will keep doing this, has fallen off of a roof before because of this. Whenever Dream sees them tripping up a bunch Dream will tie up their scarf into a bow.
-Can mimic noises really well, is good at impressions of people and making noises of some objects. Annoys others with phone notification sounds. May do sounds randomly.
-Has one of those werewolf shirts, it's oversized and tends to wear it when just hanging around. Just loves any inherently dumb clothing.
-professional yapper, will not shut the fuck up, not even if they get told too.
How they feel about:
Nightmare: Sees Nightmare as just some dude. Like what's up with that weird short guy. No particular strong feelings. Thinks some of Nightmare’s jokes are funny thou, pop off little man.
Dream: Sane friend, thinks he (Dream) needs to loosen up more though. Tries to rope Dream into dumb plans, will go with these plans regardless if Dream joins in on them or not. Does like hanging with Dream though, thinks he's nice.
Cross: Yet another ‘just a dude’, can get along with him well. Thinks Cross is similar to Dream in the way of always trying to keep them out of trouble. Tries to teach Cross to draw, is super encouraging about it, wants more art buddies so Cross is going to be their art buddy Whether he likes it or not. They both yap at each other, Ink finally having another professional yapper to talk too. Half the time they won’t even be listening to each other, they just talk at the same time.
Blue: Friend, will go along with their dumb plans so they like Blue. Blue also has dumb plans that they’re 100% willing to go along with most of the time. Often tries to tag along with Blue to hanging with Error, but 50% of the time Blue doesn’t let them.
Dust: The guy rarely speaks, so Ink yaps at him, good luck telling them to shut up when you don’t speak. Doesn’t really know Dust that well, and Dust ends up just walking away from them. At least Ink tried to get to know him at some points.
Horror: Doesn’t really know him too well, sometimes goes to hang with Blue whenever Blue is helping with the gardens. Loves asking them both questions about the plants/crops. Has shot Horror with the water hose before, is no longer allowed to help water the plants/crops.
Killer: Always cracking jokes with Killer. Killer will also join in on any dumb plans they make. So to them Killer is an ally. But also Killer will write on their scarf to mess with them. It’s not like Ink knows that its killer doing it though.
Error: A silly guy to them. Finds Error interesting, is interested in how glitchy Error is and the strings. Thinks Error is just silly, that's their scrimblo. Will call Error babygirl as a joke, Error is aware that it’s a joke. Finds anything Error makes either it be the puppets or anything he's knitting interesting, has also dubbed Error as an art buddy, Error doesn’t agree to this though.
Lust: A friend, claims Lust as an art buddy due to seeing the clothing Lust makes as another form of artwork. Lust also lets them yap, so they like Lust. Lust tries to convince them not to do anything dumb though.
Fell/Edge: Makes Fell mad, doesn’t mean too, but does it by accident. They can have more chilled out moments between them both, but mainly it's Fell either telling Ink to leave, or Fell being the one to leave the situation.
Geno: “Why are you not dead.” was the first thing Ink ever said to Geno, it wasn’t said as a question, more of a statement. Didn’t mean for it to come across as rude, but Geno took slight offense to how bluntly it was stated. They’re on better terms now with each other.
Outer: The space guy, likes to hear him talk about space. And Outer’s more chilled out vibe does help them to chill out a bit. Whenever they do any artwork to do with space Outer is always the first one to see.
Sci: Smart guy who tells them not to mess with anything. Understandable have a good day. Doesn’t interact with Sci that much, sometimes puts googly eyes on things in secret around Sci’s office. Drives Sci insane.
Reaper/Death: “HOLY SHIT IS THAT THE GRIM REAPER??!!” Upon first seeing Reaper. Will play board/card games with Reaper, though half the time they (Ink) can never sit still to finish the games. Thinks Reaper is just a chill guy.
Fresh: Another silly guy, thinks Fresh is cool, wants Fresh’s roller skates. Loves all the colours on Fresh. Doesn’t know much about Fresh though. Wasn’t paying attention when Dream had told them to be wary of Fresh.
Gans/Echo: Has only really met him a few times, Echo doesn’t give them the time of day. So they don’t really give Echo the time of day either.
Chief: A bossy guy, loves playing pranks on him (Chief). Chief has chased them around for an hour before after catching them mid prank. Blue had to step in to save them.
#monoart#monos art#art#digital#digital art#undertale au#Renegade!Ink#Ink#ink sans#Renegade ref#Renegade refs#Renegade info#Renegade au#ref#reference#underverse#sans au#undertale sans au
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seven - a joel miller story
pairing: post-outbreak jackson!joel miller x female reader
rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)
word count: 5k
summary:
Joel Miller has spent twenty years pushing the grief and guilt surrounding the death of his daughter, Sarah, to the darkest recesses of his brain in favor of survival. And I've been meaning to tell you I think your house is haunted Your dad is always mad and that must be why
Living a more quiet life in Jackson means the ghosts of his past have returned to haunt him. He finds his solace in you, the town librarian.
author's note:
another work for the folklore anthology! i'd really love to hear your thoughts on this one, so please drop a comment or slide into my inbox if you're so inclined.
content warnings/tags:
explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact), no use of y/n, ANGST, themes of grief and loss, feelings of guilt, discussions of child loss and sibling loss (unnamed brother of reader), descriptions of panic attacks, nightmares, alcohol use, unprotected p in v, vaginal fingering, pet names, a reference to the harry potter series. let me know if any are missing!
“Look at me, daddy!”
Joel watches as Sarah pumps her legs, soaring high into the cloudless blue sky. He has to shield his eyes against the painfully bright sun. He smiles as she laughs, the sound blanketing him in joy.
As she swings down back towards the ground, Joel hears a panicked shout. He turns, a man running toward him over the hill, arms waving. He can’t hear what the man is saying, he’s too far away.
A shot rings out and the man drops to the ground in a heap of limbs. Joel can see a line of soldiers, guns trained toward him.
“Sarah, we have to go!” He shouts, turning back to the swing set. The swing is empty. He searches frantically for his daughter but the little girl is nowhere to be found. “Sarah!”
He’s running, putting space between him and the soldiers. He begs and prays to a God he’s always had trouble believing in that he finds his baby.
He sees her, finally. She’s standing in the middle of a field, her back to him. It’s dark now, he’s not sure when that happened.
“Sarah! Sarah, we gotta go, come on, baby,” he shouts. She turns, slowly, her arm braced around her stomach and a horrified expression on her face. Joel drops to his knees in front of her, taking her face between his hands. “Baby? What’s wrong?”
She lowers her arm, bright red blood smeared on her tan skin and a blossoming stain on her shirt. Her voice shakes as she whispers, “Daddy?”
Joel wakes with a shout, sitting up in bed as he struggles to catch his breath. His sweat damp skin erupts with goosebumps in the cold air of his bedroom. He presses a hand to his chest, the tight grip of panic around his heart easing incrementally as he fights for breath.
The brief glimpse of darkness between the curtains covering the window tells him it’s still early and a glance at the clock on the nightstand confirms as much. He groans, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing. The floor is frigid against his bare feet and he shivers with the unexpected chill.
In the kitchen, he makes himself coffee before slipping his leather jacket on and heading to the back porch. The dark sky has lightened the slightest bit, the encroaching dawn painting the inky sky a faded purple as the sun creeps up from its slumber.
From his porch, Joel can see one of the side entrances to the cemetery. He watches as a figure emerges from beyond the concrete walls and it takes him a moment to realize it’s just you again.
You, the curious woman that runs the town library. He’s seen you on other occasions like this morning, where he’s trying to shake off the remaining webs of discomfort that have been spun in his mind. You shut the wrought iron gate and like you can feel his gaze on you, your head turns, keen eyes regarding him.
You approach his house, stopping at the bottom of the porch. You stand with your hands stuffed in your coat pockets, head tilted slightly and a smile on your lips as you say, “Up a bit early, aren't you?”
Joel takes a sip of his coffee. “Could say the same about you.”
“Early bird catches the worm,” you reply, smiling at him. He swallows. You make him nervous. Despite the few interactions he’s had with you, he feels like you know him to his very marrow, and that scares a man like Joel.
“More like a night owl.”
You chuckle. “A bird is a bird. I’ll see you around, Joel Miller.”
He stares after your retreating figure for so long his coffee has gone cold. With a sigh, he returns inside, thoughts no less tangled than when he first stepped outside.
________
You survey the rose bushes you’ve cultivated, rows of different varietals beginning to blossom or in full bloom. The peony buds have gotten larger and any day now they should blossom as spring really begins to show her colors. The mornings and evenings are still cold, but the afternoons give way to hotter temperatures and thankfully you’ve been spared one last late winter snowfall.
You prune some of the faded blooms from the bushes, collecting them for composting. When you’re done, you return inside to wash up and change before heading to the library. As you scrub beneath your fingernails, your mind drifts to the specter of Jackson, Joel Miller.
There’s something about him that draws you in, despite the arms length of distance he tries to keep from everyone. You saw him the other morning after you made your way through the cemetery long before it officially opened, laying extra flowers around some of the less tended graves. It’s not the first time, and based on what you know about the older man, it won’t be the last.
________
Since Joel isn’t scheduled for a patrol for a few days, he decides to visit the library. Too much idleness is dangerous for a man like Joel, who is in constant search of something to keep his mind and body occupied so that his thoughts don’t drift to darker places.
You’re sitting at the circulation desk when he enters, bent over a book as you read off the log number on it and write it in a journal under your hand. You look up, flashing him a smile that briefly suffuses him with warmth.
“Hey,” you say in greeting. He nods, intending to just walk past you, but you continue to ask, “You need help finding anything?”
“No,” he replies shortly. You nod, smile faltering the slightest bit. Joel feels a flash of guilt before he tamps it down and walks deeper into the library.
He explores the tidy shelves until he finds himself in the fiction section, reading cracked spines and faded letters until one catches his eye. It’s a small paperback sandwiched between two larger books, a pink spine etched with white lines and faded blue lettering. He wiggles it free, turning it over in his hands.
A Wrinkle In Time.
The blue cover with a snowy mountain scene, three children carried in an egg over a town by a flying white creature used to stare up at him from Sarah’s nightstand. It was her favorite book, one she had him read to her at bedtime when she was five. It was the same book he’d caught her reading under the covers with a flashlight past her bedtime when she was eight, the same one she carried everywhere until it fell apart and he had to replace it when she was ten.
Joel’s hand shakes and he has to steady himself by holding the bookshelf. His chest feels tight, too small of a space for his rapidly pounding heart. The words printed on the books in front of him all blur together as he tries to focus, tries to breathe, tries to stay in the present.
There’s a hand on top of his. Delicate, soft. A voice he knows he recognizes but can’t place is saying his name, but it sounds like it’s coming through layers of cotton in his ears. He squeezes his eyes shut.
After a long moment, that vise grip around his chest eases and he swallows around the lump in his throat. He blinks, spots dancing in his vision as his eyes adjust to the light once more.
“Joel?” You ask, voice quiet. It makes his muscles tense, coiled tight like he’s ready to run. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he replies roughly. He slips his hand out from beneath yours. “‘M fine.”
You��re silent for a moment, keen eyes making him feel flayed open and exposed as you watch him. Finally you ask, “Was it about your daughter?”
“No,” he snaps. Rage blinds him, white hot in his vision as he moves past you.
“Wait,” you call out. Joel pauses but doesn’t turn. “It’s okay, you know. To still carry that pain. Did you ever even allow yourself a chance to mourn?”
He turns, looking at you incredulously. “What the hell do you mean? I mourn every fuckin’ day.”
“No, you grieve. You let the thoughts of Sarah—“
“Don’t. Don’t you say her name,” he hisses, stepping closer in his anger. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me.”
“—haunt you to the point of pain. You think I don’t know why you’re out there on your porch so early some mornings? It’s the same reason I’m out in the cemetery,” you confess. You take a deep breath. “You’ve been fighting for survival since the outbreak and you never gave yourself the chance to mourn. You owe it to yourself and to Sarah to try.”
Joel’s chest heaves, a venomous retort on the tip of his tongue when a voice calls out your name from the front of the building. With one last look that speaks volumes with no words, you disappear from the stacks.
Joel leaves the library and heads straight for the Tipsy Bison. A young man is polishing glassware when he storms in, door slamming shut behind him.
“What can I get you?” The man asks as Joel slides onto a stool.
“Whiskey,” he demands. A glass is set in front of him, amber liquid poured until it's halfway full. He brings the glass to his lips and lets the alcohol burn its way down his throat and erase the taste of guilt on his tongue. Setting the glass on the bar he says, “Another.”
He drinks two more glasses in the same fashion, glaring at the boy when he hesitates to pour his third drink. He sips his fourth pour slowly, letting time pass as it always cruelly will.
Finally, when the light beyond the window panes starts to fade, he heads home, hands shoved in his pockets as he wills one foot in front of the other, gaze fixed on the pavement. It’s not a long walk but it feels like it as he cuts between buildings to avoid having to make conversation with people.
When he reaches his house, he stomps up the steps as he digs in his pockets for his key. His boot knocks into something on the ground by the door. He bends over to pick up the object.
A Wrinkle In Time.
Joel opens his front door and collapses on the couch, book pressed to his chest as a dreamless, whiskey tinged sleep consumes him.
________
“Stop running! Put your hands up!”
Joel sets Sarah on the ground, raising his hands above his head. “We’re not sick! My daughter, she hurt her ankle,” he shouts.
The soldier keeps his gun trained on them as a staticky voice over the radio says something he can’t make out. His finger moves from rest to poised over the trigger, the barrel of his gun braced against his shoulder as he takes aim.
“No!” Joel shouts as the gun goes off. He launches himself in front of Sarah, wrapping his arms around her and bracing for the impact and the shocking pain.
The pain doesn’t come. He slowly opens his eyes, expecting to see the soldier and his gun but instead he sees Sarah, a shocked look on her face as she clutches her stomach, dark blood staining her fingers. She’s far away, not right behind him like she had been.
That’s when Joel notices the weight in his hands, the cold press of metal to his palms. He looks down at the black rifle in his hands, then back up at Sarah.
“No!”
Joel wakes tangled in his sheets, panic coursing through his veins and a hoarse shout of Sarah’s name fading in the dark. As he chokes on the air his lungs are desperate for, he glances at the clock. It’s early again, too early for the rest of the town to be awake save for the people scheduled to return from patrol in a couple hours.
He runs a hand over his face with a sigh before getting up. It’s been a couple weeks since he last had a nightmare, the product of back to back patrol shifts and helping with a building repair that left him so blissfully exhausted his traitorous brain couldn’t torture him, but it seems they’ve returned with a vengeance.
Joel gets dressed and heads downstairs, making himself coffee that he brings out to the porch. He watches the cemetery gate, part of him hoping he sees you and a larger part hoping whatever haunts you has left your peace intact for the night.
Like his thoughts have conjured you from the ether, you step outside the cemetery gates. He sees the brief moment of hesitation when you notice him sitting on his porch, but a forgiving part of you must urge you closer. When you reach the porch, you regard him with that same look that makes him feel like you can see right through to his wretched soul.
“You’re up early,” you comment knowingly.
“So are you.”
“So I am.” You take a deep breath. “Come with me. I wanna show you something.”
You don’t wait for his response before you’re turning, heading for the gate and back towards the cemetery. Despite his better judgment, Joel follows, taking wide steps to catch up with your quick stride.
You walk the winding dirt paths between the headstones with sure steps that Joel follows with uncertainty. He’s never been in the cemetery, has never had a reason, so he appraises the headstones with a morbid curiosity, reading the names of people he’s never met. He notes that a number of the sites have flowers in various stages of freshness.
After a few minutes, you stop and Joel glances at the headstone you’ve paused in front of.
“Tommy had it put in a few years after he got to town,” you say quietly. “He told me about her…about what happened.” Joel takes a step closer, dropping to his knees. The damp earth cushions the fall, early morning dew seeping into his jeans as he reaches out to trace the carved letters of his baby’s name.
“I’ll…I’ll give you some privacy. I just thought you should know she’s here.”
As you turn to leave, Joel reaches out and wraps a tentative hand around your knee. You look at him in surprise as he murmurs, “Stay with me?”
You lower yourself to the ground, settling in beside him as the sun rises and the world around you wakes from its slumber.
________
You sit together in front of Sarah’s headstone for about an hour before Joel stands with a groan and mumbled curse. He holds a hand out to you to help you up, the gesture leaving you nearly pressed together. You search his brown eyes, hoping for a glimpse of relief but it’s still too soon to tell.
“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, stepping back and clearing his throat. “For snappin’ at you in the library.”
“I understand. I made a lot of assumptions that day,” you reply. He laughs, though it’s strained.
“Yeah, well, if there were still a lottery around I’d tell you to buy a ticket. You were right on the money.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Thought I was gettin’ better. After all that time with Ellie…I felt like I had a purpose again.”
“Maybe that’s the issue. Thinking your purpose is tied to someone else.”
His brow furrows. “How do you keep doin’ that?”
“Doing what?” You ask.
“Seein’ right through me.”
You smile at him.
“Like attracts like, Joel. Remember that.”
________
Joel starts visiting Sarah’s grave regularly. Sometimes it’s early, the result of another nightmare or returning from patrol, and sometimes it’s later in the evening, when fireflies begin to flicker in the grass as spring wears on. He takes the worn copy of A Wrinkle In Time that you left him, reading a chapter of it out loud each time as he sits with his back pressed to the stone marker.
One thing he notes with growing intrigue is how there’s always flowers on a number of the headstones, including Sarah’s. It’s a reminder that he’s not the only victim of loss, even if his own still feels like a gaping wound some days.
He visits the library again, a bag full of books he found on his last patrol shift heavy on his back as he enters the building. You look up from a book you’re reading as the door shuts, smiling at him.
“Hey,” you say in greeting. “You need any help finding anything today?”
“No. Brought you somethin’, though,” he replies, hefting the bag onto the counter and opening it to reveal his bounty. “Found ‘em last patrol.”
You reach in and pull two of the books out, your grin downright ecstatic as you look at him. “The Lord of the Rings?”
“Complete set. You ever read it?”
“When I was younger,” you murmur, fingers tracing the cover of the book. “Thank you, Joel.”
His heart pounds as he looks at you, smile bright and eyes soft. You remove the other books from his bag, laying them out and checking them for damage. He likes watching you work, the gentle way that you flip through the time worn pages soothing to him as he stands there.
“What’s your favorite book?” You ask, glancing at him as you work.
“Not much of a reader. Sarah was, though. She would tell me about the books she was reading,” he says, voice catching on Sarah’s name. “She loved A Wrinkle In Time. Started the Harry Potter series, too. When the last one came out she made me take her to the bookstore at midnight just to get it.”
“My brother did the same,” you reply. “Dressed up and everything.”
“Your brother, huh?” Joel asks. You stack the books, avoiding Joel’s gaze.
“He was about Sarah’s age. Twelve. I was seventeen when…everything happened.” You pause. “The night that everything started happening, I had actually snuck out of the house. Went to a party in the woods. I made it back home just as the grid went out but when I got inside…”
“You don’t gotta tell me this,” Joel says.
“When I got inside, my brother was sitting at the table, covered in blood. Our parents had attacked him and he fought them off as best he could. He could feel the infection, you know? Knew something was wrong. He told me to leave.” You take a deep breath, your eyes returning to the present. A tear slides down your cheek and you brush it away quickly. “If I had been there—“
“Don’t,” Joel interrupts. “You can’t blame yourself.”
You laugh, looking at him incredulously. “Pot meet kettle!”
Joel laughs with you, a boisterous sound he hasn’t heard in years. It feels almost rusty in its disuse. “Thank you for tellin’ me,” he says when quiet descends once more.
“It’s only fair, right? A tragedy for a tragedy?”
“I don’t think that’s how the sayin’ goes.”
You shrug. “That’s how the world goes, though.”
________
As spring starts to fold into summer, Joel finds himself growing closer to you. It starts with visits to the library when he’s off from patrol, helping you shelve and catalog books. Soon, he’s spending so much time there that he’s still around when it’s time for you to lock up and he offers to walk you home or to the mess hall for dinner.
Dinner turns into the occasional drink at the Tipsy Bison. Those nights are his favorite, watching as you try to play darts after a few drinks and laughing when you pout after each missed shot.
Better days still give way to troubled nights, though. He wakes on one such night drenched in sweat, the nightmare just a haze of fear in his mind. It’s early, of course, so he takes a brief shower and dresses before grabbing his coffee and A Wrinkle In Time to make his way to the cemetery.
The ground is soft beneath his footsteps as he takes a now familiar path to Sarah’s headstone, seating himself on the damp dirt. He reads for a bit before the creak of hinges alerts him to someone’s arrival.
You enter through the front gate, a pile of flowers wrapped in butcher paper in your arms. He watches as you lay flowers around the graves with care, moving steadily among the rows until you’ve reached Joel.
“You do the flowers?” He asks. You take a seat beside him, gathering a wilted white rose from in front of the headstone and replacing it with a spray of yellow flowers.
“Some of them. Sometimes people come to me for arrangements to bring themselves,” you reply.
“Why?”
“Because I still believe in beautiful things,” you tell him with a shrug.
Joel watches you set the flower carefully on the ground in front of Sarah’s headstone and it feels like the final piece of a puzzle slotting into place. In the silence between you, his mind drifts to Tess, who he cared for but couldn’t give himself fully with the way he was when he knew her. He thinks about Bill and Frank and the kindness they showed him even when he didn’t show his gratitude. He thinks about Ellie, who stuck by his side despite everything he had to do to make it here.
Then there’s you, who’s planted roots in his heart like the flowers you grow and filled him with a light he hasn’t known in a long time and it leaves him feeling damn near winded. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, when a crack of thunder precedes the opening of the sky, heavy raindrops filtering through the tree branches.
“Shit!” He curses, shoving his book into the waistband of his jeans beneath his shirt to protect it from the rain. “Let’s go,” he says, tugging you up from the ground and keeping your hand gripped tightly in his as you both sprint for his porch.
You’re both drenched from the sudden summer downpour, rain dripping from your clothes and hair to the porch as you race up the steps. Another crack of thunder has you jumping, laughter spilling from your lips that joins the melody of the rain on the roof.
As your laughter fades, Joel pulls you closer by the hand still held tight in his. He searches your face for any sign that you might not want this, might not want him, but to his relief he finds none. He wraps an arm around your low back, pressing your rain soaked body to his as he tilts his head to capture your lips in a gentle kiss.
The kiss remains soft, gentle, a smooth glide of his slightly chapped lips against yours. You taste like rainwater but feel like sunshine, a perfect dichotomy. Joel pulls away slowly, not wanting to lose the connection but starting to feel uncomfortable in his soaked clothing.
“Come on,” he says, “let’s get some dry clothes.”
He leads you inside the dark house and upstairs to his bedroom. He finds a shirt and boxers for you, turning to give you the privacy to change as he does the same, setting the damp book on his nightstand and leaving his wet clothes in a heap on the floor.
“I’m decent,” you announce. He turns, breath catching at the vision you make wearing his clothes, your nipples pressing against the worn cotton shirt. He reaches for you, wrapping an arm around your waist and a hand behind your neck to pull you into another kiss.
You pull away first this time, stepping back and crawling into his bed. You burrow beneath the covers before lifting the edge, an eyebrow raised at him in invitation. He slides in beside you, blankets settling over your bodies as you rest your head against his bare chest.
“I’m scared,” Joel says, a whisper in the dark.
“About what?” You ask, lifting yourself up to look at him. He swallows around the lump in his throat.
“Losin’ you. Losin’ Ellie. Losin’ Tommy.” A pause. “Like I lost Sarah. And Tess.”
“Fear doesn’t stop death, Joel. It just stops you from living.”
________
Something changes in Joel with your words. He lifts his head from the pillow to kiss you, his body shifting beneath yours to push you onto your back so he can hover over you. This kiss is different, more desperate as his tongue slides against yours and his teeth dig into your bottom lip.
You slide your fingers into his hair, nails scratching against his scalp and making him moan into your kiss. He trails his lips across your jaw and down your neck as he urges your legs apart and fits himself in the space between your thighs.
His hips rock against yours, the friction making you gasp and pull on his hair. He chuckles against the skin of your neck before sinking his teeth against your pulse point, sucking a mark into your skin to match the one he’s left on your heart.
One of his warm hands lifts your borrowed shirt, bunching the material beneath your armpits and exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze. Joel dips his head to pull one nipple between his lips and he swirls his tongue over the hard bud, looking up at your face as he does. He does the same to your other breast, the delicious sensation of his mouth almost enough to distract you from the slow drag of his calloused fingers across your tummy and beneath the elastic of the boxers he’s leant to you.
He groans as his fingers circle your clit, gathering your wetness and spreading it over your folds with his movements. He leans up to kiss you again, deep swipes of his tongue exploring your mouth as your hips chase his hand with increasing fervor.
“You’re so good, sweetheart,” he murmurs. There’s a bright flash of lightning that illuminates the room, giving you a clearer view of the adoration simmering in his eyes.
You press a hand to his cheek. “You deserve good things, Joel Miller.”
He drops his head, forehead pressed to your collarbone. He slips two fingers inside of you as thunder rattles the windows, the storm overhead matching the one in your body as he works his digits with slow, methodical movements, curling them with each pull from inside of you.
“Need you,” you whimper, “please, Joel, need you.”
“You got me,” he says, sitting up to tug the boxers down your thighs and pull the waistband of his down, freeing his cock that he takes on his fist, rubbing it through your folds.
He notches the thick head of his cock at your entrance, pressing inside of you with a single deep thrust that has you gasping his name. There’s another crack of lightning as he bottoms out, hips pressed flush to yours.
Joel starts to move, setting a leisurely pace, notably unhurried as you relish in the weight of him against you. His forehead drops to yours and he peppers your face with soft kisses, from your forehead to your nose to your chin. You smile at him and to your surprise and delight, he grins back.
He sits up, gripping your hips for leverage as his rhythm changes to something more carnal, more desperate, sharp thrusts that drag against something inside of you that makes stars dance across your vision. You’re moaning his name with each collision of his hips to yours and his head drops back with his own deep groan as you tighten around him with your release.
“Fuck,” he shouts, withdrawing quickly and taking himself in hand, hot splashes of cum hitting your stomach as you gasp for air. Joel leaves the bed for a moment and returns with a damp cloth he uses to wipe you clean before tossing it to the pile of wet clothes and climbing back into bed beside you.
He pulls you close and with your head on his chest, you let the pounding rhythm of his heart lull you back to sleep.
________
“Look how high I got, daddy!”
Joel watches a young Sarah deftly climb the limbs of a tree she found on their hike. He laughs as she straddles the last branch she can reach, waving down at him with a bright grin on her face.
“That’s mighty impressive, baby girl, but can you get back down?” He shouts up at her.
“Of course I can!” She insists, slowly working her way back down the branches. She makes it to a lower branch but she can’t reach a foothold from where she hangs by her arms. “Daddy!”
“I gotcha,” Joel says, moving to stand below her. “Just let go, I’ll catch ya.”
“Promise?”
“Always.”
Joel’s eyes flutter open. The first thing he notices is the sunlight streaming through the open window. You must have woken up before him and opened it. The room is warm from the late summer sun, but there’s a breeze that rustles the curtains as he stands and stretches.
He can hear the clink of pans downstairs and he follows the noise, leaning in the doorway of the kitchen as he finds you whisking something in a bowl. It’s been weeks since that early morning together in bed and every day since you continue to help put him together piece by jagged piece.
You must feel him there, attuned to him as you always are, because you turn and grin brightly at him.
“There you are,” you say, crossing the kitchen to kiss him. “Was wondering when you’d finally wake up.”
“Can’t a man sleep in once and a while?” He asks, pulling you in for a second and third kiss. “What are you workin’ on?”
“A cake. It’s July 20th.”
Sarah’s birthday.
Joel’s breath leaves him in a rush. He wraps his arms around your shoulders and holds you tightly to him, your arms wrapped around his waist as you squeeze back.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“Always.”
Want more Joel Miller? Check out my masterlist.
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TRIGGER WARNINGS : attempted SA , violence, child neglect , suicide, murder (this is extremely heavy so please approach with caution)
A/N : moved this over from my Suguru RP blog. It is heavy, as I’ve said before, so please proceed with caution
Geto Suguru was thirteen years old when he held his first gun.
He can remember how cold it was to the touch, releasing the scent of gunpowder from its barrel and a burning heat that never cooled threatening to burn away at his skin. Its metal body glinted in the moonlight in an eerie, yet beautiful way, but the thought that would forever remain, etched into his memories was the heaviness of the loaded gun in his boyish hands as he cocked back the trigger with his pointer finger and shot his foster father between the eyes , splattering brain matter against the wall of his sister’s bedroom.
~~~~
From the moment Suguru and his sister stepped foot into the gray painted, two story home a permanent knot had made residence in his stomach.
Looking back, he should’ve noticed the warning signs earlier, but the warmth that radiated from his foster mother had dulled his senses, senses that had been built up through years of neglect faced at the hands of his biological father.
~~~~
Their foster father, Haizaki Chubo, completely differed from their foster mother, Haizaki Mai. Where Mai was sweet and demure, Chubo was harsh and crude.
He was simply put a vile, twisted man.
A drugged up, alcoholic who hid his tendencies well when Child Protective Services did their routine wellness checks, but it wasn’t just physical and mental abuse the children under his “care” experienced. He also had an affinity for young girls.
Suguru’s stomach twist at the fucking thought.
Chubo didn’t know how to keep his hands to himself. It started off slow, lingering touches on the shoulders of the girls in the house that turned into inappropriate joking and commentary. He would “accidentally” run into the girls, wandering hands, groping blossoming chest and hips under the guise of “catching them before they could fall”, but it all came to a head one day as Suguru saw the glow of the small desk lamp his sister had turned on during the night when she should’ve been sleeping.
His stomach dropped as he heard the voice of Chubo pierce through the silence of the house
“It’s alright baby, I promise I’ll take such good care of you. I just want to feel”
Suguru felt his skin crawl, his body moving forward before he even realized it, hand wrapped against the butt of the gun he pickpocketed of the weed dealer his older foster brother had become so fond of.
He broke through the door, only to see a sight that made him heave.
There was his sister, his 16 year old sister with Chubo’s body pressed against hers. There were tears in her eyes. A silent cry for help flashing in them as she made contact with his own
He was quick, tossing his body into Chubo’s with enough force to knock the older man off
“YOU FUCKING BRAT WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOUR’. . .”
BANG
He had pulled the trigger and he kept pulling it, even after the clip was emptied.
He hadn’t remembered much after that, just the scream of his foster mother as she found her dead husband on the ground and Suguru covered in his blood.
He was sent to a correctional facility for the next three years and when he was finally released he was told that his sister had been found dead three months earlier — an overdose on fentanyl laced drugs her killer.
He had screamed out loud, collapsing to his knees as he cursed the gods for their cruelty, but he made it his mission to find the man who had sold the drugs to her in the first place.
In hadn’t taken his long to pinpoint the location of the dealer — his hideout a dilapidated warehouse that once housed freight. He broke his neck with his own two hands never even confirming that the identities match, but he couldn’t care, not when this man had, had a hand in the death of his sister.
The feat had landed him in the office of your father being offered a job and a title, but it had all meant nothing.
He was alone in this world, until he met you, the sister the gods gave him to fill the void left by the death his own.
And he would protect this one, even if it tore apart his body. Even if it drew him to insanity.
He would protect her.
Because he didn’t have it left in him to lose another person he loved.
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The Burells
YLML
You stay awake with Sam, laying on the bed.
Ellie, the poor girl, had tried her best to stay awake but fell asleep in the chair. You couldn’t blame her, the night had been exhausting.
A few hours in and Sam seemed ok. His hands weren’t shaking, which you knew was the first sign.
“Sammy, some rest will help you heal. Try your best to get some sleep,” you sign.
“You’ll stay with me?” Sam signs back. You could tell he was fighting the exhaustion, he dozed off every now and then for a few moments but jolted awake.
“Always,” you promise. You press a kiss to his head and hold him in your arms.
Once his breathing evens, you allow yourself to get some sleep as well.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
When you wake, it’s because of the sun in your eyes. Sam wasn’t in your arms any longer, but sitting at the foot of the bed. Ellie wakes when you do.
“Is he ok?” She asks hopefully.
“I think so,” you answer as you climb off the bed. You come around to touch his shoulder, only to jump back when he attacks.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
He had turned.
“Sammy, no!” You yell as he attacks you. Ellie opens the door and runs out, and you fall through it as well as you fight Sam. He’s trying to bite you, oh my god, he’s trying to bite you.
“Henry!” You scream. Sam is roaring, like a monster, and you’re screaming. You’re on the floor, your back against the ground as you try to fight Sam. It’s half hearted at best, you’re crying so bad and you can’t bring yourself to completely shove him off. You can’t fight him. It’s Sam, your baby Sam.
“Sam, no!” You’re crying as you grab his hands.
Through all the commotion, a gun shoot rings and Sam falls off you.
“No!” You cry.
It was Henry. He holds the smoking gun.
You crawl over to Sam, crying over him. Like this, he almost looks like he’s sleeping. His eyes were still open, the infection had already marred his face, his face contorted in his final attempt to bite you.
“Henry, give me the gun,” Joel’s voice draws you from your tears. You look back and Henry is still holding the gun, looking back and forth between you and Sam’s body.
“Henry, please, put it away,” you beg through tears.
“What have I done,” Henry mutters to himself.
“You saved me,” you tell him as you get in front of his view of Sam.
“Ellie, go back inside and shut the door,” Joel instructs. Ellie does what she’s told, running and closing it behind her.
You slowly get up, hands up as you approach your brother.
“Henry, it wasn’t your fault. Put it down,” your pleading as you take tiny steps toward him. He’s pointing the gun at Joel now.
“What did I do? What did I do?” Henry keeps repeating.
“Henry please,” you sob.
“You take her with you,” Henry directs at Joel.
He points the gun at himself and shoots himself in the temple.
You make a noise you’ve never heard before. Screaming as you clammer over to him.
His brains are on the wall. It’s on the ground next to him. It’s all over your hands.
“Henry!” You shake his shoulders, screaming and crying as you look in between him and Sam.
Had you lost them both? You had lost them both. Oh my god, they were dead. You had finally gotten out of Kansas and they were dead. You wouldn’t make it without them. They were the only reasons you were still living.
This was all your fault. None of this would have happened if it weren’t for you.
You grab the gun and Joel jumps at you.
You place it at your temple and shoot it, it was the easiest thing you had done all your life.
Except the gun jams. And Joel tackled it away from you before you can shoot it again.
“No, it should’ve been me,” you wail as you cradle Henry’s head. You cry and you cry, and at some point Ellie comes out and cries too.
Joel picks Sam up and brings him over to you, and you grab each brother as if you could will them back to life. The paint was peeling from Sam’s face. Super Sam.
“Joel, please, I have to go with them,” you sob. You can barely see through your tears, you’re barely coherent.
Joel gives you a moment before looking around.
“We have to move,” he says regretfully. He places a hand on your shoulder, dragging you off your brothers. He pulls you into a hug. You scream and fight against him.
“No, I can’t leave them,” you wail.
“We’ll bury them. They deserve to be buried,” Ellie says softly as she wipes her face. Joel seems to agree, he goes off to find a shovel. Ellie goes with him, perhaps to give you a moment, or because she feels awkward with you alone.
You’re like a zombie.
Joel digs the grave.
He picks Henry up, and Ellie helps you with Sam. He lays Henry first and you gently lay Sam beside him.
“It isn’t too late to shoot me down there with them,” you tell Joel mindlessly.
“He wouldn’t want that. Last night, Henry agreed to come with us to Wyoming. Last thing he said was to take you with us. He would’ve wanted you to be safe, he wanted you to live-“
“It doesn’t matter what he wants, he’s gone,” your lip quivers.
“Hey, we need you with us. The three of us can protect each other, yeah? I need your help, ok? I want to get Ellie to safety but I need your help,” Joel tells you as he grabs your shoulders. He doesn’t need your help. You’re dead weight to him, but he tried to convince you nevertheless.
“Leave me, I’ll only slow you down,” you shrug his hands off.
“No, I’m not doing that. You’re one of us now, you’re coming with us,” he says, matter of factly.
There is a slight breeze in the air. You sit and watch as Joel buries your brothers. This would be the last time you’d ever see them, the last time you and your brothers would ever be together. The Burells, fuck fuck fuck.
You can’t watch.
You’ll regret that one day.
Ellie comes with all your things.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly.
“Me too,” you mumble. She sits beside you as Joel shovels and you wrap your arm around her. If you close your eyes, you can pretend she’s Sam.
When Joel finishes, she hands you Sam’s writing board.
“I’m sorry, I love you.”
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put a gun to my head, paint the walls with my brains
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Internet Quotes
No more gatekeep, gaslight, girlboss
It’s time for genocide
I like people how I like my tea, in a bag, underwater
First of all, cringe, second of all, red flag
SORRY I CANT HEAR YOU OVER THE EARTH SHATTERING PROSTATE ORGASM I JUST GAVE YOUR DAD
My skin is simply the spray paint god choose for me
Manipulate, Mansplain, Male Wife
Twinkie the kinky
Remember that all twink(ie)s deserve a cream filling
I used to be pan, but because of (insert reason here) I am now straighter than your left wall, I know, I live there
Didn’t like that answer, can you do a funnier one
They should also get you a bucket of water to get your partner wet
Send that bitch to god, same day delivery
Life is a journey do you really wanna end it one the pavement
Treat everyone like a serial killer who’s list you don’t wanna be on
Yes bathe the menace, they smell of rain, water, dirt, and the sins of his past. Bathe them they need it
Boot up, bitch
Why is it called boob sweat and not humidtitties
The same reason we all regret the name Worcestershire sauce
Mark my fucking worms
What do teens like?!? Is it memes? Memes about skeletons? Piss? Communism?
Listen up you one lifespan, three dimensional, five sensed skin puppets
Sorry for having great tits and correct opinions on everything as if it’s my fault
Ruin the lives of everyone around you and then die
That is the sound of childhood happening
Wear heelies to escape your feelies
The yassification of Christianity
That’s what 3 am water tastes like
Bite me as hard as you please, and make me see stars. I am yours-
Imagine a burger saying this
Me, as I force a dollar into the self-checkout machine: that’s right…good boy…vore president Washington
Stay fresh cheese bags
Honey is considered raw meat by the FDA
Actually I call it womanipulation. For feminism.
Gaslamp girlboss gatecrash or whatever
I’m learning to person from scratch okay?-
Pride and prejudice
TEENS WANT BEETLES NOT JESUS
The men are being sluts again, nature is healing
SACRÉ BLU MADEMOISELLE VAGINA HON HON HON TIDDIE CROISSANTS
TITS IS TITS
“Which do you prefer, pecs or tits?” Wtf, wtf, hello?? What are you saying to me rn??? Are you serious? Tits are tits. Love is love. Etc. don’t speak to me.
Violence is an art, your body, the louvre
It fucken WIMDY
I am the wind and I’ll rip your head off bitch
I just threw my newborn son into a blender
I am a pocket rocket of sass
I’m ga. Gey. Guay. Boys.
SHUT THE FUCK YOUR MOUTH
They were yassified ahead of their time
Forget the man and get something you can rely on, like a taco, or a milkshake
Women rights, women are equal, go to the back of the line
Apple fritter babies
They had their heads so far down when they walked out they were looking at china
You’re so boring you’d put Snorlax into a deeper sleep
I WOULDN’T REMEMBER THIS IF I WERE YOU
Alright you STD spreaders
No more manipulate, mansplain, malewife, it’s time for manslaughter
It tickles the autism in my brain
They beat Jesus with that
None pizza with left beef
Pop a wheelie into heaven
Once a man, now deemed a clown
No more diets, only riots
You really should come with a supply of cheese to match your vintage whine
You are not a clown, you’re the entire circus
There’s those who’ll ride into Hell with you, and those that will drag you back afterwards
The oldest white guy to ever white
Roses are red silent as a mouse your door was unlocked I’m inside your house
Weird hill to die on man, but at least your dead
Roses are red, my name is Dan, I have a gun, get in the van
I’ll scrape- you can scrape…my wood
You will be boiled
We are just tiny vegetables in gods eternal soup
You have room temperature IQ
You sound like how dust tases
Okay but like…can you do that to my ass
Hammed burger :(
And what is the world if not God’s own personal game of Sims
Kinktober, No Nut November, and Destroy Dick December are consecutive, this says something about humans as a whole-
Hnghg…. soup
Take a long walk off a short pier
Mirrors don’t lie, and lucky for you they don’t laugh either
Snitches get stitches and end up in ditches without bitches
You have two brain cells and each of them are fighting for third place
If you ever do that again, I’ll make you forget what it’s like to eat solid food
I’m gonna shatter you like glass
I’m looking at someone who’s never felt the warmth of their father
Don’t do milk. Go to drugs. Drink school.
To get on your level I’d need a boat trip to the Mariana Trench and a pair of cinderblock shoes
SHUT UP YOU’RE INBREAD
Even a worm will turn
Jack and Jill went up the hill so Jack could lick her candy. But Jack got a shock and a mouthful of cock cause Jill’s real name is Randy
Tip: spice up your panic attack with a harmonica
I mean, Batman couldn’t beat this information out of me but get it ig-
I’ll use my trusty frying pan, as a drying pan
The manager has been dead for 80 years oOoOoOoO next
“ArE yOu CaLlInG mE a LiAr???!?!?” Well I ain’t calling you a TRUTHER
People say we cannot live without love, I think oxygen is more important
Meditate, masturbate, manipulate
Bbg you are soup now!
They’ll be recovering pieces of your body for at least three months. You will be alive for at least two of them :).
Fuckerations
Hellon’t
Why do I have to get pretty for Jesus? I don’t like him like that!
Fatism
I’m gonna fuck your dad and give him a child he actually loves.
You don’t take a shit, the shit takes you
I have never once been submissive. One of the few things I can boast about. I have never even been submissive to a traffic signal.
I alone am the reason shampoo has instructions
I’m like Jesus I rest on Sundays
I’m gonna suck your eyeballs outta your skull
You hard boiled turtle slapper
We are in the timeline god abandoned
It’s hotter than a demon dick in a wool condom
If you stared into Medusa’s eyes she’d kill herself
Next person to talk is getting their nervous system braided
You’ve opened this can of worms, now lie in it
He’s got a mouse in his trousers
Everybody mistake make
I fart in your direction! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!
CURSE OF RA 𓀀 𓀁 𓀂 𓀃 𓀄 𓀅 𓀆 𓀇 𓀈 𓀉 𓀊 𓀋 𓀌 𓀍 𓀎 𓀏 𓀐 𓀑 𓀒 𓀓 𓀔 𓀕 𓀖 𓀗 𓀘 𓀙 𓀚 𓀛 𓀜 𓀝 𓀞 𓀟 𓀠 𓀡 𓀢 𓀣 𓀤 𓀥 𓀦 𓀧 𓀨 𓀩 𓀪 𓀫 𓀬 𓀭 𓀮 𓀯 𓀰 𓀱 𓀲 𓀳 𓀴 𓀵 𓀶 𓀷 𓀸 𓀹 𓀺 𓀻 𓀼 𓀽 𓀾 𓀿 𓁀 𓁁 𓁂 𓁃 𓁄 𓁅 𓁆 𓁇 𓁈 𓁉 𓁊 𓁋 𓁌 𓁍 𓁎 𓁏 𓁐 𓁑 𓀄 𓀅 𓀆 𓀇 𓀈 𓀉 𓀊
Thought I’d have some cosmic horror turns out I’m a cosmic whore
I grew this dick for you, you clod
The man who waits, masturbates
Punch me in the back of the frontal lobe until I’m out colder than Bill Cosby’s pong partner
It’s never a war crime the first time
Your life lacks whimsy and your ass is flat
I’d rather play dead at a necrophiliac convention
CURSE OF THE NILE 𓀔𓀇𓀅𓀋𓀡𓀡𓀕𓀠𓀧𓀨𓀣𓀷𓀷𓀿𓀿𓁀𓁶𓁰
𓁴𓁿𓂀𓁾𓁵𓁯𓂞𓂤𓂗𓃃𓂾𓂺𓂹
𓃞𓃙𓃖𓃓𓃕𓃓𓃜𓃘𓃙𓃟𓃛𓃞
𓂺𓃂𓂿𓂺𓃃𓃂𓂛𓂏𓅱𓅥𓅩𓅦
𓅹𓅸𓅳𓅩𓅪𓄭𓄫𓄮𓄬𓄗𓄑𓄌𓃦
𓃧𓃨𓃤𓃟𓃓𓃅𓃁𓂽𓃂𓂊𓁾𓂀𓁽
𓁼𓁠𓁛𓁟𓁦𓁜𓁭𓁡𓀔𓀇𓀅𓀋𓀡𓀡𓀕𓀠𓀧𓀨𓀣
𓀷𓀷𓀿𓀿𓁀𓁶𓁰𓁴𓁿𓂀𓁾𓁵𓁯𓂞𓂤𓂗
𓃃𓂾𓂺𓂹𓃞𓃙𓃖𓃓𓃕𓃓𓃜
𓃘𓃙𓃟𓃛𓃞𓂺𓃂𓂿𓂺𓃃𓃂
𓂛𓂏𓅱𓅥𓅩𓅦𓅹𓅸𓅳𓅩𓅪𓄭𓄫𓄮
𓄬𓄗𓄑𓄌𓃦𓃧𓃨𓃤𓃟𓃓𓃅𓃁
𓂽𓃂𓂊𓁾𓂀𓁽𓁼𓁠𓁛𓁟𓁦𓁜𓁭𓁡𓀔𓀇𓀅
𓀋𓀡𓀡𓀕𓀠𓀧𓀨𓀣𓀷𓀷𓀿𓀿𓁀𓁶𓁰𓁴𓁿
𓂀𓁾𓁵𓁯𓂞𓂤𓂗𓃃𓂾𓂺𓂹𓃞𓃙
𓃖𓃓𓃕𓃓𓃜𓃘𓃙𓃟𓃛𓃞𓂺𓃂
It’s not a crack house its a crack home
_____ is like playing chess with a pigeon. You could be a grandmaster, they’re still going to shit on the board and strut away like they won.
We’ll see who’s sloshing soon!
Being on deaths door just means you got a new neighbor!
Guards! Take this creature to a scary room
Oh my god! Boobs! Hoo ha, love them!
Fun Fact: female Jesters were called “Joculatrix” & therefore male Jesters should be called “Joculator”!
:3
-🌀
what. the. actual fuck. okay firstly WHY ARE HALF OF THEM ABOUT BOOBS??? 😭😭😭😭 secondly which pit of hell did you dig these up from??? thirdly, wow. what is "bbg you are soup now" supposed to mean??? or, "hard boiled turtle slapper".
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Ballad of Johnny Kidd
My name is Johnny Kidd. I’m a bad, bad man. I’m cold, on the verge of death, stumbling through a fierce winter storm somewhere just North of Bangor, Maine, a bullet lodged in my thigh. I was following an old logging road out of the deep woods. I got lost, trailing spurts of blood like a breadcrumb trail. I see it; a tiny flicker of light through the lashing white snow. The cabin. I pound on the door.
“Mister! Please, it’s so cold out here! Please, let me in! I’ll…I’ll freeze to death!”
An old man unlatches the door; I practically fall into the cabin, legs giving out, trembling. He’s walking towards the fire, doesn’t offer to help me up. Doesn’t even look at me. I think shit, I’m bleeding all over his floor, but the bleeding has stopped.
“Strip to your birthday suit, right there in the mudroom. Hang it up. It’ll dry. Don’t be bashful, kid. I won’t peek. Got a pair of long johns hanging on the coat rack. Once you put them on, grab the folded blanket, wrap yourself in it tight,” he says.
I follow his directions.
“You’re a real kind person, mister. Thank you,” I said, ambling towards a chair by the fire.
“Kindness has nothing to do with it. Just don’t want to see anyone else freeze to death on this mountain path. Hard times claim enough good folk around these parts. Don’t need to lose anyone else,” he said, staring into the crackling flames.
Goodness has nothing to do with it, I think. I’m naked under the blanket, ‘cept for a sawnoff shotgun strapped to my back.
“I really owe you my life, sir. I can already feel my bones warming. Blood thawing out.”
“Any frostbite?” the old man asks. I looked down. I was already toasty. Fingers and toes looked fine.
“I don’t think so, sir.”
“Good, good. Sit. Warm yourself by the fire. Don’t have a bed in this shack, but you can sleep in the chair. Hopefully the storm will be finished by morning.”
I linger, not sitting. I’m scoping out the cabin, ready to pull the loaded gun from my back and spatter this oltimer’s brains on the wall. He doesn’t have much. It’s a bare wood cabin with cedar planks and a woodstove with rusted pots and castiron pants.
“I do appreciate it, sir. Truly. It’s a whitewash out there. Any longer, the snow would have swallowed me completely. My company wouldn’t have found me until the spring thaw.”
The old man doesn’t break eyecontact with the fire. He chuckles.
“Company. You mean your gang of bank robbers?”
My hand moves to the gun. I’m about ready to end this foolishness.
“Sir, what do you mean? I work cutting trees.”
The old man’s voice drips with contempt.
“No you don’t. You’re a much better shot than you are a liar. You’re Johnny Kidd.”
I drop the blanket, naked. I draw the gun from my back. The Old Man doesn’t flinch.
“Damn. Nothin’ gets past you, old man. Move and this room gets a new coat of paint. Say, you haven’t even looked at me yet. Am I that famous? You can tell who I am just from my voice?”
“I know you, Kidd.” the old man says.
“I guess so. Have we met?”
“I’ve seen the newspaper clippings. A sheriff came by the cabin a few days ago, said your gang might be around. Wanted by the federal government, and every bumbling, whiskey drunk county sheriff this side of the Mason-Dixon line. Look. I know you got a shotgun pointed at my cranium, to your back, and I know you’ve been thinking about shooting me in the head since you first came into this cabin. But I ain’t no lawman, and I ain’t trying to collect the bounty on you…even if I could finally retire down to Rio with your blood money,” the old man says, a soliquiy into the fire.
My hand lingers over the trigger. But instead, I speak.
“Huh. Well, you marked me pretty good, oldtimer. Most people start cowering, throwing their watches and jewlery at me when they figure out who I am.”
For the first time, the old man turns to face me. He’s normal, saggy skin and a long gray beard.
“Kidd, when you first came in here, you said I was a kind person. I ain’t kind. I could plead, sure. I could beg, say I just saved your life. But that don’t matter. You’re not the type of person that responds well to kindness, are you?”
Ha. Kindness, I think. Fuck kindness.
“No, I reckon not. I ain’t apt to “kind” my way out of a shootout. Kindness ain’t ever done nothing for me. Pops was kind before he was fileted in his sleep by a drunkard he let stay in the hayloft.”
“That’s why I’m here. You ain’t gonna respond to charity, kindness, or the yolk of human compassion, are you, kid?”
His tone drops into a command.
“Look into the fire.”
I try to pull the trigger, but my finger locks. I start to move towards the fire, like I’m being pulled like a boxcar on a railine. I try to fight the movement, but I can’t. I bend down and gaze into the dancing flame.
“What do you see?,” the old man asks.
“Jesus, what kind of witchcraft is--”
“Answer me. What do you see?”
I saw her. The boys and I had the bank on Main Street locked down, about to grab the bags of cash, jump in and speed away to hit the next town. She came out of the washroom, unaware we had the place held down. I shot her through the neck. She choked on her blood. I meant to shoot the wall to scare the clerk into opening the vault…the bullet ricoheted..I didn’t mean to shoot her.
“I see her. Jesus, shot her through the neck. I swear to God, I didn’t mean to--”
“Course not. Is that what you tell yourself when you’re alone at night? Is her throat, ripped open, the image burned in your eyelids?”
I collapse on the floor, holding my face in my hands. The old man stands up from his rocker for the first time.
“I’m almost sorry for you, kid. There ain’t any other way to set you straight but raw power, right? A kind sheep is still a sheep, and you’re a wolf, right, kid? You’re a predator, ain’t you? You sink your fangs and take whatever you want from those poor fieldmice cowering in fear, right?”
“Shut up,” I sputter. I gather myself, uncrumple from the floor, stagger to my feet.
“You’re talking real funny, sir, and I implore you to stop--”
The old man laughs, spittle flying.
“You ain’t gonna implore me to do nothing, kid. Like I said, I ain’t kind. But I’m just.”
He sits down.
I draw the gun, aim it at his temple.
“Ha. Just. You mean, you’re an agent of justice? What are you gunna do, old man? Tie me up and take me down to the jail? Kill me? I got a gun pointed at you, but I got a sawblade in my satchel... I’m gunna have some real fun with you.”
Old man sinks back into his rocker.
“I ain’t going to cower, kid. I’m gunna show you something. Sit. Down.”
Despite everything in my body, I sit.
“Watch the fire.”
Depsite every voice echoing in my mind, I gaze again into the fire.
“A dozen lawmen are tracking you. Been following you since you killed her. In fact, they’re closing in on your camp now. Budd’s just got pumped with lead. Big Frank’s brain is oozing out. They’re following the tracks. They’re gunna find you, kid. Rather, they’re gunna find your frozen body next to your dead horse.”
I feel the pain of freezing to death; like someone stuck my body into a pit of ice blue flame.
“Oh my god.” All I can manage. A whimper.
“God ain’t got nothing to do with it,” the old man says. “Savor it. Not a lot of men get to see how they die, Johnny. But it doesn’t have to happen like that. You got a way out, kid.”
I don’t belive him. Ain’t no way out, I’m an cornered cat and he’s a rabid dog.
“Instead of killing me, get up, take my seat by the fire. You’ll be waiting for a while. For as long as I have. Till some other poor fool gets lost in the storm. You help them, you help them thaw out, you send them away. Keep waiting by the fire. Or, you kill me. Outside these walls, it’s just ice. Ice, snow, and death,” he says.
“I’m dead either way, ain’t I? I’m dead right now, ain’t I?” The question flashes like an explosion. “Am I dead? Am I dead?”
The old man shakes his head.
“I can’t answer that for you. You got to make a choice, now. Before the fire dies. We’ve been in here for a good bit of time already.”
I look at him squarely. He’s not reacting. Just a dirty, saggy, weathered old face. My fists clench. I want to kill him. But I let the wave of hate roll over me, and I’m left with whatever is left in the wreckage. The old man gestures for me to pass. I sit in his rocker. I look at the flames, for a few moments, an hour, a day, a year. I don’t know. I don’t care to know. The old man is gone.
It’s cold. Someone is pounding on the door.
“It’s freezing out here,” someone calls from outside. “You gotta help me, Mister!”
I don’t look up.
“Come in. Door’s unlocked. Mind you don’t track in too much snow.”
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