#e: this probably all makes me sound like i'm an old man and/or that i'm drunk but i just feel genuinely happy lol | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mothandpidgeon · 1 year ago

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Unrequited (bfd! pre-outbreak!/Jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader)

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pairing: bfd! pre-outbreak!/Jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader

rating: E 18+MDNI

summary: You arrive in Jackson 22 years after the outbreak only to be reunited with your best friend’s dad, the man that stole your heart and broke it when you were fourteen– Joel Miller.

contents: best friend's dad, age gap, outbreak night (nothing that isnt in ep 1), big angst, abandonment issues, brief suicidal ideation, daddy issues, grief, Joel guilt, unprotected p in v sex, reader doesn't know where Jakarta is, reader is not described physically but Joel picks (adult) reader up, moth never uses y/n.

wc: 9k

a/n: This has been a bitch to finish but I'm quite proud of where it ended up. It's the longest os I've written which makes me nervous nobody will want to read it but I hope you do.

Thank you a million times to @ezrasbirdie for making me finish this and betaing. Also thank you @lowlights for listening to me ramble on this! Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Old man, take a look at your life. I’m a lot like you. Neil Young

You’re waiting for Sarah on the front steps when she gets home. School ended nearly two hours ago and you’ve been sitting here a ball of nerves. The whole world seems to be uneasy this afternoon. You notice sirens, a team of fighter jets scrambling above. It's like your anxiety has spilled out of your chest and it’s taken life all around you.

You finger the corner of your notebook. On the inside are doodles— hearts and bubble letters. Juvenile daydreams put to paper. Your first name and after it his last, testing out the sound of who you would be if only you’d been born in a different decade. Mrs. Miller.

Sarah doesn’t look very happy to see you. It’s been two weeks since you’ve talked to her and you’ve never felt more lonely.

Her words still ring in your ears.

“It’s like you’re in love with my dad.”

“No I'm not!” you said, your whole body tingling with the heat of embarrassment. You’d never felt so exposed in your life.

“Sometimes I think that’s the only reason you’re even friends with me,” she said.

You've been ruminating on that accusation ever since. You pine for Mr. Miller the way only a fourteen year old can. It’s the kind of infatuation that makes you understand how Romeo and Juliet ended in tragedy. All-consuming, unrequited, so in love it hurts.

So maybe Sarah’s right. Your heart flutters every time Mr Miller appears in the kitchen, wearing a dark t-shirt that hugs his biceps. You try not to stare at his aquiline nose when he drives you home from Sarah’s soccer games. Sleep overs at the Miller’s house mean more opportunities to be around him, learn the little details that make him him. And there were plenty of sleep overs because your parents are always so busy fighting, they never bother to keep track of you.

But you’ve been in agony without your friend. It’s a pain sharper and more present than the yearning you’ve felt for Mr. Miller. You’ve talked to her every day since you moved to Austin in fourth grade and since this fight, there’s been an empty space in your heart.

“Hi.” You stand up, hoisting your backpack awkwardly over your shoulder.

“I’m supposed to go next door,” Sarah says.

“Can I just talk to you for a minute?” you ask.

She sighs but opens the front door with her key and lets you follow her into the living room.

“I’m sorry,” you say before you lose your nerve. “You’re right. I like your dad.”

It’s probably the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever owned up to. You wish you could explain to her that you know how silly it is to be in love with a full grown man, your best friend’s dad. It’s not like he’ll ever see you as anything other than a kid.

You can’t put into words how he makes you feel. It’s not just his broad shoulders or chocolate eyes, though it’s undeniable that he’s gorgeous. He asks about school and comes to see you in the musical. Joel is an adult that actually gives a crap about you.

You want to tell Sarah that one of the reasons you love her father so much is because of her. Because he’s such a good dad, because he raised such a cool, funny, smart daughter. That Sarah makes him better.

It’ll take years for you to find words for all of that. So you just do your best right now.

“I can’t help it. I wish I could,” you say.

That’s true. And not just because your crush has made you lose your only friend. It’s exhausting to feel such a powerful longing, to want something you know you’ll never have. It’s torture.

“But you’re my best friend. And that’s not why. I promise,” you say.

Sarah sighs heavily, her pretty hazel eyes full of remorse.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have said that. I just get jealous sometimes.”

“I promise I won’t make you feel that way ever again. I could never like him more than you,” you tell her, sitting beside her on the couch and looking her in the eye so she knows you mean it. “He’s…old.”

You both laugh.

“He’s so lame. This morning he said that Jakarta is in the Middle East,” she giggles.

You don’t know where the hell Jakarta is but of course Sarah does. You throw your arms around her. You’ve missed her so damn much. The past two weeks have felt like two decades.

“I’m sorry,” you tell her.

“Me too.” She returns your embrace. “Do you have to go home? You can sleep over if you want. It’s my dad’s birthday but I don’t think he’s going to be home until late.”

Your heart twinges at the offer and not because it means you might see Mr. Miller at breakfast. You won’t even look at him again. Tonight is about your friend.

You end up watching some corny action movies and gorging yourselves on microwave popcorn. Everything feels right again. You don’t think about Mr. Miller. In fact, you’re grateful that his double has gone over into a late night so you don’t have to be in the same room. You’ve sworn to yourself that you’ll act normal around him but you’re not sure that sheer willpower can stop you from getting butterflies when he’s right there.

At some point, you pass out in front of the tv, happier than you’ve been in a long time.

Sarah nudges you awake sometime after midnight, concern all over her face.

“Was I snoring?” you ask, groggy.

She’s looking out the window. Helicopters fly so low overhead, the whole house rattles. It’s a wonder you slept through all of this noise— the choppers are joined by the wail of a car alarm, pops like fireworks. The TV is playing a high-pitched tone and when you peer at it, you see a test pattern on the screen.

Dread settles in the pit of your stomach.

“Something’s going on,” Sarah says almost to herself.

A sudden thud against the back door makes you both jump. You swear, shaken out of your sleepy haze.

“Mercy?” Sarah asks.

You’ve spent enough time with Sarah to become acquainted with their neighbors The Adlers and their border collie Mercy. Mr Adler used to pay you each a dollar to walk him. Mercy’s frantically pawing at the glass.

Sarah goes to the door and steps into the yard. You follow, unsure you want to leave the familiar safety of the house but unwilling to be alone with such an eerie feeling in the air.

“What’re you doing out here, boy?” Sarah says, crouching down to pet the whimpering animal.

“Where’s your dad?” you ask her.

You hope the question doesn’t make Sarah think you’ve already forgotten your promise. Everything’s just so wrong. You’d feel a lot better with an adult around.

“Don’t think he came home yet,” she says. You can hear the concern in her voice. “Let’s take Mercy back. The Alder’s will be home.”

Mercy puts up a fight as Sarah pulls him across the lawn. It’s late and dark save the street lamp and a few porch lights that have been left on. You shiver despite the fact that it’s a warm southern night.

The front door to the Adler’s house stands open and inside is black. No. Bad. You want to run back to the Miller’s house and lock the door behind you but the promise of Mr. And Mrs. Adler inside keeps you moving towards the darkened entrance. Maybe Mrs. Adler will give you some cookies while you wait for Mr. Miller.

Sarah steps in first. The dog bucks and strains against her grip on his collar. Sarah fights to keep hold of him but Mercy’s thrashing makes him hard to pin down. He pulls free from Sarah’s grasp and darts away.

You have half a mind to do the same but Sarah keeps going forward. She’s scared, too, her breaths shallow as she tip toes down the hall.

“Mrs. Adler?” Sarah asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

You reach for each other without even realizing it and you enter the kitchen holding hands.

What you see there is beyond your wildest imaginings. There’s blood, a lot of it. Sarah’s shoe slides in the stuff and you grab her before she loses her balance. The room is cast in shadows but a street light streams through the window in the side door. Its beam falls over the form of Mr. Adler, limp on the floor. His back is against the door and a gush of dark blood sparkles in the sodium vapor.

You’ve never seen so much blood, never seen anyone injured so brutally. It looks like he’s been attacked by some wild animal. Mercy was acting strange but the dog couldn’t do that.

“Help me,” he rasps.

He’s speaking to you. You’re actually here. This is happening and you need to do something.

But before you can form a coherent thought, your eyes travel deeper into the kitchen. Beside the island is more blood…and more bodies.

As if seeing Sarah’s neighbor with his neck ripped open wasn’t enough of a horror, you’re now watching Nana hunched over Mrs. Adler’s corpse, her face buried in the younger woman’s neck. The scene before you makes no sense. Most of the time the old woman is barely conscious, hasn’t left her wheelchair in years and yet she’s on all fours before you looking feral.

Sarah squeezes your hand so tight you’re afraid your knuckles will break.

Nana slowly raises her face to you. Her eyes are pitch black and her mouth teems with twitching tendrils. You are staring at a living, breathing monster.

When she leaps at you, you and Sarah bolt for the door. Your heart hammers against your ribs. Sarah makes it out first and races towards the sidewalk.

Once you’ve gotten onto the front step, you slam the storm door shut behind you to trap whatever that thing is inside. SLAM. Nana collides with the door and it rattles violently. You hold it closed with every ounce of strength in you, listening to the creature behind it scratch and wail and willing yourself not to look through the glass to see its horrible face. Terror holds your muscles taught. You’re not sure how long you can stay like this, your sneakers skidding across the ground.

With a roar, Uncle Tommy’s truck pulls up at that very moment and Mr. Miller hops out of the passenger seat before its even come to a full stop. He’s a fearsome sight, broad and rippling with untamed energy, his muscular arms outlined by the headlights of the car. You’ve never been more grateful for his presence.

This nightmare is almost over. Joel’s come to save you.

“Girls get in the car!” he bellows. His voice is raw and ragged.

Just as you’re ready to make a run for it, The door flings out towards you, and you’re thrown aside as if you weigh nothing. You hit the driveway hard, your head connecting with concrete.

For a moment, you can’t hear anything but the gush of blood pumping in your ears. You’re dizzy. Suffocating. There’s a warm trickle at your temple. Sarah calls your name. Your vision is blurred but you can make out the ghoulish form of the creature barreling towards her.

“What’re we doing, Joel?” you hear Tommy ask.

There’s a thud and then quiet.

You gasp again and again but your lungs won’t fill.

Are you dying? Help. You need help. The monster lays lifeless at Joel’s feet and you pray that he’ll scoop you up and take you away from this. Your eyes finally come into focus to see Mr. Miller comforting Sarah, holding her face in his big palms, so fixated on her that he doesn’t notice that Mr. Adler has appeared in the doorway.

Mr. Adler is still covered in so much blood and his gait has become twitchy as if his legs are on backwards. He moves towards them and you want to call out a warning but you’re still choking for air. Luckily he hasn’t noticed you but he soon stands between you and the Millers.

“We’ve got to move,” Tommy says.

“Get in the car,” Mr. Miller says to Sarah, throwing a protective arm in front of her.

“But she’s hurt!”

She steps towards you. You’d cry her name but you’ve still got the wind knocked out of you and you’re too terrified to make a noise. Mr. Adler makes an inhuman sound as he advances, a croaking, growling gurgle.

Mr. Miller pushes Sarah towards the truck.

“Leave her!” he barks. “Get in the car!”

You sputter and choke as you watch Sarah, Joel, and Tommy drive away.

You wait for a long time.

As the truck pulls off of the curb, Mr. Adler is joined by his wife in the street, making chase. You’re finally able to draw breath and rouse your body off of the ground. You scramble back across the lawn to the Miller’s house and lock yourself inside. There’s enough adrenaline coursing through you that you’re able to push the sofa to barricade the front door. You draw all of the curtains and grab the biggest knife you can find in the kitchen. It’s ridiculous, something you’ve seen in scary movies, but you’re living in one right now.

You hide yourself away. Sarah’s bedroom seems like the obvious place to do it. Familiar and safe. You curl yourself into a ball in the corner, clutching your knife and staring at the closed door with wild eyes.

Sirens go through the night. Gunshots. At one point even the roar of a jet engine.

For hours your body quivers as you try to make sense of what you’ve just witnessed. Flesh-eating mutants. Gore. Death. You keep waiting to wake up from a bad dream but you don’t. They left you. They abandoned you in a nightmare.

No. That’s impossible. You can accept that a comatose elderly woman made supper out of her son in law but you refuse to believe that Joel would desert you.

He’ll come back for you. Sarah will convince him. There’s always been room for you in their family.

But as the sun begins to peek through the blinds and the noises outside fade away, you begin to lose hope.

The muscles in your body go slack, exhausted from hours of uncontrollable shaking. Your instinct for survival and your need for sleep war with each other. Exhaustion is winning.

You cautiously open the door to Sarah’s room. The house is still, more quiet than you’ve ever experienced. You creep into the room at the end of the hall. The olive green sheets on Joel’s bed are still messy from when he woke up here the day before. A normal morning. His birthday.

You rest the knife on the night stand amongst the things he emptied from his pockets— coins, receipts, a stray nail. You slip into the bed and wrap yourself up. It smells like him— spicy deodorant and sweat, fresh cut lumber like the hardware store. The scent reminds you of all those times he was close, when your heart leapt.

They’ll come back. Mr. Miller wouldn’t leave you.

He left you to die but you just go on living.

It takes some time before you’re brave enough to leave the Miller’s house and see what’s left of the world. Your parents are nowhere to be found. It’s safe to assume they were infected that first night.

You’re on your own.

A QZ is set up outside of San Antonio. They assign you to housing for separated minors. An orphanage. You never make friends, not really. Trust is too fickle.

At night you lay in your bunk and wonder what life would be like if anybody gave a shit about you. Maybe you would have been with your parents when it all went down. You’d be a snarling monster but at least you wouldn’t be alone.

On the worst nights, when you like yourself the least, Mr. Miller’s words echo around your skull. “Leave her.” She's not worth it. Forget her.

You don’t imagine yourself in his arms anymore. Instead you picture him and Sarah and Uncle Tommy, all happy and safe hiding out somewhere idyllic. A sweet little cabin with a stream nearby, surrounded by peaceful woods. You’ve heard some people live like that.

Some days you wish you were with them. Others you wish they were all dead.

When you turn 18, you age out of your living situation. It couldn’t come soon enough. Things are changing and it seems like all the kids that stay in FEDRA school are being groomed to go straight into uniform. You dodged that bullet but life’s not easy. Now you’re well and truly alone, scraping by to keep food in your mouth and a roof over your head.

It only lasts a few years, though. By the time you’re 21, there’s an emergency evacuation. Outbreaks are happening within the walls and with so many people living on top of each other, it’s only a matter of time before shit hits the fan. They send swaths of people to Dallas but word is, there’s no room for such numbers and they consider everyone from San Antonio an infection risk.

You’ve heard enough stories to know what that means. There won’t be a warm welcome when you reach the next QZ. So you ditch the convoy and head north.

You bounce around for years, sometimes with others, a lot of time solo. Doing what you have to. It’s not a life, just survival.

By the time you reach the wilds of Wyoming, you’ve had enough. You break off from the group you’re traveling with. You leave them this time, just decide to walk into the forest and let the earth swallow you up. You’re exhausted, sick of hanging on by a thread. Too much of a coward to kill yourself, you wander around waiting for the cold or your hunger or a bear to do it for you.

They find you. Some scouts that look mean and tough take pity on you and offer you a place with them in a commune where things are half normal.

It’s the first time being alone has worked to your advantage.

Jackson is a strange place. It has walls like the QZ but it’s quaint. There’s laughter and evergreen wreaths, happy children that build snowmen in the center of town. Some of these kids have no idea how fucked up the world has become. All they know is this charming little haven.

You spend the first few days in the infirmary, getting patched up, regaining your strength. You feel like an animal compared to the people in your new community. It’s hard to accept that they’re willing to help you, no strings attached.

Eventually you’re well enough to have your own place. They set you up with a little apartment over one of the stores in town. You’re invited to take your meals in the dining hall.

It takes you back to those first days at your new middle school after you came to Austin. Unfortunately, this time Sarah’s not there to offer you a seat at her lunch table.

You keep to yourself, overwhelmed by all of the strange new faces. Head down, you eat your breakfast. It’s the best food you’ve had in years. As your belly fills, you start to relax and try to get used to the idea of this being home.

Then you hear a familiar voice say your name. You wonder if you’re hallucinating when you see him standing in front of you.

He’s gained a few decades but he looks good. His hair is nearly shoulder length and there’s a mustache on his upper lip but that’s him alright.

“Uncle Tommy?” you manage.

“That really you?” he asks.

Tommy puts a gentle hand on your shoulder. His smile wrinkles the corners of his eyes. You nod and you’re smiling too.

You expect to be upset. Tommy was there when you were abandoned after all. But you’re flooded with relief and a small flame of hope.

“Shit. What’re the chances?” he asks, studying your face. “C’mere.”

He pulls you through the lines of tables. Your head spins with questions. How did he end up in Wyoming of all places? How long has he been here? Did you actually die out there only to be sent to this strange afterlife?

“You remember this old son of a bitch?” Tommy asks with a chuckle when he stops at the table in a far corner.

And suddenly you’re face to face with Mr. Miller.

He’s old. Grey hairs run through his stubble and curl from his temple. There are deep lines in his face. He’s still good looking despite how weathered his features have become, still broad, still with that wonderful silhouette.

It’s funny. In your mind’s eye, you’ve never imagined Joel aging. He stayed the same while you grew up.

He looks at you for a long moment and then his thick bottom lip falls agape. His eyes glitter and his dimple appears as he recognizes the woman that you’ve become.

“Kiddo,” he whispers as he stands up.

He pulls you into a hug and his wide palm smooths down your back. He still smells just how you remember and without warning you’re sobbing into the front of his flannel.

You spent hours upon hours imagining what you might say if you ever saw him again. Sometimes it was a speech biting with venom, others a confession, a question. Now, though, your mind is blank, overwhelmed that fate has brought you back together. A testament to your survival.

“It’s alright, babygirl. You’re okay,” he says into your hair. Words you needed to hear all those years ago.

You stay like this for a long time, surrounded by him. He holds you the way you wished he had as you cried into his pillow in that empty house. Eventually you pull yourself together with a shaking breath.

“Where’s Sarah?” you ask, casting your eyes around the crowd in the mess hall.

There’s a girl sitting beside Joel, her curly hair pulled back into a ponytail, watching this scene unfold. Everyone else is polite enough to pretend you’re not bawling in the middle of lunch. Can’t be the first time it’s happened.

At your question, Tommy goes stone faced. The muscle in Joel’s jaw ticks.

You shake your head in disbelief. “Infected?” you squeak out.

“It wasn’t like that,” Joel chokes.

“She didn’t make it through that first night,” Tommy says.

It’s a punch in the gut, the air’s knocked out of your chest all over again. While it had crushed you to be abandoned, part of you understood. Joel had to choose and he picked his daughter. Even if he’d been in love with you the way you used to dream about, he always would have chosen Sarah. You couldn’t hold that against him, no matter how much it hurt. There just wasn’t anyone in the world that would have saved you.

But knowing that he failed her, that he failed you both, makes you sick. All those years of bitterness come flooding back to you and your tears turn hot and furious.

“You let her die?” you demand. “You told her to leave me behind and you didn’t even save her?” You push Joel, your hands against the wet spots you left on his shirt. It’s ineffectual. He barely moves against your pathetic shove but his face crumples. You know he hates himself as much as you do in that moment but that’s not enough. You hit him as hard as you can and he does nothing to defend himself.

“Hey, hey,” Tommy says, trying a hand on your shoulder.

“You should’ve saved her,” you bark.

Heads have turned now as Tommy holds you back.

“I hoped you were dead every day since you left me,” you say.

You can see on his face that Joel’s definitely wished the same thing.

You go on berating him, your tears mixing with spit as you snarl and shout, until Tommy’s able to wrestle you out of the dining hall.

The summer comes. After a long, cold winter, everyone in Jackson welcomes the change of seasons with open arms. Everyone but Joel.

Ellie was a salve for the deep wounds on his heart. They’ll never fully heal but at least they stopped overwhelming him for some time. Since your dramatic reunion, though, those scars have been torn open once more. Especially today.

It’s warm and there’s barely a cloud in the sky. The July weather is mild compared to summers in Texas. Fresh air blows in through the open windows of the house, beckoning Joel outside but he has no desire to be in the sunshine.

“You okay?” Ellie asks.

She’s just come down the stairs. It’s early and Joel’s already at the kitchen table. Didn’t sleep much.

He and Ellie have been together long enough that she understands the wordless shifts in his moods. They’ve gotten worse since you arrived in Jackson. He does his work and patrols, sometimes he nurses a whiskey alone at the bar. The rest of the time he keeps to himself. He’s sliding back towards the man she met back in Boston. Joel’s rebuilt the walls that surrounded him, brick by brick since that afternoon in the dining hall.

“I was going to meet Dina at the mess. Want to come? Or I could stick around?” she offers.

It’s going to be one of those dark days, the kind that makes him question why he’s been hanging on for so long, and Ellie knows it. She’s giving him a lifeline, offering to be with him so he doesn’t have to ask. He should accept it, but he doesn’t want to waste his energy putting on a brave face for her when he feels so broken.

“That’s alright, Ellie. Go on,” he says.

She doesn’t push him. She never does. She just gives a sympathetic smile before she slips out.

Once seems gone, his heart begins to ache.

Sometime later, there’s a knock at the door. The last person he expects to see on the porch is you. You look a little nervous, like if he’d taken longer to come to the door you might’ve bolted.

He hasn’t spoken to you since that day that you came back into his life but the words you said play relentlessly on loop in his mind. He should have made amends by now. You were his daughter’s best friend and of all the places at the end of the world, you’ve ended up in the same town. He passes by the old pharmacy you live above just about every day, thinks about seeing if you’re in so you can have a conversation. He even knows what he’d say, but he can’t work up the courage. There aren’t any words that can make right what he did to you.

The guilt metastasized deep in his gut. His failure compounded.

So he doesn’t blame you for keeping your distance, avoiding him when your paths cross. He lets you be angry with him, as he deserves.

“Want some company?” you ask.

He recognizes the look on your face and it dawns on him that he might not be the only person struggling today. He steps aside to let you in.

Joel sets a cup of tea down in front of you. It’s not the real thing. Dried herbs from the garden Maria keeps. You’ve taken a seat across from him at the table, glancing around the kitchen so you don’t have to look at him.

“Surprised you remember,” he says.

“My best friend’s birthday?”

He shrugs as he pulls up a chair across from you. “Was a long time ago.”

“I think you underestimate the power of female friendships.”

You wear a soft smile that makes Joel’s heart ache a little harder. He takes a good look at you, seeing you up close for the first time. There are hints of the girl he knew back in Austin but she’s buried under years of hard living.

You’re the same age Sarah would have been today. The same age he was when he lost everything.

You sigh and scratch awkwardly at your neck.

“Listen, I’m sorry about…all that shit I said. It’s…” you trail off and he’s sure you’re still mad at him, deep down.

“I reckon I’m the one that owes an apology. I shouldn’t’ve left you back there. Sarah begged me not to,” he admits. “I was trying to keep her safe. But I fucked that up, too.”

“That’s not true. I was just angry,” you tell him.

“I was always so pissed at your parents for not caring enough about you. Turns out I was just as bad,” he says.

He hadn’t given any thought to the choice he made all those years ago. His priority was his family and he had no room for the rest of humanity. Joel didn’t realize until he saw your face again just how selfish that had made him. The past months he’s been haunted by the thought of it, a young thing all alone in the chaos. If Sarah’s watching over him, which sometimes he hopes she is, she’d be ashamed.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think since I got here and…I don’t blame you. I’m not your kid. It just—“ You laugh without humor. “God, it’s so stupid but I had a huge crush on you.”

Joel’s eyebrows shoot up. You fiddle with the chipped handle on your mug.

“I know. I was just a kid but I was head over heels for you,” you say.

Joel can feel himself blushing. It’s a sweet thought. He’s honored in a strange way. He remembers the gravity of Sarah’s crushes�� Leonardo DiCaprio, Usher, some guy with a lip ring from one of those punk bands she listened to.

“So when you left me…I was a little heart broken.”

“Shit,” Joel says.

“I didn’t say that to make you feel bad. I just wanted you to know why I was so hurt,” you tell him, leaning forward in your seat. “You didn’t know any of that. And it’s not fair to hang that over your head. It wasn’t your job to rescue me.”

“Course it was,” Joel responds. “You were just a kid. I let you down.”

You look at him gratefully and a tear slips down your cheek. It takes a minute for you to fully take that in and it seems like something you’ve needed to hear.

“Joel. I forgive you,” you tell him.

A thick knot forms in his throat.

There’s a litany of names in his mind, so many people he’s failed. Henry and Sam. Tess. Sarah. He’s never expected to be absolved of any of his sins, he doesn't deserve to be forgiven. But those three words make him feel lighter, like he can stop beating himself up. At least for a moment.

He tucks his chin into his chest trying to keep his own tears from spilling over. Your hand slips over his, a gentle, reassuring touch.

The two of you stay like that for a little while, crying together, then becoming reacquainted. You talk for a long time. There’s a lot of catching up to do but the conversation keeps coming back to Sarah. It’s a gift to share memories of her, to hear stories that he’s never heard. You knew Sarah better than anyone in the world— her favorite store in the mall, what she wanted for her birthday. Her hopes, her dreams, her fears. No fourteen year old goes to her daddy with her problems. You were there for her, though. Right up until the end.

“I, um, you should have this,” you say. “Well, it’s yours.”

You and Joel have migrated to the couch in the living room as the afternoon has crept on. You reach into your back pocket, a little reluctant, and pull something out.

It’s a photograph, dog eared and creased from years of being carried with you. Joel recognizes the picture— you and him and Sarah, all three of you donning life jackets, smiling as you float on a calm river. He and Tommy took Sarah kayaking and she asked if you could tag along. It was a wonderful day. Blue, cloudless sky.

The last time he saw the photo it was hanging under a magnet on the refrigerator in the kitchen.

“How’d…”

“I stayed in your house for a while. After. Just kind of hoping you might come back. I took that when I left. And I ate all your food,” you say with a little chuckle. You wipe some snot from your nose. “I guess…well, you probably don’t have a lot of pictures of her.”

You’re right. There was an outdated school photograph in his wallet when they left that night and it had been too painful to look at for years. It still stings a little but it feels easier to share with someone, someone that knew her so well.

“You sure?” he asks.

You nod. “I know where to find it.”

He props the picture up on the coffee table so you can both look at it and meditate on that day when everything felt so perfect.

“Remember we made you play “Crazy in Love” on on repeat the whole way there?” you ask.

“I still get that goddamn song stuck in my head,” he complains.

You laugh and rest your head on his shoulder. The familiar gesture cracks something open inside of him. He’s taken back to his favorite nights when he’d watch a movie with Sarah and she’d cuddle against him. Somehow the memory doesn’t hurt as much as he anticipates.

You sit like that, looking at the picture, both quiet, your smiles fading as you remember what’s happened since.

“Sometimes I think I see her,” he chokes.

He’s never told anyone that. But it seems like you might understand, He trusts you won’t meet his admission with a pitying smile.

“How’s she look?” you ask.

He can’t help but chuckle. He nods.

You don’t say anything, you just burrow your head a little deeper into him. Joel puts a gentle kiss in your hair.

You’re a fixture in the Miller house once again, part of the family. You babysit for Maria and tell her embarrassing stories about Tommy. You and Ellie tease Joel relentlessly. You sit with him in the evenings, sometimes singing along when he pulls out his guitar, other nights neither of you speak at all.

Slowly, you find yourself falling in love with him all over again. It’s not the same infatuation you harbored when you were young. You’re both different people. And you hardly knew him back then. Not really. What did a fourteen year old know about grown men?

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm. After being alone for such a long time, it’s magical to have a companion. Joel seems grateful for the company, too. He’s there whenever you turn around, like a promise. He’s not leaving you behind even if you’re just going from the stables to the library.

Neither of you acknowledge it, this easy rapport. A light squeeze on your shoulder, holding your hand when you get misty eyed. He probably doesn’t mean anything by it but you’re pretty sure you can’t live without it. You bask in the sweetness of these exchanges, trying not to think too hard about the fact that you used to spend Saturday nights giggling on his daughter’s bedroom floor.

He’s still Mr. Miller, after all.

Autumn comes and you’re inseparable. You realize just how much when you convince him to attend the children’s choir performance in town. You expect him to demure. Watching kids being kids must be painful. But he’s by your side in the dining hall as the little ones sing “Clementine” and “Oh Susanna”.

He puts his arm around your shoulder so you can lean into him. It might just be a paternal gesture, maybe you’re still a little girl in his eyes. That’s ok with you if he keeps absentmindedly massaging your upper arm. You can’t remember the last time you felt so safe, so loved.

Afterwards, he walks you home and you’re in such a good mood, you start singing to yourself.

“Johnny Cash,” he says approvingly.

You laugh to yourself. “You know, I started listening to him ‘cause of you. You had his CD in your truck,” you admit.

You wanted to like all of the things Joel liked. He would think you were so interesting and grown up because you knew all the words to “Riders in the Sky.”

“Least I was a good influence,” Joel says, shaking his head, his cheeks turning pink.

He’s so handsome when he blushes, you feel a little giddy when you come to stop in front of the old pharmacy.

“G’night, darlin’,” he says, giving your hand one last squeeze.

He waits. He’ll stand here and watch you get inside like he always does. He doesn’t need to— it’s not like people even lock their doors in Jackson— but he’s insisted on it so fervently that you stopped arguing.

You shouldn’t do it. It’s so silly. But there’s a softness in his eyes and his gentle touch still tingles on your arm. His salt and pepper hair is caught in the string lights that line the empty street. You can’t help yourself.

You kiss him, smoothing your palms up the front of his flannel until you sink your fingers into the curls at the base of his neck. The tip of his nose is cold from the chill in the evening air but his lips are warm and sweet.

You haven’t had a whole lot of experience kissing. You’d just started doing it when the outbreak happened and things haven’t been very romantic since. This is one of the better ones. Relatively chaste but unbearably tender. Certainly better than you could have imagined all those years ago.

It lasts longer than you expect. Joel kisses you back. He rests his hand on your waist and the way it covers so much of your back makes you swoon. Soon, though, he’s pulling away, cradling your cheek.

“We shouldn’t do that,” he says.

“I know,” you sigh. You’re reluctant to break away, savoring the brush of his nose against yours.

It’s all wrong but you’re not ashamed for trying it.

“Just once. I’ve always wanted to,” you say.

He presses his lips into your forehead. It feels bittersweet. A kiss you longed for for twenty years came and went.

You wave to him from the door before you go in for the night.

That kiss confirms Joel’s fears.

He’s spent months convincing himself that this is completely platonic. He would never have feelings for his daughter’s best friend. Even if he always wants to be around you.

He’s looking after you, comforting you, protecting you. He’s making up for those years that he made you suffer through. You forgave him but he’ll never stop atoning.

And then you kissed him.

Suddenly, he’s buried in an avalanche of thoughts he’s been disavowing.

You’re pretty and soft. You're strong and you ease the pain of his memories. You make him feel a little less alone.

The warmth of your lips, your body pressed to his. He was ready to lose himself in you.

That’s when he heard it.

It was Sarah’s voice chiding him with all the reasons why this is wrong.

She’s been in his head, his inner critic since the day she died, pointing out every failure and weakness in him. He could picture her looking down on him with disgust. She’s the same age as your daughter. She was just a kid when you met her. She deserves better than you.

He’s making the same mistake as before, letting his instinct get the better of him. The responsible part of him takes control. He can’t give you any more reasons to try and kiss him again.

If Joel is good at one thing it’s denying himself.

He backs off and you can sense it, he knows you do. Sometimes he catches you looking at him and there’s a longing in your eye. It fucking kills him but it’s just another reason why he’s no good for you.

Despite whatever it does to you, you haven’t got anybody else in Jackson so you stick around. He can only imagine how much it hurts you.

“Why did I go north?” you complain when Joel opens the front door. You’re holding a scarf tight around your neck, shivering against the cold. The sky is a dismal shade of gray, snowfall on the horizon.

Joel gets you in the house with a chuckle. He starts a fire, a luxury you little apartment doesn’t afford. You shiver in front of the hearth.

“Traded for this,” you say, pulling a thick book out of your coat and tossing it onto the coffee table.

“Oh good. I was looking for some light reading material,” Ellie quips from her spot on the couch.

“It’s a dictionary,” you explain, “so you’ll quit cheating at Boggle.”

“You're in trouble now,” Joel laughs.

“I don’t cheat. I just know more words than you guys,” she says.

“Dentment is not a word,” you reply.

“Neither is thoard,” Joel says.

“Sure it is. I’m about to thoard the two of you in this game,” she says.

This should be enough. A winter day by the fire. The simple joy of a board game. Laughter. This is practically a normal life.

But each time Joel’s eyes fall on you, there’s a pang in his chest. You’re just close enough that he could reach out and touch you but he won’t. He can’t.

When the sun sets, Ellie retreats to her room. Eventually, you fall asleep on the couch, wrapped up in a quilt as the fire dies down. You look even younger, curled up serenely. There’s no worry on your brow. Usually your face is in a perpetual frown even when you’re not in a mood.

The snow is already knee deep with no signs of slowing. There’s no sense in sending you back out there.

Joel scoops you up as gently as he can. He feels his age, back straining, but he doesn’t mind. He enjoys how you nestle your face into his chest as he mounts the stairs, warm and snug in his arms. A smile pulls at his lips.

He sets you down carefully on his bed and you whimper groggily at the loss of his touch. Your eyes crack open.

“Snowing pretty bad. Sleep here. I’ll be on the couch,” he whispers.

“Stay,” you murmur.

He hesitates. Carrying you to bed was already crossing a line. He’s not worried about keeping his hands to himself. He’s been able to control himself for this long. If he lays down next to you, feeling you warming his sheets, smelling the peppermint soap on your skin, he’ll be so far gone for you, there’ll be no coming back.

But denying you this simple request feels cruel. He imagines you waking up here all alone. You’re half asleep but what if you remember asking him to remain only to be abandoned again?

He gets into bed, still fully clothed and careful to stay on his side. His jaw is clenched so tightly his teeth hurt. You give a satisfied hum and sink back into sleep, your body melting into the mattress.

Joel watches you for a moment, fights the urge to put a kiss on your forehead. He crosses his arms and stares at the ceiling, beginning to tangle with the web of emotions that accompany you. Once it gets too confusing, he drifts off as well.

When you reach out for him in your sleep, he can’t deny you. Joel tries his hardest to pretend it doesn’t feel good, that this isn’t something he’s wanted to do. So he imagines the nightmares that come to you. Reminds himself that you wouldn’t have seen any of that shit if he hadn’t left you for dead. Now that you're in his arms, he’ll make sure nothing touches you ever again. The least he can do is hold you and make sure it goes no further.

You both find reasons that you should stay the night. Neither of you acknowledge it. Joel just hands you one of his t-shirts and busies himself as you slip out of your clothes and get under the covers. It’s all rather innocent, Joel does more than rub your back even though you sometimes feel his morning wood through his sweatpants. If he wants you, he doesn’t let himself have you. And he could.

It’s fine with you if cuddling is all this is. You don’t try to do anything more than that, unwilling to upset the unspoken agreement between you. You can be satisfied with a broad, firm chest to rest your back against. Sleep is better beside him, his heart beats guiding your own. The weight of his arm draped across you makes your body feel deliciously heavy.

After a while, though, it happens.

Joel’s having a nightmare. His murmurs and restless movements wake you. His mouth twitches and his brow is creased. You smooth circles into his shoulder until his eyes open. Even in the darkness you can see the despair in them.

He blinks, coming back to reality, remembering he’s not wherever his dreams took him. You brush your fingers through his hair, gazing at one another as his breaths even out. Normally, his age is obvious– the lines in his forehead, the sun spots on his cheek– yet right now he looks young. Like a boy that needs to sleep with a night light.

You’re not sure who initiates but you find each other in the dark. At first he’s not kissing you at all, his lips are just brushing your cheek or your nose. It’s sweet and gentle. You try to hold in a moan, worried that any noise might shatter this moment.

The kisses are timid as if you’re both waiting for someone to stop this. Joel lets out a shuddering breath against you. This is a bad idea, you’re both thinking it. After you kissed him the last time, he held you at arms length. When this blows up, you’ll lose him entirely. But you need to be closer to him.

You open your mouth to him, tangle your legs between his. His hand slides under your shirt, roaming your bare skin. You thought that snuggling under the blanket was enough but now you realize just how hungry you’ve been to be touched. Really touched. He needs it too. Joel leans into your hand on his jaw with a whimper.

You don’t open your eyes. You might be the one dreaming and you don’t want to wake up.

It’s quiet, just the sound of hot breaths and desperate kisses, the swish of the sheets as you shift your hips to meet his. You keep yourself from rocking against him, try to enjoy the feeling of him without crossing yet another line, but you’re aching. His shirt has ridden up so you feel the softness of his middle, the light hairs on his chest. Your fingers intertwine with his as his mouth trails down the column of your neck and. Joel buries his face there.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes.

You’re not sure what he’s apologizing for. This? Then? The years in between? None of it matters because you want to live in this moment forever.

You shush him, pull him back to your mouth. You’re ready to lose yourself, to forget, to ignore the storm of thoughts constantly plaguing your mind. This is all you want.

You peel off your clothing, helping him slide out of his sweatpants until there’s nothing between you. Joel’s skin is warm and soft against you and you realize you’ve never been this close to another soul.

When Joel settles over you and you feel him throbbing between his legs, you shiver with nervous anticipation. You expect him to say something, to warn you that this is a bad idea, to promise this won’t change anything. But his brown eyes look as confused with need as you feel. There’s no room for thinking or it will crush this fragile moment like glass.

You tilt your hips to allow him in, already slick from being so close to him.

Slowly, he enters you, kissing you all the while. He makes a choked sound, wincing as his body stills. The noise makes you clench around him.

Together you take a moment to get your bearings and you adjust to the fullness of him. Joel’s eyes are pressed shut, his teeth digging into his bottom lip.

Before he begins to move, his thumb finds your clit, grazing it lightly. After years of solitude and now months being just out of reach of him, the sensation makes you gasp sharply.

You’ve had sex a handful of times. They had been more about fulfilling a self destructive urge than a desire for pleasure. It’s never been like this.

You start to lose sense of everything but the feelings of your body. Your core tenses and your breaths go short and you start to forget that it’s Joel whose hips are stuttering into you. It’s as if this euphoria can erase some of those awful memories.

Soon you’re shattering beneath him, a crescendo that has you tugging on his hair and gasping for air. Joel grunts into your ear. He follows after you, hissing as he pulls out of you. He pulses into his hand, his release dripping from his fist onto your sweat damp skin. Then he collapses onto you. You run your fingers through his long curls and he kisses your forehead. There might be tears in your eyes– maybe his too. It’s too dark to be sure– but when his breath evens out, it still sounds ragged against you.

Eventually he gets out of bed and leaves the room and, in that moment, you can feel everything hanging over your head again– what you’ve just done, the horrors of the world. Perhaps even more intense than before.

But Joel returns quickly. He flicks on the light on his bed side table and cleans you with a damp rag. His touch is gentle, reverent, and his dark eyes travel over your naked skin to yours. There’s a question in them, guilt, but you have no regrets. You smooth your hand out on the sheets beside you and he lays back on his pillow. He surrounds you with his massive arms and you fall asleep grateful that you don’t feel abandoned anymore.

You worry that it was just a one time thing, try to accept that it might never happen again. But the next time you share Joel’s bed, he’s pulling you into him, pressing kisses into your shoulder, nuzzling at the spot behind your ear. His hard length prods at the small of your back.

It starts like that every time. Intimate, sensual, quiet. It’s never tearing his clothes off or pushing you up against a wall. You just stay close, breath each other in, trail fingertips across skin. Neither of you ever speak above a whisper.

Joel barely talks at all except to ask, “That too much?” and “Feel good?”

You live for the moments when his hand skates over your hip, his dark eyes soft.

“Pretty,” he says almost to himself.

He’s such a beautiful man. Your fingers trace the smooth plane of his chest, dusted lightly with hair and a few stray freckles. Age has only improved him. The greys in his stubble catch the glow from the lamp on the nightstand. You study him with the same attention to detail you used in your youth. The cleft in his bottom lip, the dimples on his lower back, the scar on his temple. You’ve memorized it all.

Joel breaks open for you. He lets you see him vulnerable. He’ll fuck you with thrusts that shake loose deep emotions. Just as quickly, he’ll hold you together when it feels like you’re falling apart.

You lay with him after, sticky with the shared heat of your bodies but reluctant to roll away and break the connection.

Whatever this is, you don’t speak its name. There are too many questions and conflicts that it might not withstand. It exists only for you and him. A safe haven in the chaos, a bit of respite at the end of long years.

In his arms, you’re not his dead daughter’s best friend. He’s not the man that left you when you needed him most. You’re just two people that need to not be alone. Each time, it’s the same. The overwhelming bliss of Joel making love to you is second only to the understanding that he’s finally come back for you.

Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear from you. Comments and reblogs always appreciated.

#joel miller #tlou #joel miller fic #bfd!joel miller #jackson!joel miller #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fic

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inkievoid · 1 year ago

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NSFW ALPHABET

[DI! Leon S Kennedy Edition]

❗Minors Do Not Interact ❗

A = Aftercare (what they're like after sex)

Cuddler, massive cuddler. Honestly I see Leon as enjoying his partner being cuddled up to his chest but as long as you're touching each other he really doesn't mind. He just needs to be grounded after sex because he's not use to intimacy. (Remember y'all, aftercare in important FOR EVERYBODY INVOLVED DOM/SUB/SWITCH WHOEVER!!!)

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner's)

Definitely proud of his arms. Man's got two pythons where his forearms are supposed to be. I'd be proud of those bitches too. It also doesn't help how often you tend to cling to them, admire them while cuddling up together or compliment how they look when he flexes.

When Leon's asked the good old "tits or ass?" question older than time itself he smirks and simply says thighs. He loves something plush to nap on when he comes home from work. He always says it'll be a quick 30 minute nap but he's always out for 3 hours when he's laying his head on your lap. They're just such a nice pillow and even nicer wrapped around his head.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Usually prefers finishing inside. If not then on your stomach. There's just something mesmerizing about watching his cum slowly drip out of you on down your belly that just makes him so horny that he can't get enough of you.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Okay... So you send Leon pictures and he saves them. (He'd never share them though) But he secretly has an album in his phone labeled as WORK meticulously organization so that when you open the album it has important looking photos but if you scroll far enough it's just things you've sent him. Nudes, videos, even screenshots of steamy texts.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?)

Decently experienced. Enough to get him by but also good at listening to his partner. Takes criticism well in the bedroom. Just wants his partner to have a good time and show that he loves you.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

On your side or anything he can see your face. He's often tired so slow easy strokes on his side and using his hands is right up his alley. But for when he's feeling more energetic he's definitely up anything he can see your reaction with. He aims to please and the man is a good shot.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Definitely 50/50. Leon can crack jokes when his life is at risk I'm sure he'd probably say something goofy to make you laugh or even something stupid like "come here often?" When you're changing positions and his creaky body pops or cracks he'll say some smart ass comment about the bed makes weird sounds again.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Definitely trimmed. Leon doesn't strike me as a massively hairy guy to begin with. But what hair he does have is well kept.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Intimacy is his favorite part of it all. Very tender and soft compared to what he is during work. Enjoys the touching the most. He's very touch starved. Cuddle him and he'll melt into a puddle. He LOVES being little spoon.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Jerks off often. Uses it as a stress relief thing but doesn't do it as often when he gets a partner. But I do think when he's away on cases and he has downtime at night he tends to call his partner and have phone sex.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Begging, biting, breeding, dirty talk, edging and roleplaying

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Anywhere at home. Leon would most likely be super hesitant about doing anything outside of the house and risking criminal record.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

His partners touch. Leon just really likes being touched. If you mostly just kiss him and move to his neck (it's sensitive, that's why he rarely wears anything that constricts his neck) you'll get him going in no time.

N = No (something they wouldn't do, turn offs)

No hitting, nothing with feet, no bathroom related stuff, no voyeurism or exhibitionism and no humiliation

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

50/50. But definitely more giving in the oral department. Uses it as a form of foreplay. Enjoys it because he loves hearing your slowly break and cry for him.

Sometimes he's just to exhausted to fuck so those are the times he'll just straight up tell you to sit on his face. He doesn't care if you're bigger, he knows you're not gonna hurt him. If you try hovering her will definitely wrap his arms around your thighs and pull you down on him. The man is skilled with his mouth and hands. So be prepared for the time of your life.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Definitely slow sensual type of guy. He likes making every moment last. But there's definitely been a flurry of passion after gets back from particularly long cases.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

If he has to go out for work and he has a little bit of time before leaving, most definitely he'd be down for a quickie.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He's fine with experimenting but not often.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Good for 3 rounds unless he's super tired. Last decently long, always makes sure his partner gets off first each time.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Oh Leon definitely owns one of those vibrators that work with apps. Sometimes when he's due to come home and he knows you have it in you he'll just tease you on the way home.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Usually Leon doesn't tease but when he's in a particular frisky mood, he will make beg to cum. And he doesn't care if you want it. If you don't beg like he wants he will make you wait and keep bringing you to the edge over and over like an asshole.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Not loud in the slightest but he's definitely not scared to moan or whimper. Even curse under his breath, especially if he has you on your side and he's right in your ear.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Said I love you for the first time during sex. Was mortified with himself, he meant it but was extremely embarrassed. Apologized profusely and told you he did mean it. And thankfully you love him back, obviously.

X = X-ray (let's see what's going on under those clothes)

Ah yes, python 3. I'll be honest, I'd say he's at the higher average end in size but makes up for it in girth... Like a fucking coke can.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Leon had little to no sex drive but once you two got into a relationship he's like a teenage boy again. Can barely stop from wanting you all the time. But he's still more of the romantic intimate type and would rather just exist with you than constantly be at each other.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He clings onto life afterwards. Just wants to make sure you're taken care of but the second you relax against him he's down for the count. Like a god damn bear in hibernation.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x fem reader #leon s kennedy #resident evil x reader #🌿 ivy writes

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zepskies · 5 months ago

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Against the Wind - Part 3

Pairing: Alpha!Dean Winchester x F. Omega!Reader

Summary: You wake up in a strange alpha’s cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, all with a busted ankle. He holds shadows in his eyes, even though his hands are gentle. There are iron shutters around his heart, even though he saved you. You might just save him in return.

AN: Merry Christmas! I'm dropping this chapter a day early for you guys. Now, here's the full story, and what Dean is going to do about it…

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: True Mates @jacklesversebingo

Song Inspo: “Against the Wind” by Bob Seger

Word Count: 3.8K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, mentions of blood, hint of spice.~

🧡 Series Masterlist

Part 3: Nothing Left to Burn

“We should start heading back,” you say, looking up at the mid-afternoon sky. It was starting to dip toward the top of the trees in the distance. “It’s going to take a couple of hours to get back before nightfall.”

“Yep, it’s about that time.” Your dad groans as he starts to haul himself back to his feet, where you two had been taking a rest against a tree. “Jesus, I need a new pair of knees. Help your old man, would ya?”

You smirk as you help the middle-aged alpha to his feet. His joints pop and his back cracks as he stretches his arms high.

“Damn, Dad. You’re creakier than the trees,” you quip.

He tosses you a wry look. “Just you wait. In a few years, after wrangling a couple of pups, you’re gonna feel my pain.”

“A few years?” you laugh. “Did I miss the part where I actually met a decent guy, let alone one worth mating?”

“Oh, you’ll find him,” your dad nods, slinging his rifle back over his shoulder. “Or he’ll find you, like your mother did with me.”

You follow his lead with your own rifle, falling into step with him through the forest clearing. It’s a beautiful day in late November. Already you can see the edge of frost on the shrubs and half-barren trees. The ground is littered with dead leaves painted in browns, oranges, and dappled with reds.

“You met her in college. It’s not like you guys defied fate,” you say.

“Yeah, but if she hadn’t walked into my psychology class by mistake, and stolen my latte at the campus café, maybe you wouldn’t be here,” he teases.

You huff and roll your eyes. Yes, your parents are a walking cliché. And by far, your dad’s the bigger sap.

“I’m telling you. Sometimes, the universe does us a solid,” he says, reinforcing his point with a literal pointed finger your way. You push it away from your face in exasperation.

“You might wanna watch where you’re going,” you say, “before you roll your ankle on another pebble.”

“You kidding me?” he exclaims. “That thing was the size of my fist! You’re lucky I didn’t break an ankle. Make you carry me all the way back to the car.”

You snort. “Right. Think I’ll just leave you for the bears…”

You trail off when a sound reaches you and your father. The sound of leaves crunching in the underbrush, quick and light. Your father’s shoulders straighten with alertness, the alpha’s head cocking toward the sound.

“Maybe I spoke too soon about the bears,” you whisper. He shakes his head.

“Nah, too light. It’s probably an elk.” He tosses you a smile. “We’ll have one hell of a haul to bring home, plus a good story to tell your mom.”

Your mother, the vegan veterinarian?

“Yeah, because she loves elk meat.”

“Would you quit being a smartass for two minutes? You go a little west. I’ll see where it’s at,” he says.

He quietly wracks his rifle and steps away from the clearing, farther into the woods. You do what he says, veering west. You don’t see the elk, and soon enough, you don’t see your dad either. You do hear a whistling on the wind, and the cold of it cuts right through your coat.

Unease prickles down your spine, though you don’t know why.

“Dad?” you whisper-yell, trying not to spook whatever animal might be out there.

A gunshot rings out, along with your dad’s voice in a shout. Your eyes widen in alarm, and you call his name, taking off in a run to find him.

You end up rising over a hill you hadn’t crossed before, but you see your dad below; you recognize his bright blue puffer jacket that Mom got him for his birthday. You call his name, and he looks up at you with fear in his eyes.

Not for himself, but for you.

“Go, get out of here!” he shouts and waves you off.

“What? What is it?!” you yell.

He shakes his head, like he’s unable to answer your question. “Run! Run and don’t stop!”

He moves further into the denser trees until you can no longer make him out. With a frustrated huff, you sprint down the hill and try to follow his tracks with your gun at the ready. On the wind, in the distance, you still hear his voice.

Until it cuts off abruptly, along with the terrible cracking of bone.

You gasp and halt in your steps. What the fuck was that?

Tears fill your eyes and blur your vision. Despite what you heard, you realize just how very alone you are in the clearing. Fear and adrenaline make your breath tremulous and shallow, but you can’t just give up. You search for a while longer, making yourself hoarse calling out to your father.

No matter what direction you take, you never find him.

“I ran back to town to get the rangers,” you say, brushing a couple of stray tears from your cheeks. You sniff, licking your lips and swallowing a hard lump of emotion in your throat.

Dean continues to listen intently with his brows furrowed.

“It was too late,” you sigh. “He disappeared. They explained it away, thought a grizzly bear got him, but I know it wasn’t a damn bear.”

You shake your head as the tears come harder and faster, all over again. Dean’s jaw clenches in sympathy.

“No one believed me about what I heard, not even my mom,” you confess. Your mother had been too distraught to entertain “anything else.” No matter how strongly you’d felt about your suspicions, you understood that she just wanted to put your father’s death behind her after his funeral. Part of you had stopped believing yourself.

A stronger part of you hadn’t been able to let it go, however. So you had to come back here and try to find any trace of your father.

When you finally run out of words, you see the proverbial gears turning in Dean’s eyes.

“What’re you thinking?” you hazard to ask. You can’t help but reach out and grab at his wrist. “Do you…do you believe me?”

Dean’s gaze softens a fraction. He lays his larger hand over yours.

“Yeah, I do,” he says. “I’m willing to bet on what took him too.”

He squeezes your hand before he lets you go and gets up from his seat. He soon returns with his father’s journal in hand. He reclaims his spot across from you, sitting close to your thigh on the end of the chaise. His gaze falls away from your face to the journal in hand, and he flips it open to a page he knows from memory. You suck in a subtle breath to steel yourself when he turns it toward you—to the very page that had given you nightmares the first night you read it.

Wendigo.

“Nasty son of a bitch,” he says. “It hibernates for decades at a time, but when it surfaces, it knows how to get through long winters like this. It takes a handful of people at a time, feeding on its victims slow.”

You feel sick at that, but still, his words elicit a sliver of hope.

“So there’s a chance he could still be alive,” you say, in a brighter voice. Dean gives you a measured look, dragging a hand over his mouth.

“Look, I’m gonna be straight with you,” he says. “It’s been months, right?”

You nod, though you realize what he’s saying. Don’t get your hopes up.

“But there’s a chance,” you insist, with tears in your eyes. Dean holds your gaze for a moment, and he nods. He squeezes your knee this time, then shuts the journal with one hand as he moves to stand.

You follow him on your crutches over to the kitchen. He pulls out a drawer and retrieves a folded-up map. Tossing the journal on the kitchen counter, he opens up the map and lays it out flat next to the sink. It’s a map of the mountain, and the entire forest surrounding the mountain of Big Sky. Dean’s eyes flick up to yours.

“Where did it happen?”

Dean has packed up his supplies and put on his winter gear. You watch him from the living room sofa, trying to hide your unease. You know he’s doing this for you, but there’s part of you that doesn’t want to see him leave, for his own sake, and selfishly for yours.

“Try not to go outside again unless you absolutely friggin’ have to,” he warns. “And if you do, don’t go too far. Make sure you take a weapon, preferably a gun and a knife.”

“Dean, I know,” you reply. You get up and hover by the couch while he finishes lacing his snowshoes and hooks his backpack on. You’re unable to hide your concern.

“You shouldn’t be going out there alone,” you say.

Dean tosses you a grin. It has the shade of how he was with you before the “journal” incident—self-assured, a hint teasing.

“Don’t worry. This isn’t exactly my first solo mission,” he says, though his devil-may-care attitude soon subsides into something more serious. “If I’m not back inside a week, you need to ration out the supplies here as best you can. That new meat in the fridge should last you a while.”

By new meat, you have to assume he means the bear.

“When you’re healed up, you can make your way down the mountain and back to town with that map I left for you. Kitchen counter,” he says.

Your frown worsens. You step closer to him with the pretense of closing and locking the front door for him after he leaves.

“Dean,” you say, stopping him at the door. He turns to look at you over his shoulder. You hesitate, fidgeting slightly, but you gain your courage.

“If you don’t come back, I’m going to find you,” you warn him.

Dean frowns. He turns to you fully and tilts his head as if to say, come again?

“No, you’re not, Omega. You understand me?”

His terseness doesn’t scare you anymore. You glare up at him, quite literally standing your ground.

“You didn’t leave me out there when you didn’t even know me. You think I’d do that to you?” you counter.

At that, Dean has to pause, tilting his head slightly. He almost smiles at your stubbornness, and just like that, his annoyance dissipates. It softens him, making him reach for your arm in an assuring squeeze.

“I appreciate the thought, but trust me. I’d rather you look out for you,” he says.

Right now, you don’t really give a shit about what he’d rather, but you don’t say so. It’s written across your face anyway. Dean’s mouth tugs at a smile.

“All right, I’m out,” he says. “Save me some of Yogi in there.”

You huff, but you shut the door behind him after he steps out onto the porch, down the steps, and beyond. You move to the living room window and watch him get farther and farther away from the cabin.

Despite the crackling fireplace, you begin to feel cold inside.

After the first three days, you’ve managed to clean the entire cabin, top to bottom. With the “new meat,” you make a large batch of soup to last you throughout the week. You freeze a couple of servings for Dean.

For when he gets back.

You try to fill up your time in other ways, like attempting, and failing, and trying again more successfully to make bread from scratch. You haven’t binge-watched every season of The Great British Bake-Off for nothing.

Then you organize all of the alpha’s books by author. You wash all the laundry you can find and fold everything neatly on his bed, and you put away the couple of sweaters you’ve borrowed from him into your own dresser.

On Day Four, you create a nest of pillows and blankets in the middle of the living room floor. In your anxiety, it’s a reflex you can’t help. Your initial instinct was to nest in his room, but you thought that was too invasive of his privacy, so the living room was your next best option. At least his scent is still somewhat imbued into his favorite chair, and around his records. (You do steal another shirt of his to sleep with though.)

On Day 8, your worry becomes a living thing. You pace the living room and the kitchen on your crutches, probably wearing down the wooden ends of them while you debate what to do. Despite what Dean told you to do if he didn’t get back, you know you’re not just going to leave him out there. But the reality is, you have a problem of mobility.

With a frustrated huff, you decide to try setting your problem foot down normally. Your ankle hurts, a sharp pain shooting up your calf and nearly sending you to the floor.

“Fuck!” you gasp, both in shock and aggravation.

You know this isn’t just a sprain. At best it could be a fracture, since no bone is protruding under the skin. It still means you shouldn’t go after him either.

But you’ll have to try.

After you manage to clamber back onto your feet using the crutches, you put together some supplies, including the extra med kit in case he’s hurt. (Or in case something happens to you while you’re out there.) This is a bad idea, you think, even as you heave on your jacket.

Then, you hear the sound of a lock turning, before the front door shoves open.

A yelp of surprise escapes you, though you soon realize that it’s Dean, looking worn down and ragged, but alive.

“Home, sweet home,” he says wryly, but he looks relieved to see you too.

You help him sink down onto the chaise, where he stretches out with a groan. He tips his head back on the cushion. His jacket is torn in a few places. Blood has dried on his cheek, his neck, and near his hairline, and you worry about where else he might be hurt.

You quickly go to the kitchen and pour a bowl of warm water and grab a hand towel. You bring it all back to Dean, where you set your supplies on the floor and sit down beside him on the cushion.

“Are you okay?” You try to calm down your racing heart (and the nauseous feeling in your stomach) as you help him work open his jacket, followed by his shirt. Discreetly, your eyes take in the expanse of his tanned skin and pebbling nipples exposed to the cool air, even with the fire roaring nearby.

“Yeah, just peachy,” he says.

You smile a little. You take the towel, dampen it, and begin to clear the blood from his cheek, his neck, and the upper part of his torso—even his scuffed hands. Then you squeegee out the blood in the bowl and continue your task. Dean subtly watches you, his gaze a bit softer than usual.

He eventually looks you over with a frown as he takes in the way you’re dressed, and then the backpack by the door.

“What, about to go for a little afternoon stroll?” His sarcasm turns to annoyance. “Didn’t I tell you to stay put until you can actually walk?”

Your mouth flattens into a line, but any anger you might’ve felt is waylaid by your relief. It brings tears to your eyes.

“I thought something happened to you,” you say.

Dean hesitates. Your hand has stilled on his chest. He softens a little more, grasping your hand in his larger one.

“I’m fine,” he says. “The job’s done.”

Your eyes widen. “You found the…thing? The wendigo?”

His mouth pulls at a cocky grin, tempered only by his tiredness, and the way he’s looking at you. “Sure did. Tried to take a chunk outta my ass, but a little aerosol deodorant and a lighter’s all you need to barbecue that ugly son of a bitch.”

You smile in amusement, but all too soon, it fades.

“Did you find my dad?” you ask.

Dean’s expression sobers as well.

“Yeah, I think so.” His face gentles. “Was he wearing a blue puffer jacket?”

Your lips tremble. As that horrible realization dawns, you break down into tears. You already know from his tone that your father was dead when he found him.

Dean guides you down to him by your shoulder and wraps his arms around you. You bury your face into his neck, and your body shakes with quiet sobs.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your hair. “Believe me, I am.”

He holds you close, warm and secure. He allows you to stay there as long as you need, where you feel safe, even if this world has become a colder, darker place.

After a few minutes longer, your intense sobs begin to subside. You don’t mean to, but you turn your nose into Dean’s neck, scenting him on reflex. It calms you down, but it has the unintended effect of arousing him. The alpha rumbles in pleasure.

You blink in surprise and lean back enough to see his face. Dean’s lips press together as he looks down on you; he seems embarrassed, but you also see the heat reflected in his gaze, so intense in those forest greens. Your face begins to warm in a blush.

He brushes your cheek with his thumb, collecting your tears there. You glance down at his plush lips again, your own parting with a breath. His hand moves to cup your cheek, framing the side of your face. Please…

He finally drags you to him in a kiss.

It’s heady and passionate, and also comforting. Your fingers wind into his hair, your nails scraping along his scalp. He growls as his arm tightens around your waist. You shiver in delight.

You press a hand to the center of his chest, giving you leverage to rise up and slide your thigh over his legs. There you sink into his lap. Your breasts pillow against his chest when you lay on top of him, your elbows digging into the cushion on either side of his head. His hands move down your body, feeling down your sides, squeezing your hips, and then your ass. You hum into his mouth and roll your hips into his. Already you feel him hardening through his jeans.

But somehow he breaks away from your kiss, even though your hands are still in his hair.

“Sorry…we can’t do this,” he says, with difficulty.

He sits upright and nearly makes you fall over in the process. He grabs your arm before you tip over, but he keeps himself at arm’s length from you after you’re forced to slide off his lap, sitting on the end of the chaise instead. Your eyes glisten with hurt and confusion.

“Why?” is all you can ask.

He doesn’t want to answer.

“Dean?” you ask, inching towards him. He raises a hand to keep you at bay.

“Just…it’s not a good idea, okay?” he says, with the clenching of his jaw.

That cuts into you even more. Your heart pulses with pain.

“Do you know what your scent is to me?” you ask, in a voice slightly trembling. You glance at the fireplace that has dimmed to embers. “It’s better than that fire at full blaze. Every time I went camping with my dad, that’s what I loved the most. Sitting by that fire, talking, laughing, and for the millionth time, telling the story of when I gave my sister micro bangs in her sleep when I was ten.”

You wipe a stray tear from your eye, but you respect the distance he’s put between you two.

“The second I met you, I knew what this was,” you say. “I think you know it too.”

Dean shakes his head. His face betrays his wariness, his desire, and his obstinance.

“Look…even if that’s true, you don’t want this with me,” he says. His handsome face becomes marred by a frown, his brows knitting together. “I don’t even own this place. Besides my car, I ain’t got much of anything to give.”

You shake your head in dismay. “I know that’s not true.”

“I’m not bullshitting,” he says. “Listen…I’ve never had much. And what I did have, I found a way to lose. I’ve let my people down. Just about everyone I’ve ever…”

You can’t help but reach out a hand for him, your heart hurting, but he leans away, pressing himself back against the seat. It cuts even deeper into you; now though, you wonder if it’s because he feels the same gut feeling you do when he’s this close—close enough to touch, but almost afraid of the burn.

“They’ve been hurt, almost always because of me.” His voice shakes imperceptibly, with a wry, humorless turn of his lips. “So take it from me, sweetheart. You’ll wanna steer clear.”

“Dean,” you say. You expel a breath, digesting his words, while thinking of what you want to say.

“I’ve never not felt safe with you,” you confess. “Even when I screwed up and drove you crazy, I’m sure, I knew you’d never hurt me. The same way I know…”

You reach out a tentative hand to lay in the center of his chest, over his heart. Your thumb brushes the edge of his strange tattoo, over the dark ink in his skin.

“You’re my mate. My one, true mate in this world,” you say, meeting his eyes. “And I want to know you.”

You see inner conflict in the depths of Dean’s eyes, dark green and troubled. You take a chance and lean in, brushing your cheek against his, nuzzling, laying a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Omega,” he warns, but the grit in his voice has little heat.

Or at least, it’s heat of a different kind, as his strong hands once again find your waist. They hold you still, but also hold you to him. Your gentle affection is making him ache, deep in the shadowy cavern of his chest. He’d never admit it, but loneliness had set in there, burrowed deep with a stronghold on his heart. Without knowing, you’ve been carving it out with those gentle hands.

You now slide your hands up his chest and over his shoulders, warm palms on his skin.

“Alpha, I want to know you,” you insist. Quiet, but steady, your voice is a mere brush of words near his ear, against his cheek. “Please.”

Dean’s brows furrow as he briefly shuts his eyes tight. With your whispered plea, the brittle chain of his restraint finally snaps free.

He cradles the back of your head and guides you back into a feverish kiss.

AN: Sorry to cut it off there lol, but the big (steamy) fourth part is coming up next week! Perhaps a little earlier than Friday. 😘

Next Time:

“Were you nesting, Omega?” he teases, between the sinful meetings of his lips with yours. You hum your affirmation before his tongue swipes across your lower lip, seeking entrance.

You open yourself to him in more ways than one; you slip your hands across his naked shoulders and explore the smooth planes of muscle, the dips and softness in between. You encourage him to lower down, to cover you with the length and broadness of his frame. His weight is a welcome one between your thighs and against the softness of your body.

“Was worried about you,” you whisper a confession against his lips. Dean briefly pauses, meeting your eyes.

“Thanks for waiting up,” he says, with a hint of a smile.

Your lips curve upwards in return.

▶️ Keep reading: PART 4

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saltwaterburns · 9 months ago

Note

Hi, hi can you please do SFW and NSFW ALPHABET for Wolverine/Logan???💕💕💕👹

NSFW alphabet for LOGAN HOWLETT/WOLVERINE

This contains 18+ content, read at your own risk

SFW alphabet (coming soon)

a/n: My take on what kind of a freak logan is, winkwink

A = Aftercare (what they're like after sex)

He comes inside you with a deep groan (could absolutely be mistaken for a growl) and I feel like what happens next depends on his mood. Sex with him is never just sweet and sensual, most of the time it's a primal fuck, so if it was angry/posessive or anything like that, he'd stay inside you until he's soft like butter again (I don't think he ever actually gets soft, though... this man has stamina), plugging you full of his cum so you won't waste a drop. He'll wrap his hands around you, pull you to his bare and so, so warm chest and hold you until you fall asleep. If it was a bit sweeter then he'd pull out, give you a forehead kiss and get a nice fluffy towel from the bathroom, wiping your trembling thighs clean. If he remembers he'll clean himself off too but i feel like he'll sometimes forget

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partners)

He likes your hands. They're cute, they fit into his, they pull at his hair as he goes down on you, they play with his cock, they play with your clit, they claw at the sheets, they cover your mouth so you won't wake the whole building with your sounds, you get the gist. He really does like them for other stuff too - he likes how gentle they are with him.

As for himself, I'm having a bit of trouble. Maybe his arms? Dick? Jesus, this is a hard one. His arms cause they carry you and all the little things you buy but they can also protect you. (He has a love hate relationship with his claws, i shall dive into that someday but not now). His dick because he absolutely loves making you cock and pleasure drunk. What do you think?

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He loves cumming on your tits and then seeing you scoop it up and feed it to yourself, cheeks hollowed like they were around his cock 10 minutes ago. Sometimes after a particularly intense session he just stares at your glistening heat and the way you're clenching and unclenching, his seed dripping out and he feels himself getting hard, again

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

I don't think this man has dirty secrets, per se. His sex life to me at least is an open book. Because he's been around for a long time, he's probably experienced and experimented a lot. Maybe that he's into anal play? Because he so is.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?)

I think he might be one of the most experienced men in the world. He has fucked his fair share of women over the years so he absolutely knows what he's doing and how to do it, he's an expert in pleasuring a woman. If you've been together for a while he will memorise your body like the palm of his hand

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Doggy 100%. He's so gripping your hips to the point that his handprints are almost permanently bruised onto your skin. He also loves spreading your ass cheeks and dipping his thumb into your other hole just to tease and watch you squirm (both from embarrassment and pleasure)

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He's a grumpy, troubled old man, so sex will be intense. He'll only chuckle/grin/laugh just to mock you, and when you've done a particularly good job then he'll offer you a rare smile

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He is so hairy but in a sexy way. Definitely not clean shaven down there, but trimmed. Very prominent happy trail, hairy pecs, hairy arms

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

He isn't a person who connects well with his own feelings so there won't be any of that mumbo jumbo as he's balls deep inside you, but he will press occasional kisses onto your skin before, during and after

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

As long as he's got you I don't think he really masturbates. The most I can see him doing is jacking off while you're on your knees so he can cum on your tits

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

From the top of my head - daddy kink, size kink, dirty talk, breeding kink, breath play, brat taming, (spit play), spanking !!!!

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Not necessarily at home, but on a bed/sofa/etc. (so you're comfy as he destroys your insides). In private because you're his and his only, no one needs to see you in compromising positions

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

You, honestly. You being a brat, you begging, you looking nice, you being domestic, you being kind, just you

N = No (something they wouldn't do, turn offs)

He doesn't really have turn offs, but an immediate no is hurting you with his claws. As much as you might beg him to indulge in knife (claw) play, the most he'll do is rip your clothes off with them. He is so, so scared of hurting you and seeing genuine fear in your eyes because you're too kind, too sweet for him anyway

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He likes both. He loves eating pussy, he's a pussy eating champ, he'll pull you to sit on his face, burning your inner thighs with his scratchy beard but he'll also never say no to you gagging and slobbering all over his massive cock (mr. wolverine, the size kink is calling)

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Fast. And. Rough. Primal. Carnal. Animalistic. Growling, biting, scratching.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

No. Logan wants to take his time with you, really fuck you and claim you, bruise and mark you. It's either all out or nothing with him

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

As I mentioned before, he's experimented a lot during his lifetime, but if you want to try something new he'll most likely say yes (as long as it doesn't involve you hurting)

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He might be old and salt & peppery and grumpy but oh my god can he fuck. 5 rounds straight at least, then maybe a cigar and then another 3. He usually comes right after you because the way your pussy clenches around his dick during your orgasm is enough to send any man jizzing their pants

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

This doesn't really go under toys but he might indulge in letting you tie his hands up to the bed frame with a silk tie but you know as well as i do that when things get serious, he won't even have to move a muscle to "break" free. As for toys like vibrators, wands and etc. he doesn't really know about them or care for them

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Very. Teasing and edging you is his favourite hobby. Riling you up, teasing your cute little clit with his thick fingers or his mouth just to pull away right as you're about to reach the peak gives him serotonin

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Fuck meeeeeee mister Wolverine. He's not that loud but definitely will give you a few sounds, he loves to dirty talk (read as: growl) but mostly he's just grunting and chuckling at you

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

I thought long and hard about this, so, here you go! He's lowkey into Wade, so he isn't particularly against having a threesome. If he's single, then he wouldn't exactly mind having a threesome with Wade and Wades girl, showing Wade how to properly pleasure a woman. If he finds himself achingly hard as you're jacking Wafe off, it's totally not because he's imagining himself doing that, absolutely not you freak !!!!

If Wade is the single one then he'd be slightly more reluctant but you will find yourself between the two men with Wades cock ramming into your pussy and Logans cock stretching your ass

X = X-ray (let's see what's going on under those clothes)

He's fucking packing. Long && thick. I don't really know penis sizes i'm so sorry so imagine like a borderline massive dick. Rock hard abs, of course. Deliciously hairy pecs, wide shoulders, big. Goddamn. Arms. Biteable thighs

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Sex to him is an outlet, a massive one at that, so i'd say his sex drive is quite high. It isn't the answer to everything, though. He has good days and bad days, bad days mostly meaning that he's in a vicious mood and wants to punch rather than fuck

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

If we're being a bit humorous then he'll fuck you long and hard, clean you up, give you a kiss, smoke a ciggy and start snoring. But he's not sleeping!!!! He's resting his eyes, dummy. If we're being serious then because he's a mutant of immense power and regenerative abilities then realistically he wouldn't be tired out. If you can stay up for that long then he'll get you some water and just hold you, enjoying the moment of peace

- Thank you so much for reading! As always, this is just how I imagine him. I've been influenced by countless of works here on Tumblr and countless of super steamy tiktok edits, so you're absolutely entitled to your own ideas ❤️

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harbours-lighthouse · 2 months ago

Text

COMPANY IN A BONE DEAD LAND — PART ONE

SERIES MASTERLIST

— PAIRING: Jason Todd x F!Reader

— SUMMARY: The world as you know it is broken, crawling with those infected by the virus. You're one of very few survivors, and you're cautious of each step you take. When a man breaks into your house, you're torn between kindness and survival.

— AN: Hi loves! First thing I've been able to work on and actually finish, so hopefully you guys enjoy (a lot of inspo taken from Bird Box and The Last of Us). I'm thinking of making this into a series, but I'm not sure. Let me know if i should make a part 2!

cw: apocalypitc setting; possible slow burn; semi enemies-to-lovers; death; gore; violence; graphic descriptions; overall feelings of dread wc: 5.7k

IT’S HOT AND DRY, and the ants are swarming. They march in dotted black lines, trailing through your garden towards the fence. You squint against the harsh white light of the sun, your skin burning beneath the thin layers you wear.

Since the Fall happened, the seasons have become more brutal, more violent. Summer kills everything, from the bare bushes surrounding your property to the few people that stumble across the plains. But like an angry god whose vocabulary doesn’t include the term ‘fair,’ the few of those who survive the scorching summers are picked off when winter comes—leaving behind faces frozen in terror, lips nearly as blue as the lake near the Old Town when it freezes over. But winter won’t be here for a long time.

The line of ants isn't usual, so you follow along the trails, unlocking the gate and circling around the fence. Dried soil shifts beneath your shoes; twigs crack in the stale air. Flies buzz around sun-bleached bones, and it’s the tip of your boot that kicks them away from the fence that wraps around your property.

The mesh buzzes, a low hum that sings of the electricity coursing through it. The ants swarm around the corpse as it lies face-first in the brown grass, bony hand stretching forward, and only a single phalanx hooked around a loop in the mesh.

You move the tip of your boot against the side of its head, peeling skin and tufts of brown hair shifting with the light breeze that smells of dust and rotting flesh. There’s a low crack, bones that were stiff beneath the sun moving against their will as you reveal the face of the corpse.

Blank white eyes lock with yours, and bile rises up your throat. Relief accompanies it. The birds haven’t been able to pick at the eyeballs yet, so you’re now able to identify that it’s a survivor and not one of the infected—a gouger.

You sigh heavily, feeling as if those lifeless eyes are staring up at you, pleading. Why didn’t you save me? I was right here!

You know exactly what Johnny would say if he were standing beside you.

“Poor guy probably died before he even felt the shock.”

He would’ve said it with that gravel-laced chuckle of his, though there wouldn’t be any humour in it at all.

You watch the rotting corpse with the sun beating down on you, wisps of wind pushing your hair into your face. There’s a bitter taste in your mouth, and you shove the sound of Johnny’s voice to the back of your mind. You don’t want to remember him.

Brows pinched inward, you wonder why you hadn’t noticed the corpse until now. It’s obviously been here for a while, with much of its skin already peeled away like dried parchment. The clothes that barely hang from its skeleton are tattered and bleached, but it’s in far better condition than what any of the gougers wear. With a calculating survey across its unmoving form, you decide that there’s nothing you might poach from the body. Nothing useful.

Leaving the ants alone to feast on what little is left of the decaying man, you circle around the whole fence to check for anything else, though you have a feeling you won’t find anything. It’s not common for anything to show up here—at least not in the last seven months. This lonesome survivor is the first in a long time.

The plains themselves are mostly empty and have been for years. Only a small smattering of twig-like trees dot the landscape, reminiscent of thin lines dashed across the horizon. Excluding Old Town, your property is the only splash of colour to be seen for miles: a white farmhouse with bleached siding and a partially broken porch, a rusting generator that still rattles with power, and the electric fence Johnny built three years ago.

It’s the fence that makes sure they never come too close. The infected. Or the more common term given to them: ‘gougers.’

Not only do you find the remains of those who crawl to the fence for protection—and ultimately die there with nothing and no one—but you also find the remains of those whose minds were whittled away to nothing, reeking of rotting flesh and gore.

It’s been years since fear accompanied the thought of them. With age and loss, you’ve only grown more angry. And since Johnny’s death, the pistol strapped to your hip feels heavier than normal, and your fingers twitch with the animalistic urge to go searching—killing those that took everything from you.

The last thing Johnny saw was their broken faces, the dark sockets where their eyes should be—gouged out in their insanity. And you couldn’t do anything.

Swallowing thickly, you pull yourself away from the lingering images of what were once people, sane and normal.

Idly kicking away loose stones and twigs, you amble back towards the gate. Looking over your shoulder, you linger to watch the horizon; waves of heat warp the line between land and sky.

Frowning, you notice a tree in the distance, and it’s larger than the rest. Squinting harder against the sun, you watch its thin figure, a pale grey shadow in the haze of heat and dust. But it’s not a tree, you realise, and your heart stutters inside your chest.

It’s smoke.

Feeling your throat seize, your heart starts thudding against your ribcage. What you thought was the distant canopy of a large tree is really the billowing cloud of a column of smoke. And it's not the heat warping its shape, but the smoke rising higher in the sky, a fist of ash, and a sign of fire.

You move on instinct.

You rush through the gate, making sure the several locks and chains rattle behind you, securing your home. Hopping up the steps of the porch, the floorboards groan under your weight, and you glance back at the dark pillar in the sky.

You can’t take any chances.

The front door slams shut, rattling the old picture frames on the walls. Your breathing deepens, your pulse throbbing inside your ears as adrenaline rushes through you. Like a well-trained soldier, you check that each of the windows has its curtains drawn shut, wooden boards hidden behind thin white lace.

The house is dipped into pale light and shadows. Only slivers of sunlight that shine through the wooden boards peek through the gaps in the curtains. It’s quiet, not even the wind whistles through the cracks in the glass.

But your heartbeat doesn’t slow.

Glancing at the heavy chest of drawers in the foyer, you exhale sharply through your nose before striding towards the old piece of furniture. Pressing your palms against the side of the once-polished wood, you dig your feet into the floor and push. It barely moves.

“C’mon, c’mon,” you mutter harshly, pressing your shoulder against the chest and leaning all your weight against it. With a sharp scrape against the floor, the chest dislodges. You almost trip, feet sliding, before pushing it with relative ease to barricade the door.

Straightening with your shoulder aching, you glance over the barricade with a small pang of satisfaction, but you know that a lone piece of furniture won’t save you.

Moving through the house with purpose, you cut through the living room to the kitchen, and you pull open a cabinet mounted on the wall. The hinges squeal in protest, but the gold glint of ammunition is what you're after. Grabbing as many of the cardboard boxes as you can, you carry them upstairs.

There are three bedrooms upstairs and an attic. Every single window has been boarded up ever since you found out the hard way that gougers can climb, though you still had Johnny back then, and you hadn’t set up the electric fencing yet.

Dropping the boxes of ammo, you crane your neck upwards at the string hanging from the ceiling. Jumping, your feet land with a thud at the same time that your fingers wrap around the wooden knob at the end of the string, and you pull.

A groan deep inside the house reverberates around you, and the attic ladder unfolds with a wooden creak. Inhaling sharply, you gather up the boxes again before ascending the ladder.

The attic itself is mostly empty, save for only a few boxes sporadically piled around and the thin mattress and blankets tucked in a corner that you keep up here in case of emergencies—like today.

Hunching your back so as not to hit your head against the slanted ceiling, you shuffle further into the wide room towards the two windows on your right side.

These windows remain open and unboarded, giving you a clear view of the front yard, and specifically the gate to your property. If things hit the fan in a disastrous way, you’ll be able to slide out one of the windows and scurry up onto the roof. Thankfully, you’ve never had to resort to that.

You let the boxes of ammo clatter to the floor, and the smell of dust is so thick, you can taste it on your tongue. You move to the other side of the room and pull away a pile of boxes. A plume of dust hits the floor, and you sputter out a choked cough, gagging as your eyes flood with water.

Waving a hand in the air to dispel the yellow cloud, you kneel to the floor and pull at one of the wooden boards.

There's a soft creak before the board pulls away and reveals a hollowed-out space. It's large enough and deep enough to hide away a perfectly intact, gleaming M21 sniper rifle.

Your heart stutters against your chest, the steady beat of your pulse loud inside your ears. You haven’t touched it in seven months.

The gun glints in the bright light that streams through the windows, winking at you with all of its memories just as clear and bright as the nocturnal scope mounted on the barrel of the rifle. Swallowing thickly, you push through the nerves that hold you captive for only a moment and gently ease the gun out of the empty slot.

“Alright,” you murmur into the empty space around you, “let’s get this show on the—”

The explosion rattles your entire house. Gasping, your fingers tighten around the body of the M21 as the frame of your house shakes violently. The noise rings inside your ears painfully, rippling through the air and piercing through the walls of your home and straight through your chest.

Staggering forward, you move to one of the windows and peer out across the plains. You can't see anything other than the column of smoke in the distance, but you rapidly scan the horizon for anything else—a mushroom cloud punching through the sky or an orange-red ball of flames.

With your ears still ringing, all you can do is wait as the earth slowly settles again, the soil no longer quivering and the floorboards no longer shaking beneath the soles of your feet.

Panic hits you like a truck. It's been months since anything like this has happened—which is why you had stored the M21 in the attic in the first place. You didn’t need the gun, and its owner is dead. For whatever foolish reason, you’ve let your guard down.

Sucking in a trembling breath, you realise just how tightly you’re gripping the M21. Unclenching your iron-tight grip, your mind races.

Someone must have caused that, and not just anyone. Sure, gougers weren’t entirely dumb, but they weren’t usually capable of setting off explosives either. And as for survivors…it was rare that anyone had the means or strength to detonate something that powerful.

This was something else, and your skin crawls at the thought. Quickly, you snap your gaze to the electric fence, staring hard at the mesh and waiting for a tell-tale spittle of electricity to catch your eye. You need to know if the generator had been affected by the shockwave; if your generator was down, so was your fence.

There’s a spark of blue, and you breathe a sigh of relief before returning your hawk-like eyes to the horizon. You sigh heavily.

Tonight’s going to be a long night.

━─━────༺༻────━─━

The crickets chirp angrily inside leafless bushes, perched on thin twigs as they play their nightly choruses. Usually, you take comfort in the noise they make, but now, it only adds to your nerves.

Lying on the thin mattress in the corner, you strain your ears to listen above the sound. Anything out of place could mean something—a twig cracking, a rustling of leaves or clothes. Nothing can be brushed aside as simply ‘nothing.'

It’s too hot for any of the blankets, and even if it were cold, you wouldn’t dare slip underneath them. If you had to jump up at a moment’s notice, the blankets could entangle you and cost you precious seconds.

Seconds that could result in your death. Or worse.

The M21 is cradled in your arms, fingers resting lightly along the stock. The safety is on, but you can just imagine Johnny scolding you for sleeping with a firearm.

“You try’na kill yourself before anything else can, kid?”

A fragile smile pulls at your lips, though it disappears as your thumb gently brushes across the initials engraved on the side of the stock.

J. B.

Jonathan Barnes.

Johnny.

Your throat tightens, and you swallow thickly. It’s been seven months. You need to stop crying about him.

With a hollow exhale, you curl around the M21, ears perked for any noise. All you can hear are the crickets and the low groan of the house as the wind pushes against it.

You’ve gone over every possible situation that could have resulted in the giant explosion, and you guessed that it came from the Old Town. It didn’t make much sense, though, considering the Old Town is miles away and completely deserted. Nothing but hollowed-out frames of what were once bustling stores and stylish saloons remain there. Relics of a past you can hardly remember now.

There’s a scuffle outside, and you immediately shoot upright. Your fingers flex around the sniper rifle. You sit and wait.

The house remains quiet; the crickets keep chirping. For a long, drawn-out minute, you sit as still as a statue and listen. Even your breaths are quiet, too scared to miss any other telltale noise that you’re not alone.

You don’t hear anything else.

Your muscles are as tense as a coiled-up snake, but you slowly shift back onto your side. The grip you have around the gun doesn’t ease up, and your heartbeat is painfully loud in your ears. The night will drag on, and you’re sure you won’t be able to relax the entire time.

Johnny’s voice rings softly in your ears.

“Loosen up, kid. We’ll be fine.”

You close your eyes, wishing that Johnny could be as quiet in your mind as he is in the grave. The grave you dug. The one you filled with dirt and tears.

You fall asleep within seconds.

***

Your eyelids are heavy as you peel them open, and dread stirs inside your stomach. Confused, you prop yourself up onto your elbow, squinting through the inky blackness and listening to the noises around you.

The crickets are utterly silent, and not even the wind whispering through the bushes can be heard. It’s only your soft breaths that seem loud in the still atmosphere of the attic.

You groan lowly beneath your breath, rubbing a hand over your face. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. How stupid could you be?

Just as you're about to stand and move to the window to get a better look at the horizon, a noise stops you in your tracks.

It was low, barely perceptible. But with the silence of the crickets and wind, you could make out the sound.

Footsteps.

Your pulse bursts to life, throbbing almost painfully in your throat. Swiftly, your fingers latch onto the M21 that had drifted from you in your sleep, fingers flexing against the polished wood.

Straining to hear any more sounds, you eye the panel of wood you placed over the attic hole and the heavy box you had placed on top of the panel as an added precaution. It was something Johnny had done when you'd both camped out in the attic. He said it made it look as if there was wood nailed to the entrance of the attic and would possibly deter anyone from even trying to climb the ladder.

You hoped that it would work this time too, as the footsteps grow louder. They're heavy, belonging to something that must be large and bulky. Your stomach twists with anxiety, sweat gathering along the back of your neck.

Slowly, as if you were a hunter stalking prey, you stand on your feet, making sure your movements are measured enough to avoid making any noise. You can’t afford to be heard from below, can’t afford to make any of the floorboards creak beneath your weight as you stand.

With your breathing strained, you press the butt of the rifle into your shoulder, and your fingers are shaking. It's been months since you've had to fire a gun at something that wasn't a rabbit or shrew, though those were extremely rare to find in and of themselves.

The footsteps are loud. They thud along the upstairs floor, directly below you. Your brows furrow.

Whatever or whoever it is, it's not consciously trying to be quiet.

There's a low scrape, shuffling footsteps, before a long pause rings in your ears.

The silence is loud.

You flinch violently when the first thud echoes, a step taken down the staircase. Breathing in a shuddered breath, you close your eyes, relief flooding through you. Whatever it was, it wasn't interested in the attic ladder leading up to what looked like a panel of wood.

You listen intently to the footsteps thudding down the stairs before the sound recedes, and you're thrown back into silence again.

The muscles in your arms are taut, your thighs braced to run to the window and climb onto the roof. You want to relax and unclench your jaw, but you know that the thing must still be inside your home.

Then it dawns on you. The fence. The electricity.

How did it get in?

Taking tentative steps, you make sure to walk where the wood doesn't groan, and you move to the open window.

Your heart drops to your stomach. Next to the gate, the mesh wiring has been cut in a large arch, opening up a hole in the fence for anything to slip through and into the yard.

Swallowing down the bile bubbling in the back of your throat, you take a deep, calming breath, though it does nothing to soothe the panic that's rooted inside your chest.

This thing is smart, you think. It's capable.

Gougers aren't able to problem-solve. They don't have eyes to see, and their minds are purely animalistic. Carnivorous. If something in front of them is alive and moving, they'll ravage it and tear it to shreds. But if there's a fence in the way, the gougers are useless. They can only wail and shriek, but they can't solve the problem.

So whoever is inside your house isn't a gouger, and that's ten times worse.

"Remember," Johnny grumbled, "you can always outsmart a gouger. But an uninfected? They can be just as smart as you."

You need to kill this person before they find you.

Slowly, you walk over to the box and the panel and sling the rifle over your back. Crouching, you nudge the box out of the way, careful to move it gingerly enough that it doesn't scrape along the floor.

Once the box is out of the way, you shimmy your fingers under the panel and carefully dislodge it from the opening.

Looking down, fear curls inside your stomach. The lower floor is shrouded in darkness. Leaning over the edge of the hole, it feels as if you're staring into a void, and you can just imagine bright eyes looking up at you from below. Murderous. Inhuman.

Shaking the thought away, you remind yourself of your safety. Of your home. Some jerk had decided to trespass on your property, and with your life on the line, you were going to put a bullet through their head because of it.

With tentative steps, you ease your way down the ladder. You don't let the ladder fold in on itself again, just in case you need to book it to the attic and climb onto the roof.

Glancing down the hallway, you bring the M21 back into your hands, fingers flexing near the trigger guard. None of the lights are on.

It's completely dark.

Breathing through your nose and out through your mouth, you do what Johnny taught you to. Steeling your nerves as best as you can, you slowly descend down the stairs.

You know this house better than anyone. You know exactly where to step, an ingrained map of the house's aches and groans etched out in your mind.

When you reach the ground floor, your skin crawls. A quick glance down the foyer reveals the front door wide open, pale light spilling across the dust-coated floorboards. Outside, the hole in the fence gapes mockingly at you, and the thin trees look like sentinels watching you. Waiting.

You listen for noise, for footsteps. Moving through your house, you stare into every corner and every shadow, waiting for something to reveal itself. The M21 is heavy, but the trepidation inside your chest is heavier.

If Johnny were here, he'd be taking point. He'd be holding this gun. Not you. Never you.

"I don't want you touching my gun, kid."

"Why not? Scared I'll break 'her'."

"Smart aleck."

"Old man."

A shrill clatter reverberates through the house, and you slap a hand to your mouth to keep from gasping audibly. Your fingers are shaking as you peel your hand away, and you swallow thickly.

Get it together.

The noise came from the kitchen.

With the butt of the M21 digging into your shoulder, you cut across the living room, eyes carefully glancing around you before snapping to what's ahead of you.

You nearly gag as the overwhelming odor of gunpowder and sweat floods your senses, and your blood pulses inside your ears.

The shuffling becomes louder, and you're sure you can hear someone breathing. It's strained, laboured.

You press your shoulder against the barrier between the living room and the kitchen, hands clenching around the pistol grip. Peering around the corner, you breath locks inside your throat.

Shoulders as wide as the doorway are illuminated by the moon's pale light, and you catch the glint of a bolt cutter languidly thrown across the kitchen island.

That must have been what made the loud clatter earlier, you file away mentally.

You watch with piercing eyes as the giant man leans heavily against the kitchen counter, spine bent inward as harsh breaths leave him, his head dipped.

For a moment, your grip around the rifle slackens. If it weren’t for the moonlight slipping into the kitchen, you would have mistaken the broad frame for Johnny.

Dark hair. Creased leather jacket. Deathly pale skin.

No, you close your eyes briefly; this isn’t Johnny.

Clenching your fingers around the pistol grip tightly again, you inhale deeply and step through the doorway. The barrel of your gun points directly at the man’s head. Your finger hovers above the trigger.

It must have been the shaky breath escaping past your lips that alerted him to your presence. The man’s head snaps up; obsidian eyes lock with yours; they glint coolly, as if the dark abyss of them had captured slivers of moonlight.

Your breath stutters. They’re the opposite of the lifeless eyes belonging to the corpse still clinging to the fence outside.

The fence this man tore apart.

Tense silence settles heavily between the two of you, and your heartbeat is thudding against your ribcage like a wild bird beating itself to death.

Like two predators silently watching each other with bated breath and flicking tails, you stare at each other with calculating glares.

You break the silence first, doing your best to keep your voice firm and steady.

“Who are you?”

The stranger stares at you, his breathing strained. Johnny’s voice had matched his looks: gravel-laced, rough. You half expect the same from this boar of a man, but instead, you’re surprised when a smooth, deep voice echoes in the kitchen, although it quivers subtly.

“No one.”

“Cut it, edgelord,” you snap, though your voice remains low. “What is your name?”

Your feet shift, hips trading weight as you keep the barrel of the M21 level with the man who lets out a long exhale, and you catch the hitch trapped inside of it.

“My name’s Jason,” he says quietly, eyes sliding languidly along the kitchen island and the bolt cutter, before flicking up to you.

They seem canine, but not in a domesticated way. His eyes give you a glimpse of a wolf silently studying you, calculating whether or not you are worthy prey. It sends a cold shiver slithering down your spine.

“Okay,” you mutter, “Jason. Why are you here, in my house?”

Johnny would have rolled his eyes and said, “Yeah, sure. ‘Your’ house.”

Jason’s brows lift close to his hairline in what you can tell is faux surprise.

“Oh? Your house? Sorry. Didn’t see a sign out front—thought it was abandoned.”

You bristle at his tone, and skepticism coils inside your chest.

"You thought that a house with a fully functioning electric fence and generator was 'abandoned'?"

Jason's eyes watch you carefully, as if he's surprised that you caught that inconsistency. Does he think you're stupid? Blinded by fear?

He shrugs as if it doesn't matter, though his stance heightens your anxiety; there's a stiffness to his shoulders, and a clear bell rings inside you: something is wrong.

"Look, lady—"

"Why are you here?"

You stare at each other, the tension akin to a pot of water simmering on the stove, slowly beginning to boil.

When he realises that you're not going to let him leave without answering and that you're not lowering the sniper rifle any time soon, he relents with a harsh exhale and a swift nod.

"Alright, fine," he straightens, and you clock the sharp jerk of his hand moving to his side. Instantly, you square your shoulders, knuckles turning white with the iron-tight grip you have on the pistol grip.

Jason lifts his other hand, brows raised in caution. You scrutinize him, and he purposefully keeps his movements slow.

His hand slips to his side, hidden behind the leather jacket, and you brace yourself for the glint of a gun, maybe even the impact of a bullet. Your finger hovers dangerously over the trigger.

"Chill," Jason mutters, and you suck in a sharp breath.

Jason removes his hand from his side, and instead of the metallic sheen of a gun, you're left staring at the gleam of blood dripping from his fingers. It shines black in the moonlight, but if you were to turn on the overhead light, it would drip to the kitchen tiles in droplets of crimson.

"I need—" his voice cuts out before he swallows thickly. "I ran into some trouble...thought I might find medical supplies here."

Your gaze snaps between the blood on his hand and his face. There's a tightness to his jaw, as if he's bracing himself against waves of pain.

Sympathy pulses inside of you, something you thought had died long ago. But you think back to the fence, the hole that you don't know how to fix. It was Johnny that set up the fencing—who speared the poles into the ground and cut the sheets of mesh. Who made sure that the generator worked and brought electricity sparking along the metal wiring.

You only helped where you could, but you don't know where to get supplies to fix the fence in case of something like this happening. It's too late to ask Johnny—something you should have done three years ago.

"You ruined my fence," you say lowly.

Jason's eyes flicker shut for a moment, a puff of air pushed through his nose.

"Yeah, look. I wasn't going to get myself—"

"You could have at least cut the padlock on the gate instead of the actual fence."

"That's—" he stops, realising the truth of your statement.

You scoff, eyes flickering to the side before returning to him again. Two parts of you are warring against each other. There's a desperate, instinctual urge to switch the light on and bring out your medical kit, but another, fainter desire to pull the trigger—rid yourself of the problem in front of you.

So, in true survival mentality: if you help him...what's in it for you?

You opt for another question. "How'd you get hurt?"

Jason hesitates. His gaze flickers over you cautiously, warily. A spark of annoyance heats beneath your skin. After destroying a part of your fence in an irrational move and breaking into your house, bleeding all over your kitchen floor, do you not deserve an answer?

"Buddy," you level, "if you don't answer me, I'm letting you bleed to death or I'm shooting you. Your decision."

After a moment of stiff silence, Jason relents. He glances down at his hand, taking in a sharp breath.

"I ran into some trouble with a couple of gougers."

Your hackles rise. Instinctually, you take a step back, but keep the gun's barrel steady. Panic begins to claw inside your chest again, and Jason notices.

His hands raise again in a placating motion, "the gougers didn't cause this. It's a gash from barbed wire."

It's hard to believe him. In the past, people have lied—said that they got hurt from something else and not the sharp nails or yellowed teeth of the gougers. Once you're marred by a gouger, you run the risk of catching the virus. You risk losing yourself to insanity, to becoming something inhuman.

You've seen people scratch out their eyes, wailing and shrieking. People you knew. People you loved.

But you don't know Jason. He's only a stranger that's jeopardized your safety and broken into your house—Johnny's house.

He could be lying just so you don't shoot him on the spot.

And you're trembling without realising it.

"How do I know—" your swallow thickly, taking another step back, "—that you're not lying to me?"

"You'll know in a day's time."

The words hit you like a ton of bricks, though you don't know why. It's true, though. The virus eats away at the mind in a matter of days—hours even.

There's a bitter taste in your mouth, and your hands feel clammy around the M21. You've put more space between you and Jason, but you feel as if you're suffocating. There's not enough light in the kitchen to give you a good idea of what he's saying with his eyes, and his rough exhalations grate against your ears.

If what he says is true, then you have nothing to worry about. But if he’s lying, you’ll be faced with a gouger inside your home in a day or two, ripping you to shreds.

Or, you could shoot him when that happens.

You think it over in your head, your stomach knotted with anxiety.

You have three options: help him, let him bleed out, or shoot him—either now or later.

It's Johnny who makes that decision for you.

"You've still got a heart, kid. You don't find that anymore."

You inhale slowly, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as you give in to the deeply ingrained part of you that can't not help.

"If I help you," you say slowly, "then you have to help me in return, got it?"

Jason eyes you, and you can see the way he's mulling over your words. There's a sag to his shoulders, a tremor in his breath.

He'd be dumb to not take up your offer.

"Fine," he says gruffly, glancing away from you briefly. "What do you want?"

"Fix my damn fence."

"Done."

You blink, surprised. It was that easy, huh?

"One condition," Jason adds, and your surprise is immediately replaced with suspicion. Who does he think he is?

He points a finger at the M21, brows raised. "You put away the gun."

You open your mouth to argue, but cut yourself off before you can say anything. Glancing at the M21, you wonder if it's a smart decision to conform to that condition.

What if he takes you off guard?

What if he grabs it and shoots you?

Looking back at the bolt cutter on the kitchen island, you sigh heavily before returning your gaze to Jason, who's already watching you.

"If I put away the gun, you can't have those."

Jason glances at the bolt cutters and scoffs. "Really? It's not even a weapon."

"Anything can be a weapon," you say flatly.

Jason tilts his head, brows furrowed. The reality of your words isn't lost on him. There's a short pause before he nods his head softly.

"Alright," he says quietly, "fair enough."

With measured movements, you slowly lower the barrel of the M21, feeling exposed and vulnerable immediately. Holstering it across your back, you move forward to take the bolt cutters. The rubber handles feel warm still, and you wonder if electricity burns inside the material.

Jason observes you the entire time while you move towards the kitchen entrance. You make sure to not turn your back to him.

"I'll put these away, and I'll come back with a med kit. Don't move."

Jason huffs, glancing down at his side before looking back at you with an unimpressed look.

"Trust me, doll. Ain't going nowhere."

Your face pulls into a frown, and your gaze lingers on him for a second before you take a step back into the living room.

Then a thought dawns on you. And you quickly look back at him.

"Jason?"

There's a low hum in response.

"Did you cause that explosion—earlier?"

You watch wordlessly as he shuffles into the kitchen entrance way, and you take another step back into the living room. His hunched shoulders brush against the frame, leather jacket creasing.

The look of genuine confusion on his face says everything, and your blood runs cold.

Something else is out there.

Thank you for reading, God bless <3

top divider credit: @/saradika-graphics © harbours-lighthouse 2025 / i do not give permission for my work to be reposted, translated, or fed into ai. all works belong to me unless stated otherwise.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd/reader #jason todd/you #jason todd #jason todd fanfiction #red hood/reader #red hood/you #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood #red hood fanfiction #post-apocalypse au #apocalypse #harbour's writing

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emilsendo · 6 months ago

Note

Can you please make a muzan oneshot, smut with aftercare and muzan being alittle protective of m! Reader...

Thank you! <3

With pleasure I'll make this request! Take care💪🏼✨️👀

Also, I apologize for any errors in the text. I hope you will enjoy it.

_______________________________________

S!Bottom Muzan Kibutsuji

Dom!Top Male Reader

warnings: rough sex, brutal scene of torturing someone(Douma), mentions of betrayal, breeding, pain kink, swearing, no preparation, blood, gay/yaoi, etc.

Type: Smut

Request: ✅️

_______________________________________

It was a day like any other, everyone looked the same. You, as a rank 0 higher moon demon, AND as the husband of the demon king, had a wide reputation among demons and humans alike. However, Muzan Kibutsuji didn't treat your strength like the others, he loved you too much to care if you were powerful enough. For him, you were and are his property, which he must protect against possible threats. Mainly rivals created by your handsome appearance. But who would dare to endanger the MUZAN himself? Probably just a real suicide.

Y/N was currently walking through the forest after mercilessly killing a man from the village he was passing by. As an Upper Moon demon, he must eat quite regularly in order for his strength to remain the same or even greater. Even if he sometimes has some signs of humanity in his heart, he still doesn't care much about this feeling. He had long since rid himself of the feeling of guilt in his soul, all in order to be able to kill more effectively and faster. He is about 600 years old, has adapted to living in the body of a creature and killing those who resist his actions. Y/N remembers almost nothing from his past, except for the feeling of weakness... his heart only remembers how he felt then, not what he was like and what his life was like, did he have a family? Did he have a wife and children? Was he someone important? Nothing. Emptiness.

While listening to the sounds of nature, he heard another sound, but of feet pattering behind him and then next to him. It was as if this person was fast enough to somehow teleport. Y/N looked at them, his c/e eyes meeting rainbow ones. It was none other than Doma, who no one likes because... he's the least bit annoying.

— Hello, Lord Y/N~! How is our handsome boy? — he asked with a practiced and false tone of joy, something that was probably the reason why no one liked him. Y/N remained unfazed by his presence, but he felt a certain irritation. Doma moved in on him far too many times, as if he wanted more than a punch to the jaw.

— How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that? Don't you have anything else to do? — he replied with a great show of dislike towards the demon next to him, looking at him out of the corner of his eye with his deadly gaze, which usually made every demon and human bend more than one knee. But not Doma, this type has too much of a disregard for other people's needs.

— Aww~ Ice cold as always, huh? I'm just trying to be nice to Muzan's lover~.... — he said. And his voice and facial expression were like a child who didn't get what he wanted.

—You'll be nice when you get out of here.— Y/N finally looking at the shorter man with his full perspective. However, instead of an answer, he received a kiss, which shocked him. He automatically pushed him away and punched him in the jaw hard enough to tear off half his face, staining his hands with blood. Doma looked at him with a strange look, maybe if his face was intact it would look better... The man smiled slyly as if he was proud of what he had done, lightly touching his newly regenerated jaw.

Muzan won't be happy with the fact that his "property" has been touched and Y/N knows it, which is why he felt a slight twinge in his stomach from the stress. Because he'll get hurt too.

—Who the fuck are you? — a deep and loud voice asked, while the sounds of limbs and bones being torn to shreds echoed throughout the room. The muzzled hand was tearing apart Doma's body, and Doma was not reacting much to any of these harms. The brunette's blood-red eyes scanned the demon in front of him, who was kneeling.

—How dare you disregard my order? How dare you TOUCH something that belongs to me? — he grabbed the blonde by the forehead, his claw drilling a hole in the skull. He then caused his cells to slowly melt Doma's body.

Upper Rank 2 began bleeding from the inside, choking on a red substance. Pulsating, almost purple veins appeared on his skin.

—I should kill you....But you are a useful demon because of your loyalty. However, one more move like that... and I will personally expose you to the sun.— Muzan threatened, letting his brother go free.

—Muzan....I'm sorry, honey. I had no way to react to protect myself from Doma's kiss... I didn't expect it. - you whispered, your voice sounding completely different because of the way the veins that carry Muzan's blood tightened around your weave. You were in a kneeling position in front of your husband, who was sitting on a chair, his chin resting on his hand and his eyes down on your apologetic form. He had you like this for a while now, letting his anger out on you.

—.....— Muzan closed his eyes and then stopped controlling his cells, letting you breathe. His gaze moved to the side, ignoring you. You could see from a mile away that he was still pissed at you.

The moment you gained access to breathing again, you gasped. Coughing heavily from the dryness in my throat and the lack of oxygen. But you didn't have time to feel sorry for yourself, you had to console Muzan somehow, before he will kill useful demons.

You stepped closer to Muzan, resting your head on his knee.

—I love you, you know?— you said, knowing that this sentence would calm Muzan down instantly. The man finally looked at you, his gaze still as cold as ice. But his eyes became less wild, clear evidence that he had calmed down. His hand gently grabbed your chin, stroking it lightly with his thumb.

— I know. I love you too, you're like a toxin that makes me sick. But it is also very....addictive.— Muzan pulls your body up by your hand, he also stood up. Making you both switch positions, where this time you are sitting and he is kneeling.

— However, I want you to make me realize this by fucking me.— he said with a smirk. His tone was seductive and his eyes were filled with lust and horniness. Your member twitch at that sight, you couldn't resist your husband's "request", when it was clearly what you desired too deep down. Before you answered, Muzan already was working your pants off, he rip them off to be honest. Exposing your big and hard length that he loves so much, his tongue licks his lower lip, getting ready to the delicious taste he will have on it by a few seconds.

He opens his lips wide, already trying to deepthroat your dick with his tight canal. Making you hiss from pleasure and tighten your grip on the chair, claws digging into the wooden furniture. Your King sucks every good spots, pulling away for a while to spit on your cock to make it more wet. His tongue lick your tip, kissing it passionately as if making out with it, before going back down to your shaft. Licking up and down, massaging your balls and squeezing them from time to time. Making your head be on cloud 9 and resisting the urge to fuck your husband's throat. He wets your cock so good that it made such a sloppy sounds that made Muzan's mind go crazy, he only wants you to rile him like the last whore and then shower with affection. That's why he grabbed roughly your wrist and put it on his head, signaling you to control his movements.

You didn't waste any time in making him choke and gag all over your large cock, you could feel his nails pressing into your skin on thighs from pleasure and the feeling of your rough treatment. The feeling of a colossal hand gripping his hair, that clearly belong to you made his own dick almost cream his pants from excitement. And when you finally came in his mouth, he swallowed it eagerly like a treasure. His lips all red and swollen from sucking and having his mouth filled with something so thick.

— Take my clothes off. Now.— he damanded, but his voice sounds so needy and almost desperate. While he tried to mask it by cleaning your dick off from the rest of cum. You pull him on your lap with one move of your arm, making him gasp a bit. Before you took off his whole clothes, your gaze fixed on his expression that showed a pure lust. Muzan's mouth instinctively wrap itself around your fingers, wetting them as if he knows by the look on your face what you want him to do.

— Good slut.— you said with a smirk and satisfaction, even if your husband doesn't seem to like this nickname. (He feels butterflies in his stomach but his mind refuse to accept it)

— I am NOT a slut.— he said with serious tone, sounding a bit stern.

— Then I'll have to prove you wrong. Cause sluts like you can take cocks like mine without preparation.— You said, making Muzan look at you in confusion and he understood in a second what you meant.

— Oi, no!— he tried to protest in panic, his eyes widen, a loud scream from pleasure and pain left his mouth as you slam your cock inside him with one, smooth move. You groan at the tightness around your cock, it almost felt like it's sucking you inside.

— Don't cry, honey... I know you like it. Good slut-husbands like you are experts in satisfing your beloved.— you whisper in his ear, wiping his tears off from his cheeks. You looked at his expression that was a mix of pleasure and pain, his teeth clenched from the feeling of you deep inside him, touching his prostate with the tip of your cock.

Muzan was quiet for a few seconds, before he chuckles from esctasy and his red eyes fixed on you. He tighten his gummy like walls around your member to tease you and motivate you into fucking him.

— Of course.....I'll take care of your crotch like a good husband slut.— Muzan's lips kissed your face, starting with you forehead and ending at your lips. He really do love you for agreeing for you to call him this way....

Next thing he knows was you making him bounce like a desperate bunny on your dick, making sloppy sounds from going in and out of his entrance. The sounds of his loud moaning, mewling and your grunts and groans spread all over his office. Muzan's hair were messy and wet from sweat. His eyes unfocused. His sharp nails digging intl your shoulders. His legs shaking. His walls clenched and unclenched from pleasure and overstimulation. You hit his prostate over and over again, making him wanna cry to heavens.... or to hell.

Suddenly, you stand up with him in your arms, surprising him a bit as he got placed on his desk with legs spread. His back met the surface of the wooden furniture, he pants like a dog as he watched you put his legs on your shoulders, making your balls made a contact with his ass. He whimpers from that feeling.

— Fuck me.....Fuck your slutty husband.....fill me with your heirs and have the satisfaction of owning the King of demons~— Muzan said with a smirk, chest going up and down from breathing hard. That words went straight to your cock, twitching inside your lover. Your gaze like a predator, as you move oncr again. Hips snapping back and forth hard and deep, as if you were seriously trying to make him pregnant or break. He grip onto the edges of his desk, almost destroying it with his demonic strength. The pre-cum made it easier for you to go in and out of his warm and wet ass. His entrance sucked you greedy in, as if not planning for you to leave it.

— Such a good slut for me, huh? Your tiny hole seems not to want me to let go.— you said between moans, rubbing his pale waist in your hands.

— Uh-huh.....Haah...haaah...haaah...Not let go....haah...HAAH....HAAHH...— he said dumbly, without thinking twice before saying it. Feeling stupid from esctasy.

Hours passed, it was already morning and you two only just done having sex. You slip your cock out of his hole, making the cum drip from Muzan's ass. You looked at your dear husband that you spent your whole life as a demon. Admiring his appearance that looked so messy. It's kinda sad that the marks you left regenerate faster than you blink...But you still felt satisfaction, because you owned THE Muzan Kibutsuji.

— Very well, Y/N......you kept me satisfy.— Kibutsuji said, his voice breathless but his gaze intense. He pulls you towards him with strong grip, making you lay on top of his body. Rubbing your back and head with his hand.

— But you have to make me a bath with rose petals.— he demand, looking down at you with a smile. You snuggle against his chest, squeezing his nipples between your fingers. Making him glare at you.

— Control yourself. I want bath.—

— Hehehe....— you laughed nervously.

#male reader #anime #gay #oneshot #request #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #muzan kibutsuji #kny muzan #rough kink #no prep #breeding k1nk #dom male reader #top male reader #smut #18+ mdni

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holdmytesseract · 1 month ago

Text

moodboard by @chennqingg divider by @fictive-sl0th

Biker!Daryl Dixon x fem!Reader | No Outbreak AU

Warnings for this Chapter: swear words, a slap, a whole new side of Daryl, very brief mention of cheating, sad Daryl hours, Merle being Merle (again), sibling fight? (again), talks about sex?

Word Count: 2,6k

a/n: Do we feel sorry for Daryl or did he deserve it?

P.S. I love love love the song I've chosen for this chapter. It fits SO well.

《 M a s t e r l i s t 》

《 Chapter Ten 》《 Chapter Twelve 》

Chapter Eleven...

... in which the tables turn and Daryl is left with a broken heart...

Whether I'm gonna be your wife or Gonna smash up your bike, I Haven't decided yet But I'm gonna get you back

Whether I'm gonna flip you off or Pull you into the closet I haven't decided yet But I'm gonna get you back

'imgonnagetyouback' by Taylor Swift

Annie, who had made it back to you just in time to hear the words leaving your lips lifted a confused eyebrow; cocking her head. "Uhh, Y/N/N? You okay?" You didn't answer her; way too caught up in the sudden realisation that the man who broke your heart like it was a mere stick stood just across the street. "Y/N? Hey, what-" Your friend finally followed your gaze then. Her eyes darting between you and Daryl. "Who's that?"

Her words snapped you out of your trance; brain finally catching up - and once it did, you felt an cocktail of emotions brewing inside you... Anger, confusion, sadness, pain - a weird kind of happiness... But anger was at least in that very moment the strongest one. Balling your hands into fists, you forced your feet to work again. "Y/N?" "He is one of the biggest assholes in the United States. Probably even whole America," was all you said, before you stalked into his direction - full of determination.

Since the lot of students had disappeared by now, Daryl was able to get a better view as well - and once he noticed you, his heart suddenly leaped into his throat. He pushed himself off his bike and took a few steps towards you. The biker opened his mouth to say something, but you didn't even let him finish your name, before your palm connected harshly with his cheek; slapping him with all your strength.

Of course went Daryl immediately silent; lifting his own hand to rub his now red and aching right side of his face. "Ow..." He quietly stated with a grimace. "'S okay, though. I deserve it..."

You completely ignored his words and let your anger take over instead. "What the hell are you doing here?!" Daryl flinched and ducked his head. Currently, there was absolutely no trace left of the confident playboy. "Came 'ere to talk with ya," he answered carefully.

You snorted out a laugh and crossed your arms over your chest. "How did you even find me, huh?" "Dun matter." "Yes, it d- Wait... Did Tess spill it?!" Daryl shook immediately his head. "Nah." Your eyes widened. "Oh my gosh, were you stalking me?!" "Wha'?!" Daryl almost squeaked out in shock. "No! Fer God's sake, Y/N! I ain't stalkin' ya! 'M not a psycho!" You narrowed your eyes. "How did you find me then?" He sighed; nervously scratching his beardy chin. "Drove to Miles City, waited in that bar for ya... Tess saw me. Ta say she wasn't amused 's an understatement. Gave me quite some hell. 'N of course she didn't tell me where ya went. Met a kind old lady on ma way 'n she told me. Didn't ask her right away, though. Was jus' lookin' for the ranch."

You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose. "Mrs. Peterson..." You mumbled under your breath.

"Tess didn't tell ya 'bout seein' me?" Daryl was kinda astonished; only thinking about this now. And honestly, you were wondering why your sister didn't tell you about Daryl's 'visit' as well. You shrugged your shoulders. "Guess she just wanted to protect me... And my heart." The man opposite you nodded; fumbling his fingers and biting on his bottom lip again.

You sighed once more and turned to Annie - who was standing a few yards away. She didn't make a sound; eyes darting between you and the stranger. "Annie, go already ahead okay? I'll catch up to you." Now spoken to, she immediately woke from her reticence and gave Daryl a last judgemental, warning gaze, before she passed you by. "Alright. Take care, yeah? If you need me to kick his ass and optionally cut off his balls, just call me, yeah?" Your friend whispered in your ear. You had to suppress a giggle. "Promise." She nodded and left; already heading for the Subway you meant to have dinner together.

Redirecting your attention to Daryl, you took a deep breath and swallowed; the anger within you subsiding so slowly. "You want to talk? Then talk. Now or never," you finally stated and buried your hands in the denim jacket you wore.

You could practically see the gears turning in his head. How much he was struggling to form the right words in his head.

"Y/N, I... I need ya, please," he just blurted out then; not knowing what else to say. This wasn't easy for the not so eloquent biker.

You crossed your arms over your chest; giving the man standing opposite you a hard glare. This wasn't what you expected - or was it? Anyways, it wasn't something you wanted to hear. "Daryl, I'm not stupid. Not anymore. If this is about sex, you can thoroughly go fuck yourself or-" "Nah!" Daryl interrupted you - almost frantically; realising he had already chosen the wrong words. "Nah, 's not 'bout sex, I..." He huffed frustratingly; fingers fumbling nervously. "L-Look, 'm not good at this. I never..." The biker trailed off and sighed. "'M sorry, Y/N. I was an asshole... A goddamn blind 'n stupid asshole. Took me a minute ta realise it 'n sort this out, but... I-I miss ya 'n it kills me, 'cause... I-I like ya - a lot." Daryl found and finally said the words; immediately ducking his head and chewing hard on the inside of his lip once more - afraid of your reaction. Afraid of... rejection?

You had never seen him like this before... So... Nervous and uncertain... Even insecure. You swallowed hard. Your heart screamed at you to just cross the few yards separating you and jump into the man's arms - but then your brain joined the party and reminded you what got you and Daryl in this situation in the first place... He broke your heart and - knowingly or unknowingly played with your feelings. He treated you like a cheap whore in some kind of way. Using you for some fun and then threw you carelessly aside like a pair of worn out jeans. You had been hurting badly for weeks - months... You couldn't just erase the memory from your brain and say fuck it. You just couldn't...

"No, Daryl. That's not how this works. You can't just tear my heart into pieces and return a few weeks later and tell me you changed your mind," you stated; shaking your head. "Standing here with your hands in your pockets and a simple apology isn't enough."

The biker started to nod; heart clenching in his chest. So that was how it felt..., he thought - but he deserved it. Daryl knew that. It was only fair.

"Wha' do I gotta do, Y/N? I-I really wantcha back..." Daryl whispered from behind his thumb, on which he had started to gnaw. You took a deep breath. "Show me that your intentions and feelings are pure. You have to earn my trust. Show me that you really mean it. That you really want this - me... Us. A relationship."

Once again the biker nodded; understanding your terms. You were more than right. He didn't know how he could be so foolish to think that you'd welcome him back with open arms after what he had done to you - and fucking hell, he regretted it to his very core. Daryl had already done a few bad and questionable things in his life, but that was by far the worst.

"H-How?" He asked shyly; not having a single clue about how all this stuff worked. The only relationships - if you could even call it that - he ever had was back in his youth and high school years, and after he found out about his last girlfriend cheated on him, he decided to never do shit like that again; settling on one-night-stands, whores and strippers (especially Leah) instead - and now here he was...

"I... I don't know, Daryl, I..." You sighed and took a deep breath. "I need some time and space, okay? I... I have to let the scar heal. Give me some time and I'll come to you when I'm ready to give you - us, another chance."

It felt like a punch into the gut for the biker, but dear god, of course he understood. Respecting your wish was the least he could do. Hell, he should be grateful that you even considered to give him another chance. "'Course, yeah, sure, got it. I understand."

You gave Daryl a nod and a tight-lipped smile, before you adjusted the bag dangling off your shoulder and turned to leave. This time, you were the one walking away - and damn, the pain in the biker's chest seemed to be unbeatable...

"So... Who was that guy?" Annie immediately asked you the moment you sat down on the both across from her; watching her take a bite off her sandwich. "Daryl. My ex... Uh... Ex-lover?" You didn't even know how to label what the both of you had. It hadn't been friendship and certainly not a romantic relationship. "I don't know what we were. It was sex for him, love for me..." You tried to explain; trailing off. Annie swallowed her bite and gave you a scrutinising look. "Okay, yeah, no. I wanna hear everything. Spill it."

So, you did.

"Wow, what an asshole, indeed... And now you're thinking about giving him another chance? Do I get that part right?" You bit your lip; a slight blush forming on your cheeks as you nodded. "I-I, yeah, kinda? I don't know... I need time to think about it..." Your friend raised an accusing eyebrow. "So, he comes back to you, proclaims he loves you and you just... say alright, let's go?" "No, Annie, I didn't. I-" You sighed; rubbing the heels of your hands in your eyes in frustration. "Like I said... Need time to think about it."

She just stared at you then for a good minute and studied your face, before she spoke up again - and literally confronted you straight away with the truth you tried to bury since weeks deep down in your heart and brain. You almost felt offended.

"You still love him, don't you?"

You swallowed hard; actually not wanting to admit it, but in the end, you nodded - defeatedly. Annie shook her head; pressing her lips into a thin line... "Oh, girl..."

You shrugged your shoulders and lowered your head to stare at the surface of the table. "I know..." You whispered; feeling the lump forming in your throat. "I know I should hate him for what he did, but I can't... I just can't... I tried to get over him, and whenever I thought I made it, he keeps pulling me back in."

Your friend's expression changed, turned compassionate. "I'm sorry, Y/N/N, but please... Before you decide to just run back to him, do think it through, okay? Be careful." You nodded. "I will. I told him I would. The scar hasn't healed yet. Gotta do that first."

The short 'reunion' didn't left Daryl untouched as well. Your words kept echoing through his mind while he drove back home. He knew he had to give you the time you needed and he wanted to, but it was a difficult task to accomplish with an aching heart beating within your chest. All he wanted was to have you close; move heaven and hell to show you that his intentions were honest this time... That his love for you was real and sincere. But all he could do now was hoping... Hoping that you'd grant him a second chance.

Once Daryl arrived back home at his trailer, he did just as much as having a quick, cold shower and some canned ravioli, before he immediately went to his brother's workshop; not even bothering to sleep for at least a few hours. He needed distraction - even if it meant to deal with Merle and his stupid comments. Motorcycles were his life. It was how it was.

The younger Dixon was the only one at the workshop at that time of the day; the sun already setting. And of course it didn't take Merle long to become aware of his brother's sudden presence...

"You're back, baby brother?" Merle's voice urged to the biker's ears and caused him to lift his head. "Yeah, 'm back," Daryl answered nonchalantly; immediately returning to the task at hand - changing the tyres of the Harley Davidson beside him.

"What? That's it? Ya got nothin' else to say?" Daryl shrugged his shoulders. "Whatcha want me ta say?"

The older Dixon scoffed and rolled his eyes; crossing his arms over his chest.

"You been away for a whole damn week 'n now you jus' stroll in here 'n work as if nothin' happened? Like ya ain't just walked out on me?" Merle raised his voice; echoing through the big hall. Daryl didn't even flinch. He just continued to prop up the Harley. "Yeah, so?" He stated; shrugging his shoulders once again. "Ya ain't ma daddy, Merle. 'M a grown ass man." Daryl wiped his nose with the back of his tattooed hand and walked over to get the fresh tyres he needed.

Merle being Merle, he couldn't just leave it be and followed him. The older Dixon had a suspicion what caused his baby brother to act that way. This all wasn't usual Daryl behaviour. Something had changed over the past months... Merle was a lot, but not stupid.

"It's all about a girl, ain't it?" Merle stated bluntly; straightfaced. It caused Daryl to freeze in his movements for a moment.

How the hell could he know?

The biker clenched his jaw. "Again... 'S none of your damn business, Merle."

Daryl's obvious defensive reaction was proof enough for Merle. He barked out a laugh. "Got ya there, baby brother. You're really whipped, ain't ya?" Daryl just grumbled; finding the oil slick on the concrete ground beneath him suddenly very interesting. But Merle wasn't done yet - of course.

"Wait, wait, wait..." He suddenly exclaimed. "Don't tell me it's that girl ya screwed on yer bike trip through Montana!" Once again, Daryl answered nothing.

What was he supposed to say anyway? He had clearly lost this 'battle', before it had even started.

Merle had looked right through him. Sure, it took him quite some time to figure out that this was all about a woman, but he got there.

"Fuckin' hell, it is!" Merle laughed and grinned; sending his brother that dirty smile he knew so well. "Was her pussy that good, Darlina? Man, perhaps I should've really gone to Montana myself for that damn job I gave ya... Could've had a taste myself." Merle winked at his brother; still with that smile on his lips - and Daryl had enough. He was used to his brother's teasing and dirty comments, but with that he had truly crossed a line.

"Shut the fuck up, Merle!" The younger Dixon exploded and stalked angrily over to the older man; chest puffed out. "Dun talk about 'er like that, ya hear me?! She ain't nothing like 'em desperate whores you fuck every Saturday night! She's so much more than tha'! You should better keep yer dirty mouth shut, 'cause you dun know a damn thing 'bout love!" Daryl shakes his head and took a deep breath to calm his raging nerves, before taking a few steps backwards. "Honestly, man, I feel sorry for ya. Bein' in love is the best damn thing in this godforsaken world - and ya never got ta experience it, only 'cause you are convinced tha' it's for pussies and losers. 'S not. Tha's bullshit. I know tha' now."

Without another word, Daryl turned his back to his older brother and kneeled down beside the bike and returned to changing the tyres. And Merle? Merle could just stand there and stare; being rendered speechless by his younger brother.

Tags: @dixons-sunshine @dixonsdarkelf @negansbestie @angelwings-crossbowstrings @belitoxx @fictive-sl0th @whore4romance @stitchintimefan @imadisneyprincessiswear @dilfdixon @erebus-et-eigengrau @making-the-most-0f-it @secretsicanthideanymore @sweetz1919 @km-ffluv @cakesandtom @mikaela-granger @0-aubrie0 @marvelcasey05 @loz-3 @bigbaldheadname @huntedmusicgardenn @mayday2007 @ffsjustletmesleep @chaoticevilbakugo

If you want to be added or removed from this taglist, please let me know!

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xyle-05 · 22 days ago

Text

Break My Wall

Someone must be renovating.

Ghost thought as he walked out of the lift. Its blaring sound radiates throughout the hall, breaking the silence of his usually quiet afternoon return from service after a long deployment. It must have been a while if the crisp noise of the power saw still buzzing at this hour.

I need some rest and maybe order takeout.

He grunts as he retrieves his keys from his pocket, balancing the duffel bag he carries carefully to avoid too much movement with his broken arm in a sling. His last mission had gone sideways due to a faulty intel resulting in a fractured bone and earning a cast on his right arm with a five-week recovery period.

With the rattling of his keys and inserted into the doorknob, he seemed to notice the sound of the saw was coming from next door, right beside his flat. Opening the door made the vibration of the saw more louder, and then he stepped into his dark living room. When suddenly lights shimmered protrude his vision, the crackling sound of a wood falling, and a thundering bang echoed.

Just by the entrance to the left wall, a hole has been made, a sizable door length emerges. A woman holding a power saw

in her right hand and on her head her left hand is standing at the opening. The dirty denim rompers and messy hair fit her silhouette suggest she is the one making the renovating.

Ghost and the woman locked eyes for what felt like an eternity. You, the woman, were the first to break the trance.

"Oh my gosh, not again! I'm gonna so dead." He hears the sweet music of a voice but in panicked and stressed.

He kept looking at her dumbfounded by the absurdity of this situation. A hole has been made at his side of the wall. The woman was still in panic when she noticed a figure standing in the dark living room of her next-door flat.

She let out a loud shriek and exclaimed "You here now?! What?! How?! Why didn't you stop me?! Now ---." and kept on rambling about sawing the wall, about the owner gonna kick her out and other stuffs, that leave him standing confused.

The Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley was awestruck by her liveliness and mesmerized by her sparkling bight (e/c) eyes that had so much expression. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, why was the woman making a hole in the wall?

"Calm down." A deep rumble voice out grabbing the woman's attention.

"Oh... Hi." As you relax your shoulders and turn to face the man.

"Explain" Ghost gestures towards her, putting down his bag on the floor, and coming closer to you.

"Um, We haven't met yet but. I'm your next-door neighbor, I just moved in a month ago. I was making room adjustments. I know I probably made your return bad and our first meeting. But I heard of you from Sharon from room 305, lovely old lady, she told all kinds of gossips around the neighborhood. So anyway, I was just renovating when I had the idea of putting on a wall bookshelf, I know bad idea, I didn't know that this much small thickness of a wall we have cause I didn't hear from your side of the wall and thought it must have at least divider, turn out it's not." You ramble on with ecstatic hand movements, Ghost giving you his full attention. He finds you amusing but doesn't show.

"Please don't tell the owner, I'll fix it. Though I don't know how, you see I'm not that handyperson." You plead sincerely. Ghost looks behind you beyond the holed wall, at a mess of what seems to be the amalgamation of woodwork gone bad. Whatever you were making, Ghost could not see the progress.

"Oh!" You look at him and thought of excellent compensation.

"I could cook for you, I'm a food blogger, you see. I just sometimes give away my remaining cuisines to other neighbors. But seeing you in a cast, you might be my main customer."You proudly announce.

"And I will fix it—the hole, I mean. However, it takes some time, so you don't have to do anything. And I might inconvenience you, but you can guarantee I will be at your beck and call."

"Why?" he questioned hesitantly at your eagerness-to-please attitude.

"Um, You might have noticed the side of your wall, and I wanna pay you for your service to the country. I don't know much about the military but I know you can't use your casted hand. And can you not. please, please tell the landlord" You plead.

He sighed in defeat "Fine. No people on my side. No messing with my stuff. Is that clear."

"You got no people, no mess. What about the food? Where should i put it?" You asked softly.

"Just put it on the table. And no more power tools, its late afternoon and I need to rest." He replied, turn and pick up his bag to pace in his room.

The woman was strange to say the least, but captivitating. Her fumble face, her pleading smiles, to her sweet voice, everything about the woman was enchannting in way that made Simon Riley keep thinking about her.

This will be an interesting few weeks, he declared.

#cod modern warfare #simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #cod ghost #cod #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #ghost #ghost cod

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itsnathateasy · 6 months ago

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Natt your headcannons are so cute and I desperately need comfort right now🙏 of course you write best with Armin... but can I beg you to write hcs for Erwin and a child/child-figure reader? maybe the rest of the veterans too, I love them so much</3

(although, honestly, Armin is so clearly Erwin's favorite lolol. hed be the kind of dad to very non-subtly talk to Armin about his kid who just so happens to be around the same age like a grandma trying to get her grandkid a partner...)

hi lydia! right into the hormones with this ask! i’m not apologising for wanting an Erwin daddy (for myself tehe😈) (i'm so glad you're enjoying the hcs so far!🫂 thanks for taking the time to read them!)

sorry for taking ages to write this, i've been all over the place lately and these headcanons have been my sole consolation!

warnings: mentions of pregnant reader in the beginning, otherwise mostly fluff! also, this is in a canonverse!

word count: 1,9k

So if you and Erwin had a kid, you’ve literally nothing to worry about. He’s a good daddy (to the both of you😈). He’s the best paternal figure for your kid and an amazing partner.

The moment you told Erwin you’re pregnant, you felt as if your entire world had collapsed. He literally couldn’t have appeared any more disinterested. Sure, he was tired from his mission, but… Didn’t you deserve some attention? All you got was a “That’s amazing sweetheart, I’m so proud of you” and a peck on the temple, before he returned to his newspaper. You were so upset and decided to get some sleep because, if you didn’t, he wouldn’t make it out of the house alive. Truth be told, he was probably trying to conceal his panic. He was going to be a dad!

To your surprise, you woke up to Erwin emptying your laundry room, measuring the walls, windows, door etc. “Just making sure this is a proper room for an infant. Won’t you take a look at those colour and fabric catalogues? I’ve marked a few choices I liked” you couldn’t help but smile to yourself. A man of action, indeed!

The first time Erwin saw your baby he was so conscious with his actions, scared to death that he might hurt them unintentionally. “Just support their head and torso and… You’re doing great!” you said as you fully let go of your baby in his strong arms. “This is so… God, y/n… This is the best day of my entire life!” This was the only time you ever witnessed the commander sobbing.

(This is genderless of course BUT I feel that Erwin would KILL for a son, but then he gets a daughter and goes all “I’ll make you a strong, independent woman”, you feel me? Back to the genderless kid now!)

Erwin is a tough love kind of person. While this still applies to him as a dad, you’ve seen tremendous change in him. He’s so caring and giving to your child, you almost don’t recognise him at first. (Although as the kid grows up, he kinda goes back to being more of a tough love type of guy, but mostly to teach them the value of hard work or something) (the type of dad to teach them a bunch of things, whether the kid likes it or not!)

I mean, if your kid isn’t doing their homework, Erwin will of course try to get to the bottom of things. “Why don’t you want to study today? Is something wrong at school?” but he’s also the dad to “Listen, I can plant the knowledge in your head, but I can’t make it sprout for you. You have to study on your own as well and you need to pay attention to your teachers. I’ll be in the living room if you’ve more questions”.

Erwin is the dad to plan Sundays in nature. Although he adores the sound of you and your kid playing indoors, while he’s reading his paper, he does love to actively spend time with you. He believes every outdoor activity is a great chance to teach you both some new skills, so do expect him to show you (and your toddler) how to chop wood. “Erwin, they’re three years old” “They need to know about these things, y/n. When I was their age, my dad made me carry the logs all the way home too” “You’re not making our three-year old carry logs Erwin” you protested with a slight glare. “I’m not making our three-year old carry logs, sweetheart”, surrendering with a smile.

While Erwin is more of a traditional dad, I don’t think this applies to how he sees you or his participation in housework and childcare. He’s traditional because he wants to teach your kid values and nurture them into a decent human being. That’s why he makes extra sure to help you fold clothes, clear the dining table etc. Especially if your kid is watching you. He’s trying to set the best possible example. If your kid is old enough to participate in chores, Erwin makes sure they do. “Chores are something we share. It’s like when dad’s on a mission with his team. Every team member has an important role to play. Our role inside the house is to make sure that the chores are completed.” It’s a good thing he was so attentive to the kid as he spoke, because you were on the verge of tears. Where did you even get this man?

He’s also traditional in the sense that he wants to be the provider. He’s the man to make a fuss when you say you want to get back to work, but he also respects you enough to recognise that you have to make your own choices on these matters.

Erwin is so big on rules, it’s almost annoying sometimes. “Why are you still in your pyjamas?” (even on a Saturday!) type of rules. Also, “There’s no dessert, if you don’t finish your lunch. Do you think your mother is obligated to cook for you? We should support mum, show her we’re grateful for all she does for us, not make her life miserable. Eat your peas, then we can all enjoy some pudding”.

“Same goes for mum. Mum has to finish her plate AND her pudding, so she can get some rest.” He gave you a playful smirk, knowing how you were desperate for a nap after your long day.

I KNOW IT IN MY BONES that Erwin is a sucker for activities he considers “smart”. Playing chess, reading books, solving puzzles and crosswords, that kind of games. He also tries to make up his own mind games. He thinks this is the best way to keep your kid’s mind as sharp as possible.

(He also makes them ACTUALLY strategise with him smh… He says that “a fresh, unbiased mind can share a fresh, unbiased perspective”. He’s always super impressed by the comments your child shares with him and how complex those comments become as they mature).

“Dad, how did you and mum meet?” You and Erwin exchange a look at the unexpected question. “Let me demonstrate...” he walked closer to you and held your hand in his. “Erwin we can’t really… Demonstrate this...” You admitted shyly, cheeks blushing, recalling one of your very first dates. “We’ll only demonstrate the suitable for work details, such as...” you inhaled sharply as he slammed you on his torso “How I asked you to dance with me and you didn’t know how to, so you kept stepping on my toes” “It’s not true Erwin! Don’t perpetuate the lie!” You couldn’t hold back your laughter at the sweet memory. “Dad, dad! Did mum go like this on your toes?” then proceeded to give him the worst toe-stepping experience of his life, as they stepped down on him with all of their force.

“The little devil almost threw my nails out! Can you believe how strong they are already?” He said rubbing his sore toes. “That was karma, Erwin, delivered to you in the best way possible!”

“When can I go out on my own dad?” “When you’re tall enough to reach things from the top shelf for your mother. Now go back to your studying.”

When your kid is sick, Erwin kinda loses it. Not in a hectic or panicky way. Mostly, he doesn’t know how to care for a sick person. He’s used to taking the sick or injured people to the infirmary, but how do care for a tiny person?

“Calm down, Erwin! It’s just a cold! Think of yourself. What do YOU do when you’re sick?” “I- Uhm...” He considered this for a while, deep in thought, his fist supporting his chin. “I don’t do anything, y/n. I’ve only ever been to the infirmary due to injuries” “You’re insufferable Erwin” you giggled as you showed him to your medicine cabinet. “They still weigh around sixty pounds. You pop one of these bad boys” you pointed to the painkillers, making the pills jiggle inside their paper box as you continued, “and you have to make sure they’ve eaten beforehand. It helps to drink some water as they swallow the pill. Take their temperature every few hours, make them drink some water, and that’s it!” All this time, his eyes were glued on yours, taking in every single thing you said. “Am I a bad father for not having attending to my sick kid before?” he questioned, eyes still deep in thought, obviously upset by his absence from your kid’s life. “You provide for us. And you risk your life for our entire community, every single day you’re not with us.” You said and touched your arm to his shoulder. “It’s no easy task. Besides, you’re here now and you’re here as often as you’re able too. You’re here for what’s important, trust me.” You explained earnestly. “You still do most of the work though, y/n. It’s not fair. You shouldn’t be doing this on your own.” “I’m not on my own now, am I?”

He really questions himself when it comes to finding a balance between work and family. I know it in my heart that he's doing his best for his precious family!

Erwin intervenes. A whole lot. “What is this book you’re reading?” “Do you have your eyes on any special lady/gentleman?” “Why didn’t you get the highest score in your class?”. Sometimes, he really puts too much pressure on your child. You have to pull him aside and explain that “You can’t control what another person does. Let them be themselves. They’re doing so well already, they’re just… Not as obsessed with succeeding in everything as you” you said and smirked at him. “I’m not obsessed, I’m just the best, y/n! Did you think I became the commander on accident?” He protested, in an almost defensive way, his hand on his chest. “I’m only saying, they don’t have to be as successful as you. They’re good enough and they’re doing their own thing. Let them be and don’t project on them.” He gave you a look as if he saw you for the first time. “Do you think I’m acting like my father, y/n?” (THE PANIC IN HIS VOICE!!)

When your kid receives a medal or does well in whatever they’re interested in, Erwin is the most proud dad to ever exist on the planet. His face is actually glowing and he’s boasting way more than the kid themselves. “I think they took after my sense of discipline. Look how far they’ve come y/n!” “Of course they take after you, Erwin! You’ve taught them so much!” “They wouldn’t be who they are without you, sweetheart.”

BONUS (when the child is 16+)

I do agree that Erwin is the type of person to try and introduce his kid to his favourite scouts. It’s also no secret that Erwin has a liking to Armin. A first, he’s not so sure that Armin is a good candidate for his offspring, as he used to be this timid, small boy. But as time passes, Erwin sees the brilliant mind and strategist that is Armin, he’s got to secure him, you know??

He’d make sure the offspring attends any formal ceremonies as an attempt to get these two to interact. Once he’s finally introduced them to one another, he tries so desperately to put in a good word here and there. It’s funny, because neither Armin or your kid has realised Erwin is doing this on purpose. “Can you not play match maker Erwin? Aren’t you a bit old for this?” “You don’t understand sweetheart. Armin’s a real catch! He’s going to be a commander after I retire, I’m sure! We just need to keep a close eye on him!”

#snk #shingeki no kyojin #aot #attack on titan #erwin smith #erwin smith x reader #erwin x reader #dad erwin #aot x reader #itsnathateasy wrote this!

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efingart · 9 months ago

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Hey E! idkifishouldaskhereorinyourcodaccount BUT I’ll ask anyway. I’ve noticed you post a lot about Frank Woods, what made Woods be THE favorite character for you?

Hey no worries, I'm not exactly the most organized so it doesn't make a difference to me!

Oh my god where do I start? I'm going to try so hard to hold back because I will just tell you everything I like about him and this will take me even longer to write 😅

Frank falls into the unwanted child trope a bit. Not confirmed by Activision, but close enough and it is a trope that I find myself drawn to. The idea that he was a runaway, his home life must have been bad enough that the streets were better. Born right at the start of the Great Depression so his early life was never going to be easy. But he must have been resourceful and smart enough to survive. Another quality I like in my faves. It's interesting to think about that piece of his history that we will probably never get in any detail in canon. But that's ok, I'm happy to fill in the gaps with my own headcanons and fics.

Frank was then able to pick himself off the streets and enlist (his options were so limited, but he must have made the best choice for himself at the time.) Become such a standout that he was recruited into the CIA. And there, despite being a "self-reliant loner" he developed close friendships with Mason and Bowman. (as an aside, it is always funny when people hc he's an extrovert when he's very much not)

It's clear he cares for them deeply, even at the expense of his own well being as seen in 'Payback.' I do think he was still reeling from Bowman's death and that's why he acted with such reckless disregard for his own life. (But that's headcanon)

The way he reacts when anyone else is hurt or in danger, it's always them first him second, even in the middle of a firefight (redirecting Mason's attention to the pilot in 'Victor Charlie,' the kid on the PBR in 'Crash Site', the nurse during 'Suffer With Me' in BO2, multiple examples).

Then the way he treats Bell. I think he's the first person to deliver Bell a genuine compliment in the game (if you're a good shot). He knows his people and if I could ever get the damn sound bite again of him saying to Bell that he'd bet they'd like five minutes with the supercomputer to work again I'd link it here. How does he know Bell is such a nerd if he doesn't give a damn about his team?

He and Mason are the only ones who actually treat Bell as a member of the team. And that endeared me to him before I even knew about the plot twist.

And of course, the pain of Black Ops 2. He's just fucking dragged through the ringer isn't he? Everything, the shipping container, watching his entire team die, his tragic mistakes and how he reflects them as an old man. I really love that we get to see him as an old man. See him removed from his experiences in the 80s section of BO2. It's so interesting.

I mean even while he's still managing fresh life-changing injuries he still rallies for a kid who needs him. And he must have done a good job raising David because the kid turned out just fine in the end.

I probably could think of a half dozen more specific examples, his outrage at Project Greenlight for one: "Thousands dying in a flash and you're talking about fucking infrastructure."

Or how he has David's childhood drawings hung up in his room at the Vault.

I'm sure I'll have a dozen more after Black Ops 6 comes out if they deliver on the promised emotional journey storyline for Frank. (God, I'm so unbelievably happy he's in BO6.)

TL;DR

Frank is a complicated person. He has had it rough but doesn't wallow in self-pity. He's a smart and capable leader. He's imperfect. He knows how and when to keep things light. He takes care of his people. He rallies when he's most needed even if it's at his own expense. On the shallow end of things? He's hot, he's got great fashion sense.

Sorry, it took me a bit to get this all out. I think again I was trying to balance the urge to just dump every thought and feeling I have vs trying to be a bit more thoughtful about it. Also just cross-referencing things from the games to make sure I remembered them correctly. I'm sure there's a lot I left out. I'm planning on playing through 1, CW, & 2 again before BO6 comes out so I'm sure I'll have more thoughts to share. 😅

I genuinely appreciate you asking me about this, I love talking about Frank. Thank you so so much.

#you’ve got mail 💌#thank you so much for the ask!!!#I was genuinely thrilled to get it #frank woods #call of duty #black ops #black ops cold war #cod black ops

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quietbluejay · 4 months ago

Text

The Buried Dagger Take 2 #1

Anyways, in doing this I have completely left any objectivity behind at the station. If you're a Garro fan, you're probably not going to enjoy me complaining about him every time he shows up. If you're a Mortarion hater, you're not going to enjoy the simping. If you're a Swallow fan...well I do have a few nice things to say about his writing, but I also have a few harsh things, and some things that are probably unfair! Swallow's writing can be really hit or miss for me, even within the same book.

now on with the show!

man I remember the first time I read the sample, my entire reaction was basically "okay, edgelord" "of COURSE his name is Mortarion" "of COURSE he's mad at his dad" little did I know he would become blorbo

but observe the first paragraphs:

the people of Ynyx don't have mouths! honestly i think one of the book's flaws is that it goes a bit too far into edge and ends up in the silly zone

I'm waking up/I feel it in my bones

blah blah everyone took drugs but it doesn't matter, they're all gonna be dead by nightfall the prose is kind of dancing on the line between purple and evocative

so we're on page 4 and we know a few things about mort: -sir kills a lot -edgy -hates his dad -cares about the Death Guard

lol lmao you know what you thought the perturabo playlist was cringe? the mortarion one is gonna be even cringier

he's breathing in the chemicals i know i made this joke the first time i read it, i don't care, i'll make it again he's so cringe (affectionate) Mortarion looks at the faces of the puny mortals, looking for understanding

dumbass also, heh so he just shoots them all with his fancy energy pistol "Why did Horus send me here?" Mortarion breathes in the chemicals again the tldr is this planet is basically useless strategically or in terms of what they can loot and sending Mort and the Death Guard was a huge amount of overkill

after having actually seen them being buddies in Vengeful Spirit and The Path of Heaven, this is kinda sad little does mortarion know he can't even trust himself it gets a bit into his daemon research he haaates it but the reasoning is that you can't afford to not be pragmatic on Barbarus let's put a pin in this there's a scene I'm thinking of that happens fairly late in the book that'll be interesting to look at

also, Magnus gets described as an "arrogant braggart" my salt is being fed

you could just say "chill", Swallow it's okay doesn't "the chill hand of the immaterium" sound much better? wait i missed a chance to make a joke about the horrors every day Mortarion gets emails

LoreLover:

which Chaos god would give the worst spam e-mails? Tzeentch: Constant phishing attacks and scams. Slaanesh: Shock videos, plastic surgery, extreme fashion adds Nurgle: Nothing but viruses and worms to corrupt your data Khorne: Physically cutting your cables because get outside and fight me panzy.

on the topic of the horrors, Mortarion thinks about possessed!Grulgor who is chilling in a cage right now poor Grulgor also yeah how'd he end up here i really hope it explains in a short story somewhere because what happened in Vengeful Spirit was VERY confusing in vengeful spirit mortarion was like "here have some geneseed" like he was feeding pigeons and plague daemon grulgor showed up Grulgor: let me kill for you, Mortarion Grulgor: please ask me to kill for you Mortarion:….

Mortarion doesn't let Grulgor do it, because a) that would be too easy b) he's worried it's a trap by Chaos

juuuust like dear old dad oh hey ends justify the means take a shot

im back on my anti-consequentialism bullshit again~

LoreLover: Oh, please Mortarion. You guys used goddamn man-reapers instead of normal swords and spears. You lost the pragmatism argument ages ago.

quietbluejay: don't you see, he has to do it it makes things so much easier~ genuinely, why do i like this guy again oh right McNeill tried to make me hate him also he's so dramatic

fight time it doesn't take long though but, how are they gonna get inside the building

it was kind of cool the ground is sand and the dudes were hiding underground so it's like - when you guys were kids, if you walked down those stairs that don't have backs, did you ever have your parents or someone grab your ankles through them? it's like that except it's not stairs sorry i don't know if that made any sense

HES BREATHING IN THE CHEMICALS

i made this joke last time, but I think Swallow's Imagine Dragons CD has a scratch in it also wait how many times has he been described as pallid so far or gaunt

anyways the grenade breaks open the wall of the citadel

Morarg POV! he's picking off any survivors that Mortarion leaves which is like, not that many people lol

a lot of the time there isn't much to do for Morarg but stand and watch sorry "act as witness to the unchained maelstrom that was Mortarion's cold wrath" Morarg is cool with that

there's a bit about all the 7s because it's a lucky number "now seen as a simple tactical nicety"

so in addition to being Mortarion's equerry, Morarg is also the closest thing the Death Guard have to a lorekeeper gene-modified guardians show up and Mortarion kills those two as well owo while Morarg is watching Mortarion kill things, he gets an alert on his phone er, his helmet

so they get to the boss room and it's triggering for Mortarion because it reminds him of the throne room on Terra

yes the final boss is a brain in a jar

welp rip two of the deathshroud get blasted into the magma lake Mortarion: I taste witchery no, literally, he calls it witchery, and he tastes it

geez, calas, don't you know he's got a thing about killstealing? anyways mort squishes the brain Mortarion: you chose this moment to show your face again so dramatic

as much as i'm kinda mocking the edge, it's got a kind of charm to it, you know?

but now it's time for Mort and Typhon to catch up

typhon starting to talk like a daemon lmao the orders are from horus, it's time to attack terra! but first, an actual discussion

but not yet it was too soon "The embrace would come when due. Nothing would stop that from happening" Mortarion is going to get hugged whether he wants to or not!

TemplarWarden: Man really pulling on that 'I don't like you but I kinda like you' brotherly vibe. LoreLover: Tsundere Mortarion

Typhon thinks about how Mortarion bound daemon!Grulgor which is apparently a feat of some skill also heh "satiate his desire for knowledge" whoooo does that sound like

LoreLover then posted a TTS!Magnus meme

I'm going to tldr a silly discussion about 30k characters as FSN characters except to leave you with

Perturabo is like the unholy lovechild of Sola-Ui and Kirei

Typhon has some Sakura similarities (childhood friend. dark secret. starts eating people)

Typhon, you've officially moved into the "creepy" zone

uh oh… the diamonds are a surprise tool that will harm us later

meanwhile, Typhon isn't sure what sort of reaction Mortarion wants him to show about Barbarus being killed by the Dark Angels

TemplarWarden: That's less a foreshadowing or Chekovs gun and more a foresolar eclipse or Chekovs ICBM

Typhon thinks that he would have been among the ones who were angry before, but not any more, not after Zaramund where he found clarity

TemplarWarden: this man has so much edge I'm getting papercuts from it quietbluejay: wait til we get to his childhood

Typhon: anyways we can get vengeance on the Lion at Terra Mortarion: yes

and that ends the first chapter and all i'll do for tonight, don't want to strain the arms next time we're over to the worst subplot ever

TemplarWarden: Ah yay once again the classic primarch twisted logic. Well it doesn't matter to me actually but I'm still gonna do the vengeance.

Arzach (our resident no 1 Mortarion fan): That remind me : in this book and in Dark Imperium, Typhon/us reasons for his betrayal are not pettiness or dislike of Mortarion but almost a brotherly love, a genuine desire of « helping » his friend / brother to be better. And it’s somehow worse.

#bluejay reads warhammer #warhammer 40k #horus heresy #bluejay slanders swallow

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seenoversundown · 10 months ago

Text

For Death Or Glory : Chapter Nine

Jake Kiszka x Charlotte (Fem OC)

Warnings: FLUFF, a very mild mention of gagging, uncomfortable tension, alcohol / drinking, SOME FLIRTING ACTION 😏, quite literally the most painful paragraph I have written so far (dramatic but you'll get it i promise) and some cute, silly banter.

Word Count: 5k

Summary: The day after drinking a little too much proves to be a tough start, but ends up being an even tougher evening.

Author's Note: Oh I am just twiddling my little thumbs over this chapter!! We're so close to the inevitable everyone 🤭 like SO SO CLOSE.

Hot For Teacher - Van Halen "I've got it bad, so bad, I'm hot for teacher."

Maybe if I just keep my eyes closed, the hangover won’t be real. I’ve been lying in bed for I don’t even know how long. I need to pee. My head feels like it’s going to explode. I know the moment I open my eyes, it’ll only get worse.

I can hear some movement coming from what I can only assume is the kitchen. Opening my eyes long enough to look at my phone, why is he awake at 7:30 am? I let out a deep sigh, knowing that getting out of bed is probably the best choice, considering that I do need to become a person again since I have to work later. God, I’m dumb for drinking that last drink.

My head feels like a construction zone when I finally stand up. Turning the doorknob as quietly as possible, I leave the room. I don’t know why I’m nervous. The hallway isn’t long, but feels like a mile. As I approach the open space, I can’t help but notice the decor. Josh must have helped him. It’s very comparable to the bar’s atmosphere, without the heavy pirate influence. The big windows let in a ton of natural light with a very pretty view of the Old Port. They have exposed brick walls; I can’t lie- I’m a little jealous of that. I scan the room silently, admiring the different art pieces and plants- until I find my eyes fixed on him.

There he stood in the kitchen, making something on the stove. The way he moves so gracefully as he goes between cooking and making coffee. I can feel my body warm as I notice what he’s wearing, or lack thereof. Oh no, he’s hot. His sweatpants hung low on his hips; I only knew this because he wasn’t wearing a shirt. I know that his outfit last night showed off a fair amount of his chest, but I wasn’t expecting to see this much of him. Not that I’m complaining.

He’s an attractive man, but I never really considered anything past his nice smile. He’s a smaller framed guy, and that’s apparent once anybody who isn’t Josh stands next to him, but seeing him right now, I can’t stop myself from staring at him.

I become incredibly self-aware that I’m quite literally just watching this man cook while he has no idea I’m here. And I don’t know why I haven’t made a noise to acknowledge my presence yet.

I watch as he gathers all of his hair into a low, messy bun, pulling the hair tie off of his middle finger; I hadn’t noticed he made it into a ring. His back muscles flex a little as he wraps the hair tie into his hair, and the sound that comes out of my body is embarrassing.

“Mmm” slips out of me, causing him to turn around.

“Well, good morning,” he speaks quietly, “how terrible do you feel?” he giggles a bit after that.

“Astronomically bad right now,” I tell him, tugging his sweatshirt down my legs a little.

“Here, I made some coffee,” he tells me, quickly pouring some into a cute mug for me, “Do you want anything in it?”

I shake my head, “No, black is perfect, actually.” I find myself a comfy spot on his couch.

“My kinda girl,” he says, looking over at me with a devious little smile.

He brings it over to me, carefully holding it out for me. He goes to the other end of the couch, reaching down beside it and pulling up a soft-looking throw blanket. Opening it up and draping it over my bare legs, …that’s so sweet.

“Thanks,” I squeak out.

“Of course.”

He makes his way back into the kitchen in a comfortable silence. The coffee warmed my body and slowly eased some of the headache. I try not to just stare at him, but he makes it difficult to focus anywhere else. He tilts the pan, pushing whatever he’s cooked into a little bowl, before turning to face me.

“I made some food for you,” he continues to whisper, “Figured you’d need something in your system once you woke up,” He quietly walks over, extending the bowl out to me.

I can’t stop myself from the small gag, my eyes going wide.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” he says, moving the bowl away from me. He sets the food on the counter and then makes his way over to the couch, sitting on the opposite end of me. He grabs the flannel that’s draped over the back of the couch, pulling it on but not buttoning it at all. As much as you probably think that’s helpful, Jacob, I promise you it’s making this worse.

“Let me get you something else,”

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” I tell him.

“You need to get something in your body to soak up the alcohol,” he says, “and there’s a Starbucks approximately thirty seconds away.”

“You really don’t have to do that,”

“Charlotte, tell me your order or I’m going to order one of everything,” he tells me, a smile plastered across his face.

I shake my head, laughing, “Okay, fine, I’ll text it to you.”

He disappears into his bedroom for a moment before coming back out to harass me again.

“Text me your order. I’ll be right back,” he says before pointing at me, “I mean it. If you don’t tell me, I will literally just buy the whole menu.”

“Wait-” I quickly spit out, “Where’s your bathroom?”

“Oh, I should have told you. It’s right down that hall on the left,” he tells me, pointing to the opposite hall from his bedroom.

“Thank you. I have to pee so bad,” I whisper, standing up from the warm blanket. Either he’s very courteous of my hangover or maybe he’s just actually that soft-spoken. Seems odd to whisper.

I hustle to the bathroom, bringing my phone with me.

I sit down, open my messages, and click on his name.

Me: an everything bagel with avocado spread would be great.

After a second, I stand up, wash my hands, and stare deep into the mirror at my fairly smudged makeup. I try to wipe some of it away but ultimately accept defeat. I’ll just buy some makeup wipes when I leave. I tap on my phone to see if he replied, seeing the notification sitting there on my lockscreen.

Jacob loved “an everything…

Turning to leave, I open the door, still looking down at my phone.

“Well, hello there,”

A loud gasp escapes my body when I see Quinn standing in front of me.

“I– Uhh-” I try to speak, and nothing wants to come out.

“Oh, good morning, Charlotte,” Josh says from the room across the hall.

How did I not see another fucking door?

“Haha, good morning.”

“Oh, don’t be shy, dear.” He says, finally emerging from the room, “Where did my brother run off to?”

“He went to Starbucks,” I can hardly make eye contact at this point; I’m so embarrassed.

“Oh! Well, in that case, I’ll keep you company until he gets back.”

Great.

We both find ourselves sat on the couch, with Quinn sitting on the floor below Josh. It’s sweet how Josh just instantly runs his hand down the back of their head and just causally rubs the back of their neck. They just talk about random topics and occasionally look to me for my opinion. They’re an odd pair, but they’re definitely entertaining to be around.

“Well, bug, I need to change and go take down some of the decorations before Jake loses his marbles over it,” he says, pressing a kiss into the top of their head. He pads off into his bedroom, shutting the door swiftly behind him.

“So,” Quinn’s eyes dart over to the door and then back to me, “how are you feeling?”

“Honestly, the coffee has done wonders for me.”

“Oh good, I’m glad. Umm-” They’re interrupted by the sound of the door unlocking.

Jacob quickly came in and locked the door behind him. He turns to see the two of us now sitting on the couch.

“Ahhhh- good morrow, Quinn,” he says in his English accent, looking over to me with an uncomfortable smile on his face.

Quinn’s head slowly nods before joining him, “Mmm why yes! A good morrow indeed, Squire Jacob!” Is the English accent normal in this household or what?

He brings the food over, “Hopefully, this helps.”

I can feel Quinn’s stare boring into the side of my head as he hands my food to me. Thankful that this time, I don’t gag at the smell.

“Good morning, brother. I was about to go downstairs and start cleaning up,” Josh speaks at a much quicker pace than Jacob.

“Thank you, bub. I’ll be down there soon to help ya.”

Josh comes back over, leaning down and giving Quinn a little kiss before ruffling their hair and scurrying off.

“Charlotte, is there anything else you need before I run downstairs to try and get the bar back to normal?” Jacob asks me.

“I don’t think so,” I tell him in between bites of my bagel, “I think I may run to a store and just grab some clothes so I don’t have to go all the way back to my house.” The realization hit me: I don’t have pants.

“Um.. Quinn,” I start, “Is there any chance that you have some pants I can borrow for like .. an hour?”

“Oh for sure,” Quinn tells me, “Where are you going? I might come with, if you don’t mind, of course.”

“I think there’s an Urban Outfitters close by, isn’t there? I’ll probably just walk over there real quick, and you can come if you want?”

“Oh there is, and I will be joining you then,” they have a smirk painted on their face, “let me grab you some pants.”

Jacob comes out of his room, moving a bit quicker, but at least this time, he’s dressed. Wearing what seems to be his staple—a hardly buttoned button-up —with some jeans that have seen better days and some ankle boots, unfortunately, he looks good.

“I’m gonna go, but if you need anything.. You know where to find me,” he says with a smile, “I’ll see you in a little bit.” And off he went.

Quinn bringing me a pair of sweats, debatably Josh’s, but at this point, I don’t even care. I grab my bag, and phone, and Quinn, and we head out to find me some slightly more presentable clothes.

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“So..” Quinn says quietly, “did you..”

“Did I what?”

“I mean.. Did the two of you…?” They question.

“Oh- OH- oh my god, no,” I realize what they’re thinking, “I was just a little more drunk than planned, and he didn’t want me to drive.”

“Well, that feels very much like Jake.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he’s basically a mom,” they say through a laugh.

I quietly laugh with them, realizing that is why he probably handled the situation the other day so well. I wonder if he’s always been like this or if it’s just since he’s been older.

“Anyway, so what do you do?” I ask them.

“I’m basically an elementary school art teacher,” They tell me

It makes so much sense when they tell me and explain why they would be with someone like Josh. I heard enough about how Josh decorated the bar; he seems incredibly proud of the job that he did, which is sweet.

“Oh, that seems so fun. You must really love it?” I don’t know why I can’t just have a normal conversation.

“Oh, I love it so much! The kids are so fun, and I really can’t wait to get my own classroom full of little nuggets.”

After a few minutes of casual conversation, we make it to Urban Outfitters; I’ve never been more grateful to see the sign in my entire life.

“So, what are we looking for?” Quinn whispers as we walk in.

“I just need to look more professional than..” I pause, gesturing to my outfit, “Well.. this.”

Quinn simply salutes to me as we wander through the store looking for something that I can put together to hold me over for at least today.

“Not to circle back or anything.. but also.. Circling back,” Quinn quickly rambles out, “Are you interested in him?” They look over at me; they’re smart for acknowledging body language because that’s way harder for me to hide right now. I can feel my face slowly turning pink and god, I wish it wouldn’t. Focusing on the shirts that I’ve been slowly looking through.

“I mean, he’s nice to work with because he really pays attention when I’m trying to explain things to him,” I tell them.

“I’m sure he does,” they roll their eyes with a laugh. They hold up a pair of pants which I quickly shake my head ‘no’ to.

“Hey! I can’t control why he is or isn’t paying attention,”

‘Mmmmm’ comes from them quickly, before holding up a black mini skirt.

“What about this with black tights?” they ask.

It would be cute, but that feels kind of casual- they cut me off mid-thought, which is probably for the best.

“It’s just for a day. I think you’ll survive. Plus I can see you overthinking it so, just go try it on real quick.”

They’re a little too good at reading me, and I don’t know how much I love that. But I’m not going to fight them right now; I don’t have the will or energy. I need to work on loosening up a little anyway. I may as well start today.

“You’re right; let me try this on.”

I let Quinn choose my outfit for the day, and we’ll see if I regret that later on. We begin our walk back to the bar, and it doesn’t take long before the interrogation continues.

“So, another question,” they say quickly, “are you single?”

“I am,” I can sense where they’re going with this.

“Okay, and like.. you think he’s pretty cute, right?”

“Who?” I reply, trying to refrain from alluding to anything. Don’t fall for it.

“C’mon now, I saw how you were oogling him last night,”

“I mean, that’s also hard to judge from because I was clearly not in my right mind,” I try to defend myself, but the urge to say the truth was too strong, “But- he’s not hard to look at.” I can’t help but look up at the clouds for a second after admitting it. The smile painted on my face, gave me away.

“GOTCHA BITCH,” Quinn barks out with a laugh, “Okay, but also, don’t be embarrassed. He’s so sweet, AND he’s hot? I don’t blame you.”

I can’t help but look at them, puzzled a bit at their last comment.

“I’m fully obsessed with Josh. I just have eyes, and let’s be so for real right now, they’re twins.” They rattle off with a shrug, and I guess they are right. They don’t always look incredibly similar, but they are both handsome guys. CHARLOTTE.

We cross the street where you can see the sign for the bar, thank GOD.

“I can let you into the apartment so you can get ready, don’t worry.” Quinn leads the way down the back alley to the stairwell.

How did I even get up there? Is all that plays in my head as I see the flights of stairs.

We make our way into the apartment, they let me know that they’re going to shower real quick and then they’ll be out of my way. Not like I can really do much with what I have here.

Shutting the bedroom door behind me, I actually look at where I am. He’s so … different? His room is much more simple than the rest of the apartment. A few small trinkets sat on top of his dresser, with the rings he had on last night. I set my bag on his bed, that I should make for him. A very obviously loved quilt still semi-folded at the foot of his bed, made from a bunch of different nautical and piratical design fabric. Quickly pulling the light green sheets back up and making sure all the blankets are smoothed out, adjusting the quilt to be draped nicely on the corner.

I pull on the black tights and mini skirt, and maybe Quinn was onto something. I grab the sweater out of the bag and pull it on, Oh it’s cropped. I walk over to look in the mirror he has set in the corner of his room. Well.. It’s definitely not what i’m used to, but it is cute. Is it too much, though?

I walk out into the living room, and the shower isn’t running, “Quinn?” I say, barely above a whisper. They opened Josh’s bedroom door and gave me one glance over before doing a victory dance.

“You look SO GOOD, CHARLOTTE,” Their voice’s volume increases as they get more excited.

“Are you sure?”

“AM I SURE? ABSOLUTELY.”

“Okay well, thank you for helping me,” I tell them.

“Wait-” They turn and hurry back into Josh’s room before hustling back with their phone, “Here.”

They hand me their phone with the new contact screen pulled up. Oh. Are we friends now? I type my number in with ‘Charlotte (Bar)’ as the name before handing it back. They laugh to themselves as I watch them type something before looking up at me, “Okay, off you go!” ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

There hasn’t been much business since I got here, but I’ve just been waiting for them to have any questions. I don’t even really need to be here, plagues my mind but for some reason, I can’t leave.

I watch as Melody looks over some drink recipes that the boys have put together. Slowly learning how to make things in between working on lessons for her certification. She’s a smart girl so this really isn’t taking much for her to get through it. I’ve found myself sitting at the end of the bar so I can people-watch while I’m here. Even though there’s only one person I’ve been watching.

The way he moves so delicately is intriguing. I can’t help but watch the way his hands move so smoothly. He’s just showing her how to make drinks, and I can’t seem to find anything more interesting to look at in this maximalist bar. He has a very gentle approach to such a not-gentle career. Even when I was telling him unfortunate information, he seemed to stay calm. Lord knows I would be panicking in his situation.

“Here,”

I’m suddenly brought back from my thoughts.

“Figured you’re gonna be here for a bit; may as well enjoy yourself,” he tells me.

“I think I enjoyed myself enough last night,” I say, sliding the drink closer to me, “But thank you.”

He laughs at my comment; I’m glad he thinks I’m funny. He leans on the bar with one arm, looking over to Melody, who is clearly holding her own with the few customers here. Turning to face me, he slowly glances down, which makes my skin crawl, before smiling at me.

“You look different,” he says.

I’m unsure what comes over me when I stand up to show off the entire outfit, doing a quick twirl before telling him, “Quinn insisted.” Sitting back in my seat and taking a sip of the drink now that I’ve sufficiently stressed myself out.

“That makes more sense,” he says with a soft laugh, “It does look nice on you though.”

He absolutely just checked you out, and YOU LET HIM. Who are you?

“Hey,” Melody pipes up, “I know that you let Josh help make these recipes, but I don’t fucking know what this says,” she hands him the small piece of paper.

“Oh god,” he says, rubbing his eyes for a second, “Let me find out for you.”

All I can focus on is him. I don’t know what is wrong with me. He leans over to Melody, and I can’t hear anything they’re saying with the music and normal chatter of the bar filling my ears, but I have to assume he’s explaining what the recipe is supposed to say. I watch as he squats below the bar, shuffling through a cabinet, his one hand holding onto the edge of the bar to help keep his balance. The way his forearm muscle is flexed, the veins in his hand are visible, and the grip he has on the bar has me shifting in my seat a little. Down, girl. He is just doing his job, as you should be.

‘hands hands hands’ I scribble on the corner of the page.

I take another small sip of my drink as I watch him stand up with a notebook, moving to the counter behind him. Turning bottles so the labels are facing him and grabbing the correct glass for the drink. He begins writing down what I can only assume is the recipe Melody was working on. Tucking a bit of his hair behind his ear, why is that so endearing? Pouring the correct amounts of each liquid into the glass, he alternates making the drink with writing it down. The way he’s so focused, his face is so calm, he’s so- Don’t do this, Charlotte.

Turning around, he looks to see some of the regulars of the bar sit down, flashing them a smile as he greets them. God, that smile. Scribbling quickly, ‘His smile is so pretty I could cry.’ Reaching over the bar to shake one of the guys’ hands as he laughs with them, I keep going back to his hands. I’ve never been someone to focus on specific things on a person like this before, but there’s something about him that feels different. Maybe it’s because I never envisioned myself finding someone like him attractive. That sounds bad. I have only really dated men who are very clean-cut, well-put-together, and .. boring. Am I a terrible person?

Jacob, on the other hand, is definitely not clean-cut, put-together, or boring by any means. The way he definitely thrifts a lot of his clothes and doesn’t seem to mind if things look worn out is refreshing. His hair, sitting just below his collarbones with some subtle waves that he absolutely did not brush, suits him somehow. Normally, that would drive me crazy, but looking at him, it just feels right. The man owns a bar that looks like a pirate exploded in, I really can’t say that he isn’t interesting. His little English accent slips out when he’s nervous or unsure of what to say. The way he’s just always so relaxed and like he has no other worries in the world, I could probably stand to learn a thing or two from him.

Me: soo.. Come here often? 🤭

Setting my phone down, I glance over to where he’s stood, talking to some of the regulars. He pulls his phone out, clicking on the notification before looking over to me. I can see his eyebrow pop up with a little smirk.

Jacob: youre never gonna believe this-

Jacob: i actually work here 😉

Laughing to myself quietly, I look up to see him smiling at the drink he’s pouring. My heart feels weird again.

Me: I just want you to know I really appreciate you taking care of me last night

Is that weird? Was that a weird thing to say? I can literally see him read the text, and I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse at this moment. I watch the typing bubbles pop up, making my stomach turn a little.

Jacob: of course. gotta make sure youre safe

My hands start to sweat; why is he so sweet?

Me: maybe I can return the favor sometime

What are you DOING? I immediately feel like I shouldn’t have sent that. I watch and wait to see how he reacts, hopeful that I didn’t just embarrass myself. I flip my phone facedown onto the bar, impatiently waiting for him to have a chance to read it.

He finally taps his lock screen, reading the message from the notification; I can see from across the bar the way he’s fighting the smile on his face.

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Realizing the time, I decide I should probably leave. Looking around, I don’t see him in the bar; I’ve spent the last few minutes chatting with Melody about how she’s feeling with the training and certification.

Standing up to go find him, I should probably let him know if I’m going to leave since I’ve basically lived here for the last twenty-four hours. I round the corner into the hallway, seeing his office door cracked open. Gently knocking to get his attention.

“Hey, you.” His voice is soft.

“I think I’m going to head home. It’s getting a bit late.” I tell him; it’s much more quiet in his office than I anticipated. I guess the only other time I’ve been in here, I was sobbing a little too loudly to notice.

“Oh, I’ll walk you to your car,” he says, standing up from his desk.

“You really don’t need to do that. You’ve already done enough for me,” I say, looking down at my boots for a second, “Um.. so thank you again– a lot for.. everything last night.” I can feel the heat rising into my face as I say it.

“Of course,” he mumbles, smirking a bit before continuing, “You were a little treat, honestly.” He’s moved closer to me, looking down at me with a small grin on his face. My stomach is in knots; what is this?

“Oh god,” I groan, rubbing my hands down my face.

“Don’t worry, it was cute.” His eyes scan all over my face, and I can’t help but stare at his mouth. I swear I can feel how soft his lips are just from looking at them- no, cut it out stop looking at them. You work together. You can’t be looking at him like this, Charlotte. My brain is moving at a million miles per hour until I let out the most pathetic sounding, “Oh.”

“So, about that favor–” He takes another step closer, and my hands instantly feel damp, “Are you trying to get me drunk?” he mumbles, popping that same eyebrow up. Charlotte, come on, girl, what are we doing?

“Don’t think yourself out of happiness, Lottie.” Cassie’s voice playing in my head suddenly. Maybe Cass was right.

The silence is deafening between us. His hand grazes mine as I see his eyes slowly drop to my lips and back up to meet my stare. He’s so close to me I can feel the warmth radiating from him. I timidly bump my hand into his, hoping he’ll get the hint. He gently takes my hand in his, lightly squeezing it a few times. I think I want to kiss him. I take my turn of glancing at his lips and finding his gaze again, like we’re playing the worst game of chicken.

“Just wanted to pop in and say Hi- OH MY GOODNESS, I’m so sorry, sweetie,” Linda says louder than either of us wished she would.

“No, Linda, come back,” Jacob says, “We were just discussing Melody’s training.”

Linda peeks back around the corner, seeing us now, not in an incriminating moment. I quickly grabbed some papers from his desk to look at.

“Was just wondering where you ran off to,” she says.

“I think I’m going to escort m’lady Charlotte here to her car, and then I’ll be all yours for the evening.” It’s very sweet how much they all love her.

“That’s very nice of you. I’ll be waiting for ya,” she shoots him a wink before wandering back into the bar.

He slumps down into his chair, letting out the biggest breath I’ve heard, which honestly makes me laugh. He runs his hands over his face for a second before joining me for a laugh about the situation.

“I’m sorry, this is-” he spits out, “Let’s get you to your car.” He lets out another giggle, shaking his head at how ridiculous both of our nights have gotten in the last three minutes.

We walk to my car in comfortable silence. I unlock it as we get closer, he kindly opens the door for me.

“After you,”

“Oh, thank you,”

I throw my things over into the passenger seat before turning to look at him. We both look fairly defeated at this point. The chill from the outside starts to get us both as he slides one hand into his pocket.

“Haha, um… so I’ll see you tomorrow?” he says, his free hand grabbing the back of his neck.

“Mhmm, have a good night, Jacob,” I tell him with a soft smile.

“You too.” He gently shuts my door for me and makes his way back to the bar.

I watch him as he walks with both hands in his pockets. How he is so nonchalant after that? I’ll never understand.. and why am I sad it didn’t happen? Waiting for him to be completely gone, I see the door to the bar shut. I drop my head back onto the headrest, letting out a quiet ‘fuck’ and then decompressing with a sigh.

My head floods with Cassie’s voice, “Maybe he’s your Scott, Lottie.”

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Chapter Eight

Chapter Ten

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