#Taylor Swift x call of duty

[fel0ny-01]

I HAVE TO SAY SOMETHING I HAVE TO SAY SOMETHING!!!!!! STATE OF GRACE (TV) IS SO GHOST SOAP CODED. LET ME EXPLAIN. (I will delve deeply into this! Forgive me! Read at your own discretion lmfao)

So “State of Grace” is about falling in love, and the power that falling in love can hold; especially how it can change a person’s views on others and themselves. It holds the deeper and spiritual meaning of what love means, right? Now at its core, the song is about growth, change and redemption. Now that sounds familiar to me, especially in how Ghost/Soap is portrayed in fan-made creations (Fuck you Activison!)

I’m gonna delve into some lyrics really quick that scream Ghostsoap to me. They will be in bold.

“I'm walking fast through the traffic lights

Busy streets and busy lives

And all we know is touch and go”

All they know is touch and go. As a noun, it applies to them. Come back from missions, get debriefed, go back and do more missions again. Touch and Go, as simple as that. They both do it, they’ve been doing it for a while.

Now as an adjective, they would also only know touch and go. For Ghost, this could apply to his relationships. People die when they know him, when they love him. It’s possible they will stay, but very uncertain. In a lot of fanon, Soap doesn’t have this problem. However, if we look at canon, it’s implied in Modern Warfare 3, that he doesn’t have any family to go back to. So it’s all touch and go for them.

“We are alone with our changing minds

Being in the military (or even in childhood), they experience traumatic events that a regular human being would never experience. And usually it’s very unheard of in the military to talk about emotional feelings, you are required to keep that away professionally.

We fall in love 'til it hurts or bleeds, or fades in time”

Relationships come with a lot of hurt. As always. But the words used here (Hurts, Bleeds or fades in time) really strike me as words that would and could be used to describe the relationships the boys have experienced, whether for both, it would be Graves’ betrayal, or for Ghost, Losing Roach.

“And I never (never)

Saw you coming

And I’ll never (never)

Be the same”

This just applies to the general relationship. We see when Soap and Ghost meet after a couple of years, Ghost seems pretty annoyed that he’s working with the sergeant again, but God he didn’t expect to get so close with him that he felt like he had changed from spending time with him. Physically, he did see him coming, but the way Soap wormed his way into Ghost’s heart? He never saw that coming.

“You come around and the armor falls

Pierce the room like a cannonball

Now all we know is don't let go”

THIS. THIS LADIES AND GENTLETHEM. THIS IS THE LINE. I feel as though this is definitely from Ghost’s perspective. When he’s with recruits, or allies, or anyone else other than Soap, he is stone cold, walls up, no banter. But when Soap, the armour (I love this!) falls, whether it’s the battle armour, or the emotional armour; he lets go when he’s around Soap.

The phrase, “pierce the room like a cannonball” really just makes me laugh because it brings out Soap’s inner destructiveness, but also how explosive he was getting into Ghost’s heart. It even works with how he most definitely lights up the room when he walks in, piercing it.

“ALL WE KNOW IS DONT LET GO” they’ve progressed in their relationship, it’s getting to the point where neither can even think about losing the other. That they’d rather die than lose the other person. They knew touch and go before, that was all they did know, but that uncertain feeling has been replaced with a sense of belonging to the other, now all the know is don’t let go.

“We are alone, just you and me

Up in your room and our slates are clean

Just twin fire signs, four blue eyes”

I’d like to think Ghost and Soap spend their spare time in each others spaces, basking in the warmth of the other. I know in a lot of fics, they either go in theirs or the others rooms, because it’s safe there. When they are together and alone, their slates are clean. They are just Johnny and Soap, not the insane murder machines that kill, get shot and get hurt. They are just two boys in love, adoring eachother. Twin fire signs.

“So you were never a saint

And I've loved in shades of wrong”

FROTHING AT THE MOUTH. THIS IS IT. This could be from either of their perspectives, but I do see it as more of a Soap line. Ghost thinks he’s this awful, unredeemable killer who doesn’t deserve anything good, and Soap recognises he’s done bad things (and so has he) but Soap loves in shades of wrong. He knows they’ve both done bad things, but he never wanted anything less than him, anything less than Simon. Anything less than the brutal killing machine he sees himself as.

“We learn to live with the pain

Mosaic broken hearts”

Whether it’s learning to live with the pain of losing people, seeing unimaginable things, or having traumatic things happen to them, they learn to live with it all. They learn to accept their “mosaic broken hearts” even if they don’t accept their own, but the others.

“But this love is brave and wild”

I love this one, because it feels like it captures the explosive nature of their relationship. Their love is brave, they go out on missions where they could lose the other, but they would also kill for the other. They know anything could happen, but yet they still continue to love. And the wild part just screams Johnny, his explosiveness, his willingness to put his love and trust into Ghost, who returns it with much enthusiasm.

“This is a state of grace”

The phrase “State of Grace” means “a condition of being free from sin”. And this just hits different. Soap and Ghost are ‘sinners’. They have committed several sins in the eyes of religion, they have done awful things, they have committed war crimes for god sake!

But their love strips that all away. Their love is a state of Grace, it’s a condition of being free from sin. When they are in love, all their sins, mistakes, they are all gone. When they are together, they are almost like angels. Their love rebuilds through their fractures, and redeems them.

“This is the worthwhile fight”

Lots of fights don’t feel worthwhile to Ghost, he doesn’t feel like some battles are worth fighting for. He feels like they are just doing them out of pure pity, he feels that a lot of the time. But this time, this fight for love and life with Johnny is so worthwhile to him. It’s something he isn’t doing out of pity, or out of command, he is doing it because it’s worthwhile to him.

“These are the hands of fate

You're my Achilles heel”

Ghost’s hands end lives. With the flick of his wrist he can snap someone’s neck, he can do it without hesitation. His hands decide fate. But Soap is his Achilles heel. Soap could sway him from doing some of the things he does out of habit, that’s how much influence he has on him. He would do anything for his Johnny, even if that means giving up the world.

“This is the golden age of something good and right and real”

Finally, thank fuck, finally, they both have something that’s positive for once. Not war, not death, not pain. Something just for them, something that’s good, and right, and real. They both feel it for each other eternally. It feels right, everything slots together so nice, like a jigsaw.

“And I never (never)

Saw you coming

And I'll never (so you were never a saint)

(And I've loved in shades of wrong)

Be the same (we learn to live with the pain)

(Mosaic broken hearts)

(But this love is brave and wild)”

This bit is more technical on the production side, but it really hits me in the heart. To me, it’s like they are reminiscing over the start of their relationship. Ghost saying he will bever be the same, and Soap reassuring Ghost saying that he loves him regardless of what he’s done. That he’s allowed to have this one thing. That they are both allowed to have this.

[skyrigel]

“Does that feel good…huh ?”

Simon pulled you back by your neck, his breath piping down your spine in blazing hot rings. “I bet it does.” He growled maniacally, chuckling as you whimpered against his chokehold.

He pulled out his cock just until it breached against your used wasted hole before slamming back in all over, arching your back further as your orgasm came in waves — there was no point holding back as your thighs shaked, still the constant pouncing didn't stop, the back of your thigh met his hips in every jiff, while hot cum leaked down and coaxed his big cock and he groaned at the heat of your pussy, me, only letting him rattle your insides while your toes curled from overstimulation.

“Did Daddy say you could cum, huh ?” Simon didn't wait for an answer, and as came his hand pinching hard on your bud, and after were two consecutive hard spanks that stirred another heated arousal, “ya’ being bratty today, is that what'll do ?”

Your vision blurred, tears brimmed and fell down and you shaked your head, it felt good to be pounded down after moaning and writhing over dildos that were nothing compared to your man's veiny cock, but even so you lost count how many times you came and how many times Simon punished you by going harder once again.

“C’mon you promised to be daddy's good girl, no ?” He leaned down over you, enveloping your bare back with his hot body, his heat pulsing like a drum through you and not to mention the bulge that twitched as you moaned like a whore against his arm.

All your thoughts were mussy except how good his big dick felt inside you, how obsence it must look — on your fours getting pounded from behind like cock slut, being forced to take it after third or maybe fourth orgasm.

“Daddy didn't say you could cum whore ?”

Simon kneaded your tits that jangled with every thrust, and you couldn't take it anymore, feeling your nerves numb in your body as you thought to utter your safeword with no success, finally remembering to shake your head as Simon always told you.

Simon couldn't understand until thrusting three more times then he pulled himself out, his hold of your throat came undone as you trembled all over against the emptiness of your pussy when he pulled out with wet pop, swollen and hard.

“Lovie.” He cooed, all the hardness left somewhere as his soft voice hummed — you fell face down on the pillow, tears soaking against it. “Hey, hey…love ?”

Simon's deft finger pushed away your hair that sticked up through sweat and tears, his eyes were sweet and loving.

“Did I hurt you ? Tell—”

“No.” You croaked, feeling your thigh numb all over, his weight shifted beside you until you scrambled over and laid your head on his chest, his heart beating melodiously enough to lull you in some heavenly sleep.

“I was too hard on my princess, wasn't I ?”

You looked up, knowing how heavy your eyes were and no doubt your lips were swollen from the intense make out session earlier, and cum drying over like frost on dew.

He loved you like this, all fucked up, all marked up — just for him, only by him.

Simon smiled shyly, then leaned to kiss your forehead — “I should get us a bath—”

You didn't want him to go anywhere, “Stay ere’ with me.”

“Mmm.” Simon pulled you closer to his chest, wrapping his safe arms around you while you relished in the sillage of sex and euphoria of it all, finally breathing Simon's sharp cologne.

“Would you like water baby, huh ?” But you didn't, you only wanted Simon to cradle you in his arms and sway you gently.

“Alright lovie, sleep.” He whispered, carding through your hair and soothing your scalp, knowing he'd pulled too hard, just how his nasty girl liked, “I love you.”

“Love ya too.” You inhaled, feeling so good.

Masterlist

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[barbiesmuse]

ᰔᩚ FALSE GOD.

ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָjohn price + milf!reader

summary: a little blurb of price fingering milf!reader while her daughter is with her dad.

tags: fingering, praise, age gap, price kisses readers tears, reader squirts, reader has a daughter, reader's daughter is referred to as babygirl, reader's baby daddy is a deadbeat!

head barbies announcements: this was silly i was bored and horny!! also men personifying pussy is such a power move!! sorry this is actually kind of dirty!

you whine softly as price plunges his fingers in and out of your wet cunt. you sniffle as tears stream down your face. john has the two of you faced in front of a mirror. your eyes were heavy and your breathing was rough. price smirked as he watched your eyes follow his fingers. his thumb finds its way to your clit rubbing soft circles on the rosebud. “oh sweet girl, wipe those tears f’me hm? promise it'll feel better soon. just gotta get your sweet pussy used to me first. gotta be gentle with her.” he says, pressing gentle kisses to her ear.

you sniffle and turn your head, looking up at him with glossy eyes. as his thick and calloused fingers continue to demolish your tight cunt you feel the same achy feeling in your stomach that you always feel when he touches you this way. price coos at you and kisses your tears, he was so gentle with you. he tasted the salty drop on his tongue and smirked. as you got closer to your orgasm your hands found price's wrist trying to slow him down as his fingers split your pretty pussy open.

“look at this pretty pussy sweetheart, see how needy you are for my fingers? what would you do without me, hm? i know you're stressed about babygirl. let it out mama. ” price says, as your orgasm washes over you your legs tremble. as you lay in his lap, legs spread, hair disheveled, and your soft whines filling his ears he can't help but feel himself coming in his pants. price groans in your ear, which only makes you spiral even more. your clear liquids spurt from your pussy and he chuckles.

“fuck john, feels so good! mmph, need your cock now please!” you say as you feel his fingers continue to stimulate your pussy. as he pulls his fingers out of your sopping hole he smirks as you clench on nothing. he studies you, you were a mess. nowhere near ready for his rough cock. “oh dear heart, y’r not ready yet.” price says, he looks at you through the mirror. he smiles and shoves his finger into your mouth. as you taste yourself you moan around his fingers.

price pulls his fingers from your mouth and replaces them with his chapped lips, his tongue meets yours and the two of you mix. you wrap your arms around his neck and moan into the kiss. you pull away and bite his lip. he pulls away and presses a gentle kiss to the valley of your breasts. “can always count on my sweet girl to taste so good.”

[fairyboygenius]

fresh out the slammer- simon riley x fem!reader

we’ve all got that one destructive situationship…

a/n: i have no idea what this is lol. was listening to ttpd as i do and had this idea. might make this a series with a different song for different characters??

cw: alcohol consumption, brief suggestive content

now, pretty baby, i’m running back home to you

two knocks on the door.

you took a deep breath, pulling out your phone to reread the text.

come over whenever, love. i’m home.

just as you were about to raise your fist to the door to knock again, it swings open. he wasn’t wearing his mask. a bandaid rested on the bridge of his nose, bags under his eyes seeming slightly less prominent than usual. his eyes swept over you, the tiniest bit of concern flashing across his face before his expression became stoic again.

“come on in.”

fresh out the slammer, i know who my first call will be to

the wine was cold-just how he knew you liked it. a crisp, crunchy white that almost tasted like sunlight. too bad you were feeling anything but sunny.

“he cheated on me.” the words felt heavy on your tongue, foreign. it was objectively true- you had literally walked in on him fucking another woman in your bed. that was merely two hours ago, though, and the bile in your stomach was still simmering at a low level.

“fuckin’ idiot.”

you tried to ignore how simon’s lips caressed the side of the lowball glass.

“told ya he was trouble, doll. never looked at you like you deserve.”

his voice was raspy, a sure indicator that this wasn’t his first drink. so was the toe-curling way he looked at you, brown eyes drifting over your face and down your body. he only got this open in his desire with some liquid courage in his system, but you’d take what you could get. with him especially.

“and what do i deserve?” the question was a trap. honey falling from your lips purely to draw the bear in front of you closer. your tricks were well-rehearsed- leading questions, cinnamon perfume, vanilla lip balm, a low-cut tank top. they worked every time.

his hand reached out, brushing the side of your arm. jackpot.

“little vixen,” he groaned, eyes falling to your lips involuntarily. “this is just unfair at this point.”

“what, are you seeing anyone seriously?”

“you think i’d invite you over if i was?”

your lips curled up in a smile. the banter, you could do no problem. “we both know commitment doesn’t mean much to you.”

“i haven’t kicked you as a habit. that’s gotta show some dedication.”

you reached up, intertwining your fingers with his as you took a sip of your wine. “and here i thought i was just keeping your bed warm.”

and when he leaned in and kissed you, sunlit wine mixing with stormy bourbon, you swore it was to prove a point.

[v4mpgutz]

Labyrinth, Simon "Ghost" Riley [ ONESHOT ]

— simon refuses to be left in anyone else's care but yours after he gets a stab wound to the gut :)))

simon "ghost" riley x nurse reader

note: this does use she/her pronouns !! also this is pretty much not proof-read at all so... yeah!

warnings ! — descriptive mentions of wounds + blood, reader stitches up a gash, petname (dove like once whoops)

you were tending to another soldier as per usual, administering pain killers and putting a cold cloth on his head to keep a fever down. you checked the soldier's heartbeat one more time before you nodded in satisfaction.

as you walked out of the curtains that separated the soldier's tiny room from the hallway, you heard a commotion near the entrance.

furrowing your brows in confusion, you walked towards where the noise was and heard a male medic speaking to a familiar voice.

"i told you already, sir!" the medic exclaimed, clearly growing irritated. "she's busy with another patient. you'll have to be taken care of by someone else."

you rounded the corner and saw simon standing there arguing with the medic. he was hunched over a little and clutching his lower stomach, still in his ops gear and mask.

"i'm not seein' anybody else, for fucks sake! it's her or no one!" he sneered at the medic who just rolled his eyes.

the medic turned around and saw you, his eyes widening as he beckoned you over. "thank goodness! lieutenant riley has been asking for you."

you blinked slowly and turned to look at simon, your eyes holding concern as you looked up and down his figure. blood was seeping through his fingers where his shirt was slightly rolled up just before the waistline of his pants.

"lieutenant, you're bleeding out! you should've got someone to see you," you scolded before grabbing his arm and pulling him towards an empty room.

he winced and you saw him roll his eyes behind his mask. "everyone else in this bloody place is incompetent." he scoffed before lowering his voice to a whisper, "and besides... i don't trust anyone else."

you chewed your bottom lip anxiously and sighed, reaching for a pair of medical scissors.

"okay," you mumbled. "move your fingers, i have to cut your shirt."

he obeyed your order and moved his hand away, he was hoping you wouldn't notice but it was definitely shaking. he was growing slightly clammy due to the blood loss as well.

you cut his shirt and peeled it back, examining the wound as your tongue poked your cheek. you hummed, dabbing a wet cloth against the skin around it to rid it of blood. you were quick to apologise when simon let out a wince and a mumbled 'fuck!'

"well, ghost—"

"simon." he corrected as he averted his eyes. "please, just... call me simon."

you smiled softly and nodded.

"well, simon, you're definitely going to need stitches." you told him, pinching his skin together to try and stop the blood from flowing out any more.

"bloody fuckin' hell.." he mumbled, looking down at you as you crouched slightly next to the bed. "get it over with then," he nodded slowly.

you seemed unsure for a moment as you readied the needle and thread.

"are you sure? you don't want lidocaine?" you asked him, hesitant to stitch the wound up without some sort of numbing agent.

"what the fuck is lidocaine?" he asked, his brows creased underneath his mask.

you laughed and showed him the needle, the shiny point reflecting light off of it dramatically. you watched simon swallow as he stared wide-eyed at the needle.

"it's a local anaesthetic," you explained. "it targets the nerves where injected to numb them in preparation for specific procedures."

he nodded with a nervous cough and shook his head, "i'm fine. i'm a soldier, i've suffered worse pain than a couple stitches."

you shrugged and put the anaesthetic back down on the medical cart, picking up the needle and thread. you cleaned the wound first, making sure there wasn't any blood where you needed to poke the needle through the skin.

you pinched the skin together and steadied the needle, looking up at ghost for approval; he nodded.

you pushed the needle through the first bit of skin, being as gentle as you could. you paused when you heard the man above you yelp — actually yelp — at the feeling.

"you okay, simon?" you asked with a frown and he let out a shaky breath and a grunt.

"just peachy."

you wanted to laugh but you held your tongue because you knew how bad stitches hurt — especially without an anaesthetic.

it took you about ten minutes to fully stitch the wound, dabbing away any excess blood when you were finished. you had him lift his hips a little, one hand supporting him in doing so as you bandaged up his waist.

"okay," you nodded with a soft smile. "all done. now, you will need to replace the bandages every three hours or so. i'm sure you're capable of doing that yourself but if you need help just come and see me."

simon looked you directly in the eyes as you rose from your position next to the bed.

"thanks, dove. it's much appreciated."

you felt heat rush to your cheeks and the tips of your ears, giggling nervously and turning around to pretend to write something on a clipboard.

"just— just doing my job, lieutenant!"

you turned around and watched as he got up, glancing back at you one last time with a wave as he walked back towards the entrance of the infirmary.

oh no, you're falling in love again.

giggling kicking my feet twirling my hair

@konigceo THIS ONE IS FOR U !! 🫵

[tanked-up]

She really is

(Part 10 of my collection)

[midnightbears]

so long, london by taylor swift but you're thinking about simon ghost riley

[simonrileytaylorsversion]

I firmly believe Gaz grew up in a household full of women. He most definitely had 3 sisters growing up. And his mother taught that boy manners, best believe. He isn’t one of those guys who is disgusted by your period, because his entire family synced one time and man’s entire life flashed before his eyes.

Hes basically the ultimate gentleman.

“In a world of boys, he’s a gentleman.”

-Taylor Swift

[oceantornadoo]

renegade by taylor swift and big red machine is just PERFECT for an angsty relationship with simon riley. like are you kidding me (incoming exhibits):

you fire off missiles because you hate yourself, but do you know you’re demolishing me?

HELLO LIKE HES LITERALLY A WAR CRIMINAL. war is what takes time away from the relationship and hurts both parties!!!

is it really your anxiety that stops you from giving me everything? or do you just not want to?

idk about yall but i am not nonchalant. if i was talking to this man and he was so hesitant to show love because of what happened with his family, id be questioning EVERYTHING.

and if i would have known how sharp the pieces were you crumbled into, i might have let them lay.

this man does not need a wife he needs a therapist. reader refuses to do the heavy emotional lifting and why should they??? reminds me of clay from love is blind lmao. we are not ms. fix-a-man!!!

— the whole song is like this and i feel it’s so underrated but its soooo hurt/ comfort —

[fel0ny-01]

Ghost falling in love except it goes a little something like Labyrinth:

Ghost didn't do love. Familial love, Platonic Love, Romantic Love, none of it. He'd learnt that over time as a human being, being in love with, or loving human beings made things go badly very quickly. Whether it was heartbreak, death or betrayal. Time after time, he'd opened his heart, promising himself that it wouldn't hurt like the last time; but each time he'd broken the promise himself. After the last time, he'd stopped the whole 'love thing'. He buried it like he buried Simon, deep and further down into the ground, where it would have to crawl its way back out with blooded attempts; screaming and yelling.

That was until he met Soap.

'Uh Oh, I'm falling in love'

'Oh no, I'm falling in love again,'

'Oh. I'm falling in love'

I guess it would always find it's way back into his cold, dark heart. After all, Simon Riley didn't die in that grave.

[ykscarlett]

((

[burnt-tortellini]

yadayada graves and soap get together because ghosts afraid of commitment. anyway, point is false god by taylor swift.

[r0ttenb0gb0dy]

Coda "Rex" Morelli — After The Fall

“You heard me.” Graves’ voice rings out, making Rex’s vision tunnel as he focuses on the men before them.

“You’re crazy, this is my base.” Alejandro quips, but Graves seems to already have a reply locked and loaded.

“It's not a base. This is a sizable covert facility and I admire it — so, I'm takin’ it. You boys have been relieved. Thank you for your service.” Graves’ tone was low, vicious even. Rex looked over with worried eyes, the information he had just learned minutes prior still fresh in his mind. What had happened in Russia, what Shepherd was asking them to do. It felt wrong, but at the same time he knew that when it came down to the wire he would always choose Shadow Company. Every time, without fail.

“No, no, no, no…I don’t take orders from you.” Alejandro stepped forward slightly, earning a glare from Sergeant MacTavish. Rex grips his rifle with an iron touch.

“Didn’t Valeria say that? Now, that makes me wonder what else I don’t know about your affiliation with a drug lord.” Graves says with all of the coy confidence of a fox, tilting his head slightly before everything exploded

In an instant, Alejandro stepped forward, beginning to close the distance between himself and Graves. MacTavish grabbed him by the arm, stopping him just short. Still, Rex couldn’t blame him. This was absurd from either perspective.

“What the fuck did you just say to me, pendejo?” Alejandro barks.

“You’re out of line, Graves — Rex, yae can’t be alright with this —“ MacTavish speaks up, but before Rex can reply he’s spoken for.

“Don’t…Don’t do that. Don’t talk to them.” Graves’ voice cut like a knife, a searing red pain sending signals through Rex’s body. He looked up, eyes locked with MacTavish, wanting to tell him to run. His gaze shifted to Riley, to Rodolfo and Alejandro. Rex went to take a step forward but Graves’ grip locked on his vest strap stopped them, even yanking him back slightly much to MacTavish’s surprise.

They hadn’t seen it before, had they? It was a blatant display of their power dynamic, and Rex felt embarrassed. His cheeks heated up and he tensed up.

“No one needs to get hurt here.” Graves spoke again, his voice low and dark. It terrified Rex. He had no idea up until this moment, right here and now, that the mission with Shepherd had failed. So, on top of mourning dead friends that had supposedly been on an extended leave, he was now faced with the immediate future.

Graves was going to take direct orders from Shepherd to harm the 141, and he was going to go along with it.

“Are you threatenin’ us?” Lieutenant Riley asked, his hand wandering but not quite grabbing the rifle hanging from his carrier.

“Soldier, I don’t make threats. I make guarantees. So, let’s not do this.” Graves replied with a smug callousness that sent a chill down Rex’s spine, even in the Central American heat. Their gaze shifted between the men in front of them, locking eyes with Lieutenant Riley. He gave them a knowing glance before looking at MacTavish.

“I’m callin’ Shepherd.” MacTavish spoke up, pointing a finger at Graves.

“General Shepherd sends his regards.” Graves' hand left Rex’s vest, traveling to the assault rifle in hand. His finger lingered on the trigger. “He told me y’all wouldn’t take this well.”

“He knows about this?” Lieutenant Riley asked, disbelief in his voice, but when he looked at Rex he knew it was the truth. He was too scared to speak, truthfully, so he didn't. He knew if he spoke up he would only defend Graves and Shadow Company. It would only stoke the flames.

“He’s put me in command of this operation from here on out. So, y’all need to stand down, it’s time to let the pros finish this.” Here Graves stood, betraying the people that Rex had grown to trust. They’d laid their lives on the line right alongside themselves and Graves this entire time, this is not what they deserved. “And why the hell are we talkin’ like this is some kind’a negotiation? It’s not. I’ve got my orders, and now you have yours.”

“And who the fuck do you think you are, cabron? My men are inside!” Alejandro snapped, eliciting a response from Rex. They looked to Graves, stepping back slowly, out of his peripheral vision. Their back was met with the broad side of Wasp’s chest. It only took a moment for Wasp to grab his plate-carrier strap, quelling the desire to jump to Graves’ defense. He could feel it welling, some kind of vicious remark, but he couldn't have anticipated what was coming.

“I’m afraid not. Your men have been…” Graves bit back a smirk, looking to the ground and then up at Alejandro. “Detained.”

It all happened so quickly.

Alejandro was zip tied and held against a vehicle whilst Rodolfo, MacTavish and Riley made a run for it.

Everything in Rex’s head was quiet. All he knew was that he had to finish the mission, find Hassan and the final missile. It didn't matter the cost. Rex felt Wasp let him go and his rifle was aimed upwards in an instant, boots already migrating down into Las Almas after the escaped Task Force operators.

Indiscriminate killing did not begin to describe what MacTavish and Riley were doing. Rex stepped over corpses around every corner, over shattered ceramics that smelled of gunpowder, and spent shell casings. He couldn't breathe. It was a vicious effort to recover every tag that he could, knowing that they couldn't drag every single Shadow back to base, but he began to run out of room to carry them. It didn't take long before he started shooting back at the ghosts he heard around the streets, pulling familiar knives out of bodies if only to throw them back at Riley when he saw him.

This was unnecessary. Just make the escape, that was all they needed to do, and yet here they were. Slaughtering Shadows in a fucking massacre. His anxiety got the best of him and he returned to base to regroup whilst the others cleaned up the streets, ensuring Hassan wasn't anywhere to be found and that both of the 141 members had escaped before they did.

He sat in the stolen MexSpec-Ops facility with shaking hands and wired nerves, every little sound setting him off. No amount of comfort from Graves quelled it. Cigarette after cigarette, taking in deep breaths and letting them go to no avail, images of what could come to pass haunting him. It should've come as no surprise whenever Graves formulated a plan for the coming days. He should've known it would be a disaster plan.

“I’m what? You’re not sending me back to HQ, not fucking now.” Rex barks at his Commander, his partner, shoving him with open palms. He’s angry, being cornered back into a Jeep with little more than Graves’ orders telling him to do so. The Commander would never lay a hand on him, he knew that, not now anyways.

“You have to, Rex. This is what that fucking promotion was for, now use it.” Graves replies, calm in comparison. He’s riled up too, though, and Rex can tell. “If I get blown to hell here, then someone needs to keep the Company afloat. That someone,” he places a finger in the middle of Rex’s plated chest, “is you.”

“No.” Rex huffs. Their back is to the door of the Jeep. “No, I’m not leaving you.”

“That loyalty'll get you killed.”

“Good. Better me than you. I want revenge for the Shadows, Graves, I need it—”

“Then go home, tend to our wounded and wait for me there.”

“You promised me I’d never have to run this shit by myself, don’t be a fucking liar.”

“You won't have to. I’ll come home when this is finished, we’ll get what we need from Valeria in the meantime and use it to find that last missile. Take Hassan down and come home, right t’you, sugar.” It was a promise, a big one, and Rex was unsure if Graves could hold up his end of it. Coming home was an uncertainty that most would not try to guarantee. Especially up against the likes of the 141, trained killers that were unlikely to stop at the orders of anyone except Laswell or Price.

“You’re suicidal, you know that?” Rex scoffs. “If you had any self preservation instincts, then you'd have me stay here and deal with their inevitable assault. I’d do anything for you, Graves—”

“Then go home.” Graves says quietly, pulling Rex in by the front of their vest, hands gripped onto the sides of it. He can see something flicker across those lovingly familiar green eyes, something rebellious, but Rex bites it down. “S’just two hours t’get there, babe, I bet I can make it back ‘bout an hour or so.”

“Better not be lying to me, Shadow.” Rex murmurs, grabbing Graves by the collar of his blue dress shirt. He pulls the blonde down to be eye-level with himself before crashing their lips together in a heated exchange, all terror and feverish tension, not knowing what was going to impact them. It left them breathless, wanting to take a moment longer to revel in the fact they were both alive, but a loud thunk of the Jeep door slamming cleared Rex's mind of any impure thoughts.

“Let's go, LC.” Maverick’s voice calls, the Sergeant Major entirely oblivious to what's going on around the opposite side of the vehicle he’s in the driver's seat of.

“Go on, Coda. Just a few days.” Another brief kiss and Rex is ducking away wordlessly into the Jeep, glancing back only to see Graves smiling back. Cobalt blue eyes and a pipe dream about a perfect world in which the 141 shows up alone, but they both knew that wasn't going to happen.

Rex regretted staying silent the moment they saw the American border come into view and passed into Texas. He wanted to call, but he also knew that he had things to attend to at HQ that required his immediate attention. Assisting the medical staff in tending to wounded Shadows from Las Almas, who had somehow survived the trip back. Filling out the after-action reports for all of the missions, writing detailed explanations of what had gone down with the help of bodycam footage — sifting through tags to catalogue the deaths. It was a lion’s share of work, but he thought that whatever he couldn't put a dent in, Graves would return to finish off with him.

Days passed sitting in that office.

He had started sleeping in there, the bed far too empty without Graves in it, an increasing stack of files sitting before him. There were at least twenty-five dead from Las Almas, another fifty or so from the prison they were keeping the Vaqueros in, and an unreported amount from the MexSpec-Opsnbuilding. No correspondence yet about what had gone down, not until Wasp walks into the office with a sort of fear in his eyes that instills immediate terror into Rex.

“Where’s Graves?” Rex asks, quiet at first. If Wasp has returned, that means that they finished up in Mexico. He was staying there to assist in the defense of the facility.

If he was back, then Graves should be too.

“Rex, I—” Wasp starts, patting at his vest to search for something in his pockets.

“Where. Is. Graves?” He’s angry now, standing up, hands planted firmly on the desk in front of them. Their eyes are firmly affixed on Wasp’s hands as he pulls a chain out from one of his pockets, the tags clinking together. It's realistically quiet, but it sounds like gunfire the way Rex’s brain shuts everything else out.

He holds his hand out and it's trembling.

“I did everything I—”

“Give.” Rex barks, more wrath than sadness. The chain coils up in their palm and the crinkled metal of the tags follows suit. He turns them over, caked on blood and soot making them hard to read at first, but whenever he can read them it's like a shot to the head.

CDR PHILIP GRAVES.

SHADOW 0-1.

OPOS. CATHOLIC.

He doesn't say a word at first. He turns the tags over again and again, gently smudging off the stains until they're mostly silver once more. It's impossible to believe that these came from thee Philip Graves. They’re mangled. Rex looks up at Wasp, who is just barely holding it together himself.

“What do we do?” Wasp asks just above a whisper.

“What happened?” Rex doesn't give him the grace of an answer, not yet. He sinks back into his seat — Graves’ office chair — and clutches the destroyed tags between shaking fingers. Feverishly rubbing over the embossing like prayer beads, hoping that maybe if he holds them tightly enough then this will be over sooner.

“You don't wanna know.” Wasp replied without hesitation.

“Oh no, no, I do want to know. What happened?”

“Rex, I swear—”

“Don't fucking promise me shit, Walker, what the hell happened?” Rex is firm in his questioning, knowing better than to take more oaths from men around here. He didn't care if anyone thought he didn't need to know, if they swore he was better off unaware. There was no sense in dancing around the facts, plain and simple. Graves was dead. He was likely not in a box outside, and if he was then he was likely unrecognizable. If anyone ever deserved an answer about what happened to someone in full truth, it was Rex.

“We attempted a counter-assault on the 141, but they brought the Vaqueros as well as their, uh, friend in the chopper. Nikolai. Facility was in rubble, we needed to use a last resort and Graves hijacked a tank from their hangar—”

“He specifically did? He didn't have someone else do it?”

“Yeah, he…he said that we needed to get as many of our wounded out as possible, that he would take care of the remaining assailants.” Wasp speaks like he’s giving a mission report. Partially because it's easier than the alternative, which is greeting Rex like a newly widowed spouse. He takes in a breath through his teeth and looks up at the ceiling before his eyes met Rex’s again. “Between MacTavish and his…um, proclivity for explosives and — the, um, Nikolai in the chopper…”

“He didn't stand a chance.” Rex murmurs. Explosives? That would explain the state of the tags.

“Not even a little.” Wasp replies. Solemn. “I rallied the survivors, they left after they I.D’d him. Aggressively. I’m surprised that they didn't take his tags, but…”

“That’s it, then, isn't it?” Rex unclasps the clip on the back of Graves’ chain before placing it around his own neck, clipping it shut once again. It's warm, the metal, as he tucks it underneath his shirt.

“What do we do now?” Wasp asks again, and while he’s relieved that Rex didn't shatter into a million tiny pieces at the news, he’s certain that a hurricane is coming. Brewing deep in his chest, just waiting for the right moment to spill out and take everything down with him. Rex hadn't ever thought about what was supposed to happen whenever this day came because he was promised on repeat like a broken record that it never would, but there’s only so many ways to break the news to an entire PMC of men and women. He glances around the desk, pushing papers and files aside to grab the microphone to the P.A. system. They rarely used it, given that little had changed in long enough that no service announcements needed to be made, but that changed today. Rex blew the dust off and pressed the little red button on the front, which started glowing afterwards, signifying that he can begin.

“Alright, Shadows, I need all units to report to the tarmac ASAP. This is your Commander speaking.”

Nothing felt worse than dragging himself down there, than fixing his face in the reflection of some picture hung in the hallway, taking a deep breath and attempting to look like he had some sort of clue. It got easier, though. There were hang-ups in the first few weeks, but eventually Rex adjusted to being called Commander. He knew that this was on his shoulders now, that handling the legal case was on him and so was continuing to make Shadow Company a profitable business as its CEO. Aside from burying the charred remains of his person, that was the worst part of all of this — trying to seem as though he could keep his head above water as well as everyone else's.

There was a part of him that thought if he simply pushed hard enough that he could ignore the grief. Maybe he could avoid it entirely by just working until he forgot that he was unhappy, that his bed was going to be half-full forever; that his husband was dead.

Rex looked up one morning and didn't recognize that person in the mirror. His hair was down past his shoulders now, his cheeks less full than they had been. Every scar felt more apparent with every passing day that he spent running drills outside with the Shadows, because his skin was flushing a shade of tan that it never had before. He stopped taking hot showers. Fucking warmth reminded him of Graves. Winter came quietly to Texas as it always did and still he slept with the windows open.

Graves would've wanted them closed.

He left the television on all night.

Graves would’ve wanted it off.

He got a new vest without the strap on the back because who was he supposed to kneel to now? A patch on the front reading Commander still doesn't feel at home on his chest, neither does the Shadow 0-1 callsign so he refuses to use it outright. Rex pushes the court case against Shadow Company back even further due to the lack of a man to charge, as they can't be held liable for a dead man’s crimes. He knew it was getting bad whenever the Justice of the peace actually let it slide.

Shadow Company returned to some semblance of normal within six months.

Rex never felt like himself anymore, but at least everyone else seemed to have recovered. The newest Shadows never even met Graves — brought on by Rex to replace the mass losses taken in Mexico. He could barely believe it, he was actually doing it all alone and somehow he hadn't given up on the people or the place. It was running smoothly as far as anyone was concerned, at least further down the ladder of command.

The Shadows knew. The officers, at least. Wasp and Spitfire weren't fucking stupid, keeping a close watch on everything Rex got his hands dirty with to ensure he wasn't just running headfirst into his own death. They watched him take a backseat to his own life, everything he worked for passing him by whilst others reaped the benefits. Graves would be proud of how efficiently the Company ran, that was for damn sure, but he wouldn't be happy that it came at the cost of Rex’s spark.

He lost it. That quick wit, the bite that backed up his bark, the things that made him…well, him.

The day that a ceasefire was pushed across his desk by Kate Laswell, she knew it, too. This wasn't the Rex that would kill someone for speaking ill of his Commander, no, this was Commander Morelli, or what remained of him at least. She looked up at Rex with an understanding in her eyes that the 141 could not possibly fathom, not for a monster like Rex that would turn tail on them so quickly.

“You don't have to sign it, I…I just want you to know that they’re intent on closing this chapter. We have work to do, business that needs tending.” Kate says with all of the bureaucratic charm she usually has, a kind enough smile tugging at her features. Rex nods slowly as he looks it over, seeing a spot at the bottom for his name. Captain John Price has already signed it. It’s August. He looks out the window of his office before looking back at the paper, pressing his pen to it with nothing short of defeat. “Thank you, Rex.”

“No problem.” He sort of nods as he pushes it back to Kate. “I just want this to be over with. Any luck finding Shepherd?”

“Not yet…we have bigger fish to fry, I’m afraid.” Kate purses her lips in thought. “Would…Shadow Company be interested in working with—”

“Absolutely not.” Rex cuts her off. “I appreciate the kind gesture of the ceasefire, but I won't need a gun if I have to work with a single one of them brits again.”

Point made.

“I understand. Just…don't hesitate to reach out, alright? I know we have a rocky relationship now, but the C.I.A. is happy to continue to administrate your contracts as we have been. I’ll leave Price's men out of them.” Kate is nothing short of a saint. Rex is all teeth and flattened ears, somewhere in the valley between anger and depression. He’s armed with those emotions because it's easier than admitting he’s nothing like how he used to be on the inside, and though Kate can see right through it she chooses to say nothing.Professionalism is what she aims for and it's not exactly the picture of it to call him on his bullshit.

She disappears as quickly as she came to HQ and Rex can safely say he’s relieved. His hands find the top drawer of the desk and he pulls out a half crumpled pack of Newports and a lighter, not hesitating to spark one up inside. The window is open anyways. A playing card shaped ashtray on the desk with a spade in the center taunts him, though he chooses to ignore it whilst he looks down at his copy of the ceasefire.

…hereby agrees to cease all hostile contact with Shadow Co. as long as said agreement is upheld inversely towards Task Force 141…

“What a bunch of bullshit.” Rex mumbles to himself as he stuffs it into his desk, sighing as his forehead meets the warm surface of the hardwood.

It changes nothing. They operate as per usual, carrying out the typical business that they had beforehand without any special addendums. No intentionally risky missions, no smuggling American made missiles for a disgraced General, nothing out of the ordinary for a privatized military group. A ceasefire only matters in wartimes and as far as Rex is concerned, they aren't involved in any wars. Kate doesn't contact them about any ongoing changes in the worldwide political climate, so he rightfully assumes that everything is coasting along as it should be. He never asked about the PMC that assaulted them in Urzikstan and stole the missile shipment for Hassan because, truthfully, he knew nobody outside of Shepherd would have answers. The Konni PMC was placed on a back burner in his mind, at least until his phone starts ringing.

It's a Tuesday when Farah calls him.

He doesn't pick up.

Instead, he goes outside.

There's a tree on the back of the property, a weeping willow in all white. Whenever Graves passed, Rex knew they weren't going to be able to give his remains up to some mortuary, so they buried what they had out in the back 40. It's what he would've wanted, anyways, not some cramped cemetery. Rex came out whenever he needed to think or breathe, mull things over with the only motherfucker that would've been real with him. Graves would always be honest about things even if it meant knocking Rex down a peg or two. Rex crossed their legs and sat down, pulling out an all too familiar flask from their pocket. P.G. embossed in the leather casing, a playing card shoved in there too. The ace of spades. Rex threw back a shot and let the warmth settle in his stomach.

He isn't sure how long he's out there when he hears someone behind him.

Footsteps, then the clearing of a throat.

“You mind?” Rex doesn't even look back. He knows that only a newer Shadow would be so dumb as to traipse on up whilst he’s sulking out here. Commander Morelli is very famously armed at all times, this they know. “I’m a bit busy, recruit, what do you want?”

“Didn't anybody ever teach you some god damn manners? Your daddy didn't hug you enough or somethin'?” Rex whips around with all of the fire of a sun, his eyes locking with a set of cobalt blue ones that stand behind him. He stares for just a moment, entirely slack jawed, his hand still gripping the flask as if it's a lifeline.

He clears his throat again, whoever it is, and Rex makes a mental note about making them run laps later.

He’s wearing a light blue dress shirt, a Lacoste, and faded blue jeans. The belt around his waist is black with a red stripe down the middle, matching the magazine holder that dangles from it, a snake embroidered on the front panel. He’s got his hands shoved in his pockets save for his thumbs, a silver watch on his left wrist that Rex recognizes well as he was the one who purchased it. There’s a nauseatingly familiar scar just below the man’s right eye, running back across his cheek and back through the top of his ear. Clipped like a feral dog that’s been taken to the vet.

“He didn't, actually, how’d y'know?”He says with a hum, rocking back on his heels ever so slightly. He has boots on, casual ones, though the leather is worn all the same as a pair of tactical ones. Rex can hear the material creak. It's been a long while since anyone wore them. “Well? You just gonna stare or what?”

Rex has pulled his sidearm before he can even consciously think about doing so and its pointed at the imposter’s forehead, pressed up against it actually.

“Bit much, ain't it, sugar?”

“Go fuck yourself — who the fuck do you think you are? What kind of sick fucking joke is this? Huh?” He taps the barrel against the man’s forehead. The imposter’s hands are up and behind his head in a quick movement that almost gets him shot. Rex is so certain this isn't Graves, because he isn't smiling about it. He doesn't have that smug grin that says ‘surprise’ as if this is something laughable.

No, he actually…he looks distraught.

“Answers. Now.” Rex slowly turns to walk the imposter backwards from the grave, never taking the pistol from his forehead. They’re not even shaking, hands entirely too steady for how electric all of their nerve endings feel. “Spill.”

“Coda, can you put the gun down?”

“Who? That isn't my name, I’m sorry, try again.” Rex taps the barrel off his head and the lookalike shifts his gaze away.

“Rex. Put the gun down.” His voice is too eerily similar. Rex feels faint. “What do I need to do to convince you that I’m me?”

“Explain how the fuck I buried a body, that’s what. Philip Graves is dead, he’s in a pine box three feet behind and six feet under me.” Rex clicks the hammer back into place on the revolver and the man tenses up, though his pupils are blown out wide. He doesn't look afraid for his life, if anything he looks oddly relieved.

“How else did you expect me to win down there in Mexico, huh? Gave ‘em some bait, they took it. I had to disappear, Rex, or they would've kept botherin’ us. Would’ve really put us both under.” He seems genuine, but Rex isn't buying it. This is all too convenient. Graves wouldn’t have left him out of the plans, would he? Not intentionally. No, this had to have been a last minute decision. Wait. Why is he even believing this sick fuck? Pretending to be a man’s dead husband? Rex shakes his head to clear his thoughts and grabs at his belt, feeling around for his radio. “Who are you calling?”

“My Lieutenants, that's who.” Rex huffs as he picks the radio up.

“Wasp and Spitfire let me in, sugar. Can you put the gun down, now?” Graves isn't quite begging, but he sounds exhausted. Rex falters for a moment, his aim wavering, before giving out all together. The revolver falls to the grass and he clasps his hand over his mouth, looking up at the blonde before him with something close to what they used to share. Things are different now, though. Terribly. It had been a long, hard year. Then his arms are open and are can't process if he wants to hug him or hit him. “C’mere.”

It hurts.

Real, physical pain.

He wants to scream, cry, something.

Don't call me sugar, don't do this to me, look at the fucking wreck I've become.

He can't.

“No, no, this…this isn’t…you’re not him.” Rex stutters, shaking his head. Before he can back away completely Graves has him in his arms, smothered into his chest, and all of those nagging thoughts disappear instantly. He smells how he always did. The cross around his neck is cool metal where Rex’s face presses into it, the expanse of his back is warmed by the sun. His arms are strong and capable, swearing silently to protect Rex from everything he had failed to.

“It's me, Coda. M’home.” Graves says with that familiar sickly sweetness that almost makes Rex forget the suffering he endured. The longest year of his life, burying Coda for good. Graves hadn't really died, but he wondered if he could resurrect the other version of himself that he used to be.

The days and weeks that follow are filled with a kind of tension that everyone is sick of within a few hours. Rex has developed the capability to run the Company with nothing short of confidence and self assurance, becoming much more than just the leashed animal he had been before. He’s skin and bones and claws, all bloodied maw and choked up flesh, a promise to die for this Company.. The problem is that Graves doesn't recognize that person wearing the Commander badge, supposedly his partner, though he can't be sure through the unkempt mess of hair and tired eyes. Rex doesn't look like that, no, Rex is soft on the edges even when he’s baring his teeth.

Whoever he came back to isn't him, but he tries to love him all the same. Rex doesn't let him close enough for that.

They still don't really trust each other whenever they arrive in Urzikstan to meet Alex and Farah. Though, there's something to be said about the surprised smirk Alex gives when they walk into the room. He straightens up, sort of tilts his head like a curious puppy when he speaks.

“The Shadow himself.” Alex speaks, followed by Farah.

“Welcome, Graves.”

“Heard you died in a tank in South America.” Alex smirks.

Rex freezes instinctually. South America? They were in Mexico. Who the fuck told them South America? Farah sounded like she knew what had happened whenever they spoke on the phone, did she not? Either Graves doesn't clock the mistake or he chooses to ignore it.

“Well, I wasn't in that tank.” Graves says with all of his usual smug confidence. He suppresses a smile, though. “What else have you heard?”

“We’re fighting our battles, here, no time for rumors.” Farah cuts off his curiosity. Rex can't help but wonder who gave them their information — as far as Rex was concerned they had only communicated with Shadow Company about the events of the last year. Had they been in contact with John Price? He knew that they'd worked together to retrieve Kate Laswell from captivity at some point, sure, but Rex was of the understanding that they’d ceased contact as Farah didn't even ask about Las Almas over the phone.

Did they not know why Graves’ life had been ‘taken’? What Shadow Company had done to the 141? Rex had a million questions that would go unanswered for far, far too long, but he was at least able to come to grips with the fact Graves was alive.

He didn't understand why he was left out of the plans, why the entirety of the Company was, or where Graves was for that excruciating year. He didn't understand why it had to be so hush-hush. If anyone should've been in the loop, it should've been him. They sit on the jet ride back to Texas, to prepare the shipment of missiles to be cargo-shipped to Urzikstan’s coast for Farah to retrieve. It's deathly quiet for the longest time, just the two of them in the cabin, splitting a bottle of whiskey.

Rex thumbs over the tags still around his neck, crinkled metal against the smooth surface of his own tags, glancing up to meet Graves’ gaze. They still had yet to share a bed again, let alone anything more intimate than a ‘hello.’

It feels more like a mercurial affair than what was previously a marriage, but theres some sort of hope buried in there somewhere. Like maybe if they can dig Farah out of this mess then maybe they can find themselves again, but they both know it's not that simple.

For now, their boots touch and Rex doesn't pull away. They share a drink on the ride home and the silence as well, wondering how many more miniscule heartbreaks it will take for them to need each other again.

—

💫 tags // @simonrriley 💫

a little more of the rexgraves lore in-between mwii and mwii ❤️‍🩹

[v4mpgutz]

Christmas Tree Farm, König [ DRABBLES ]

— husband könig and you at christmas time :>

husband könig x gender neutral reader

note: this is my first time writing for könig so if something seems suuuuper ooc im sorry :( also! there is no gender mentioned but this was originally written with an afab reader in mind! :]

warnings ! — petnames (sweetheart, meine süße, liebling)

christmas time was always könig's favourite time of year because he got to come home and spend the holidays with you. he'd surprise you, knocking on your front door gently and waiting for you to come and greet him.

-> you furrow your brows in confusion because who is knocking on your door at five in the morning? you open the door, rubbing your eyes before blinking slowly. you see your anxious husband standing there, tapping his fingertips with his thumb. his eyes widen when you practically jump onto his tall figure, wrapping him in a tight hug. his face softens and he wraps his arms around your thighs to keep you steady. he's home.

you're making vanilla chai cookies for your family's christmas gathering and könig comes in, black sweatpants hanging low on his waist. he lazily wraps his arms around your waist, leaving gentle kisses on your exposed neck and shoulder.

-> "love, you're distracting me," you tell him yet he refuses to leave his place. he hums and rubs your hips gently.

"let me help, sweetheart," he whispers to you and you sigh with a nod. he helps you grab out any extra ingredients you need, one of them being flour. he grabs a handful and throws it at your stomach. you let out a gasp, putting a hand up in mock offence.

"uh! excuse me?" you stare at him with challenging eyes and he only gives you an innocent smile.

"i'm helping," he insists.

putting the christmas tree up is not könig's favourite thing, just because he hates having to fluff the branches out. the texture of the fake leaves irritates his skin. he helps you though, because he'd never give up time with you for anything and he loves the way your face lights up as you sing along to silly christmas songs while you circle the tree — wrapping it in tinsel.

-> "mein süße, you're too cute." he says as you hum along to last christmas by wham!.

you laugh and lean up to press a soft kiss against his lips. he smiles down at you, such love and content in his eyes. he zones out for a moment, coming back to reality when you tap him gently.

"help me put the star on?" you ask, holding the glittery ornament in your hand. you'd gotten a new christmas tree this year because könig insisted it had to be taller than he was.

könig doesn't reply, he just lifts you up — holding you by the waist as he waits for you to put the star on the top of the tree.

"okay, hon," you pat his hands gently, "you can put me down now."

könig hums as if in thought and shakes his head. "hm.. no," he tells you before spinning you around so you're facing his chest. you let out a laugh before leaning against him, his body warm compared to yours despite his lack of clothing.

"i love you," you whisper. so quiet, so soft.

"ich liebe dich auch, liebling."

its short im sorry :((( hes so cutiepie though i loved writing this

tags: @konigceo (bc how could i not tag könig's #1 ??)

[poetics-posts]

Hello, welcome to my blog.

You can call me: Lily, Emmy, Milly or simply Emily

Pronouns: Sher/Her

Fandoms: Marvel mcu, X-men movies, Tlou (Videogame & Live action), Call Of Duty (Reboot), Death Note, One Piece (Anime & Live action), Money Heist, Shameless, Sherlock Holmes (BBC), The Mentalist, Taylor Swift, Tv Girl, Cigarettes After Sex, Red Velvet and Twice.

Hobbies: Seeing older men's edits on the internet (daddy issues), reading, listening to music, watching series and movies, I constantly want to move or disappear from other people's lives, I love order and having everything under control and chronically online and sometimes not

My things: I tend to obsess over topics I like, but I know I'll eventually put it aside, i'm not good with conversations and I'm trying to improve that, I consider myself either very conservative or shy and English is not my first language

DNI: Racists, homophobes, It's okay that you don't like something that I like, avoid spreading hate against it and minors not (Be nice on my blog or I will just block you.❗)

My inbox will be open for anything, if you have a question about me or anything related to my personal tastes, I will be open to answer.

Other platforms where you can find me:

Tiktok: @/poeticsposts | Pinterest: @/ | X/Twitter: @/ |

[dilf-docs]

It Always Leads To You

joel miller x younger fem!reader

summary: it's been a year; now you're back. how can joel be so sure of those old summer feelings in your eyes when there's a new hand holding yours?

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, toxic relationship, cheating and infidelity themes, mutual pinning, kinda dark!joel, smut, p. in v., pussy pronouns, oral (f. receiving), fingering, manhandling, lowkey forced creampie, ANGST, the taylor swift evermore (2020) references go wild, happy ending cause y'all weak asses voted for it and i love to keep my citizens happy!

word count: 5,199 words

side note: my joel miller era is alive and breathing after this tlou re-watch i'm doing my brother swears it's for him but it's mostly me and my fic/womanly reasons, yes we love gaslight girlkeep girlbossing in here gotta say, finding inspiration for this amidst my wattpad duties and christmas movie marathon was harder than i thought lol. was it worth the wait? please like, comment and reblog to let me know! it's based on this request (they're still open btw!)

part: I / II

Holidays linger like bad perfume.

Your eyes wander through the streets: the roads you've got to call home, the ones where you grew up. They're familiar, but so foreign, it's hard to believe they're the same ones where you scrapped your knees at ten and kissed Joel just last winter. It's as if both timelines, your life, feels more like two separate lives, miles apart.

"Hey, you okay?" tender, from the driver's seat; you're still getting used to the soft.

There's a reassuring smile your way, his hand finding yours to give it a squeeze. You notice his palm is the same size as yours. It fits perfectly, but there's a ghost of what it feels like to have it all wrapped up, looming over your itchy palm like all the yearning's a joke.

You nod. "Just tired. That's all"

He sighs. "If I wanted you to lie to me, I would've just asked"

"I'm not lying" you defend yourself as his pickup truck parks on the sidewalk.

He makes a funny face, and you laugh.

"I'm serious, Nick" your lips purse, a thing you do when you lie, yet he still hadn't noticed, like Joel. "Don't worry"

He doesn't look that convinced, so you take off your seat belt and grab his hand.

"C'mon. Mom and dad must be waiting for us"

"Hey" Nick calls you out.

"Yeah?"

"Who lives there?" and he's pointing behind you.

It's his. Joel's house.

"A friend of my dad's" you answer, dryly.

It was last december when you stood there in his porch, begging. It feels like time has stopped ever since, and you're still right where he left you.

"So will he be here?" Nick asks. "You know, since he knows your dad"

"Don't think so" you shrug, "he's got better things to do anyway. Bitter old man" comes out, with more venom than intended.

"Oh! Alright, sorry for asking"

You come back to your senses, realizing you've shared more than you should.

"No, I'm sorry. It's not that important; let's just go inside"

Your mom and dad greet you as soon as you cross the door. Last year, you'd basically fled away before New Year's, with a poor excuse and a broken heart. They both greet you as if nothing happened, although you're sure they remember your tear streamed face coming back from Joel's house, where it all ended.

As your mom corners Nick with kisses and embarrassing questions, your dad whispers to you:

"Joel asked what happened" you quirk and eyebrow, "wanted to know why you left"

"Eh, it's not important" you try to dismiss. "Definitely not as important for a guy like Joel to know"

"What is that supposed to mean?" your dad inquires. You often wonder if they knew.

"Nothing" you laugh nervously. "Listen, why don't you go and meet Nick, yeah? Did you know he likes fishing too?"

The distraction works with your dad; the same can't be said about you.

There's conversation flowing, but through the snow covered window, your eyes keep glancing back to his own. The view is dark, and you ponder if he's fled as well, the town plagued with memories too painful to reminisce.

You can still feel his hands roaming your body, the lust filled gaze that hid warmth. Every time he touches you, you have to remind you he isn't there: that the lips that kiss you, don't taste like his, that the hands that hold you, aren't big as his, and that the face that looks at you like they'll never choose another, is one you haven't learned to love yet.

Joel's memory cuts like thorns: they sink their teeth into your heart, that bleeds with that blood-colored sadness you're all too familiar with. He's poisoned you. But-- isn't it his love also the antidote for this disease he's gave you?

You abruptly stand up, plate half eaten.

"I-I need some air"

It's cold outside, but you don't care. All you want to do is sit on the porch, and drop some tears, something you can do inside too, but the fear of your muffled cries being able to be heard stops you.

You walk towards the stairs, to sit there like you do on summer days, yet there's now a difference: the snow. So you end up slipping, falling with your butt on the floor.

You yelp, embarrased although no one can see you.

"Need help?"

That you're wrong, apparently.

You don't even need to raise your view to know who that voice belongs to: you know it like a record, spinning in circles on your head.

He offers his strong hand your way, and although the cold wind hits your face, you're back to spring on the cabin: wet feet, bright sun and beating heart.

"I can get up myself" you reject his help, pushing the hand out. You keep avoiding his gaze, so you don't see how he's reacted, yet you hope he feels bad about it.

You walk up to the front door, and it takes you a while to realize he hasn't left yet. On top of that, it seems like he's following you. Just what you needed.

"What are you doing here?" you question, but your tone sounds like you're offended.

"Your folks invited me over" Joel answers, "Says they got a special guest"

"Yeah" this time, you do look back, finding him to be much closer than you thought he'd be. Yet you stand tall, defiant even. "It's my boyfriend"

You savour the way his expression falters, before the stoic façade takes over again.

"Boyfriend?" Joel scoffs, as if you just told the funniest joke ever.

"Is that supposed to be funny?" you bite back. "What? Think a pretty girl can't get a new man?"

"Never said I'd doubt'it" he clicks his tongue. "Y'a could get any man you'd want, sugar"

Ironically, the only man you want stands before you.

"Right" you chuckle dryly, "I think it's kind of funny of you to say that"

Joel's eyes bore into yours, a clash of emotions circling in his chocolate orbs.

"Y/n-"

"Don't" you stop him. Then sigh, defeated. "Let's just go inside"

As soon as you both arrive on the dinning room, your parents both greet Joel. Then, they introduce him to their guest, just as promised.

"Joel, this is Nick, y/n's boyfriend" your father speaks. "Nick, this is Joel, a dear old friend of mine"

Nick, as the gentleman he is, offers his hand. Joel accepts, but you can see the barely desguised displease behind his eyes.

"Wow, strong grip" Nick comments before joking, "you can let go now, I'm not going anywhere"

The hidden meaning of his words, whether intentional or not, hit Joel in the face. It's obvious by the way he backtracks, letting go of Nick's hand.

As you sit again, Nick leans to your side and whispers.

"Is this the guy who lives in the house across the street?" you nod. "Thought you'd said he had better plans. But, see? I told you: no plan's more important than coming to your house"

He's always making jokes, trying to make you smile, but it's done the opposite now. The food has gone cold long ago, yet you cut through the meat with a violence so palpable, even your mom tells you to slow down.

The nerve of Joel, showing up to your house like it's nothing, talking to you like he's unaware of his spell on you, acting like Nick is some sort of competition when he pulled out of the race himself a winter ago.

"So, Nick. How did you two meet?" your mom adresses him, eager to know details.

"It was at a party, actually, through mutual friends. Not a very spectacular story, that I know. What's funny is, she asked me what hour it was. And what did I say?"

"He didn't answer my question. Instead, he said: For you, I'm available any hour" you answer.

Your parents laugh, but Joel remains quiet. You wonder what he's thinking.

"You know" looking at Nick while cutting the steamed vegetables a little too agressive, "y/n actually hates parties"

"Joel" you warn through gritted teeth.

"Really? I didn't know that!" Nick seems so genuine, Joel can't help but hate him. He looks at you, concerned "You didn't tell me"

You can't believe he would rat you out like that. The appropiate word isn't hate, and you don't know how to describe it, but parties aren't really your environment; if you can, you'd choose to be anywhere else.

He'll pay for that.

"Joel" you seethe, an ugly smile painted in your features, "did you know Nick knows how to fish?"

It's a direct jab at him. He feels stupid for letting you get to him. The inferiority complex towards some random guy he just met, years younger, is actually laughable.

"I like-" Nick wants to add on that.

"Well" Joel interrupts, looking at you. "You never taught me like ya' were s'pposed to"

"You never cared to learn" you reply, acidic.

He sips his drink, trying to hide the smirk that's formed on his lips. You can't shut up, and he loves you've stayed the same.

"That means I've got some classes to take" Joel leans back on his chair, relaxed like he's won this round. "Just tell me when"

The tension cuts like the storm that's just formed outside.

"You should stay over, Joel" your dad offers when he takes a peak at the climate, "it's too dangerous outside"

Joel seems indestructible, like not even a snow blizzard could pierce through the rough old man. But he agrees, much to your dismay.

It's probably midnight already, and all you've done is toss around the bed. Nick peacefully snores next to you, and you envy how easily he falls asleep. You've always find it hard to sleep, the nighttime plagued with too many loud thoughts that fill the silence.

You get up carefully, heading downstairs for some water. You sip with tranquility when a noise jolts you from your sit.

The wooden floor creaks, making you aware you're not alone anymore.

"Can't sleep?"

You don't answer, seeing his sturdy figure emerge from the shadows until the dim moonlight shines over his aging features. Silence settles in. Outside, the wind howls, bumping against the windows with violence, like your heart does now against your chest.

"Not much of a talker, are you?"

"There's nothing to talk" cuts your response through the thick tension, the air suddenly suffocating.

You take another sip, but the tremble of your hand doesn't go unnoticed by Miller.

"Right" Joel sits next to you, on the kitchen island. "Won't even look at me, sugar? You've got eyes" his voice drops, "use 'em"

"What are you doing, Joel?" you ask looking at him, tears threatening to spill, making your bright eyes shimmer with pain.

He gets up abruptly, like he's woken up from a trance. He's seen his own pain on your eyes, and he hates it.

"Joel?" you ask again, demanding but softly.

He can't answer. Instead, he leaves.

"Goodnight, y/n" voice raw, many emotions boiling, hidden on the inside. It hurts.

If you hadn't changed, Joel too stayed the same.

A goddamn coward.

Two days have passed since, and now it's Christmas Eve.

You kneel, putting the presents under the tree. Normally, your parents would have much more people around for the holidays, but thanks to the storm, it's just them, Nick, Joel and you.

"I'm gonna miss Mrs. Stone's cookies" you pout, "I wish she could be here"

"It's a big loss for tonight" your dad sighs. "Next time, yeah? Christmas will come again faster than you think"

You nod, still absent as he walks away.

"Hey" Joel pops up behind, seemingly from nowhere.

"Hey" you reply, voice laced with tiredness just at the sight of him. How will you manage to survive until New Year's? You have no idea, the task harder if he's staying in the same house as you are.

"Put this in there, will ya'?"

He hands you a box, neatly wrapped up. What stands out the most is the silver bow on top. Your stomach drops: it's your favorite color.

"Y-yeah" you stammer. When the present falls in your hands, you notice it looks like Joel did it himself.

"Didn't know you were capable of nice things" you whisper. There's no anger in your voice, only loss.

"I'm trying" is what he says, before leaving you alone. Until then, you realize he had been touching you, the skin where his hand was on your shoulder burning.

Dinner goes by swiftly, conversation flowing easily courtesy of Nick and your father, who both have in common the love for talking. It may be your brain messing with you, but his eyes never leave you, fixated on your every move, savoring when your lips open and take a bite; when you lick them afterwards, salt in your mouth he'd love to take off in a movement of his tongue. The ghost of your lips haunts him, cruelly playing with his yearning now that he's got you across the table. It's a few centimeters, really, but it feels like you're miles away: and it's his fault. You're no longer his, and he's reminded of it every time your boyfriend kisses what he once had.

Now it's time to open the presents, and you excitedly raise your hand to go first.

"Alright, sweetheart. You know I can't deny you anything" your father beams, "go ahead. Choose any present you'd like to open first"

Joel's eyes are on you, and you know he's desperately waiting for you to open his first. Maybe partly in courage, maybe partly in fear, but you choose Nick's first: something safe to start with.

"That's mine!" he chirps, and Joel mockingly imitates his kid-like joy under his breath.

You unwrap the present, finding a small box inside.

"Please, don't be another box" you joke, and he laughs.

"You think that low of me? Please"

You keep unwrapping and find a bag. The bag has a small tag that reads: Gotcha.

"Nick! God, you're so corny" you tease as you open the bag. Inside, there's a velvet box, and by the looks of it, you can tell it's jewelry. You gasp, pulling out a silver charm tied to a silver thin chain: it's a marlin fish. "Nick..."

"I know. Marlin isn't your favorite fish, but that's all I could find" you get up, wrapping him on a tight hug. Aware you've got an audience, he leans and whispers "I knew fishing was special to you, because of your dad and childhood. Maybe now" he takes it from your hands, carefully putting it around your neck, "it can also be our special thing"

Joel sees the scene unfold in front of him, his grip tight on the cloth of his jeans until it's white. His jaw clenches at the affection display; all he sees is red.

"What about that one?" your mom points out Joel's present. A pit of nerves forms in your stomach. "I don't remember seeing it there"

Before you can grab it, your dad moves faster, examining the box on his hands.

"It's Joel's" he makes a pause, "for y/n"

You pretend to be shocked, and you can tell Nick tenses at your side.

"You didn't tell me you were close"

"Used to" you correct quickly, despite the knot on your throat. "Not anymore"

"He still got you a present, though"

You don't get to answer because your dad leaves the box on your lap.

"Open it" it's soft but feels threathing for some reason, "I'm curious"

Joel's resting hands tremble as much as yours while you open the present. You reveal the simple white box under the wrap, opening it up.

Your voice comes out shaky as you call his name. And he can see it: the muffled laughters on the shed, the warmth of the cabin's fire, the fogged up windows of his car, the bruises on your tits and that voice, so vulnerable, he can see you on his porch, saying those three words that terrified him so much, his solution was breaking your heart.

"What is it?" your dad asks.

"It's a scarf" the fabric tickles your fingers that wander through the loose strands.

You remember it all too well.

"Oh, it's vintage!" your mom comments when she sees the worn-out aspect.

But just as your affair with Joel, you keep the secret of it's real owner.

"It's perfect" you mutter, remembering better times: ones where he'd wrap the scarf colored as the leaves on the ground around your neck, covering bruises he'd just made while you joked you'd steal it, and Joel would say he'd just let you, that it looked better on you anyway.

You've forgotten the good, so used to thinking of Joel at your worst, like a punishment to endure and sink your shipwreck even deeper. You felt lost, replaying memories that seemed stuck on a loop. Since last december, all you've known is pain; creeping up through the cracks in your fleeting happiness, one you've tried to find to no avail. One day, past the curses and cries, maybe there'll be happiness. But as for now, that day seems terribly far.

As he sees your teary gaze, Joel often wonders were it went wrong. When did hurt was all you had for him in that gaze of yours he can't bare to look that long, not before he's reliving all those seasons by your side, replaying his footsteps on the snow, grass, water and fallen leaves, trying to find the one where it all went wrong. The torture he now wears like a second skin, his agony painted words addressed to the fire of a house that feels so empty and alone.

"We should continue" your dad speaks over the silence, "there are still many presents left"

The night moves slowly, and the scarf you've chosen to wear is now suffocating around your neck. But you can't take it off. This is the closest you've been to Joel on a year; it still smells like him. As the presents run out, you excuse yourself early to bed, only to wake up again in the middle of the night. You want to pee, so you exit your room and walk to the bathroom, your bare feet against the cold wood sending shivers down your spine that only seem to augment when you walk past his door, next to the bathroom. After being done, you splash some water on your face, as if that would make some sense get to you.

"What are you doing?" you ask yourself in the mirror. Your tired reflection stares back at you, in silence.

You open the door, ready to go back to bed when a hand covers your mouth and shoves you inside.

"Don't scream" your cries go muffled against his hand, the calloused digits pressing against your soft skin, "wanna wake 'em up?"

You shake your head, so he lets your mouth free.

"Joel" you call out, but he's facing the door, his back all you see. No sound can be heard, aside from his uneven breaths.

"I'm sorry" he says, and then you hear the small click of the door's lock.

"What the hell?"

This time, he faces you, but his movements are so quick you don't register his lips on yours until it's too late. He kisses you like a starved man who hasn't had a meal in years, eating you out while your body acts up on it's own, the urgency embarrasing even.

"No" you pull back. Your mind screams in guilt at how much you want this, and that's all you can hear aside from his ragged breaths.

"No?"

"It isn't fair"

"To lover boy out there?" he teases, "I know he ain't treating you right, or ya' wouldn't look me the way ya' do"

"Don't, Joel" your tone is icy, "Nick treats me better than you ever could"

He laughs, darkly. "You know I ain't meant that" he corners you against the sink, the material cold against your bare legs; you don't sleep with nothing but an oversized t-shirt, despite the weather.

"Riddle me this, sugar: if he treats you so well, why are you so fucking wet?"

Your heart beats so fast you fear you'll die. He gets closer, his hot breathe prickling against your ear.

"It takes a man to please a woman" he tucks a loose strand behind your ear, "and I ain't leaving my baby displeased"

His fingers pull down the panties until your clit is exposed.

"Look at 'er" he traces a teasing finger over the puffy skin, coated on your slick "missed me, didn't she? Gonna treat 'er so good, she won't ever feel lonely again"

He softly kisses your neck, the trepidation and regret tying your stomach in knots.

Joel teases your needy core with his finger.

"Tell you somethin', sugar" Joel finds it hard to hide his adoration, "I missed 'er too"

He stares into your eyes while pushing two rough fingers inside your cunt. You bite your lip, holding back your moans.

"Need summ help?" he kisses you roughly, smirking when he feels your shaky breath against his lips. He pushes them in and out faster, making your walls squeeze tightly around his fingers.

"Did he ever have you comin' this fast? I'ont think so" he whispers against your neck. You whisper his name through labored breaths, making a smug smile adorn his features. "Good girl"

He proceeds to kneel down, despite the creak of his bones. You see him leave a trail of kisses down your thighs, your legs opening wider in response. His tongue gives rapid flickers against your sensitive bud, aware of the lack of time. He slurps the pulsing cunt, his head moving back and forth while he sucks, coating his moustache on your juices. Joel goes back to the quick movements, tongue knowing your spots and twisting fingers as aid, causing your back to arch.

"Fuck" you curse as you come, gripping the sink a bit too tight.

Joel then pulls away and places his fingers coated in your arousal in his mouth and licks them. He sees the obscene display in the fogged mirror, satisfied.

"Goodnight, sugar" Joel bids goodbye like it's nothing, kissing your lips that taste like you. "Still as sweet as ever"

It's New Year's Eve.

"You're leaving?" you sound so sad, Joel can't help but scoff. In the end, he'd stayed long after the storm had passed, your father arguing holidays weren't meant to be spent alone. So he stayed.

And now, Nick is leaving.

"I'm sorry" he apologizes for the millionth time, "but granny is sick. I don't know if she'll make it another year, so say the doctors. I would love to stay, really, but I have to be with her"

You understand, having lost your grandad years ago. But that doesn't mean you're okay with it: Nick leaving means a clear path for Joel, who didn't stop with him sleeping next room, and certainly won't now, despite not having interacted with you since he ate you out on the bathroom.

He pulls you into a long hug and a kiss that doesn't feel the same anymore. "Will you be okay?"

"Yeah" you nod, "I'll miss you though"

"Well, I'll be all yours when you get back"

You smile but it doesn't reach your eyes.

"See you, y/n. I love you"

Your lips purse after you utter those three words back.

Later at night, the house is filled with guests. The lively environment is restored, and you feel less confined to Joel's claws, so many faces to speak and distract yourself with, compared to Christmas and the past couple of days. You clutch the marlin charm tightly, mind busy wandering to places it shouldn't. Joel stares at you from across the room, eyes trained on you as he sips his drink calmly, like he's won; you don't know why he's keeping score if he already knows it. You wander off to the kitchen, and Joel follows you.

"You have to stop" you speak as soon as he enters, aware he would follow you.

"I ain't do shit"

You turn around, facing him. "Bullshit, Joel"

"Tell me, what'd I do?" he comes closer, and despite your erratic heart and fear, you stay still; challenging.

"You did this, Joel" his expression falters for a second, the weight of last december's crimes dawning on him. "Don't try to make me feel guilty"

"I ain't. That wasn't your fault" he sighs, breath dragging long like a cigarrette. "But this" he motions with his hands the reduced distance, "this it is"

Your breath hitches.

"We can't keep doing this, Joel. Nick doesn't deserve it"

He pins you against the counter with force, gripping the skin of your wrists until you're sure you'll get a bruise. Joel's eyes darken at the thought of your frail and soft body under his rough figure and belly, his strength and your weakness making the job of putting you under his will, so much easier.

"Don't say his name" he whispers, his breath laced with alcohol, "he ain't here anymore. Ain't nothing to stop me now, right, sugar?" Joel purrs as he steps towards you, taking your face in his hands before starting a heated kiss, making you stumble.

This was so wrong, but it felt so right, the missing pieces falling like dominoes.

He was your pain divine: you needed his hurt to bleed and feel alive again. Maybe the red of the blood and the blue of your sadness could paint your darkest grey skies with a happiness you've craved since you lost him.

"Tell me to stop" Joel whispers, tempting like a devil as he kisses down your neck, littering it with hickeys.

"Don't"

Next thing you know, you're excusing yourself upstairs and then Joel goes missing too, both inside of your bedroom.

Your dress was the first thing to go.

"Wear it for me?" you're about to answer, lips pursing, but he cuts you off, "and don't lie, sugar. Don't get too used to the bad girl schtick"

"I only wore this dress so you could take it off"

He kisses you desperately, legs wrapped around his waist while he carries you to bed, and the memories of your first flood you as he drops you down to your back, watching the way you bounce. He has you just like he wanted: moaning his name while he leaves tender kisses on the soft bare flesh.

"Joel-" you gasp. Despite the chatter downstairs and music, you try to remain low as he wraps his lips around your nipples. He then moves to your breasts, covering them with his kisses and hickeys. He hadn't touched a woman ever since you left, the feeling of the rosy innocent skin on his rough teeth making him loose all common sense, the real thing even better than what he would try to conjure when he fucked himself in the bathroom at the memory of you.

He groans when he feels your hands roaming over his back, nails digging on the scarred skin.

"Someone's eager" he teases, seeing your damp underwear. "Is this 'cause of me?" you don't answer, too busy removing the cloth, only for his strong fingers to grab you and stop you. "Don't be shy, answer baby. We got a whole new year, yeah?"

"I need you Joel" you whine, not laughing at the joke "cut the crap"

He pushes you gently back down to the bed. "So needy sugar, want me to help ya'?"

You eagerly nod, making him laugh. But there's no mock, only love behind the sound.

"Will you let this old man take care of ya', pretty baby? Just use your words, and I'll be all y'rs"

"Do it, Joel. Just do it"

You gasp as your folds begin to be prodded open by the fat head of Joel's cock. You curse, feeling him push in just the tip, the sweet burn of your walls welcoming his size making you grab his arms that stand at the sides of your body, caging you in.

His tummy pushes against your stomach as he adjusts himself, his weight sinking your body on the creaking matress.

"'S just the tip, ready for the whole thing?"

You needed him, all of him.

"Yes, Joel. I want you" You say and he pushes in slowly, feeling his cock fill up every empty space that craved for him.

You squeeze your eyes shut as his hips roll back pulling out about halfway before rocking back in. His sloppy thrusts pick up a familiar pace that makes you moan and beg for more, head falling against the sheets as his pace speds up until he's fucking you senseless.

Joel's brain goes blank at the sight of you creaming on his dick and the obscene sounds leaving your pretty mouth. Did he really give this up? He'd definitely go back in time and slap the fuck out of his past self, because there is simply nothing better than having you under him, screaming his name like that's all you can ever say.

"Does he fuck you like this, huh?" Joel angles his hips, resuming his brutal pace. Your body jolts with each snap. "Is he enough for you?"

"Yes" his stomach drops, dark eyes now hesitant, "but he isn't you"

He pushes himself back in, your eyes fluttering shut almost immediately.

"Tell me you'll leave him, y/n. Look me in the eyes and tell me who ya' really belong to"

Your eyes snap open at the possesiveness clashed with jealousy that drips from his sweat-soaked lips.

The confession falls easily, as meant to be. "Yours, Joel. Always was and will be"

He could cum just at the sight of your loving doe eyes.

Downstairs, the countdown begins, but in your room, all you can hear are his soft groans and your pathetic whimpers, and if the people would stop shouting, you could probably hear the squelch of your dripping cunt sucking in his girth with each thrust.

After a few more erratic thrusts, you feel his warm cum fill you up. Joel was always obsessed with how his cum seeped out of you and around his cock. Without thinking, his rough fingers push deep in you, making you yelp as he makes sure he isn't wasting a drop behind.

The countdown ends, and fireworks erupt outside as your head rests on the crook of his sweat covered neck.

"I love ya', sugar" those words you thought you imagined that one time, now real, so goddamn real his voice quivers and eyes get tearful with grief, "'S okay if ya' don't say it. I just wanted you to hear 'em. 'M just tired of wastin' my time"

He wraps your lips with his with tenderness you had only dreamed of. There is still a lot to talk and heal, but this time, his arms hold you like a promise. And you let yourself believe it.

Y/n's New Years' purposes: 1. Break up with Nick 2. Try to explain this seasonal mess to mom and dad 3. At last, try to be happy