#farm security fences
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Expert Farm Fence Installation for Secure and Durable Boundaries
Assa Fencing is an expert in Farm Fence Installation that guarantee your property's protection and safety. Our skilled crew builds long-lasting fences that survive the test of time using premium materials and tried-and-true methods. We can customize our services to match your unique needs, whether you need to preserve crops or contain cattle. With our years of experience, we can assure you of a dependable solution that improves your farm's appearance and usability. For reliable, high-quality farm fence installation, go with Assa Fencing.
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How to Make Your Electric Fence Hotter and More Effective
An electric fence is a robust security system that keeps your property, livestock, and farms safe. However, several factors, such as poor grounding, short circuits, and vegetation, can affect its performance. Here’s how to ensure your electric fence is hotter and more effective:
Understanding How an Electric Fence Works
When an animal or person touches the electric fence, their body completes the circuit by acting as the path to the ground. The current flows through their body to the earth, where ground rods capture the electrons and return them to the energizer, completing the circuit. Proper grounding is essential for this process to ensure your fence delivers a powerful shock.
Steps to Make Your Electric Fence Hotter
1. Choose an AC-Powered, Low-Impedance Energizer
AC-powered energizers are more powerful than battery-powered ones because they draw continuous high-intensity current from an outlet. Opt for a low-impedance energizer to maintain high voltage even when vegetation touches the fence.
2. Use a High-Joule Fence Charger
Your energizer should output at least 1 joule per mile of fence wire. For example, for a 5-mile fence, you need an energizer that outputs at least 5 joules. Higher joule outputs ensure effectiveness in challenging conditions like dry soil or heavy vegetation.
3. Install Sufficient Ground Rods
Grounding is crucial. Use at least three 3-foot ground rods per joule of your energizer’s output. Ensure the rods are galvanized to prevent rust. In dry or rocky soil, use additional ground rods to improve conductivity.
4. Use Quality Conductors
Use high-quality, galvanized steel or copper wires for better conductivity and durability. Avoid rusted wires as they increase resistance and reduce effectiveness.
5. Check for Shorts
Regularly inspect your fence for shorts caused by damaged wires, poor connections, or vegetation touching the fence. Use a fault finder to detect and locate shorts quickly.
6. Reduce Vegetation
Vegetation touching the fence can drain the current. Regularly clear grass and plants around the fence line. Insulate the wires to prevent energy loss from contact with vegetation.
7. Increase and Properly Position Fence Wires
Adding more strands of wire increases the chances of contact. Position the wires at different heights to target various parts of animals’ bodies, ensuring they cannot bypass the fence.
8. Bait the Fence
Encourage animals to touch the fence by applying bait such as honey or peanut butter on the wires. This increases the likelihood of them receiving a memorable shock.
9. Keep the Ground Moist
Moist soil improves conductivity. In dry conditions, water the ground near the fence regularly to maintain good grounding.
10. Regular Maintenance and Inspection
Routinely check the entire fence for broken wires, loose connections, and signs of wear. Address any issues promptly to maintain the fence’s effectiveness.
11. Additional Tips for Enhanced Performance
Upgrade Insulators: Use high-quality insulators made from durable materials like porcelain or high-density plastic to prevent energy leaks. Double Insulate Long Runs: For long fence lines, run a secondary insulated wire parallel to the main fence to reduce energy loss.
Conclusion
For a hotter, more effective electric fence, invest in a powerful energizer, use quality materials, and maintain proper grounding. Regular maintenance and strategic enhancements will ensure your fence remains a reliable deterrent against intruders and stray animals. If you have any questions or need further advice, feel free to ask in the comments below.
References: https://fencefacts.com/make-electric-fence-hotter/
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❝AYY, FUCK YO IG, I PUT SOMETHIN' ON YO SONOGRAM— I'M THE MAN.ᐟ❞
─•──── FARMHAND!TOJI X BIMBO!READER
꥟ summary: farm au. you and toji can't keep your hands off each other since he first turned you out in the barn and he's determined to put a baby in you ASAP! ꥟ wc: 2088 ꥟ a/n: I had to do something for my mans for his bday and I MADE it in my time zone at least (pst) FarmHand!Toji just comes so easy to me.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DADDY TOJI.ᐟ
[ read p1: here ]
FarmHand!Toji who after the first time fucking you senseless in the barn can't keep his hands off of you. God, it's so hard for him to get any chores and shit done when your young tight cunny spreads so willingly for him.
Out in the pastures, the herd of cows block the distant view of the both of you from the farm. Making it the perfect location for Toji to freely fuck you sloppy like you've been pouting for all morning.
Wanting to tease his sweet lil' Bunny, Toji would have made you wait even longer (so he could do a bit of actual work) but you always kept him on his toes. You were so much of a brat you pushed limits with him constantly.
This time your achieve your naughty goal by flashing him your pantyless pussy.
"Whoops, must have forgot to put some on this morning! I'm so silly huh, Daddy?"
You bat your lashes and sway your jiggling hips so innocently. Like the hot sun wasn't glistening off the gooey slick drenching your puffy pussy lips —it was fucking obscene.
Obviously, Toji is hard instantly but you still needed to be taught a lesson and he'd yet to keep his promise of 'fucking some manners into your haughty cunt.'
You clearly still didn't know how to act.
What with his lil' Bunny skipping around the farm all morning bare assed and so nonchalantly too?
How many times does he have to remind you he'd kill someone over you?
No one else was allowed to see what belonged to him alone...
Jealous as hell, Toji angerily snatches you up as you squee in excitement finally getting what you'd been craving. Easily flipping you over, Toji's large muscular arms drapes you over the old wooden fence like you were a mere feather.
The fact that Toji was supposed to be patching up said fence, not causing further structural damage from how hard he was about to tear your ass up is not lost on him. He simply just can't bring himself to give a fuck at the moment, not when you get him so riled up like this. Pushing your thin white sundress up your back, Toji doesn't even need to prepare you before he ruts into your heated core. Honestly, it didn't take Toji long at all to mold your pretty lil' pussy to the shape of his stocky girth. Your wet warm hole welcomes him back eagerly like it was his home. The pull of that creamy cunny of yours sucking him deeper to the hilt—even before his own hips could shealth himself fully inside—shit.
"That's a good girl bunny, that pussy opens up so good f'er me now, n'—HELL... She's just as fuckin' tight too."
Pistoning forward, Toji doesn't waste time with warming you up with slow strokes.
Not when you act out like this.
He knows once you get this way you are practically begging for him to pound you rough, deep and fast.
True to the nickname he bestowed you Bunny, you wanted him to fuck you stupid like one daily. Demanding Toji's hefty cock be plunged into your cunt during all hours of the day—especially at night.
Your slutty pussy was so hungry for his dick stretching her, you even foolishly volunteered the farm's security codes to Toji. Meaning he could slip not only in and out of your room at night —but the farm entirely. This was excellent for the illegal business he was forming under the cover of the farm.
Little risk of getting caught now too.
That old farmer slept like the dead and he'd been able to bribe the less than scrupulous night security workers.
Heh. Smuggling contraband in now was a breeze.
But in order for his plan to be put fully in motion he needed to knock you up quickly. Cumming in your quivering pussy 3-4 times a day was a necessity and Toji was more than up for the task.
He needed a baby in you yesterday.
And yet the way your greedy pussy hungered for him, strangling his length every time you came on his cock for the nth time made him think she secretly wanted to be a mommy too —you were the only one who didn't know that yet. You milked him so well like you were made for Toji to breed you —just waiting all this time for his nefarious ex-con cock to destroy you.
Toji grunts escalate as the old fence creaks and shakes from him brutishly bullying himself further into your guts. You moan deeply with every maddening thrust of his pelvis forcing his thick meaty cockhead to kiss your womb.
"Shiiit..Mmmm—OOOH!" The rebound of your plump ass ripples against his pelvis and Toji thinks its his favorite sight in the world. Both hands on your hips, Toji digs crescents into your flesh as he drives him into you over and over, deeper and deeper. The vulgar noises of moist skin slapping echo from your bodies —bodies which only get hotter and wetter under the oppressive heat of the sun and it's all so intoxicating. Your chest heaves as you take desperate breathes, your lungs struggle to even expand with how roughly Toji plowing into you.
There's nothing you can do but dangle there and let Daddy Toji use you like he wanted—not that you would have it any other way, loving when his cock purees your mind into just as much of the sloppy mess as your pussy. Toji could tell by your cries too just how your ass liked to be ferally manhandled like you were one of these barn animals.
"Yeah that's right my slutty brat 'moo' louder f'er Daddy while ya squirt on his cock. Ya wanna let this whole farm know who's making you feel this good, huh ma?"
You whine at Toji likening your pleasure filled sobs to that of cow noises but you're needy 'lil cunny only squeezes him tighter —just as he knew she would. Toji knows how much you like him talking crazy to you when he's fucking you six ways to Sunday, balls smacking your clit.
Thankfully no one could actually hear you from way out here. Meaning he was free to spew all kinds of nasty shit into your ear drawing even more slobber from your swollen pussy lips. It only made you hotter on the inside your mind only focusing on his debased dirty talk and the drag of his cock against your g-spot —Toji was hitting it perfectly from this angle. "Ya know ya fuckin' suck at milking cows but this juicy pussy? She sure knows how t'milk a cock like its 'er job." And it would be your job too if Toji had any say. Fuck going back to school at the end of summer and fuck getting a career. You didn't need to do anything but lay on your back and let Toji do the rest. Heh, you wouldn't be able to do much else but be on your back once you started growing his kids inside you anyway. He'd keep you nice n fucked out to the point you'd almost stay pregnant.
Spanking your ass harshly, the sting fills fresh tears on your already bleary eyes. You squeak between your pitchy moans as your pussy weeps so much of your arousal around your sex and down your thighs the squelchy gurgles of your creamy cunt are heard throughout the field.
"S'gudddd Daddy! HAH—HARDER!!"
You really are the perfect slut for him. Wanting him to go harder?
Could you even handle that?
As your reward Toji gifts you another spank, shaking the fence entirely now as it sways on its exposed hinges. It's a miracle it's still standing.
But Toji was determined to have you all for himself, to have everything —you, the farm, a wife —to bring Megumi here away from his twisted ass family so you could be the mother he never had. Thoughts of domesticating you makes him want to bust in you even more as he chases his release.
Wrapping an arm around your middle Toji lifts you so he can thumb at your clit. The rough pad of his thickest digit scrapes over your bud sending rapid tingles through your body that has drool pouring out of your mouth and cunt. "Daddy's gonna put his milk in y'er tummy, yeah Bunny? Tell me ya want it slutty mama —beg me f'er it."
But you can't beg, you can't do anything but ride the rapturous wave of pleasure radiating from your core as you squirt on his cock like a good Bunny. Your orgasm following soon after with enough force from erratic rhythm of spasms in your walls to make Toji spurt is scorching seed inside you. Filling your womb as you purr from the sensation.
Toji bites harshly down on your shoulder —another mark you'd have to hide from your uncle —who thought you were just a rather clumsy girl getting so many marks on you from your farm chores.
Slicked in sweat and your gushy pussy's fluids Toji slumps forward still inside you, his entire weight bearing down on you.
"T-Tojiiiii!" You whine in that pretty, utterly angelic way Toji usually can't resist but he had to keep his cock plugged in you a bit longer if he wanted a baby in you by the end of the month. He eases up a bit though, rubbing your sore ass cheeks and murmuring something about 'when he finally gets to use your ass' as his thumb ghosts aimlessly over your puckered hole.
When Toji finally pulls out of you, you're barely standing. Slumping your elbows on the fence, your hips went a bit numb from being folded like a pancake over the rough wood fence with a big man like Toji putting his weight on you.
Truthfully, Toji didn't even want to pull out. He could go a few more but you need to get back to the farm soon before your uncle came around looking. He'd question you if you kept missing lunch everything.
As if you could read Toji's thoughts you pipe up, voice a bit hoarse already from all your moaning. "I told my uncle I'd probably walk to the lake again today. So he won't be expecting me back until the evening, you know..." After enough feeling returns to your lower body you push off the fence and prance over to a nearby tree at the edge of the clearing. Pulling off your dress fully you lay it down on the lush green grass in the shade. Fully nude, the sun peeks through the shade's leaves, decorating your skin in its shadowed rays.
You stretch like a cat on your makeshift dress-blanket. Spreading your legs wide and arching, you gaze over to Toji from under your babydoll lashes. He's already on his way over to you. "Looks like I'm your lunch today Daddy... c'mon n' eat me up before I get cold."
Oh you didn't know what you fucking did to him... or maybe you did?
You were clever sure but all reason flew out the window when it came to Toji from the minute he first jammed his cock into your lewd sappy cunt.
Heh, you wanted FarmHand!Toji to ruin you? Well little did you know that's exactly what he planned to do anyway— trap you, and ruin your life and that pussy of yours at the same time.
꥟
Back on farm an old dusty white bus stops at the gate.
A lone prisoner exits, a man accused of being a serial killer— 27 victims all skinned and gutted mercilessly like fish in under two years.
However, the man has always protested his innocence.
The evidence at best was circumstantial, with a conviction based solely off of a lone witness who was later proven to be unreliable. As a result the appeal of his life sentence is currently in process, much to the excitement and anger, respectfully, of both his many supporters and detractors.
Yet the way his P.O. comically cowers is a stark contrast to the vibe of the prisoner. The tall, well built convict appears calm, somber even.
This was really the man that killed 27 people?
His eyes survey his surroundings with the hesitant curiosity of a puppy—nothing like the dangerous threat the courts or his P.O. make him out to be. Handed over into your uncle's care, the flighty P.O. quickly gets back on the bus, signalling the driver to get ghost quickly as if your uncle would change his mind at the last minute.
Your uncle on the other hand isn't intimidated at all by the notorious, supposedly innocent, pigtailed cold blooded killer. "Welcome to the farm, son. Like I tell everyone, just do as your told and stay outta trouble —you'll do fine I reckon. Don't fuck this up now, boy. In your case especially, this is the chance to prove yourself worthy of an appeal or its back to solitary for life Choso Kamo."
꥟
♡ blkkizzat ©2023-2025 ♡ — 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐍𝐎 𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐟𝐨𝐫— 𝐚𝐢 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐬, 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐬, 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐦, 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬, 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬.
꥟ a/n: oh hehe, i wonder what will come of toji's plan now that Farmhand!Choso has arrived 😈😩? Also y'all think he's innocent or guilty? 💕🤭 tysm for reading! lol idk if i end up writing more of this but this is my no pressure, for fun project (i whipped this up in like 3 hrs so whether i will or when it will come out i can't say~ i already have sm on my plate but farmhand!toji is special to meee and its his bday so had to run it back on him. i may come back edit this since i was rushing sorry for any mistakes! reblogs and comments appreciated!
#✎ᝰ𝓀𝒾𝓏𝓏𝒶𝓉¢σσкѕ#✎ᝰ𝓀𝒾𝓏𝓏𝒶𝓉¢σσкє∂тнαт#toji fushiguro#toji smut#toji fushiguro smut#jjk x reader#toji x reader#toji x you#toji x y/n#jujutsu kaisen smut#jujustsu kaisen x reader#jjk x you#jjk smut#jjk fic#jujutsu kaisen fanfiction#toji fushiguro x y/n#toji fushiguro x you#jjk x black reader#toji fushiguro x reader#jujutsu toji#toji fushiguro x black reader#daddy toji#toji x black reader#toji x fem reader#farm hand toji#farmhand!toji#jjk x reader smut
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Dream Walking ♡
pairing: rick grimes x fem!reader
summary: you catch rick having a wet dream about you. you both try to move on from it, but with it stuck in each of your minds, it's near impossible to just go back to the way things were.
cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, fingering, dub-con, age gap (20s, late 30s), wet dreams, somnophilia
word count: 5.4k
Since the prison fell, you’ve had time to think about what it is you miss most. The security of the fences was nice, so was the comfort of the thin mattresses. There were also the routines everyone had fallen into that filled your days with a sliver of how life felt before everything went wrong. However, the piece you missed most, the thing you craved on nights like these, was the privacy of your cell.
You took those months for granted at the time. The ability to retire to your own space once the sun set was long gone. Now you lie with the rest of the group on the floor of this barn, sleeping all together like a pack of wolves in a den.
It wasn’t that it was horrible. You felt safe with everyone so close. You also didn’t have to worry about anything going wrong in the night without your knowledge. It just wasn’t as pleasant as getting to be alone at the end of the day when both your mind and body are tired. How you craved the sound of the steel bars shutting and the feeling of the lumpy pillow against your head.
But all that lies underneath a pile of rubble now. There was no use wishing for another time you’d never get back.
You sigh and roll onto your side. The thunder and rain outside was keeping you up. Your eyes scan the dark room to try and find another open pair, any one of your friends who would be able to suffer along with you. You don’t find any, which is a good thing you suppose, but now you’re left to lay all alone in hopes of sleep calling your name sometime soon.
You were in the corner of the barn with your jacket tucked under your head. That’s the spot you’d taken up as soon as people were picking where to sleep. You liked having walls to your back. It was less space for something to hide or attack from. Some of your friends like Abraham and Daryl lie along the walls like you while others like Carl and Michonne rest near the center, wanting to be close to any potential threat.
Rick sleeps a foot or two from you. He’s on his back, one arm behind his head while the other is draped over his abdomen. You can hear the deep and even rhythm of his breath, and you know that he’s out cold at least for the time being.
After a little while he rolls onto his side like you had, and you think that you’ve found someone to share your struggles with. When you look over at him though, his eyes are still shut, his lips are still parted, and his body is still limp.
Your lips purse with disappointment, but your eyes soften. He needed the rest. He’d been stretching himself to the limit ever since your group had barely made it out of Terminus alive. You understood why. The group needed somewhere stable to call home. You just wished he wouldn’t put that responsibility entirely on himself.
You always liked Rick. He’d taken you in a couple months after the outbreak when you were scared and alone, shaking and covered in blood on the side of the highway. You’d just seen the final members of your previous group fall victim to the dead. On the verge of giving up and letting a herd claim you too, you saw him dash by. He was looking for a missing little girl. Instead he’d found you.
Even on the farm when everyone was fighting over everything all the time, you admired him like you did now. It was almost weird to think of him now compared to back then. The clean-cut officer friendly you’d met a couple years ago now sported shaggy hair and a beard along with eyes always scanning for danger.
The crush you harbored for him was as strong as ever though. Not one thing about that had changed. Unlike his hair, you hadn't grown out of it in the slightest.
You continue watching him while the wind and rain team up to beat against the wooden slats of the barn walls. Interrupting your study of his features, he grunts. It’s quiet; so much so that you almost miss it amongst the other noise. It seems ordinary enough, but he does it again. And then again as he rolls further to his side so that he’s nearly on his stomach.
“Mmmm…” he sighs, “Fuck.”
Your eyes widen a little at that, but you smile, wondering what was frustrating him in the world of his dreams. His lips smack idly against one another for a moment before he speaks again.
“Just like that, baby. Atta girl,” he murmurs.
And now you’re really interested.
Your hand flies to your mouth to stifle your reaction. You didn’t know whether to laugh or try to wake him. You knew that waking him up would be the right thing to do… but you didn’t want to just yet. He rolls his hips against the hard ground he’s sleeping on, which you know can’t feel that good. But he does it again. And he looks like a divine being as he does so, everything about him enrapturing you.
Another low groan seeps from his mouth, and a couple incoherent words follow. You bite your lip and look around again to make sure no one else is watching you. You couldn’t help wondering who he was dreaming of. Maybe Lori still crossed his mind every once in a while or possibly he harbored some secret desire for someone in the group. Perhaps it was just a plain old sex dream and he was envisioning some woman he liked before the world changed.
“Fuck…” he grunts again, “Such a good girl.”
Warmth simmers to life in your belly, and you find your thighs rubbing against one another. Those two words were a weak spot of yours, so of course he'd have to rasp them out like that. You'd be lying if you said you'd never imagined them falling from his lips but hearing it in reality was so much sweeter.
His arms shift around as he continues trying to find some relief against the dirt. By this point, a bulge has formed at the front of his pants, and the sight is enough to make your mouth water. You know this is wrong, perving on him like this, but you swear to yourself that you're gonna wake him up. Just a few more seconds. Though before you get the chance, he moans again.
Among some expletives and praise, your name floats into the night. The syllables leak out in a hushed manner, but they send a jolt through you regardless. Your eyes widen and the heat in your tummy creeps up through your neck into your cheeks.
"Just a little deeper, dolly," he slurs, "That's it."
This time you're unable to repress the laughter that bubbles in your chest. The sound is soft, but it's enough to rouse him.
His eyes flutter open, his pupils still laden with sleep. It takes him a few seconds to register all that's going on.
"What're you gigglin' about?" he grumbles as he sits up and rubs his face.
But as soon as he moves, he becomes conscious of what was so amusing to you. He feels it rock hard against his thigh and flashes of his dream run through his mind. You can see it on his face, the embarrassment over the fact that he'd been caught having a wet dream. Caught by the very person it starred.
"Sorry," you simper.
He tries to maintain his usual stern temperament, but you see his humility in the flush of his cheeks. He can't look you in the eyes right now. His mind struggles to grasp the words that would make this better.
"Grow up," he mumbles as he starts to roll the other direction, "You've never had one of those? How old are you?"
"Old enough for you to dream about apparently," you say with another little laugh as you go to lay down yourself.
"Shut up," he mutters before closing his eyes again.
A few days went by before either of you addressed it. That was Rick's doing since he pretty much avoided you as best he could after it happened. It made you a little sad, but it was understandable. You probably would've done the same if the roles were reversed.
The group had left the shack from that night in search of more food and water. The bunch of you stagger in factions as you walk along some train tracks through the woods. Maggie, Glenn, and Tara lead at the front while Michonne with Carl carrying Judith linger a little behind them. You're trekking along with Sasha and Rosita before letting yourself fall back so you can be besides Rick.
"Are you mad at me?" you ask.
He glances over at you. "No, I'm not mad at you," he states matter of factly.
"It seems like you are."
"Why's that?" he asks.
"Cause you've been avoiding me," you say with a coy smile.
"I haven't been avoidin' you," he denies.
"Mhm," you respond, "C'mon, it's not that big of a deal. Things don't have to be weird now."
His eyes remain on you as if trying to analyze your intentions. "I didn't want to make you uncomfortable or anything," he says.
"The only thing making me uncomfortable is how awkward you are around me now," you say with a little feigned pout, "Seriously, I don't care. It was just a dream. People can't control dreams. It's not like I caught you jerkin’ off to a picture of me."
"Keep your voice down," he says, eyes flitting ahead to make sure no one had heard the topic of your conversation. He then sighs and runs a hand over his sweaty hair.
"C'mon, Rick," you say. You give his arm a little shove but do make a point to lower your volume. "I'm sorry for laughing at you."
"No you're not," he says and for the first time in days, he cracks a small smile.
Your face reflects his expression like a mirror. "Well... it was funny. But I still didn't mean to make you feel bad. It doesn't bother me or anything. I know dreams don't reflect real life," you reassure him.
He nods and remains quiet for a moment as the two of you continue down the tracks. You were slightly hoping he'd tell you his dream was based in reality. That he did want you while awake just as much as he did while he slept. But that was a wilder dream than the one that had caused all this.
He finally speaks and looks over at you again. "I appreciate you keeping it to yourself and not making a thing out of it."
"Of course," you beam at him, "I'm a good girl, remember?"
He gives you an unamused stare in response before lightly shoving the back of your head, guiding you back towards the rest of the group. Despite his outward annoyance, you could see the fondness return to his eyes.
It only took you a few weeks to make Rick regret his leniency in regards to your jokes. You still hadn't told anyone directly about his dream which he was grateful for, but people would probably find out soon enough with all your teasing and hinting.
At first, it seemed like you truly wanted to move on from it; leave what you'd witnessed in the past and forever wonder if the dream spawned from a place of true desire or just his brain fucking with him. Things were stressful enough for everyone during that week, especially Rick. The group had nearly succumbed to dehydration one day and struggled to find shelter for the next few.
But then you all had been invited to Alexandria. You and the others had been welcomed with open arms into a slice of the old world. Everything seemed to settle down for the most part. Your people were still on edge, Rick was ready for conflict at any moment, but no longer were you constantly worried about if you'd be able to find food or water.
And with things simmering down, Rick was pretty sure you decided that it'd be ok for you to turn the heat up.
It was after a week or so of being there that the jokes started back up. You'd reference the "good girl" part of it the most, but occasionally you'd mix it up and go for a "just like this, right Rick?"
Each little remark, every time your smug smile rose on your lips, the way you pranced around the community as if you knew a dirty little secret; it all compounded, a new stone being thrown at the glass that housed Rick's resolve.
Tonight he can't sleep. Everyone else in your group is passed out, exhausted from a long day. But he's wide awake. He feels restless. He shifts around on the sofa and sighs, rubbing his eyes.
Since joining Alexandria, everyone had begun easing up about sleeping arrangements. The first week, you all piled into one house and slept around the living room as if it was one of the sheds you'd been bouncing between before. But after some time went by, people began to spread out.
Everyone had basically claimed a house as their own by now, some sharing their's with a few other group members. Rick kept the one everyone had started off in. Carl and Judith slept peacefully in bedrooms of their own upstairs while he took the couch. Even though this place seemed like a paradise, he couldn't bring himself to trust it yet. He couldn't sleep in the master bedroom that was tucked away in the back of the second floor. It was the farthest from the stairs and all the doors. He'd never forgive himself if something happened and he wasn't in the position to protect his children.
Though they weren't the only ones in the house with him now. Peering down the hallway in front of him, he could see you. Despite how much you loved acting tough and teasing, underneath you were still vulnerable, and Rick wasn't blind to how you looked to him for comfort. When you came to him in the evening and asked to stay as everyone was heading off to their own beds, he couldn't say no. You could make all the bratty jokes and innuendos in the world, and he still couldn't stomach the thought of you feeling unsafe.
You were still sleeping on the floor against the wall. As much as you had missed your bed from the prison, you found yourself not ready to transition back to a mattress again when the time came. Rick understood. It felt weird going from the hard ground where you could spring to action in seconds to a comfy bed that cradled your form and kept you drowsy and unaware. At least in your place in the hall, you slept on some chair cushions he offered you so your body wasn't bare against the hardwood.
He watches you, taking in your sleeping form amidst the quiet of the house. A thin blanket covered most of your body, but he could still admire other parts of you from a distance. He could see the precious way your fingers curled around the edge of the fuzzy material draped over you. Your face looked so soft and delicate in its completely relaxed state. Your cute, plush lips were parted ever so slightly.
As his eyes raked over you, he felt something stir within himself. Instead of hearing your gentle breathing, the sounds his mind had created as you moaning in his dream played through his head. He tries to shake them away and think of other things, but you are all his brain wants to think about. If it's not you moaning or writhing in pleasure beneath him, it's how you giggle after telling one of your stupid jokes. It's the way your eyes widen with amusement when he growls "keep it down."
And if it's not that, earlier memories flicker through his internal vision. He can still remember the day he met you like it was last week. You standing there, bloody and shaking. Your eyes wide and darting around. So different from the you he saw today.
He sits up and scratches his jaw, feeling the skin that was now smooth from his recent shave. He still couldn't tear his eyes away from you. You had rolled over now, taking some of the blanket with you. He could see slivers of your legs and the roundness of your ass peeking from below the border of the blanket. Sighing, he leans back into the couch and pinches the bridge of his nose.
He had it bad for you, and he knew it. He just didn't like thinking about that fact or being cognizant of how pathetic he could be for you. Like having a wet dream. He hadn't had one of those in well over a decade before this last time. It was ridiculous.
It wasn't so much that he thought you didn't reciprocate. You were all but a petulant schoolgirl pulling her crush's hair for attention. Rather it was just that you were quite a bit younger than him, and it made him feel like shit. He supposed it didn't matter, being the end of the world and all. Things weren't the same as they used to be. It was a miracle to find anyone you could feel this way about now. But that didn't stop guilt from tying his intestines into knots every time he imagined anything more with you.
You didn't ease that feeling by toying with him so much either. Day in and day out, you practically begged for more out loud every time he came around you. His mind swirls with all the instances of your temptation, and in this moment, he really starts to feel that his guilt is unnecessary. It would probably return in full force tomorrow, but for right now, while he thinks of all the things you put him through, he feels like he deserves a little something for his troubles.
He stands up, and finds himself walking towards the area you sleep at the end of the hall. Any other man left in this world would have staked their claim on you by now. A pretty girl flagrantly throwing herself at the object of her affection. His honor held him back, but it wasn't like this was something so serious, right? Didn't he deserve to let go once in a while?
He crouches down next to you. At first, he only stares, but soon enough his hand follows. It starts on your shoulder, rubbing in a small circle. His palm then slides up and down your side. He can feel your muscles molding to his touch. Your body recognizes your need for him even when unconscious.
He maneuvers himself closer to you, sliding behind you on the cushions so that his chest is against your back. His hand stays on your body, continuing its slow, rhythmic movements. He keeps it over your shirt at first before slipping it beneath, exploring the skin of your midriff.
You let out a little sigh and shift a bit in your sleep. You still don't wake up though. He nestles his face against the back of your neck, taking a breath of your scent. He imagines what would happen if you woke up right now. He's positive you'd be startled, but he'd bet his life you wouldn't push him away.
He'd only ever been this close to you one time before. It was a couple days after the prison fell. Like right now, it was also at night. It wasn't sensual like he was trying to make this moment though. That time you'd had a nightmare. You woke up in tears, shivering in the pitch black of the random house you were shacked up in with him and Carl. It hadn't taken any words. He knew what you needed. He held you close like right now until you'd returned to the safe embrace of sleep. Unlike his wet dream, the two of you had never spoken about that since.
Testing the waters, his fingers dip below the hem of your shorts. They glide over your hip bone, pressing a tender massage into the skin. You like that. He can tell from the way you lean into it. You roll onto your back to be closer to him.
He really goes for it now. His hand slides to the front of you to cup your sex over your panties. He positions his face in the crook of your neck and lays a few soft pecks on your throat. His digits then start to move slowly.
They caress your pussy over the soft fabric shielding it from his raw touch. But even with the thin barrier, he can tell you feel the sparks of pleasure. Your hips wiggle a little bit. Your mind can't discern what exactly the sensation is right now. All you know is that it's starting to disturb your slumber.
You whine, the tender noise garbled and half-hearted.
"Shh-shh, sweet girl," he coos in your ear.
Upon hearing his voice, he sees your eyelids twitch as if they want to open. His middle finger slots itself between your lips and strokes with more precision. He can feel slick starting to soak through the garment. You whimper again. There's still a chance this could go so wrong, but that's part of what has his blood pumping down South to his building erection.
Your thighs part, your subconscious desire shining through. He chuckles against your neck and swirls the pad of his finger over your little bud.
"There you go. Let me in, honey," he praises.
Him speaking again is what finally draws you back into the waking world. Your eyes crack open. You're confused by what's happening; the warmth to your left side, the tingling between your legs, the raspy voice in your ears.
The moment reality clicks in your head is visible to Rick. Your eyes widen, as much as they can while your lashes are still heavy with drowsiness. Your head turns to connect your gaze with him. As he expected, the situation was jarring to you but not in a way that was completely bad. His movements slow, but they don't come to a full stop.
"Rick, what are you-"
He cuts you off by leaning in and putting his lips on yours. It felt different than you'd imagined. You'd become so used to seeing him with a beard that your daydreams always had his kisses feeling scratchy. You didn't update your ideas when he'd shaven clean. There's no scratch at all now. Nothing but his lips on yours.
His heart pounds violently within his ribcage. He pulls back, ready for your final verdict. He feels your thighs squeezing around his wrist.
"What are you doing?" you ask, your voice soft and hazy like you had asked if you were still dreaming.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" he responds, "I'm givin' you what you want."
"Are you sure it's not what you want?" you ask.
Of course you'd still try to tease. Even when he so clearly had the upper hand.
"Oh I'm sure. You're not a mystery, sweetheart," he says quietly. He pauses for a moment but decides to to continue. "It took me having a wet dream for you to figure out you might have a chance, but I've known you've wanted me for a long time now just from how you look at me. Like you have little hearts in your eyes."
You bite your lip, both to suppress the moan bubbling in your esophagus and out of an embarrassment at how dead on he was. His finger works at you faster, sliding around in your arousal as he nips at your earlobe.
"You may as well have written 'fuck me' across your forehead, babydoll. Would've given me the same impression," he whispers.
You whine, and god, he can't get enough of how it feels to be the one teasing. For once, he's doling out the humiliation to you. You're the one with the shame boiling in your tummy and heat melting rational thought away in your brain. Your hips start to rock against his hand.
"Was this what your dream was about?" you whimper.
"No," he answers, smiling at your whiny tone, "That night you caught me I was dreaming about you sucking me off."
The mere suggestion makes your back arch and shaky breath exit your lungs. Once you're settled on the cushions again, Rick resumes filling in the details you hadn't been privy to.
"That's what got me. You were on your knees, looking up at me with those sweet eyes, pretty mouth full of cock. You were moanin', droolin' on it. You just couldn't get enough," he recalls as if talking about a memory, "I bet you love having a dick in your mouth, don't you? Lips like those were made for it."
You mewl again before nodding weakly. "I would've done it for you if you asked."
"I'm sure you would have," he smirks.
He leans in to give you more kisses as his fingers keep playing with your pussy. You keep rolling yourself into the touches. He's guessing you're getting close from the way your pace is picking up. He pulls back for a small break to catch his breath.
"Isn't this so much more fun when you're not being such a smartass?" he teases.
You pout at him as a reply. Your bottom lip wobbles as you struggle to maintain the expression. It was hard pretending to be upset when he was giving you everything you wanted.
"Don't look at me like that," he chuckles, "You're still a sweet girl. You just need the brattiness fucked out of you sometimes."
That wipes the pout away clean. Your lips part as you let out a tiny moan.
"Good girl," he croons.
But despite his praise, only a few moments later, he retracts his hand from your panties. You whine, and your eyes look up at him with a desperate urgency. He couldn't leave you like this. It would be deserved revenge for all your antics.
"Nuh uh, none of that," he murmurs as his hand goes to push down his sweats instead, "So spoiled, and I haven't even started with you yet."
You quiet down, just relieved he's not leaving. You boost your hips to push your shorts and underwear down. He watches with satisfied eyes at your attempt to match him.
"I want you cummin' on my cock before anything else, sweet thing. Think you can do that for me?"
"Mhm," you hum softly.
Your stomach flutters and your clit throbs when his cock is finally in view. Just seeing it makes your mouth water. It's hard all for you, angry veins spanning down the shaft to the swollen head. You reach for it, but he stops you by grabbing your wrist.
"You don't get to touch it just yet. It's going inside you first. Then if you're good, I might let you play with it later," he says.
In truth, this was the first bit of action Rick was getting in a while. Under no circumstances would he give you more ammunition for jokes by blowing his load from a handjob and then not getting it back up to fuck you proper.
You kick your bottoms all the way off as he rolls on top of you. He gives himself a few strokes of preparation before swiping his tip through your folds. A groan vibrates in his chest as the feeling of the warm, sticky fluid coating him. He lines himself up and sinks in. His hands move to the back of your knees, pushing your legs up to either side of your abdomen.
"Fuck, baby. You're tight," he grunts as he works himself between your walls.
You nod simply, still adjusting to the feeling of him stretching you out. Your walls flutter around him as if happy to finally have what you'd been craving for what feels like forever. He grunts again and tightens his grip on your legs.
A little bit more, and he's all the way in. He takes a moment to just feel it, your warm, wet, cunt sucking him in, embracing him like it was made to be his.
His forehead drops to press against yours as he begins to move. He thrusts at a moderate pace, but he makes sure to strike deep every time. Both of you are taking care to be somewhat quiet since it was the dead of night, but the sensations are strong with or without the noise.
"This what you been wantin', dolly?'” he breathes as the skin of his pelvis connects with your ass.
"Yeah, been wanting it everyday," you whimper, "I was hoping you'd have another dream."
"Oh yeah?" he asks, chuckling lowly between pants, "And you'd have been ready to help me out if it happened again, right?"
"Yeah. I needed it so bad. You don't understand," you whine. One of your hands rises up and tugs on his brown curls.
That draws a growl from him and makes him fuck into you harder.
"I do understand, pretty girl. Every time you ran that cute little mouth, I wanted to bend you over, spank that sweet cunt raw and then fuck it full," he mumbles.
Your eyes screw shut at the image he puts in your head. Your arms wrap around his neck and keep him close as can be. His hips rut into you with passion you'd never felt from anyone else before.
"That's all I wanted," you whine, clamping down around his length.
"You're gonna get it right now," he says and pounds against your hips harder.
They had morning after pills here. He'd seen a few packs in the infirmary. Cumming inside you one time would be fine. That's what his lust-driven mind told him anyways. He'd make sure to get some condoms before next time, because there would be a next time.
You wrap your legs around him and squeeze. He lets out a moan himself and slides his head over to bury his face in the crook of your neck.
"Fuck, baby. You ready?" he asks.
You nod eagerly as you approach the edge yourself. You slide one hand down to your clit, giving it a few strokes to make sure you could get there with him.
His nails dig into the flesh of your hips when he cums. His jaw clenches, and he grits his teeth, using everything in him to stay quiet. And you cum seconds later. The way you pulse around him milks him dry. He spurts rope after rope of pent up release into your wanting cunt.
You tremble and whimper beneath him, your eyes unable to decide if they wanna roll back or close tight. He gently rocks his hips against you the whole time until you're both sated. Once both of your bodies are ready to give out, he pulls out of you. He drops back onto his side like he had been before and puts himself back together.
You reach down and pull your clothes back into place. He wasn't sure what was gonna happen next until you turned to look at him. Once he has a look at your expression, he can see the part of you that loves to rile him up and tease is gone right now. The vulnerable one that lurks beneath the surface has the reins right now.
You curl up to his chest. You wanna cuddle and kiss as you come down, and he gives you that. He gives it to you until you drift off to sleep again. He's not far behind you. You'd tired him out enough that he felt he could pass out too.
He scoops you up and brings you back to the couch with him, imagining this would look better than the both of you crumpled up on the floor together in a pile of disheveled blankets. Having you tucked to his side like this was all he needed right now. He'd done more than let go tonight. He was letting you in.
But those were thoughts for tomorrow. Right now, he's content to doze off with you into a dreamless sleep. There was no need for dreams now that he had the real thing in his arms.
#rick grimes x reader#rick grimes x you#rick grimes smut#rick grimes imagine#rick grimes x y/n#twd x reader#twd smut#twd imagine#twd x you#twd x y/n#ch: rick grimes 💌
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LOW COUNTRY | INTRODUCTIONS
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johnny mactavish x reader
[NEXT] [AO3] [MLIST]
mild swearing, lots of plot
The farm isn’t just a home—it’s a responsibility, a burden you never planned on shouldering alone.
You left this place once you were fresh out of high school, eager to escape the quiet, the isolation of the small town you grew up in. The city called to you, and you answered. New York City—the hustle, the noise, the lights. It was everything your small-town heart dreamed of. The world felt wide and full of possibility. You imagined yourself growing into the person you’d always wanted to be. College and a future in the city, away from the farm, away from the confines of the life that had always been so familiar, so small.
But then, one night after a bar-crawl with your friends marking the end of your Senior year, you got the call.
Your Ma had passed away. Just like that—no warning, no time to prepare.
You dropped everything. That’s what you do when family calls. You go home. The city and all your plans felt so far away as you packed your bags and made the drive back to the farm. When you drove up the long driveway, the house sat there in the distance, almost looking the same, but so much different all at once. It felt wrong without your Ma's laugh echoing through the halls, her hum in the kitchen, her steady presence.
The funeral came and went in a blur of emotion, family, and loss. It was all a whirlwind, a blur of faces, of handshakes, and hushed condolences. But when the dust settled, the reality set in. Your Pa needed help. There was no denying it. He wasn’t the same man anymore—not without your Ma beside him.
So, you stayed. You told yourself it was temporary—just a few weeks, maybe a month at most. You’d help him get back on his feet, make sure everything was squared away, then go back to the city. But days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Mere months turned into two years. One look at your Pa—slow-moving, his back hunched a little more each day, his hands trembled a little more than they used to—and you knew.
You couldn’t leave him.
The farm, with all its heavy tasks and responsibilities, became yours. For a while, your Pa tried to help, tried to keep his old pace. But as time passed and his grief only grew, his strength had faded, and soon, the weight of the work was yours to bear alone. He couldn’t lift the hay bales like he used to, couldn’t herd the sheep the way he had before. And those trips to the farthest corner of the farm on horseback, checking the fences, making sure everything was secure? You reckoned he couldn’t even get on a saddle.
You didn’t mind at first. It was just the two of you now, and you loved this place, loved the land, loved what it represented, It was home. But there were moments—the quiet ones, when everything slowed down—that the weight of it all settled heavily on your shoulders. You weren’t a farmhand. You were a woman who had spent her whole upbringing dreaming of more. A different life. But now, you’re tied to this place. Tied to your Pa. And your Ma's laugh still lingers in the walls, thick and heavy like the humidity that Summer brings each morning.
You’re exhausted, frustrated—running on fumes. You can’t keep doing it all, but there’s no choice. The farm, the animals, the crops, the house... and Pa. You’re stretched thin, your bones aching under the weight of responsibilities that pile up faster than you can manage. The idea of doing it all alone feels like a cruel joke.
Something’s got to give.
The help-wanted flyers were your last-ditch effort. You spent the better half of the previous night making them yourself, attempting to make them each as uniform as possible.
‘FARMHAND WANTED.
DEPENDABLE WORKERS AND SERIOUS INQUIRIES ONLY.
CALL XXX-XXX-XXXX FOR DETAILS.’
If you didn’t find someone soon, you didn’t know how much longer you could keep it together. So, as the clock striked 8 AM the next morning, you climbed into Pa’s old pick-up, the engine coughing to life as you made your way into town.
You’d been born and raised here. The downtown—if it can even be called that—of Williston is small, everyone knows everyone, and most folks are working-class, middle-aged. The kind of people who offered a warm smile and a helping hand without a second thought. You’d grown up with their kindness, and now, as you hung those flyers in their storefront windows, you could feel the weight of their stares—half concern, half curiosity.
They all know your story by now. They’d watched you grow up, watched you leave, and then watched you come back after everything fell apart. You could feel the sympathy in their eyes, but they never let it show—there was a quiet understanding between you all. Their hospitality was something you could never take for granted.
But no amount of kind gestures could change the fact that you need help. And fast.
You pull into an empty parking space a block away from Main St, quickly hopping out and make your way through town, handing out flyers to shop owners and sticking them to cork boards. It’s routine. A simple task, but the weight of it all makes it feel heavier than it should. The town’s small enough that you’re familiar with most of the faces, and it feels like you’ve talked to half the town by the time the afternoon rolls around. You’re famished—your stomach growling louder than the engine of Pa’s truck as you finish your rounds.
You head into the local bar/diner/cafe/pawnshop, the comforting smell of fried food and coffee hanging in the air. The place is familiar, cozy—its booths all torn leather, worn but inviting. Al—or Crazy Al, as most call him—the owner, gives you a warm smile when you walk in, his graying hair poking out from beneath his old baseball cap. He’s been here longer than anyone can remember.
“Ya look like ya could use a milkshake,” he says, already putting scoops of vanilla ice cream into the blender.
You nod, grateful for the small kindness. Al gestures toward one of the metal bar stools in front of him, you sit and his eyes narrow a little when he notices the exhaustion written across your face.
“What’s got’ya all wound up, kid?” he asks, pouring the milkshake in a mug and handing it to you
You eye the mug with momentary confusion before you choose to ignore his choice of cups. You take a deep breath, the weight of the day hitting you all over again. “It’s the farm,” you say, swirling the straw in the thick milkshake, not sure where to start. “Pa’s slowing down. I’m running everything from the crops, to the cows, to the house. I can’t keep up.”
Al nods, his expression softening in sympathy as he leans back against the counter. “That’s a helluva load for one person. Yer doin’ right by yer Pa, though, kid. Ya know that?”
You smile faintly, but it fades quickly. “I’m just doing what needs to be done, but it’s just not enough anymore. So I’m trying to find someone to help—a guy, young and strong, you know? I just can’t do it all by myself.”
You slide one of the flyers across the counter to Al, asking him to keep an eye out. “If you see anyone, just... send them my way? I’m desperate, at this point.”
He takes the flyer, his gaze flickering to the paper before meeting your eyes again. “Funny ya mention that,” Al says, scratching his chin. “There’s a new guy who popped up not a day ago. Didn’t think much of it at the time, but he was askin’ around for work. Thought he looked a little outta place for this town, but...”
You raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean ‘out of place’?”
“Just dun’ seem like he belonged, I guess. Looks like he went to Iraq or wherever they’re fightin’ these days.” He shrugs. “But hey, if ya need someone, ya might want to track ‘em down. If I see ‘em again, I’ll send him yer way.”
You nod, feeling a spark of hope. “You’re a Godsend, Al.”
About a week later, it’s a humid Wednesday morning in the heart of August. The kind of heat that clings to your skin, even when the sun’s hiding behind a blanket of clouds. A slight fog lingers in the air, and the scent of sweet grass drifts through the open windows, carried by a lazy breeze. The sun’s rays begin to break through the mist, casting long fingers of light across the fields and trees in the distance.
You finish cleaning up after breakfast, the dishes clinking softly in the sink. Pa’s moved from the dining table to sit in his ratty old armchair in the corner, eyes half-lidded as the local weatherman drones on about tomorrow’s rainstorm. It’s a quiet, familiar morning—the kind you’ve gotten used to in the last couple of years. Your hair’s tied up, a few loose strands sticking to your sun-kissed skin as you wipe down the counter, sweat beading lightly on your neck.
Then you hear it—boots on the porch.
Your body tenses instinctively, the old reflex kicking in. You consider grabbing the shotgun atop the door frame, but a second later, you shake the thought off. It’s overkill, and you’ve got enough sense to know it.
You open the door, not expecting much, probably some girl scouts, or worse, another annoying sales rep. from out of town.
You grasp the handle, pulling open the door, “Look, whatever you're selling, I ain’t buying. I got enough shit to pay fo-”
Standing there is a man, 6 '2 if you had to guess, built like a damn ox, all sharp angles and hard muscle, hair a cropped mohawk that looks like it belongs on someone ten times tougher than him. His eyes are so blue they nearly blind you, but they seem to hold a storm behind them, like he’s seen some shit. But what really gets you is that smirk. It makes you want to both slap and kiss him at the same time.
And then he opens his mouth, and…
Definitely not American. Not even close.
You blink, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ve stepped into some strange dream. You’ve always been more open-minded than most of the people in town, but hearing that thick accent in the middle of your quiet, rural world makes everything suddenly feel a little too strange. Now you get what Al was talking about when he mentioned, “Not from around here.”
He’s dressed in a dark blue flannel, sleeves rolled up to reveal a white wife beater underneath, the fabric stretched tight over his chest. A neat, tiny gold cross between each pec, as if to say ‘Hey! Look at my man-tits!’ His denim jeans are worn, the brown scuffs on the knees looking like he’s been praying in dirt. And those forearms… Thick and muscular, veins running like rivers beneath his skin- stop it.
You force your focus back up to his face, and it’s just as distracting. Soft stubble accented by the sharp slope of his nose. He stands tall, looking at you like he’s waiting for something—oh. He spoke, and now you were supposed to respond. That is how conversations work.
You’re not the type to generally stare at people, but something about him, something in the way he carries himself. You try not to notice how his broad shoulders fill the doorway like he’s daring you to le- STOP.
He shifts on his feet, a hint of uncertainty behind that cocky grin. You can tell he’s not as sure of himself as he’s trying to appear. Maybe that’s the only thing stopping you from slamming the door in his face.
Still, you don’t trust him. Why would a guy like that want a job on a farm in the middle of nowhere? He looks like he could be doing much more important things—literally anywhere else—but he’s here. Standing on your porch with your flyer slightly crumpled in his big hands.
“What can I do for you?” You try to sound cool, collected, but your tone comes out a little sharper than you meant.
He tilts his head, the smirk never wavering. “I hear ye're lookin’ for a hand.”
You raise an eyebrow. “That right?”
“Aye,” he answers, his accent thick and heavy, rolling the words in a way that makes the air feel hotter than it already is.
He steps a little closer, just enough to make you take a half step back. “Name’s Johnny-” he stretches his hand out, “Mactavish. I’m lookin’ for work. Could use somethin’ steady.”
You study him for a second, arms crossed, and wonder if you should even entertain this. A man like him could be trouble. Hell, a man like him is trouble. You take his hand in yours, giving it a solid shake.
“Do you know anything about farms?” with crossed arms and raised eyebrows, you don't bother to hide the skepticism in your voice.
He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I’ve done my share o’ heavy liftin’. Hard work don’t scare me.”
“Alright,” you hum, stepping back and letting the door swing open a little wider. “Come on in. I’ll get you something to drink, but don’t think you’re on the job yet. I’m just…” you pause, “Interviewing, I guess.”
He gives you another smirk,more amused than cocky as he steps past you. “Yes ma’am.”
You step aside, letting him in, and the moment he crosses the threshold, he fills the space. It’s not just his size—though, yeah, the man is big—it’s his presence. Something about him shifts the air, like he’s the sun and everything around him are just mere planets, susceptible to his magnetic pull. The house, your home, suddenly feels a little too small.
His smile fades, just slightly, as he takes it all in. Maybe it’s the warmth of the place, the scent of coffee lingering from breakfast, the old family photos lining the walls. Or maybe it’s just the quiet—different from whatever he’s used to.
“The hell is this?”
Pa’s voice cuts through the room, sharp and confused. He’s already halfway up from his chair, eyes narrowed, hands braced on the armrests like he’s about to stand but isn’t quite sure if it’s worth the effort. His gaze flicks between you and the very large, very unfamiliar man now standing in his house.
You sigh, already anticipating the reaction. “Pa, relax,” you say, walking over to him, ready to placate. “I was just looking for some help around the farm.”
Pa squints at the stranger like he’s trying to figure out whether he’s real or just a heat stroke-induced hallucination. “Help? With what?”
“With everything, Pa.” You lower your voice to a whisper-shout, rubbing your temple. “You can’t keep up the way you used to, and neither can I. We need someone else.”
Pa grumbles something under his breath before scoffing. “And how exactly do ya plan to pay ‘em, huh? We can’t afford that.”
You set your jaw firm. “I’ll make it work, I promise”
That makes him pause. He knows that tone. Knows it the same way he knew your mother’s, unyielding and steady, like a tree standing firm against the wind. Your roots bury deep in the ground you walk on, just like her. There’s no use arguing when you get like this, and he’s too tired to fight a battle he knows he’ll lose.
Still, his lips press into a thin line, his weathered hands gripping the armrests of his recliner before he exhales, slow and resigned. “Stubborn like your mother, I tell ya.”
The words land heavier than you’d like. You huff out a breath, shoving it down before it can settle too deep—before your guest gets too curious. You don’t need a stranger poking around and popping stitches.
So instead, you turn away from Pa as he sits back down, still muttering under his breath, and quickly clear the dining table of a few lingering cups from breakfast. The kitchen’s only a few steps away, the open floor plan letting you move freely. You rinse out a glass and fill it with cool, sweet tea, condensation already forming on the outside as the humid air clings to it. It’s an old habit, a simple kindness—making sure guests have something to drink.
When you turn back, you see that Johnny’s wandered toward the wall, where a small collection of family photos are hung in mismatched frames. He’s standing still, his broad shoulders relaxed but his head tilted slightly, studying them. Studying you.
Your stomach twists when you realize which one he’s looking at.
It’s old, a little faded in its frame, but still clear—you, small and bright-eyed, cloaked in your Ma's too-big dress and classy jewelry, drowning in fabric and pearls as you grin at the camera. Your Ma's crouched beside you, laughing, her arms wrapped around your waist to keep you steady. The slight shadow of your Pa holding the camera, capturing a moment frozen in time.
You clear your throat, the sound cutting through the quiet hum of last night's baseball game replaying from the tv. Dave Winfield hit his 400th home run last night against the Twins. Johnny’s attention was pulled back to you. His blue eyes flicker with something unreadable before he schools his face.
You don’t give him the chance to say anything. Instead, you hold up the glass and gesture toward the dining table. “Sit.”
He does, pulling out one of the side chairs and settling into it with an easy, almost lazy confidence. You set the glass in front of him and take the seat at the head of the table, watching him as he wraps his fingers around the sweating drink.
And for the first time since he showed up, he’s quiet.
You realize, rather suddenly, that you’re not actually sure what to ask him. You’ve never interviewed anyone before—never had to. The farm’s always been run by family.
You clear your throat, shifting slightly in your chair, trying not to feel small under his gaze. He’s watching you—not in a way that feels threatening, but in a way that makes you hyper-aware of yourself. Of the way your fingers tap against the tabletop, of the bead of sweat still clinging to your collarbone from the August heat.
You square your shoulders and push past it. “So,” you start, “what kind of experience do you have with hard labor?”
He leans back a little, forearms flexing just enough to be distracting. “Done my fair share,” he says, voice casual, like he’s talking about the weather.
You arch a brow. “Like?”
His lips twitch, just slightly, like he can tell you’re trying to keep up the tough act. “Military.”
That gives you pause. Military. You study him again, looking past his too-relaxed posture. Yeah, you can see it now—in the way he holds himself, in the sharpness of his gaze, in the way he takes in a room like he’s cataloging exits.
“What branch?” you ask.
“UK Special Forces.”
That surprises you, but you keep your face neutral. You wondered what brought him here, of all places. Obviously he wasn’t American, he sounds like Groundskeeper Willie, for Christ's sake. Your fingers tap against the table once before you ask, “What’d you do?”
He hesitates. It’s slight, barely there, but you catch it. His jaw tenses for just a fraction of a second before he exhales through his nose. “Served where I was needed.”
You tilt your head. “Iraq?”
His eyes flicker—not with surprise, but with something else. A shadow. It’s gone just as quickly as it appears, buried under that same easy smirk. “Among other places.”
You don’t push. You just nod, sensing that it’s not something he wants to talk about all that much.
You’re fine with that. Everyone’s got their wounds.
You exhale, shifting slightly in your seat, fingers drumming lightly against the wooden tabletop. “How much can you lift?”
Johnny takes his time answering, reaching for the glass of sweet tea. He swirls it absently, watching the condensation bead and trail down the sides before taking a slow sip. “Depends,” he finally says, setting it down with a soft thud.“What’re we talkin’? Hay bales? Fence posts? You?”
Your lips press together in a flat line. You refuse to bite. “Let’s stick to hay bales.”
His grin is slow and amused, like he enjoys getting under your skin. “Can handle hay bales no problem.”
You roll your eyes and shift topics before he can drag this out. “Ever ridden horses?”
He stretches slightly, rolling his broad shoulders before settling back into the chair. “Aye, a few times,” he says, tipping his head. “No’ often, but I ken how.”
You nod, working through his accent in your head, but ultimately satisfied enough with that. “Ever herded sheep?”
His brow quirks, and he tilts his head just slightly, giving you a look. “Aren’t there dogs for tha’?”
You let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking your head as you lean forward to rest your elbows on the table. “Yeah, there are. But Dixie’s old now and too nice for her own good. Sleeps with the sheep more than she herds them. Think she likes being part of the flock.”
Johnny’s expression shifts just a fraction—nose wrinkling, jaw tensing like he’s biting back a reaction. Then, casually, like it’s nothing, he mutters, “No’ really fond o’ dogs.”
Your fingers tap against the table once before you hum, neither surprised nor bothered. “That’s fine. Dixie’ll leave you alone if you don’t want to interact with her, she’s a sweet girl though.”
Johnny exhales through his nose and nods, shifting in his chair. He leans back, resting one arm over the backrest like he owns the damn thing, settling into an easy, almost lazy posture. You, on the other hand, are still sitting straight, trying to keep some sense of control in this conversation. You move toward the standard questions—his work ethic, reliability, how soon he can start. Hopefully ASAP.
He answers everything with the kind of confidence that makes it clear he’s no stranger to hard labor, though he keeps the details vague, like he doesn’t see the point in spelling things out to you
Eventually, you sit back, rubbing your hands over your thighs before resting them in your lap. “Look,” you start, exhaling slowly. “I’ll be honest with you. I can’t pay much. It’s a lot of work for a little money.” You’re already bracing yourself for rejection.
Johnny’s quiet for a moment, like he’s really thinking it over. His fingers tap lightly against the table’s edge before he shifts, rolling his shoulders once more before leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. “I’ll work withou’ pay,” he says finally. “So long as I get a place tae sleep. An’ meals.”
That throws you a little. Your fingers tighten around the fabric of your worn jeans as you study him, searching his face for any flicker of dishonesty. But he doesn’t look like a man trying to con you—just someone who’s already made up his mind.
He watches you right back, head tilted slightly, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll argue.
You think on it. It’d be more cost-effective to add a couple extra eggs or greens to each meal rather than shell out cash on the daily. You don’t particularly like the idea of someone working for free, but if he’s willing, if it helps keep the farm running.
You nod, exhaling through your nose. “That can work.” This time you extend your hand first, across the table and palm up. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Johnny glances down at your hand, then back up at you. Slowly, he reaches out, his grip firm and his hand dwarves yours. Working hands, warm, rough with calluses. The shake lingers just a second longer than necessary before he lets go, settling back into his seat with an easy smile.
“Guess I’m yours then, boss.”
You spend the next few hours showing Johnny around the property, riding side by side on horseback. Before you even get 5 minutes out of the barn, you realize—for all his confidence—he’s not the best at riding. His posture is stiff, his grip on the reins just a little too tight, and when the horse starts to trot, it becomes painfully obvious—he can’t post to save his life.
You bite back a smile, watching as he bounces awkwardly in the saddle, his jaw tight with concentration. Yeah. That’d be a lesson for tomorrow.
For now, though, you make things easier on both of you. You have Johnny dismount the horse and put her back in her stall. He does so with a small huff, rubbing the back of his neck in embarassment, and you gesture for him to get on behind you on Shimmer—your brown beauty with a white patch on her forehead. She’s steady, calm, used to being ridden double.
He hesitates for only a second before swinging himself up behind you, settling in close. Closer than you’d realized he’d be.
It makes sense, he takes up a lot of space compared to you. Granted, Shimmer is a horse for your size, not his. His chest is flush against your back, warm and solid, and suddenly, you’re very aware of just how big he is. His arms rest lightly on either side of you, long enough for his hands gripping the saddle’s pommel as he adjusts.
You swallow hard, fighting the blush creeping up your neck. Focus.
“You good back there?” Your voice is steady, but barely.
Johnny shifts slightly, just enough that his chest presses firmer against you. “Aye,” he says, low and smooth. “Though, I cannae say I mind the view from back here.”
You roll your eyes, forcing yourself to focus on guiding Shimmer forward instead of the warmth of him against your spine.
Tomorrow, you’ll teach him how to properly ride a horse.
You guide Shimmer across the acres, Johnny still seated behind you, his chest a steady presence against your back. You don’t bother overwhelming him with too much about the animals—there’d be time for that later. For now, you focus on the land itself, pointing out the ins and outs of the property. The best routes to take. The spots where the fence needs checking. Where the land dips and swells, where the ground gets soft after rain. What to avoid.
To your surprise, he doesn’t just nod along like he’s only half-listening—he absorbs everything.
You’d expected some level of attention, but Johnny takes it to another level. He’s perceptive, and alarmingly so. He never asks you to repeat yourself, doesn’t need clarification. His responses are short but sharp, repeating directions back to you with precision, like he’s filing everything away for later.
It shocks you a little. Most people take weeks to learn the best ways around the farm, to memorize which fence posts need reinforcing, which pasture belongs to which animal.
Johnny’s picking it up in hours.
You exhale, eyes scanning the land ahead as you consider it. Must be the military. You don’t know much about what exactly the UK has their Army doing, but you imagine remembering terrain was part of the job. Mapping escape routes, tracking paths, knowing where to move and when. James Bond shit.
It’s a little unnerving, if you’re being honest. But at the same time, it’s... reassuring. If he can learn this fast, maybe he’ll actually be useful around here.
By the time the sun starts its slow descent, painting the sky in hazy streaks of orange and pink, you’ve spent the better part of the day word-vomiting everything Johnny needs to know about the property. He took it all in with that same sharp, unnerving focus, barely asking questions, barely missing a beat. You’d expected him to lose interest, to at least seem overwhelmed, but he never did. It’s strange.
It’s late afternoon. You bring him inside, leading him upstairs to the guest bedroom.
The layout of the house is simple. All the bedrooms are on the second floor. Pa’s bedroom is to the left of the stairs, along with a storage room and a couple of closets down the hall. He’s got his own ensuite bathroom, which is a luxury in a house this old. There’s a small common area at the top of the stairs, more of a nook than a real room, where an old desk and a shelf full of worn books sit untouched most days. To the right of the stairs and down the hall is your bedroom, and next to it, the guest room—now Johnny’s room. Directly across the hall is the bathroom, which, as of now, isn’t just your bathroom anymore.
It’s Johnny’s too, now. You just had to pray he would remember to put the seat down.
You pause outside the guest room, pushing the door open so he can step in. It’s simple—a sturdy bed, a nightstand, a decently sized dresser. Nothing fancy, but clean and comfortable enough.
Johnny steps inside, tossing his bag onto the bed and glancing around. He gives a small nod, like he approves, before shooting a look over his shoulder.
"Cozy," he remarks, that damn accent making the word sound richer than it has any right to.
You cross your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “My room’s next door,” you tell him, nodding toward it. “And we’ll be sharing the bathroom across the hall.”
Johnny quirks a brow at that, glancing toward the bathroom before his gaze slides back to you. His lips twitch—not quite a smirk, but damn close.
“Hope ye dinnae take long showers, then,” he teases.
You huff, pushing off the doorframe. “I don’t. I won’t be in your way. Hope you won’t be in mine.”
He chuckles, low and amused, before stretching his arms above his head, the hem of his wife beater riding up just enough to reveal a dark tuft of hair, tastefully accented by a vline and the bottom half of some abs. He sighs, rolling his shoulders. “Well, as long as ye don’t mind m’walkin’ around in a towel, we’ll get along just fine.”
You blink. Once. Twice. He’s messing with you, but you wouldn’t mind a bit. You don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing that. “I’ll let you get settled,” you say, tone flat. “Let me know if you need anything.”
Johnny watches you for a second, then grins—a lazy, wolfish thing that makes your stomach flip in a way you’d rather not acknowledge.
“Yes ma’am,” he drawls. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”
You don’t dignify that with a response. You turn on your heel and head back downstairs, exhaling as you step into the kitchen. Dinner. You’ll focus on dinner. For you, Pa—and now, Johnny.
Like it’s normal. Like you’re not dangerously aware of the Greek God now living just a door down from you.
The sun’s nearly set by the time dinner’s on the table, casting a warm orange glow through the kitchen windows. The air is thick with the scent of home-cooked food—something rich, filling, the kind of meal that sticks to your ribs after a long day’s work. You don’t cook fancy, but you cook damn well, and the proof is sitting right across from you.
Johnny practically groans after the first bite, dropping his fork against his plate and leaning back in his chair like he’s just had some religious experience.
“Steamin’ Jesus,” he mumbles, chewing through another mouthful, shaking his head in near disbelief. “This is th’ best thing I’ve eaten in—hell, I dunno how long.”
You scoff, stabbing a piece of chicken with your fork. “You act like I just served you the cure for cancer.”
Johnny just points his fork at you, eyes damn serious. “Might as well be.”
Pa huffs out a chuckle, though he’s still regarding Johnny with that wary, fatherly suspicion. He’s been watching him since he sat down, not quite unfriendly, but assessing. The kind of look that says ‘I don’t trust you yet, but I’m willing to tolerate you.’
“So,” Pa starts, setting his glass down, “what’s a young guy like yourself doin’ lookin’ for farm work? Dun’ seem like the kinda thing a soldier would go for.”
Johnny doesn’t falter. He wipes his mouth with a napkin before answering, “Needed a change o’ pace,” he says. “Figured I’d try m’hand at something new.”
Pa isn’t impressed. “Ya ever worked on a farm before, boy?”
“No’ exactly, no.” Johnny pops another bite into his mouth. “But work’s work, aye? Ye put in effort, ye get results. Simple enough.”
Pa hums, clearly not satisfied with that answer. “... And where’d ya say your from, again?”
“Scotland.”
“Huh.” Pa leans back slightly, arms crossed. “Ya don’t say.”
Johnny just grins, sensing the old man’s suspicion and, by all accounts, enjoying it. But then he shifts gears, effortlessly steering the conversation in a different direction. “Caught some of tha’ baseball game ye had on this morning.,” he says, casually, like it’s just an offhand remark. “Did nae get tae see th’ end of it, though. Who won?”
That gets Pa’s attention. His eyebrows lift slightly, suspicion briefly forgotten. “Ya watch baseball?”
Johnny shrugs. “Not often, bu’ I like a good game when I see one. And from what I saw, th’ Angel’s were struggling there for a bit.”
Pa scoffs. “Struggling? Boy, they were getting their asses handed to ‘em. Pitcher was all over the damn place. If I’d been on the field, I’d have-”
And just like that, the two are off, talking baseball, going back and forth like they’ve known each other for years. You groan, pushing your food around on your plate as the conversation carries on, completely hijacked.
You should’ve known this would happen. Give two men a sport to bond over, and suddenly, they’re best friends.
You zone out for a while, chewing absentmindedly, half-listening as they talk about batting averages and pitching speeds. You don’t notice it at first—a gentle nudge against your ankle.
You flinch slightly, assuming Johnny just bumped you on accident. You shift your foot away under the table.
He follows with his own. Your brows furrow slightly, shooting a glance at him. He doesn’t even look at you, still chatting with Pa like nothing’s happening.
A moment later, another nudge—softer this time.
You realize he’s doing it on purpose.
You sit up straighter, stiffening as you move your foot again.
Johnny follows.
Your jaw tightens, eyes narrowing. What is he doing?
You flick your gaze toward him again, and finally, he meets your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough for the ghost of a smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth before he looks back at Pa, completely unfazed.
You resist the urge to kick him under the table, opting instead to glare daggers at him, your expression screaming ‘What in the absolute fuck are you doing?’
Johnny, the absolute menace, doesn’t react beyond the occasional brief glance in your direction, his smirk lingering like he’s enjoying this way too much.
Meanwhile, Pa’s none the wiser, still going on about how baseball’s gone soft over the years. And you’re stuck sitting there, silently fuming, trapped in a footsie war like you’re in grade school.
Dinner winds down, the conversation between Johnny and Pa finally tapering off. Johnny, mercifully, lets up with the footsie nonsense, though not before giving one last, slow brush of his ankle against yours—like a final, smug little victory lap. You pointedly ignore it, pretending not to notice, even as heat creeps up the back of your neck.
Eventually, Pa calls it a night. He pushes back from the table with a tired groan, muttering about how he’s “too damn old to be up this late,” before shuffling off toward the stairs.
You listen to his slow, steady footsteps as he heads up to his room, waiting for the familiar click of his door shutting. And then—you’re alone.
Johnny lingers in the kitchen, standing near the island, hovering. He looks out of place for the first time since he showed up, like he’s not sure if he should offer to help or just let you do your thing. Instead, he leans against the counter, arms crossing over his chest, his weight shifting from one foot to the other.
It’s awkward—unlike him.
You stack plates, rinsing them under the faucet, letting the warm water fill the quiet. But you can feel him watching you. Not in a weird way—just... observing. Like he’s waiting for something.
And you’re not about to let that something slide.
“So,” you say, voice casual as you scrub a dish, “what was with the footsie?”
Johnny makes a noise in the back of his throat, amused. “Thought ye’d never ask.”
You scoff, shooting him a look over your shoulder. “Seriously?”
His smirk is pure trouble. “Could nae help myself, lass,” he says, leaning forward slightly, elbows braced on the countertop. “Ye just looked so serious, sittin’ there all quiet, tryin’ not tae react.” His voice drops just a bit lower, teasing. “Was cute.”
Your heart stumbles in your chest, a traitorous little skip that pisses you off.
Because, genuinely, what the hell? Sure he’s probably the most attractive man you’ve ever seen, and potentially your exact type to a T, but you’ve only known this man for a day. There’s no way you could be that desperate, no way you’re already feeling anything. Right?
The thought alone makes irritation creep up your spine. You shut the faucet off with a little more force than necessary, turning away from the dishes completely so you can fully face him.
“What are you playing at?” The words come out sharper than you intended, but you don’t care. You fold your arms, leveling him with a look. “Are you actually here to work? Or are you just here to freeload an-”
Johnny pushes himself off the counter, not playing around. He stands up straight, tall, and present. And when he looks at you this time, there’s nothing cheeky about it.
“I’m here tae work,” he says, steady, certain. “Ye need help, and I can handle it. Tha’s why I’m here.”
His smile returns, but it’s softer this time. Honest. He lifts a shoulder in a slow, lazy shrug, his voice dropping. “But you’re gorgeous, and there’s no denyin’ that. Just sayin’.”
Your brain stalls. Stops working entirely. There could very well be steam coming out of your scalp.
He moves beside you, completely unfazed, grabbing a towel like it’s the most natural thing in the world and starting to dry the dishes you had already washed. Meanwhile, you just stand there, staring where he was just standing, still feeling the heat of his gaze on your skin.
You’re in trouble.
#༒︎ sai int#♱ angel’s writing#𐚁 ˚₊ · { 𝙻𝙾𝚆 𝙲𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃𝚁𝚈 }#johnny soap mctavish#johnny mactavish x reader#johnny soap mactavish x reader#johnny mactavish#johnny soap mactavish#soap mactavish#soap cod#john soap mactavish#cod au#au fic#soap call of duty#call of duty#ghost call of duty#simon riley
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LLAMAAAAAAAA
WRITE MORE ABT FARMER (when you get the chance ofc)
AND MY LIFE IS YOURS!!!!
Your life. Hand it over
---
It was the thickest rain you’d ever seen. It didn't fall like normal rain, it fell in layers, great arcs of water that thrashed the ground one after the other, stormy waves hitting a shoreline. The roar of it landing on the world around you was almost deafening - a problem, considering it was three in the morning, and you were walking in almost pitch black. Any other night you would’ve been guided through the seemingly-endless farmland by recognising the hedges and hearing the animals... right now, you were guided only by the weakened blueish light of your headlamp, and the best that your memory had to offer.
You spotted it, in the near distance. The tiny light of another lamp was flickering back and forth in the rain, moving with the speed and efficiency of a hard-at-work man who couldn’t wait to get out of the terrible weather and go back to bed. You quickened the pace, marching down the field, your waterproof pants were coated in cold mud up to the calves; you were glad you couldn’t feel it. The only wet part of you was your face, and hands - you needed the latter out to hold the big metal flask you were carrying.
You didn’t mind the wet and cold. You stomped on regardless. All you cared about was the sight of that head lamp, getting closer and closer in the relentless wind and rain. You could just about make out the things he was looking at, illuminated by his lamp... the part of the fence he was doing his best to repair.
Before you knew it, you were within shouting distance. But there was no point, he wouldn't hear you. A particularly strong gust rushed across the field, you felt a carpet of rain hit you in the back, and the wind shoved you ungracefully forward. You let out a little yelp but managed to stop yourself from falling over.
... You heard your name over the rain. He had noticed you. You looked up - his headlamp was angled slightly downward, rather than straight ahead, so it didn’t dazzle you like you expected it to. Sans was dressed in his usual farm gear, his heavy boots and thick waterproof pants, and the rain had washed his green jacket cleaner than you’d ever seen it before. His hood was pulled securely up over his skull and he had a fence post the size of you in one hand like it was nothing.
... And he was looking at like he’d seen a ghost. It was rather comical.
“There you are!” You picked up the pace for the last few steps, jogging over to him, before you finally came to a stop. Phew, you’d been walking for almost five minutes in the storm. It felt good to finally see him. Despite the cold, you were pretty flushed from the exercise, hot under the combination of your sweater and coat.
“what the hell are you doing out here?” His green eyelights glowed under his hood, like two soft fireflies, a much more pleasant colour than the cold lamplight both of you were bathed in. It was as if only the two of you existed in the whole world... two headlamps in an endless sea of dark and wind and water. “it’s two in the morning,”
“Three, actually,” you chirped. It was somewhat hard to hear him over the rain hitting your hood, but you just stood a little closer to him. Your hurried breaths formed clouds, you could see them in the combined lamp glow.
He put down the fence post. It dropped with an heavy thunk. “did papyrus send you?”
You just held the big metal flask out to him. It had a black strap attached to the side of it that was sodden by now. He accepted it, seemingly out of instinct, staring down at it before glancing back up to you.
“... uh... thanks. what is it?”
“Soup!”
He blinked. “soup?”
“Yeah. I woke up to the rain, and I figured you’d be out here, because you’d mentioned the fence needed fixing properly before the storm hit." You pulled your coat sleeves over your now-free hands. "Though I did ask Papyrus if you’d actually headed out before I left. I’m not that crazy.”
He was still staring. The rain continued to roar, you had really hoped it would've eased up by now. But it seemed to be only getting worse. Probably for the best Sans was repairing the fence now, before everything completely flooded come morning.
“I know, I know," you continued when he didn't reply. "I’m dumb for going out in the rain, I’ll get wet. But I’m fine, see? I put the waterproof pants on over my boots, like you said. It’s been raining like hell and the only part of me that’s wet is my hands!”
“you... came out all this way, to bring me soup?” he said, softly. You almost didn't hear him.
“Yeah. Pumpkin soup. Knowing you, you didn’t eat anything before you left.”
He had gone quiet. That wasn’t like him. He was looking at you very intently, with great big eylights. Another gust of wind sent a wall of rain into the two of you. You visibly swayed, but Sans didn't seem affected by it.
Was he upset that you might get cold? He didn't look upset, his eyelights were so round, almost sparkly.
“I promise I’m not cold," you pressed. "This is the coat you lent me. See? It’s - ”
Sans moved forward a step. It was all he really needed to close the gap between you. He put an arm around you, despite the flask in hand, and swept you in against him; you were too startled by the sudden movement and proximity to move or do anything. His free hand came up, sliding between your coat hood and the side of your cheek, cupping your face.
He leant in and kissed you.
...
For a moment, you couldn’t hear the rain. You couldn’t hear anything at all. All you could think about was how smooth his hand was, how nice he smelled, how hard your heart was beating, and how warm he was. After so long walking around in the rain, being pulled in close to him felt incredible.
He felt so strong, too. All night, you'd been pushed around by any breath of wind, no matter the direction. In his arms? Nothing moved you. Nothing could shake you.
... Your eyes closed. Maybe it was the dark and gale and rain, maybe it was how early it was in the morning. But you just didn’t want him to let you go.
...
Sans pulled back. Your eyelids fluttered open again. There were raindrops on his skull, and the lamplight was dancing over his bones. His eyelights are such a pretty colour. He was looking at you like he wanted to pick you up and walk home with you.
...
Then, in an instant, the reality of what he just did appeared to hit him. So close to him, you could watch in real time as his eyelights shrank into pins in his sockets, and his smile twitched in what you could only describe as total internal panic.
... You, too, started to do the worst possible thing - think.
Sans just... kissed me. Sans just kissed me.
... You both just stared at each other, he was still holding you. You had no idea for how long. Sans’ eyelights kept flickering between your eyes and your nose, and you kept staring blankly at him, dazed and suddenly very confused.
...
“I-I should, head back,” you started, nervously.
“yeah. uh... yeah.” His hand came off your face, and he let go of your waist, stepping back again. You immediately missed the warmth. “thank you for the soup."
You nodded.
"i’ll..." He sounded shaky. He held onto the flask with both hands, maybe to stop himself from fidgeting. "see you later?”
"You too," you stammered.
... Wait. Shit.
No idea what else to say or do, you stood there like an idiot for a few seconds, trying to formulate something to say or some interesting witty way to turn that fuck-up into a joke and end the conversation - but you had absolutely nothing. Your head was spinning, your heart was still beating a mile a minute, you couldn’t believe that had really just happened. So you just turned right around and started walking.
...
Holy fuck, you thought, pulling your hood tight over your head. What the hell am I going to tell Papyrus?
#llama writes#this was a draft for ages and i just couldnt figure out how to set up the scene#but then a storm hit the uk and it was the perfect inspiration i needed#farm sans#papyrus is going to be VERY excited btw#hes been quietly shipping the two of you this whole time
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lap girl (2)
summary. daryl needs comfort at the greene farm after he fails to find sophia again. luckily his girl is willing to give him exactly what he needs; her in his lap
warnings. fluff, angst mentions of daryl’s childhood abuse, mentions of death, swearing
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divider credits. @cafekitsune
greene farm
It was a new place, and they didn’t belong, and were only welcome due to the miss-aim of Otis. If he had hadn’t ricocheted a bullet into Carl, then their group that had travelled from Atalanta to the CDC and then some, would never have found this little piece of solace. Daryl’s eyes squinted beneath the glaring sun as he sought out the figure that had brazen themself to be absorbed in the daylight, feeling safe since there were barbed fences separating them from the wilderness in which the dead freely roamed. Y/n was enjoying the quiet that surrounded her, sitting upon the blades of grass that handed no threat in her direction.
It was pleasant to see her so peaceful, she wasn’t running for her life, or scavenging for scraps to replenish her hunger, she was instead still, and content in being so. But feeling secure wasn’t enough; it wouldn’t last, it never did. They’d eventually be sent on their way back to the trailing lands that had lead them here in the first place. The road was cruel, and it would only get worse when winter devoured them with the hardships of its crisp air.
And Daryl resented the foreshadowed thought, as they would need more supplies and warm food, and a fire big enough to bring heat to them all. The embers would only attract the undead and threaten them with even more loss, and whilst Daryl wasn’t particularly fond of many people in the group, he had somehow integrated within its ties after Merle’s absence.
Merle had left him before, in the worst possible way - alone with their father William Dixon. He understood that his elder brother had wanted to escape from the abusive entrapment, and thus he had allowed Daryl to be single-handedly foreseen by their parent as a punching bag; and worse. He still had the scars that were far too prominent over his body, they were askew like lines in a map, permanent and hadn’t faded since the sharp indents that had once been bloody had healed.
He resonated in a ying and yang parallel with Carol, the mother of Carol. She was distraught with Sophia’s fleet, already grieving her loss when there was nothing sufficed to state that she was either dead or alive, and Daryl felt responsible to uncover the reality that encased the child, to bring comfort to not only her mourning mother, but the rest of the group. It was an unsure journey that he had already been scathed from, a bullet that only with luck grazed his temple, and an arrow that was plunged from the long fall into his side, but he needed to do this.
Daryl knew what it felt like to be alone when he had been of the same age as Sophia, however he had discovered a loophole through the tormenting years prior to the contagion that infected the human vessel; there was a girl. He had been instantaneously drawn to her, although at first he had wanted to keep his distance, he’d never allowed anyone close. But she made him see the sun shine in every smile that composed itself upon her face and each glimmer that reflected in her eyes.
She made him feel safe. And so here he was, seeking her out as the gauze remained attached to his head, and if anyone saw him he was sure he would look like a fool. The normally obscure and grouchy Daryl appeared giddy as he stepped towards his human lifeline, his footsteps uncoordinated as he felt the ache in his side brew.
At the sound of shuffling fabric behind her, y/n’s head whipped around, she knew better than to just assume that there was no danger that could appear out of nowhere. Even with the serene tranquility that was deranging her viewpoint from the world that had began feasting on itself, there was always the risk that getting too comfortable would end in death. And Daryl smirked at the sight of the blade that shone from the sun in her hand.
“Thought you were a walker you ass!” She exclaimed, her mouth widening in a teeth baring smile. Her blade was placed back in its hiding spot as she felt the need to aid Daryl in seating himself next to her, her palm remaining against his bare arm. “I kicked Andrea’s ass after her shit shot, told her to get Herschel check her eyesight.” Daryl shook his head lightly as to not cause any more disturbance to his injury, promptly nudging her with his shoulder as he allowed himself to laugh at her protective demeanour towards the blonde.
“Yer real funny sunshine.” His rare smile was prominent as he endearingly looked at his girl, wrapping his arm around the back of her relaxed shoulder blades as he brought her closer. But close was still not close enough. “C’mere.” Daryl agilely helped her climb onto his lap, the place he reserved solely for her, his rough yet tender hands remaining on her hips as he brought his face near to y/n’s, rubbing their noses together in a sweet eskimo kiss.
He was exhausted, and he felt like a failure, but she was the only comfort that he needed. Her form was facing his own, and she brushed her featherlight fingertips against his cheekbones, sparing a glare to the dressing. “We’ll find her.” She whispered gently, shutting her eyelids as she melted into him. “But for now you need to rest honey, I’m not having you wear yourself into the ground.” His head rested against her collarbone, inhaling her presence as he tried not to be frustrated with himself.
It wasn’t his fault that Sophia had ran for her life off of the highway, and he wasn’t guilt for being unable to find anything other than her stuffed toy. His hands ran up and down y/n’s back as he buried his head in the crook of her neck, finally taking a break from his daily searching. He just needed his girl planted in his lap, and all his qualms and insecurities became minor.
#daryl dixon x reader#daryl dixon imagine#daryl dixon fluff#daryl dixon smut#daryl dixon angst#daryl dixon x you#daryl dixon x y/n#daryl dixon x female reader#daryl dixon fanfiction#daryl dixon fic#twd x reader
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Hello, I love your writing so much, if you can do so, could you please write a Yandere!Arthur Morgan x infant daughter reader where he's a papa bear to her, and he finds out she's being bullied by other kids in school. Ofc familial /platonic please
Thank you and hope you have a great day!
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AN: moi heart AGH! Cute!! Tsym btw! (^///^) Warnings/MDNI: None, jus' fluff fluff nd' fluff! A little angst, bullying +++ Arthur is 30, Modern AU🍼 tag list: @nayykura @shackspossum @whalecage
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Arthur's ears perked at the sound of your soft burp, a tiny noise that brought a tired but satisfied smile to his face. Finally. One of the trickiest tasks, but one he wouldn’t trade for the world. He adjusted his grip on you, gently patting your small back, his broad hand covering you almost entirely. Rocking in his old chair, the rhythmic creak matching his soft coos and steady breathing, he lulled you into a peaceful slumber, and before long, he drifted off too.
After a long, grueling day this was what grounded him. You were his balm, his anchor, the only thing keeping him steady after everything he’d been through. Holding you brought him a peace he never thought he’d feel again.
Stirring awake, he carefully laid you on the bed, making sure to stack pillows securely on the empty side. Then he stretched out beside you, his rugged face softening as he traced the curve of your cheek with a rough, calloused finger. He couldn’t resist placing featherlight kisses on your tiny forehead and rosy cheeks, his heart swelling with a love so fierce and pure it almost hurt
He couldn’t be more grateful for your presence. Just you, him, and this quiet farmhouse nestled in a peaceful community. The same family farmhouse he had nearly sold, back when everything seemed simpler, before life turned upside down.
Then he almost lost it all. Your mother, his wife (M/N), taken from him in a senseless tragedy during his time as a cop. The memory still felt like a jagged wound, one that would never fully heal. By some miracle, you had been spared, untouched by the violence that claimed her. God knows what he would have done if… if something had happened to you too. The thought alone twisted his stomach into knots. He knew he wouldn’t have survived it, he would’ve lost himself entirely.
So, he made a choice. He left it all behind after ensuring the culprits got caught and sentenced. The city, the job, the chaos. He packed up what was left of his life and came here, to the farm. Away from those dangerous, vengeful people who had shattered his family.
He wasn’t alone in the transition. His childhood best friend, John, stood by his side, helping him find his footing in this new chapter. With John’s support, he rebuilt, trading badges and bullets for the quiet rhythm of rural life. Now, he works from home as a graphic designer, balancing his new career with the role that means the most to him: being your father.
The move to the farmhouse was no easy feat, but Arthur didn’t care about the logistics, his top priority was you. Arthur let only Abigail watch over you while he handled the chaos of packing and unpacking. He didn’t trust babysitters, no way in hell. He’d heard enough horror stories from folks and read about things in the news that made his blood boil. The idea of leaving you with a stranger wasn’t just uncomfortable, it was unthinkable.
The only person he trusted was Abigail. “You’re family, and you’ve got Jack, so you know how it is,” he’d said when asking her to keep an eye on you. His version of breathing was checking in every ten minutes, asking Abigail if you’d eaten, slept, or cried. Even when he knew you were safe, his mind wouldn’t rest until he saw you again.
The farm itself had seen its fair share of upgrades, some subtle, others impossible to miss. The once-simple property now stood fortified with long, reinforced fences and modern electric security gates. The kind designed to deliver a harmless but sharp jolt to anything attempting to breach them, ensuring no unwelcome visitors, human or otherwise, made it in.
Security cameras were mounted everywhere, their lenses scanning every corner of the property without missing a spot. Arthur had spent weeks installing them, triple-checking blind spots until there were none.
And for those thinking of trying their luck? Booby traps, carefully concealed and strategically placed, added an extra layer of insurance. He hadn’t been sure at first, was that going too far?--but the idea of anyone getting past his defenses to threaten you erased any hesitation.
Inside, the house was an entirely different kind of fortress. Childproofing was everywhere, every sharp corner was padded, and cabinets latched tight.
Then there was the basement. What was once a dusty, forgotten space had been transformed into a stockpile, his grandfather’s old cavalry arsenal, now fully restocked and meticulously maintained. The weapons had been relics from a long-forgotten outlaw era, but Arthur saw them as a necessity. A last resort. If anyone dared to cross that line, they’d find out the hard way what kind of man they were dealing with.
Because nothing, nothing, was more important than keeping you safe.
❀˖°
“Hey--no, no-" Arthur picked you up, his glare faltering under the effort to stay stern. “You don’t claw or brawl with Pa’ on this matter, miss.”
He narrowed his eyes at you, though the corners of his mouth twitched in amusement as your legs thrashed in the air. 'Aren't you a tiny feral adorable kid---no be strict , Arthur-'
' “You, ma’am, are going in the tub-”
“WAIT! I’ll go myself!” you blurted, words tumbling out so fast they were practically gibberish. But Arthur, seasoned in the art of decoding your toddler babble, understood every syllable.
“Fine,” he huffed, setting you back down and straightening up with his hands on his hips. He gave you a look that screamed, I’m watching you.
Your eyes darted everywhere but to him. “Um-kay!,” you muttered with exaggerated determination, shuffling your feet as if preparing for the world’s longest journey.
“1,” you started.
“2…”
“um..4? 3-”
“You ain’t counting to ten for the tenth time, young lady. That’s it.” Before you could stage another dramatic delay, he swooped you up mid-mock-Olympian stance and plopped you straight into the tub.
“NOOOOOOO! NOT FAIR! you wailed, your indignation echoing off the bathroom walls.
“Nothing’s fair in baths and bedtimes,” he said with a grin, rolling up his sleeves. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up, Bunny.”
❀˖°
Arthur set the plates and a steaming dish of soup and garlic bread on the table, his ears perking up as your voice carried in through the open window, accompanied by Mouse’s sharp barks. His German shepherd was stationed outside, a necessity for security, Arthur didn’t trust Mouse’s temperament indoors, and keeping the dog outside served as both a deterrent and a watchful guardian.
He glanced out and spotted you with a ball, your tiny frame dwarfed by the expanse of the yard. His jaw tightened. What’d I say about being out at this hour?
He stalked to the lawn without hesitation, his boots crunching against the gravel. He scooped you up without warning, setting you on his hip like you weighed nothing.
“When it’s near dusk, you are to be inside, you get inside without me needing to remind and call you every time,” he said, his voice firm, though not unkind. “Why do I always have to repeat myself?”
“I was gonna come, Pa’!” you protested, squirming slightly. Jeez, he needs to loosen up sometimes.
Arthur stopped, fixing you with a look that left no room for argument. “Some things I say are meant to be words on stone, you hear me? No arguing, Bug.”
He set you down gently but guided you firmly toward the house, casting one last glance at the fence and Mouse, whose ears twitched as if sensing Arthur’s unease.
❀˖°
The early morning mist still clung to the fields as Arthur loaded up the old truck, a fishing pole in the back, tackle box rattling as he slid it into place. The air was crisp, the scent of pine and fresh earth mingling with the faint smell of dew on the grass. You sat in the passenger seat, your legs swinging with excitement as you clutched your little fishing hat, a hand-me-down from Arthur that was still a bit too big for your head.
The drive to the lake was peaceful, the old truck rumbling along the dirt road as the first rays of sunlight broke through the trees. The lake, just a short distance from the farm, was quiet this time of morning, still and calm, with only the occasional ripple as the wind stirred the water.
Arthur parked the truck by the shore and hopped out, stretching his arms over his head. He opened the back, grabbing your tiny fishing rod first, a smaller one he had made sure to get just for you. He handed it over, his large hands carefully guiding yours to the handle.
“You know what to do, Bug?” he asked, crouching down to your level, his tone soft but serious.
You nodded, eyes gleaming with determination. “I throw it in, wait, then reel it in, Pa’!”
“Good girl,” he said, pride swelling in his chest. “But remember, patience is key. The fish don’t always bite right away.”
You gave him a mock serious look, puffing out your chest. “I can be patient.”
Arthur smiled and ruffled your hair before picking up his own rod. Together, you both walked to the edge of the water, the soft crunch of grass underfoot. He demonstrated how to cast his line, showing you the way to swing the rod before releasing it into the water. You watched carefully, eyes focused on the movement, and then it was your turn.
Arthur stood behind you, guiding your hands as you swung the rod and released the line, the soft splash of it hitting the water echoing in the quiet morning. You let out a little cheer, stepping back to wait.
“Good job, Bug. Now we wait.”
You sat down on the grassy shore, your legs dangling, and Arthur followed suit, sitting close enough that he could keep an eye on you but still giving you the space to enjoy the moment. The world seemed so still here, only the sounds of the water lapping gently at the shore and the occasional bird call filling the air.
Minutes passed. Arthur cast his line again, his concentration on the ripples in the water, but he always kept an ear out for you. You were so quiet, so focused on the task at hand, that he couldn’t help but smile.
“Pa’?” you asked after a while, your voice soft but curious.
“Yeah, Bug?”
“Can we do this every month!?”
Arthur’s heart skipped a beat. He turned to look at you, his chest tight with love. “Of course, Bug. We’ll always fish together, whenever you want.”
You beamed, your little fingers still wrapped around the fishing rod, staring out at the lake with a peaceful contentment that mirrored his own.
And then, as if on cue, there was a tug on the line. You gasped, your eyes wide, and Arthur was there in a flash, his strong hands guiding yours as you struggled to reel it in.
“Got it, Bug! Reel it in, slow and steady. You’ve got this.”
You grinned, your little arms straining against the weight of the fish, the excitement in your eyes contagious. Arthur stood close, his hands still hovering just in case, but he could see you were doing it all on your own.
With a final pull, you brought the fish to the shore, Arthur helping you hold it up for a brief moment, both of you staring at the wriggling catch.
“We did it!” you cheered, jumping up and down with excitement.
Arthur laughed, lifting you up into his arms. “You did it, Bug. You caught the first one. I’m proud of you.”
You giggled, your face flushed with happiness. “We’re gonna have fish for lunch! YAY!👹 "
Arthur laughed, holding you close. “Yeah, we will. And we’re gonna have a lot more days just like this.”
As the sun climbed higher in the sky, you both spent the rest of the morning fishing, the peaceful quiet of the lake wrapping around you like a blanket. Every now and then, Arthur would catch a fish of his own, but it was clear which one of you was the real star of the day.
❀˖°
One evening, as usual, Arthur sat at his desk, working on his laptop, the soft glow of the screen illuminating his focused face. You were sitting nearby, playing quietly, but after a moment, you turned to him, your small brow furrowed in thought.
“Pa,” you asked, your voice soft but filled with curiosity, “why don’t I have a mommy like Jack? Like the ones on T. V. ?”
Arthur’s heart skipped a beat. He had been waiting for this question, dreading it, but he knew it was time to answer. He paused for a moment, setting his laptop aside, and turned to face you, his expression gentle.
“Well, Bug,” he started, his voice warm and tender, “you know how some kids have two parents, right? They’re like a big team, helpin' each other out. But you,” he said with a wink, “you’re extra special. Sometimes, God decides one parent is all a kid needs. Just one, but that one’s enough to love ‘em, protect ‘em, and make sure they’re always happy.”
He leaned down to your level, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. “And that’s you, sweetheart. You got me, and I got you. We’re a team too, just the two of us.”
You blinked, absorbing his words, and a small smile tugged at your lips. Arthur ruffled your hair affectionately, the worry in his chest easing as he saw you begin to understand.
“Some kids might need a bigger team, but not you. You’re my girl, and I’m all you need, ain’t that right?”
You nodded slowly, your eyes lighting up with trust and love. Arthur smiled, his heart full. “You don’t need a mommy to be loved, Bug. You’ve got all the love you could ever need, right here with me.”
He pulled you into a tight hug, feeling your little arms wrap around him. “And I’m gonna love you forever, no matter what.”
❀˖°
Arthur couldn't believe how quickly time had passed. One moment, it seemed like you were still a tiny thing, curled up in his arms, and now, the time had come to enroll you in school. He didn't want to let you go. He'd kept you close, always close, and the thought of someone else seeing you, taking care of you, made a cold knot form in his stomach. But he knew John was right. You needed to make friends. You needed to grow.
"Y/N needs to learn how to be around other kids, Arthur," John had said, his voice filled with that well-meaning confidence. "Jack goes to the same school too, so it'll be fine. It's just school. Let her have a chance."
Arthur had reluctantly agreed. He trusted John, mostly, and if Jack was there, well... that was a bit of relief. Still, the idea of you being away from him, surrounded by others, made his chest tighten. He was used to keeping you safe, keeping you all to himself. The thought of someone else influencing you, teaching you things....but he would do this for you.
And so, with his heart heavy but his determination set, Arthur had filled out the papers and enrolled you in school. He kept telling himself it was for your own good, that it would help you grow, make you more confident. Even if it was hard to admit, you were growing up, and he had to let you experience the world outside the walls of their home.
But Arthur knew something else, too. You were shy. You didn't like being around other people, especially strangers. He'd always been there to protect you, to shield you from the world outside. But now, the world would be coming to you.
As he walked you to school for the first time, his hand lingering a little too long on your shoulder, he whispered softly, "You stick close to brother Jack, alright? If you need any help, you go to him. You don’t need anyone else. Just him, just me, and you. No one else matters."
You gave him a shy nod, looking up at him with those wide eyes that always seemed to need reassurance. Arthur smiled down at you, brushing a lock of hair from your face, his fingers lingering just a moment too long.
"Good girl. And don’t let anyone take advantage of you.”
❀˖°
“You eat your lunch today?” Arthur asked, his tone casual but observant, as you stood in front of him with your hands tucked behind your back.
You nodded quickly, avoiding his gaze. “Uh-huh!”
Arthur opened the lunchbox, finding it spotless inside, not a crumb left. For a moment, he felt a spark of pride, was he really lucky enough to have a kid who finished her lunch every single day? But then, something about your overly innocent expression made him pause. He set the lunchbox down and folded his arms, tilting his head.
“So,” he said, setting the lunchbox down and crossing his arms, “how was it?”
“Hmm?” You glanced up at him.
“The sandwich,” he said, watching your reaction closely. “Was it good?”
“Oh, yeah!” you said too brightly. “Really yummy.”
Arthur tilted his head, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. “What did I make again? Just slipped my mind.”
“Uh… peanut butter and jam?” you mumbled.
Arthur’s jaw tightened, though his expression stayed calm. He crouched down to your level, his presence steady and unyielding. “You sure about that, darlin’? Because I know I packed you a chicken and cheese sandwich this mornin’.”
You froze, the color draining from your face.
He sighed, shaking his head lightly. “Now, you and I both know you didn’t eat that sandwich. So why don’t you go on and tell me what really happened?”
You looked down at your shoes, your voice trembling. “I… I was going to eat it, but some kids… they took it.”
Arthur’s heart sank, though his expression remained calm for your sake. He reached out and gently lifted your chin so you had to meet his eyes. “They took it?”
You nodded, biting your lip as tears threatened to spill. “I told them to stop, but… but they wouldn’t give it back. They laughed and said it wasn’t m-ine anymore.”
Arthur’s jaw clenched a flicker of something dark flashing in his eyes. He pulled you into his arms, holding you close. “Bug,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, “you listen to me. No one, and I mean no one, gets to treat you like that. You understand?”
You sniffled, nodding against his shoulder.
“They got names, these kids?” he asked, his voice soft but edged with a steel promise that this wasn’t going to be ignored.
You hesitated, your gaze dropping to the floor. Then, in a barely audible whisper, you murmured a few names.
Arthur nodded, his jaw tightening. “Alright. I’ll deal with ‘em. You ain’t gotta worry about that anymore.”
As he reached out to hold your hand, his fingers brushed against a faint redness across your skin. He stilled, his brow furrowing. “What’s this?”
You instinctively tried to pull your hand away, but Arthur held it gently, his thumb brushing over the red mark. “Bug,” he said, his tone dropping to that low, firm register that always made you listen. “Who did this to you?”
Tears welled in your eyes as you sniffled. “It... it was the teacher,” you admitted, your voice trembling.
Arthur blinked, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut. “The teacher?” he repeated, his tone deceptively calm, though you could feel the storm brewing beneath it.
“I told her about the kids taking my lunch,” you explained, your words coming in halting gasps. “She... she said I was tattling and hit me with a ruler for ‘causing trouble.’”
Arthur’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, but only for a moment.
Arthur stood so abruptly that his chair scraped loudly against the floor. “Get your shoes on, Bug. We’re going to the school.”
“But-”
"No buts. No one lays a hand on my girl, now c'mon, Pa’s got somethin’ he needs to take care of."
The sound of Arthur’s boots echoed ominously in the otherwise quiet hallway as he strode toward the principal’s office, his expression carved from stone. His hand hovered protectively over your shoulder as he guided you along.
The principal looked up as Arthur entered, his usual composure faltering at the sight of the respectable ex-cop's stormy glare.
“Mr. Morgan,” the principal began, forcing a tight smile, “is there-”
Arthur didn’t wait for pleasantries. “There a reason my daughter came home with a red welt on her hand?” he demanded, his voice low but seething.
The principal blinked, momentarily caught off guard “I--I’m not sure what you mean-”
“She told me her teacher hit her,” Arthur interrupted, his words sharp enough to cut. “With a ruler. After she reported kids stealin’ her lunch. That’s what I mean.”
“Well, if a teacher disciplined her, I’m sure-”
Arthur stepped forward, leaning over the desk, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “You think layin’ a hand on my girl is ‘discipline’? You call ignorin’ the bullies and punishin’ the victim a job well done?
“We have rules about-”
Arthur leaned forward, his presence towering even as he kept his voice level. “You got rules about discipline, huh? How about rules about protectin’ kids?! Or do you only enforce the ones that let you blame the victim!?”
“Mr. Morgan, I understand you’re upset-”
“Upset doesn’t cover it,” Arthur snapped, his voice rising slightly. “My girl’s been comin’ home hungry because you let bullies run wild. And now she’s got a bruise on her arm because she finally got tired of takin’ it? You think that’s how you run a school? By punishin’ the one kid who’s just tryin’ to eat her damn lunch in peace? Because if that’s how you run this place, we got a bigger problem than I thought.”
The principal held up his hands, visibly nervous. “I assure you, Mr. Morgan, we take such incidents seriously. I’ll speak to the teacher and-”
“No, you’ll do more than SPEAK!" Arthur took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Here’s what’s gonna happen, you’ll make sure she’s held accountable. And while you’re at it, you’ll deal with those bullies, too. My daughter’s been hungry three times this week because of them, and now she’s got a mark on her hand for speakin’ up?! That ends today.”
“Of course, of course,” the principal stammered. “I’ll handle it immediately.”
Arthur straightened, his gaze never wavering. “You’d better. You’re gonna deal with those bullies and that damned teacher, properly. And you’re gonna make damn sure no one here ever lays a hand on my daughter again. Otherwise, I’ll be takin’ this to the school board, the police, and anyone else who’ll listen. You got no idea what I can do. You got me? You’ll be answerin’ to me."
He turned, placing a reassuring hand on your back as he guided you out of the office. As soon as you were outside, he crouched down and looked you in the eye.
“You did the right thing, Bug,” he said softly. “And I’m proud of you for standing up for yourself. But you leave dealin’ with grown-ups to me, alright? Nobody’s gonna hurt you again.”
You nodded, wiping your eyes as he pulled you into a hug.
“Now, let’s go home,” he said, ruffling your hair. “We’ll make somethin’ good for dinner and figure out how to make sure this never happens again.
❀˖°
“So... no school?” you asked hesitantly, peering up at him with wide, uncertain eyes.
Arthur leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed, and sighed. “No, Bug. You’re still gonna study--but at home, alright?”
He could already hear John’s voice nagging in his head, telling him he was being too overprotective, that keeping you out of school might isolate you further. But Arthur dismissed it. You were still so young, still figuring out the world, and he decided what was best for you. Nobody else.
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” he said firmly, his voice softening as he brushed a hand over your hair. “Ain’t no way I’m lettin’ you go back there to get hurt again. Not by kids who don’t know how to act, not by some teacher who should’ve never had a classroom in the first place. You’re my responsibility, and I ain’t lettin’ anybody mess with you like that. Ever again.”
You nodded slowly, relaxing into the bed. His words felt like a shield wrapping around you, and you trusted him entirely.
Arthur watched you settle, his jaw tightening slightly as anger simmered beneath his calm exterior. He’d been right on the edge of losing it, of storming over to those kids’ homes and making their parents pay the price and make them understand what it meant to raise decent human beings. And that teacher? Though fired, it still didn’t sit right with him. The thought of her laying a hand on you made his blood boil. It had taken every cell to control to not blow her brains out.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus on you instead of the anger that threatened to bubble over. “I’ll teach you myself,” he said, his tone lighter now as he tried to make you smile. “We don’t need teachers like that, anyway. I’ll make sure you learn plenty, and we’ll even have fun doin’ it.”
“Really?” you asked, your voice small but hopeful.
“Really,” he said, tugging the blanket up around you and pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Now, you get some rest, Bug. We’ll figure out all the details in the mornin’.”
❀˖°
After finishing up the dishes and double checking all the doors, Arthur made his way back to your room. He found you sitting at your small desk, scribbling on a piece of paper with intense concentration.
"What’re you workin’ on, Bug?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe.
You looked up, a hint of shyness in your eyes. "A thank-you card," you said quietly.
Arthur’s brow furrowed. "For who?"
"For you." You held up the paper, a drawing of you and him making a cake. Above it, in your wobbly handwriting, it read: "Thank you for being my Pa."
Arthur froze, his chest tightening at the sight. He stepped closer, kneeling beside you to get a better look. "Well, I’ll be..." he muttered, his voice thick with emotion. "That’s real nice, darlin’. Prettiest thing I’ve seen all day."
You smiled, a little bashful but proud. "You always take care of me. So, I wanted to make something for you too."
Arthur reached out and gently pulled you into his arms, holding you close. "You don’t ever have to thank me for that, sweetheart. Lookin’ after you? That’s the best thing I’ll ever do."
You nuzzled into his chest, your small arms wrapping around his neck. "Still. Love you, Pa."
"I love you more, Bug. Always and forever."
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#arthur morgan#asks#arthur morgan fluff#rdr2 x reader#rdr2 fanfic#rdr2 arthur#rdr2#platonic rdr2#rdr2 community#red dead redemption#red dead#red dead 2#possessive#platonic yandere#platonic fluff#platonic headcanons#platonic fanfic#platonic#father#yandere dad#x daughter!reader#yandere x fem reader#yandere x female reader#x female reader#x fem reader#x female y/n#darlingcore
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Emerald Gem||Chapter Five
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Chapter one|Chapter two|Chapter three|Chapter four|Chapter five|Chapter six|Chapter seven|Chapter eight||Chapter nine|Chapter ten (finale!)|
Pairing: Hybrid!OT7 x fem!reader
Overview: Living away from society has its perks. All natural food from your thoroughly cultivated farm, no nosy neighbors, and peace and security with your animals. But sometimes you did get lonely, having no one the talk to but the pigs. However, when 7 extremely wanted hybrids stable upon your deserted farm, everything changes.
Genre: Hybrid Au, Strangers to lovers, slow burn, smut, fluff
Word count: 1.7k
Unedited
"How much longer do we have to keep walking?"
The group was extremely sick and exhausted, walking miles and miles along the forest. When Jimin had no more energy left, the youngest carried him on his back. The pack leader was fearful of the government coming to find them, so during the day they walked nonstop. And when the sun would finally rest, they would rest in the nearest cave or by the tallest tree.
"Until we make it to some water", Joon claimed, ears perked to listen for the closest stream. "I can hear it. We're almost there."
"We wouldn't have had to run, y'know..." Jimin was absentmindedly whispering his thoughts, delirious from lack of sleep.
"I miss her", Tae whined. "And I miss the food, and the comfy bed, and the little chickens..."
Namjoon ignored their complaints, keeping the same pace. He was just as sick and tired as they were, but his love for his pack kept him strong. Now matter how much they tried to convince him to stay, it didn't work. But they couldn't blame him- Namjoon has been burned before.
And he wasn't gonna let it happen again.
Justin didn't like taking the bus. The older kids always made fun of him. Plus, his school was only a couple of minutes away from home if he took the shortcut. So everyday afterschool he would hop the fence behind the school and take left and right turns through the alleyways to get home.
Until one day where he met a little wolf hybrid. Justin had stumbled upon the little guy next to a dumpster in the alley. He was frail and weak looking. His short was torn, his pants were jagged, and the soles of his feet were black.
"Hey little guy", Justin whispered, slowly walking up to the wolf as to not startle him. However it did quite the opposite.
"Please!" He screamed. "I'll go but please don't hurt me!"
With that, Justin backed away. "I'm not gonna hurt you- promise!" The hybrid stood on his feet with haste, getting ready to make a fast exit.
But Justin didn't wanna let him go.
"Are you lost? Do you need some help?" That's when he realized Justin wasn't coming for him- he probably didn't even know who he was.
"N-no. Im f-fine", he whispered, making his way to the kind human who offered to help him. "Just please don't tell anyone I'm here-please." He got down on his knees and pleaded.
"I won't, I swear. But, you can't stay here. Whoever you're hiding from will find you as easily as I did."
The hybrid thought for a second, pondering over his next moves. He's probably been on the run his whole life. His street smarts are probably beyond compare. At least, that's what Justin thought.
"I have nowhere to go..." He whispered. "My family... they're dead. They're all dead- and I'm alone."
It was like looking in a mirror. Justin had found someone just like him. Parentless, scared, afraid. He had a feeling he could help. "You can come stay with me for a while", he offered.
And just like that- he found himself stepping into Justins small apartment. It was cramped, but it's all Justin could afford so he made it work. They lived together for month before Justin finally asked what his name was.
"Namjoon", he replied. "My name is Kim Namjoon, and I'm wanted for murder."
***
Some of the food in your fridge had spoiled. Just to prevent from wasting you walked miles away to the nearest neighbor and gave them all of your leftovers. It been a couple weeks since the guys had left, and you were feeling lost-empty. You knew who they were. You knew what people called him. You knew they were wanted by the government, but it didn't stop you from taking them in.
And even though they hadn't stayed long, it was hard to imagine what life was like without them- especially when you had already imagined a life with them.
When it was time to rest your head, you would walk by their rooms and whisper goodnight. But even though no one was there, the ghost of them always replied back, "goodnight, sweet dreams."
Every now and then you swear you hear laughing downstairs, the sound of Hoseok rolling around in the grassy field, or even the sound of Taehyung flipping the page of a good book. Every now and then, while making dinner, you feel a presence creep up behind you asking "Can I just have one bite? How will I know if it's good if I don't try it?" Jungkook loved to sneak bits of supper before it was ready.
The feeling made you queasy, and it brought tears to your eyes. It made you anxious, so you watched the new every night in hopes that they hadn't been caught. Because, even though they didn't want to stay with you, you sure as hell weren't going to let the researchers have them.
You had already made that mistake once before.
Your birthday party was absolutely amazing! Your friends were there, all of your family came. Even the gifts were memorable. However, something was missing. Your nine year old self couldn't put your finger on it, but something seemed off about that day. It felt as though you were at someone else's birthday party, like the party wasn't for you.
If wasn't until you got older that you realized that it was true- it wasn't technically your birthday party. It was your birthday- that part it true. However, the party was your father's. It was your father's friends, it was their children. They were never your friends. No one would even notice if you weren't there.
So you left.
By your house was a lake, a peaceful lake where all you could hear was the wind blowing through the trees. That's where you snuck off to that night. That's where you met Mina. She was a wolf- the most beautiful wolf you might ever have seen (the only wolf at that time). Her fur was pure white with specks of gray, and her eyes shimmered in the moonlight. One might've been afraid of her, but you certainly were not. She could tell.
"You come here often, Don't you?" The wolf could speak. For some reason, that didn't scare you either. "From the trees, I notice you come hear to wipe your tears. What's bothering you?"
"I'm alone", you whispered, audibly enough for her to hear. "I don't think I'm supposed to exist. All the signs point against it." You laid in the grass, picking piece to fiddle with. Telling your secrets to a total stranger wasn't the best option. But for you, it was the only option.
"Don't speak such words", she scolded. "Close your eyes. I wanna show you a secret."
You obeyed, shutting your eyes as tight as you could. Out of nowhere, great winds blew and the ground shook.
"Now, open."
She was gone. She vanished, right in front of you. The wolf had vanished, and what replaced it was even more beautiful. Her hair was silver. Her eyes were green. She clothed her self in leaves- fitted like a dress.
"Happy birthday, pup", she smiled. Your eyes began to shed tears. She was the first person to wish you happy birthday- Not even your parents did so.
"T-thank you", you sniffled. "I'm Y/n." She patted your head, the same way your mother once did. It was comforting. Here she was, a total stranger, and she's given you more attention than your mother has in a long time. It entranced you, to the point of laying your head on her
"I know", She sighed. "The nights not going so well, is it?"
You nodded. "When does it ever? I'm nine and feel like I'm an adult- so much I haven't done with so much responsibility."
Daciana was her name, a quite beautiful name. You told her all your fears and she held you close. She comforted you when no one else would.
You will never forgive yourself for what happened to her...
***
The cave was cold, almost icy. Jin wanted to light a fire but Joon was strongly against it. "That'll make us an easy target", he scolded.
Jimin laid flat on his back, having no neck or back support. He thought of you. What are you doing right now? What may you be wearing? He dreamed of the dinner you might be cooking.
Does she even care that we're gone?
Jungkook was trying his best to keep Hobi's fever down, but it continued to rise. Taehyung was in excruciating pain. Yoongi was absolutely delirious and Joon could hardly breathe, choosing the solid ground as the best place to rest.
"Joon, we can't go on like this", Jin begged. It hurt him to see his pack in so much pain. It hurt even more to know the cause of it was his pack alpha.
He heaved, trying to get back on his two feet with no avail. "What else can we do? The minute we think we're safe, we'll will be taken. You know this! Where can we possibly go?"
"Back home", Jimin mumbled, using the last bits of his energy. "I wanna go back home, to Y/n."
"Me too", Kook whispered just audible enough to hear. The rest of the pack agreed, sharing their sentiments- everyone except Namjoon. While everyone whined and groaned, he laughed exasperatedly.
"Are you guys serious? She would've turned us over to the authors the minute she found out who we really are! How many times do I have to tell you this? You cannot trust humans."
Jin was fed up. He was sick, exhausted, and lonely. And he was done following orders.
"What do you think you're doing?" The pack watched Jin as he put Jimin on his back, heading towards the entrance of the cave.
"We're going home, Joon..." Jimin struggled to keep his eyes open, but a smile was plastered on his face. It was hard to miss his excitement, even if it was a little hard for him to express. "Anyone who wants to come can come, but I'm tired of living in fear."
He continued, pointing towards his alpha. "Let me know when you're done too. You know where to find us."
And with that, the six pack member left the dark and empty cave, leaving Namjoon alone with his thoughts.
What am I gonna do now? He thought.
-
-
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CREATURE | HALLOWEEN EVENT FIC
Arlecchino x GN! Reader
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Link to my Halloween Event Masterlist. Check out amazing works done by other blogs <3 there!
A/N - I know this is extraordinarily late, but the sunk cost fallacy got to me. Can you tell I’m American from this? Also, not finished because I couldn't find any more ideas for this, so have this semi-baked story because I don't want it to catch dust. Content warnings - Alien AU, Alien! Arlecchino, a gun is there but not used, semi-graphic violence, mentioned deaths but not shown, could be seen as platonic or romantic, 6.5k words
It starts with a streak across the sky. Or, it starts with the rushing of the wind. No, it starts with a reverberating boom that shakes the Earth. Whatever the case, it's around 2 or 3 AM when you're startled awake. Lurching from your bed and trying to blink the sleep out of your eyes, you stumble out of your blanketed sanctuary, cursing out whatever was the origin of the disturbance under your breath. You hear the jolted protests of your animals: the squealing of pigs, the barking of your cattle dog, and the squeaking of chickens. Damn it, you'll have to calm them down too.
You slip on your boots while you grab your flashlight, hastily grabbing handfuls of treats in a bag for the various animals in order to help placate them. You hesitate as you're about to exit your home, the shotgun laid against the wooden frame of the door. Deciding against using it, you rush out to soothe the animals by feeding them the treats by hand, gentle brushes along their hair and shushing them tenderly.
“There, there,” you whispered to your dog who was barking her head off, standing boldly towards the fields. There was nothing you could see beyond the road and the tall grass beyond it. You run your hand down her back as you give her chin scratches. “It's okay. It's okay, you're okay. Good girl. It's alright. Thank you for protecting us.”
Still, she didn't persist until another half hour when her voice grew tired. You stay there, petting her in an attempt to ease her distress, but your efforts were futile. The Pyrenees still has her ears pinned back and her tail tucked, quivering like a leaf in the wind. You've never seen her like this, even with coyotes. What could possibly terrify her like this? You don't know–and you don't want to face whatever creature was out there. No matter how much you try, you couldn't budge her from her spot, her gaze fixated before her. Sighing, you decide there's nothing you could do, and after giving your animals one last check you return to your bed. Nearly in the comfort of slumber's arms, you're pulled away with the screeching of your alarm clock. 4:30AM.
You nearly cry.
After wiping your unshed tears in front of the mirror while you brush your teeth, you make some quick buttered toast, pouring food in your dog’s bowl before heading out. She'll come get it when she wants. You go around your farm, feeding your animals, letting them graze, checking their wellbeing, ensuring the fences are secured, and tending to your garden. You're thankful your parents left you a small farm–not too big for it to be overwhelming, yet still sustainable for you. You only have to go to the market for supplies or when you want to get more baking ingredients.
A sloppy kiss to your face from a calf wrenches you away from your thoughts, and you giggle, petting it. You give one last pet to the baby cow until you venture to your chicken coop. You successfully pocket a few eggs with only a few pecks to your hand. Once the sun really starts beating down on you, you head inside to make lunch. An egg sandwich later, you're out again, this time to make sure your horse gets properly groomed and some exercise. It's around sunset when you herd your animals to their respective shelters after their last meal of the day. Finally able to settle down from a hard day's work, you laze on your couch, reading a book you just picked up last week.
Your ears don't pick up on it first, but then you hear it again, a sound that causes you to shudder involuntarily. It's the kind of sound that makes your heart sink all the way into the depths of your stomach, as if hiding from the source of the noise. The kind of sound that cuts through the tranquility of your farm–an eerie, off-putting sound whose origin is inexplicable. The kind of sound that makes you freeze in place, while your thudding heart roars to life, thumping through your eardrums but not loud enough to drown out that archon-awful sound.
It's a harsh, chilling thing. It's how you imagine a knife scraping alongside a chalkboard sounds like, and it persists for another moment or two before disappearing. You're paralyzed, still enough to have blended into your sofa, waiting, anticipating another damning sound, for it to grow closer to you. Then, there’s some scuttling sounds, fading out just as suddenly it appears to leave behind silence. The thing, whatever it is, is gone now.
With bated breath, you check through the window of the door to your fenced garden, seeing that nothing seemed to be there. Opening the door, it’s almost a relief that nothing really seems out of place. What's left is little dents into the ground with bits of dirt uprooted from said holes. You examined the area to see what caused the scraping sound, before spotting your metal garden bed. There's a thin, long white line that extends from one side's end to the other. Shuddering at the sight, you turn to examine the fences. You have wooden and wire fences tall enough that no people or animals can climb, yet something got in. It's evident by the dirt tracks on one side of a wooden pole that this thing has the physical prowess to climb–or jump–over five feet.
You examine further for any more damage around your property. Your gaze spins around your crops, stopping at your bell peppers.
Or at what remains of them.
—
“Some folks are saying that there's some creature, sneaking around their yards and stealing their vegetables. You know anything about that?” the store clerk says as a greeting while he bags the juice cartons along with your other groceries.
You almost let out a sigh. After the incident, it never repeated, though you're always anticipating the next time you'll hear that damning sound. Your bell peppers weren't much of a casualty, but if it returns, what more will it take?
“It's true,” you whisper, filing through your wallet for the appropriate amount of bills. “Last week Tuesday, I heard something, scampering in my garden. When I checked it after it left, all my bell peppers were chomped off. I thought I was going crazy, making things up. But every archon-damn morning my peppers aren't there.”
“Well, I heard someone tell the local authorities to hunt it down–animal control wasn't very helpful,” he remarks, taking your money, and you raise an eyebrow.
“You reckon they'll catch whatever it is?” You inquire, gathering the bags of grocery.
“I better hope so. Who knows if that thing will stick to just fruits and veggies.”
You're afraid of that thought too. Yet… “What do you think they'll do when they catch it?”
The man gives a shrug of his shoulders. “Dunno. Probably kill it. Things like that shouldn't be thieving around.”
You frowned. “Thanks. Have a good day.”
—
Coincidentally, it's a Tuesday when it happens again. This time, it's a loud, distinctive crash that makes you drop the bowl of batter from your arms. Like last time, every muscle of yours seize to move, subjecting yourself to the sounds that come from your garden. This time, the creature is more clamorous, all kinds of thumping and thudding accompanied by that dreadful, shrill scraping. Spotting the shotgun perched against the front door, you will yourself to make the short distance to it. As your hand wraps around the cool wooden grip, you gulp considerably.
Perhaps you should have asked your parents about practicing a shot or two with this before they passed. You hadn't even expected inheriting the farm so early, nonetheless having to use this. You had always hoped there wouldn't come a time you'd need to use a lethal weapon on someone or something.
You load the chamber of the shotgun, the small, satisfying click of it nearly a reassurance compared to the thrashing still among your garden. Damn it, your hands are shaking. Confronting that thing? You? The shy, lone farmer, left behind by their parents? You, who's susceptible to the faintest pleading from your dog for table scraps, despite having been fed? You, who's entire day of plans is derailed at the sight of a newborn animal? You, who can barely wake up to press snooze on your alarm clock?
No, you need to do this. You don't know what that thing is, or what else it'll decide to destroy. Step by step you approach the door, tentatively peeking through the window.
By archons, what is that?
It's not normal, closer to an extraterrestrial creature than something a part of this planet. You’re hesitant to even call it a creature, rather a child’s crude creation made from shoving different bunches of playdoh together with a faint semblance of a human. It has too many different features jutting from the main body for it to be any normal thing, maybe about the height of the bear, though it's hard to judge from its crouching and writhing. Unsure of what could be the cause of its writhing, you decide if it's in such an agitated state, you shouldn't confront it yet.
You squint your eyes, attempting to piece together feature by feature to even pretend what you're looking at.
Its back is turned towards you, but you can see at an angle their limbs. Nestled on top of its snow white hair with black strands are tall, white, black-tipped flattened ears–like the ears of an erect-eared bunny. From there, you make out pitch black hands (wait, are those claws?) that are clutching the sides of their head–is that a face? Pointedly skirting your eyes away from the facial features, your peer travels lower. Its skin–or fur? You're not quite sure–fades from a white to a darker gray the further your sight goes, with crimson splotches dotting across the spine. Six jointed appendages protrude from the vertebrae, three each on the right and left side. The limbs, reminiscent of a spider (minus two legs), appear as a vibrant, scarlet color in comparison to the darker red spots (which you now realize are crosses, and not just specks) with a midnight outline.
Connected from its spinal cord is a lengthy, thin charcoal-colored tail. At the end of the tail is what can only be compared to a scythe blade. It whips around wildly, as untamed as the beast itself, adding more casualties of your produce with each manic swipe. Suppressing your urge to wince at every revoltingly audible drag of the blade end of the tail you study the rest of the creature. Beyond the spine, it becomes evident that this a bipedal creature, with sable slender, furred (you're more certain it's fur now) legs, and similarly colored feet, though around the ankles breaks up the color with a strip of red.
Even if you were dreaming or hallucinating, you didn't have the creative ability to imagine whatever is in front of you. From its spasming and the guttural groans escaping it, it reminds you of a wild, injured animal.
Then it'd be better to put it out of its misery… right?
Summoning all your courage, you deliberately unlock the door before turning the door in the same manner. No longer behind the closed barricade, you feel as if a piece of armor was stripped from you, your protection peeling off the wider you open the door. It seems so much bigger, so much closer to you now, so much more tangible. Your footsteps over the wooden porch are masked by its pained groans, and you maneuver your shotgun to be held in both trembling hands. Inhaling deeply, you step behind the creature, lifting the barrel until you aim at its head. Your finger finds the trigger.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur to it, though your speech is drowned by its agonizing sounds.
One second passes by. Then another. You give the trigger a miniscule press, before stopping.
Your stupid, idiotic heart is pounding in your chest too hard, and your thoughts are scrambled. Two sides of yourself are at conflict, and it's clear the more soft-hearted one is winning. You're taking a life, alien, mutant creature, or whatnot, it's instilled in you to preserve every life as much as you can. Throughout your entire childhood, you've been taught on the farm by your parents that every life is worth preserving. Even the gophers that eat your crops, or the wasps that occupy a corner of the barn, or the spider you find in your bathroom have a right and place to live. Because they too are struggling to live as much as you are. Perhaps it's your cowardice finding an excuse, but the longer you watch its grotesque twitching, the more your expression contorts from grim to that of sympathy.
You can't pull the trigger. Not even to save it from pain.
Your finger moves away from the trigger and you lower the gun, your heart both lighter and heavier. A voice in your head keeps repeating ‘fool’ and ‘coward’ to add further insult. You can't argue against it. Shuffling away, you make your way back to the open door with the intention of pretending that nothing happened. There's no creature, there's no screeching, and your garden is not tarnished. You'll simply just go back to hiding in your house, hoping that the creature will disappear soon.
You turn, stepping back onto the porch, making your way to the door. The wood underneath you creaks. Loudly.
You don't even turn around fully when red-crossed pupils grab your sight, and then your body is struck with a heavy impact. Tumbling onto the floor, a sharp pain erupts at your back from your landing while a heavy weight now rests on top of your body. Large claws prick your skin as it grips your neck, tightening with each second, restricting your breath.
You futilely try to kick away the thing above you, but it’s too sturdy, or perhaps you're too weak. Either way, it doesn't budge on top of you, so you attempt to pry away the hand. You scratch it hard, desperate nails finding the skin underneath the fur and piercing into it–a fruitless and provocative action given the rumbling growl you receive. It refuses to let up despite your efforts and your strength diminishes with each passing second. Your hands lose the ability to move anymore and your body involuntarily concedes, stilling in place.
“Please…” you attempt to mumble, pleading into eyes that hold no humanity, eyes that don't know of mercy. Does it even understand you? The notion slips from you like fish, and your thoughts begin swimming, comprehension ungraspable just like your breath. The heart beat that used to pound in your ears like crashing waves begins to slow, until it is reduced to nothing more but ripples. Cloudiness fills your mind, and your eyes unfocus. As if injected into, exhaustion seeps throughout your form, lulling you to sleep.
Then you're ripped away, your windpipe free from the crushing pressure as you greedily suck in air, choking at the abrupt intake. Lurching up, you grasp at your chest as the oxygen rushes back to you in rapid huffs. Adrenaline pumps through you once more, making you frighteningly aware of the beast still there. Its head is tilted, like a confused dog, upright ears perked up and pointed towards you. That's when you finally realize you were peering at it, face to face.
It's almost human–if you subtract the ears, the pupils, and the fangs that cover its mouth. Fangs, like those of a spider, are on either side of its mouth. Ignoring those features and isolating the face from the rest of its body, it can pass as an androgynous person. Just another face you could see in a crowd and think nothing of.
Its fangs clack together, the sound invokes shudders from you. You have no doubt that they could crush bones between them. Perhaps that is what it will do to you. It's still observing you, a curious red glint in their inky pits. It finally settles in that you are alive–rather, the creature decided to let you live.
Was it mercy? You can't help but wonder–is it as animalistic as you make it? If it was nothing but that, then you're certain that it wouldn't waste time to sink their fangs into you. It attacks you, then releases you without harm; it's a clear threat, a concept that no wild thing can really possess. If a wild beast was threatened, they either attacked without restraint or cower away. It did none of those. Then, in that case, it would suggest that it is more intelligent than you previously thought–for all you know, this thing can possess emotions and rational thinking like all humans. It's indubitable that this creature is not from this world.
You slowly scoot back, away from the creature, observing if it would strike again. It does not. You finally have the chance to stand up, viewing its hunched form fully. That's when you notice that the spider legs-like appendages were actually folded wings. That explains how the creature was able to intrude into your garden so easily.
You have half the sense to book it, run away as swiftly as you can, yet it's your curiosity that stops you. Why was it screaming and jerking the way it was? Tentatively, you step to the side, and flinch as it shifts its head to track your movements. You take another step, and begin circling the creature, before spotting a silver liquid cascading down its side underneath its middle appendage where there is a noticeable wound. Revealing pale, almost white flesh, and a gaping hole, the size of a coin. A bullet wound?
The voice of the grocery store cashier rings through your head.
Did the authorities do this? Was this a result of them hunting this thing down? You look back at it now.
It's too human-like for your liking. It chatters, fangs clanking against each other again, and it raises one ear. It reminds you of your dog when she's seen something new. Inquisitive, keen, gentle. Swallowing thickly, you edge closer to it, raising your palm to tender stroke around the wound. It tenses, its tail dragging across the dirt irately. You pull away with a flinch, gazing back towards its face.
“I'm sorry,” you find those words tumbling out for a second time, but this apology holds a different meaning. You know it doesn't understand. It blinks at you in response, giving a low chattering with their fangs. There's a standstill between the two of you, observing the other with mutual wariness.
The hard thudding against a door sounds through your house and yard and you snap out of your trance. Someone was at the front door? A deep snarl comes from the creature beside you, and you note its response. Who could possibly be there?
You make your way from the garden to the front door of your house. The creature scuttles behind you, and while the sound makes you cringe, you ignore it. It is harmless… you hope.
You make your way to the door, looking through the eyehole. A sheriff and who you presume his deputy stood just outside. You gulp, shifting your eyes behind you before deeming it safe enough to at least greet them. You can't fathom what they wanted, but their presence currently is certainly inconvenient. What would happen if they spot the alien creature thing currently roaming around your interior house?
“Gentlemen… how could I help you?” you question tentatively, cracking the door open just the slightest bit.
“Good evening,” the sheriff greets gruffly, flashing a polite smile. “We just wanted to question if you’ve seen or heard of any… disturbance around your property.”
Your heart leaps out of your chest, and you clench your hand into a fist behind your back. Feigning a puzzled expression, you cock your head. “A disturbance? Not that I know of, sirs. It's just me and my animals. What kind of disturbance are you referring to?”
There's a single pause that allows both of the men to scrutinize your face. “We're wondering if you've seen a creature prowling around lately.”
“A creature? Well, I haven't seen any coyotes or those damn things around. We're not a bear nation, are we?” You let out a fake chuckle. Something thumps in the kitchen, and you swear you will kill that thing with your bare hands if it outs the both of you.
“No, we're not a bear nation. Well, that is all we wanted. Thank you for your time,” the sheriff states as they both turn. You nearly cheer in victory, but something stops–a minority voice that rushes to the surface of your thoughts just as you watch them leave.
“Wait, gentlemen,” you exclaim, stepping out of the doorframe and into your yard. You shut the door behind you. Both men pivot to face you again.
“What, what kind of creature are you looking for? Hasn't someone shot it down yet? Or doesn't animal control usually wrangle it in? Why would some stray animal get your attention?” You inquire. You knew the answer already, but you couldn't help but wonder if there was more to the foreign creature in your household. Evidently, questioning the creature itself is out of the question, so perhaps the sheriff and deputy would know more.
Their gazes meet one another as if they were telepathically communicating to one another before the sheriff sighs. “This creature isn't at all natural–it's been raiding and destroying people's homes. It's responsible for the mauling of two people. That's why it's imperative that we catch this thing as soon as possible.”
Everything stills at that moment, and your blood runs ice-cold through your veins. Your body trembles, and your surroundings fade from your consciousness. That thing killed two people? The very thing that's likely scavenging your cabinets? The creature that spared you, showed you mercy? It's taken two innocent lives, and you were nearly the third. How can this be? No, rather, you weren't sure why you expected anything more from it when you knew nothing. The knowledge that you're housing a killer weighs heavily on your shoulders. You shouldn't be sheltering this thing, not with what it has done. You should tell them, confess that a wild beast invaded your property and assaulted you.
You open your mouth to speak. You have the sudden urge to gag. You swear bile rises up in your throat.
“That's… terrible. I hope you catch it soon,” you state.
“We surely will. Have a good day,” the sheriff responds.
You watch their backs grow smaller as they trek their way back to their cruiser. When they finally speed off, you collapse against your door, your back sliding down until your bottom meets the ground.
You clutch your chest, heaving gasps escaping from you as you stare at your shaking hands. It's as if something is actively prying the air from your lungs, and every inhale is never enough for yourself. Your heart thrums and thrums with a deafening beat in your ears, threatening to wrench out of the cavity of your chest. Each hammering of the organ creates a pang that wracks through your body. The air is chilling, so frigid that you can't help but bring your knees to yourself, preserving any body warmth you can. Your stomach protests against the movement, squeezing and constricting so intensely you fear that it'll burst like a balloon. Your very reality seems to cave in, and every sensation you can feel is too much.
The thing in your house is a killer. It nearly killed you. It can kill you. You're as good as dead, and yet you're shielding it. Why are you protecting it? Don't you care for your life? For the lives that it killed? Can you call yourself human? How could you do this with the knowledge of the atrocities it's done? Are you stupid? Probably. Do you have a death wish? Why would you let the sheriff leave? He was right there, just one word away from saving you from this predicament. And yet you watched him turn his back, when you know that his job would have been able to protect who knows how many lives. Are you a terrible human? Are you heartless? What's wrong with you? Why are you like this? Why didn't you just tell them? Why are you still here? You should have never inherited your parents’ farm. You should have never been here. Do you even deserve this farm? Do you deserve anything? Why–
Oh. It's warm–incredibly warm, actually, like your back is against a fire. But that's impossible, not when your back is against something solid and there's no crackling or smoke. Instead, there's a low constant humming, like that of a ceiling fan, but also different. It's almost like the purring of a cat. Your vision slowly returns to you, and within some moments of blinking you realize you are face planted into your knees. How long have you been in that position? Your overalls have a wet patch–you must have been crying. You release your knees from your hold, letting them straighten out. That's only when you notice larger legs surrounding your form, midnight in color. You don't quite question them yet until you let your eyes traverse more. Clawed hands are gripping your sides comfortably, heat emanating from the contact there as well.
It's the kind of warmth you sink in after an exhaustive day, sapping away all the heavy weight on your shoulders and securing you in its soft embrace, shielding you away from all that is harsh. It's nice… You lean back further, feeling a subtle rumbling from the rigid wall. Strange, but no matter. All you know is that you're tired, your eyes are stinging, and your body demands rest.
Just as you're about to bathe in the warmth, a revelation hits you: this isn't your bed. You sit up in an instant, prying away from something's grasp as you scramble away. Adrenaline courses through your body as you pivot around, and it sits there, just right where you were as if it had always belonged there. You see its very claws, and all you can envision is how crimson liquid drips from them, wondering when will that be your blood that it draws. When will those fangs pierce into your flesh? Was that what it was about to do? How long has it held you there? What was it waiting for?
You urge your body to move, to do anything but stare at the thing, but the numbness in your legs protests against your mind. The more your peer remains on the thing, the further you're drawn in by its crossed-pupils–you can't look away. Why can't you look away? All you see is the red, the red of blood, rivers and pools of it that forms beneath your person, coming from you and two faceless bodies that lie next to you–victims of the creature.
Even though your limbs couldn't find the courage to move, your lips could.
“Why… why did you kill them? Are you… are you going to kill me too?” You start, rising onto your knees and standing above the creature. The longer your stare lingers, the hotter you seem to get, like an inferno slowly manifesting in your chest. A boldness, empowered by the rhythmic drumming of your heart surges you onward, twisting every strand of fear into something unknown to you.
“Why did you kill them?” You repeat again with a foreign callousness, standing straighter as you approach the still sitting creature. It only stares at you, blankly, emptily, and you've never seen someone–something–with such a punchable face. For once, you are glad that this creature has a more humanoid form; it certainly made any hostility towards it a bit more justified. But for how human this creature may appear, the expression on its face is nothing of one–how can something appear this apathetic?
A part of your mind lashes against your action, reminding you not to provoke the beast. What could you do against this thing, especially now that you don't have your shotgun? However, with a willful shove, the warning is dismissed in an instant.
“Tell me! Was the produce you stole not enough?! How many homes have you broken into? How many people's lives have you ruined?! Don't look at me like that!” You exclaimed, your hands gesturing wildly and your face contorting to that of fury. “Are you going to kill me?! What are you waiting for?!”
All the creature does is cock its head, and the mere movement makes you pause. The hare ears twitch and the tail swishes gently.
Right. It doesn't even understand human language. How could you expect it to? Why were you just aimlessly talking to it? How could it have known? How could you have expected it to?
… How could it have known better?
And suddenly the blaze crackling inside of you is snuffed out in an instant. Once more you find yourself lost in its pupils, only this time you can not see apathy written on its face. Perhaps it's the bleeding heart of a ranch farmer, but before you is only a creature trying to survive. No, it's someone trying to survive. Is it foolish to believe that it was sitting with you out of comfort? And did it spare you out of their own consciousness? It appears human-like… then is it so far fetched it too has its own sensibility, just like other people?
It's not human. But… It is alive, sentient. Feeling. That does not mean it understands.
But maybe it can.
—
It still weighs heavily on you. Not surprising, given that it's been a week since you have met the creature… person… thing. It's still too human-appearing for you to comfortably label it as an animal. You really need to give it–them (because finding the sex of the creature is difficult, if it had any at all. Or maybe you just did not know what it looked like. You did not want to know the answer or go searching for one)–a name.
At night, the knowledge that you house a killer of two people haunts you. Two sides of yourself are at war, though it's largely your guilt festering inside of you. It's this, added with the paranoia that they'll decide to do the same to you, that makes sleepless nights common now. Tossing and turning, just waiting and lying for your death, only to realize that morning has once crept up the sky. Dawn breaks through and by then, you feel like death given the lack of sleep.
You did not have the strength to shoo them away. And they did not make an effort to leave–they left whenever they pleased. To do what, that evades you, but whatever they did was given how fast they return. You find that outside of eating, the creature lounges about, usually occupying your couch. They sleep a lot. You reckon that it's because they're still recovering from the wound. It had taken you a few days to reassure them that you were trying to treat them, but the language barrier was difficult to cross; bandaging the wound seems out of the question. Besides resting, they follow you, watching your everyday activities. For hours throughout the day, your hair would prick up and for several moments, you find yourself anticipating with baited breath for something, anything that would trigger them to assault you. But just like the nights before, nothing ever happens, and all you've done is stall your routine.
Unexpectedly, your routine hasn't changed much besides that, though there comes the bouts of unease with their presence and now you have to cook for two (well, more like three, since they can eat at least twice your portions).
Why did you start cooking for them? You don't know. (Whenever you are reminded that you, in fact, do not live alone anymore, you hear the faint voices of your parents, telling you to treat your ‘guest’ properly. ‘Guest’ is a bit generous, but you did not want to incur your parents’ loving wrath beyond the grave.) But on the day of your encounter, you decide against your instincts and make more pasta than you usually do.
When the bowl of pasta was presented to them, they gave you that usual chilling stare. They remained like this until you stuck a fork in it and ate some of their portion. That swayed them to take the bowl (with the utmost tenderness, likely mindful of its sharp talons–the behavior had you in awe for a little while) and eat it, digging their face into the bowl and ravaging the spaghetti. You bit back your tongue when specks of sauce and meat flew out, dirtying your carpet. Safe to assume that extraterrestrial beings did not have table etiquette.
That reminds you, you still haven't quite figured out what they are. You're almost a hundred percent sure that they do not belong to this world. Earth and its animals may have its oddities, but even this creature surpasses all of it in its uniqueness.
It eases you a bit that they act more bunny-like than their other arthropodic counterparts. It tricks your brain into thinking they are more docile than they seem to be. Sometime during their second day of their stay, they snatched your extra rags and towels from the laundry room before making a nest-like structure on your couch. During midday when you re-entered your home to make lunch, they were curled contently in their nest. Never again have you approached the couches of your living room, nor turn on the television. For all you know, they may be territorial or something.
As far as you know, they are not predatory animals–odd, given their fangs. All of your animals have never been touched by them, and as far as you know, not a single wildlife creature near you has been slaughtered. Actually, they are not opposed to eating anything. Whatever you have made, they have scraped your dishes clean, and there has been no strange– well, stranger–behavior exhibited by them afterwards. Either they have an especially strong stomach or they really can like humans. But based on their first appearance when they have snacked on your bell peppers, you can assume they lean more towards vegetation. After all, if they were carnivores why do they not prey on the nearby forest animals and instead barge into people's gardens? In fact, if they can eat vegetation, why not eat the wild vegetation, like grass and such?
They are so close to being human, it is terrifying.
You are no biologist, but many of their features do not make sense for them to possess. Animals have evolved with almost every bone, muscle, fur, organ, and limb altered to give them the best survivability. Rabbits do not need fangs because they eat vegetation, and spiders do not padded feet or even ears since they can sense vibrations. For archon's sake, it has three pairs of wings. What creature needs that many wings? Their tail is a weapon, a freaking blade. The main purpose of tails for Earth animals is for balance and stability, not to be swung around like that. Biologically, they should have neither of these combinations as features, and thinking about how it naturally came to be is enough to drive you crazy.
…Are they even natural? Were they conceived as is like any other wild animal in their own world, or…
A croak comes across the table and you glance up from your bowl of stew, your spoon having already sunk into the liquid depths. Damn it. The creature makes the noise again, their crossed pupils peering at you expectedly. You raise an eyebrow and note that their bowl is empty before sighing, picking up the ladle again to scoop more soup into their bowl. They go back to consuming the contents ravenously, clawed hands scooping up the meat and vegetables in their clawed hands before shoveling it in their mouth.
As the liquid contents drips from their hand, the color flickers, a deeper hue setting into the stew.
You cringe as specks of the liquid drop onto the wooden table. You bite back a sigh, knowing you will have to wipe the table.
Damn it, you have had enough with this.
Pushing back your chair, the wood screeches against the floorboards but you pay no mind. You grab a spoon from a drawer, and stomp around the table towards the creature. The creature pauses midchew, turning their head towards you. Cross pupils mark across you, brimming with wariness. For a moment the two of you are locked in eye contact before you break away. You reach over the table to grab a napkin, wiping your other hand with it despite it being clean. Then, you offer the napkin to them.
Their hand takes the napkin and they still a bit, seemingly confused, glancing back between the napkin and you. Slowly, they mimic your action, cleaning their hands, though clumsily so, likely not knowing the purpose of the napkin. After they do it for a few seconds, they peer back at you.
You offer it a gentle smile, a bit of warmth settling in your chest. You pluck the dirtied napkin from their grasp, taking a new napkin to wipe the rest of the remains of stew on their skin. They bristle at the contact, but relax. Raising another hand to grasp onto their wrist, you turn their hand to swipe across their palm thoroughly before retracting the napkin. In its place, you place a spoon in their now clean hand.
When their hand closes around the utensil, the spoon dents underneath their fingers, the handle contorting around their fingertips.
You gape at the cutlery. That is–was–a metal spoon.
Tentatively, you pry the tableware from their grasp and replace it with another spoon, a wooden (and less expensive) spoon. Thankfully, they seem to have gathered that they needed to control their strength. This time, they were successful even without your instructions! You assume that they have been watching you and learned to mimic you because they begin eating from the bowl like you do, spoon in hand. After their first bite, they turn from the bowl to you with a placid expression, a wordless question of affirmation. You nod.
They still chew loudly.
Despite this, you scoot your chair from across the table to beside them.
Behind you is the scratching of something, the floor it seems like. When you turn, it is their tail, swishing like that of a dog's, and the sharp end of it gently drags across the floorboards. It is an irritating sound, yet you cannot find yourself too upset.
if anyone has more ideas of their interactions please send through inbox so i can finish this oneshot. i have been banging my head on my desk for months now.
#arlecchino#arlecchino x reader#arlecchino x you#genshin arlecchino#genshin impact x reader#genshin impact x you#genshin x reader#genshin x you#edgeray.writes
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Country Charm - Farm (Mis)Adventures
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Pairing: Park Jinyoung x female reader
Genre: fluff, slice of life
Tropes: married life, small-town rural setting, cosy cottagecore vibes
Warnings: mild bout of nerves
Word count: 2023
Farm (Mis)Adventures is an ongoing series of snippets of self-indulgent and wholesome life with Park Jinyoung as your husband, turning a somewhat overrun farmstead into your family home and learning to slow down in life after leaving the city grind behind.
Country Charm |
“This is the one.”
Turning to look at your husband, Jinyoung, you felt so overwhelmed. This place had all been but a dream for the longest time. Ever since you were a little girl, you had loved horses and told everyone you’d grow up and live on a farm with your favourite animal. This, coming from someone city-born and bred, used to make the adults around you chuckle with delight at the fervour of your declaration, responding with a “of course you will, sweetie!” that had firmly cemented you’d reach that goal sometime in your life.
Growing into an adult, you slowly realised they had just been placating your passion, yet here you were. Standing next to your husband on the little farmstead of your dreams.
Okay, so it wasn’t exactly what you had drawn constantly as a child. The villa home required some updating, the stables were currently only good for storing things in, and the gardens were… well, they were so wild that you couldn’t venture along the pathways around the house. But you could see the charm in the little ten-acre property. The fencing was thankfully updated, and the boundary line was safe enough for you to move your horse Honey in with a little modification. The foundations of the four-bedroom home were solid and built to last, and the beautiful wooden flooring throughout was original. It was within the budget you and Jinyoung had discussed, along with enough to get the kitchen project started. There was ample storage, a conservatory, a small established orchard – the only part not overtaken by the unruly garden – and you could feel yourself settling here. Growing, thriving, and falling further in love with your life and your new husband.
It was your dream, right in front of you.
Something in your expression must’ve captivated your husband because he wasn’t the type to suddenly kiss you in the company of strangers. But he didn’t seem to care for the real estate agent lingering nearby, his face coming closer to yours, his warm eyes searching yours. “You’re certain.”
“This is it,” you repeated, nodding your head softly.
“Alright.”
“Really?” You couldn’t control the bounce in your step, the widening of your gaze, whilst Jinyoung’s eyes crinkled with smug delight. Oh, how he’d hold this moment over you for the rest of your lives. But you didn’t care because he was helping you bring to life your childhood dream. “Oh gosh, you’re not joking? We can put in an offer?!”
“Looks like you’ve won me over to the country charm, Y/N.”
Six weeks later, you were a ball of anxiety as Jinyoung navigated the winding country roads, your hands clasped tightly in your lap. You normally drove the horse trailer whenever it was hitched to the SUV, but you were beyond grateful that it was Jinyoung who had taken over this drive. Still, you kept your gaze on the little camera monitor that linked to the box, watching as Honey travelled quietly in the back, uncaring of the horse equipment packed tightly – and very securely, thanks to Jinyoung’s triple-checking – in the partition beside her. You were so close to your new home, and you didn’t know if you had imagined this all up or if you were about to wake up from a beautiful dream.
Surely, moving to your own farm shouldn’t feel this surreal.
“Calm down,” a smooth voice instructed beside you, and you darted your gaze to your husband’s. Jinyoung didn’t remove his eyes from the road, but you could tell he was aware of any minuscule reaction within your wired body. “We’re ten minutes away. She’s travelled like a dream. You, not so much.”
“I’m worried.”
“About?”
“It not being like I remember it looking.”
Due to having to tidy up loose ends back in the city, you had barely managed to make it to the key exchange in time with the real estate out of town before heading back to the city again. You had resigned from your corporate job, and Jinyoung had managed to transfer to the local doctor’s clinic in the small township you were moving into. It was serendipitous that the clinic required a new doctor with one of three now retiring. For now, you weren’t so sure about what you’d be doing. You wondered if that was tying into some of your unease.
“The house will be just as it was. Needing a good clean, renovating, and gardening,” Jinyoung said, smiling softly.
“You know what I mean.”
“You’re worried you saw more than what it was.”
You nodded. “What if the country charm isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be? How will you cope without your favourite coffee shop? And I don’t have an income right now. Honey needs to be fed and--”
His closest hand lifted away from where he’d loosely been holding the bottom of the steering wheel, now warmly encasing yours with firm pressure. Before he could even tell you to breathe, you were inhaling deeply, trying to slow down your anxious thoughts.
“Good girl.”
“I just want this to be everything I’ve always wanted. And for you to be happy here.”
“Baby, I’ll be happy anywhere with you.”
“It doesn’t have air conditioning like our apartment did. And we’re due for that heatwave.”
“I’ll make sure we have fans for now. Don’t worry. Who do you think you married? A clueless guy?”
You smiled warmly then, relaxing into the passenger seat and staring at the man you had married eight months ago. The absolute love of your life, the one person who could drive you so insane, yet had the power to make it all better again with one kiss. Park Jinyoung had been the only man to challenge you over the years, and whilst you had initially found him insufferable upon first meeting, you couldn’t imagine loving anyone but him now.
Your attention turned to the window when Jinyoung slowed down and put on the signal to turn onto your property. This was it. You had bought this place with him. Well, you had been approved for a mortgage and put down a sizeable deposit. It had been quite the process, and yet you were the one who had the keys to this house in your purse.
Jinyoung shared a nervous grin with you as he put the car into park. He leaned over and pecked your lips as he undid his seatbelt, holding out his hand for the keys you were already producing. You watched as he unlocked the main driveway gate, pushing with a little more effort than it should require to get it over a stubborn strip of moss and uneven concrete. You peered out at the overgrown garden running over the fence next to him and let out a laugh. Jinyoung returned to the car with a similar amusement.
“This place is unruly.”
“You should be able to handle that.”
“I married the most stubborn woman I could find, so I guess you’re right,” he teased light-heartedly. Honey whinnied from inside her trailer, and Jinyoung took that as time to move the vehicle up to where they could unload her first.
“Should we have come here and set everything up first before bringing her here?” you wondered aloud, realising the grass would be way too long in any of the paddocks for Honey to be on full-time.
Jinyoung shot you a look. “I told you we should do that. But you wanted our first time here to be the whole family, the horse included.”
You sheepishly ducked your head before getting out of the car. “I’m sure you’ll be the best helper at getting things organised with me.”
Jinyoung grunted non-committedly as you walked down to the trailer to open the back door together. Before you could reach the latch, you were surprised that Jinyoung had jumped the towbar and joined you on your side, wrapping his arms around you from behind and holding you for a moment. “We’re home.”
“We are.”
“It’s going to be exhausting, but worth it.”
You nodded, feeling lighter with his comfort. “You promise you’ll tell me if you hate country life.”
“I got tired of the city grind. Y/N, I’m excited to breathe in fresh air, to not live in a box thirteen stories up and working for a company, instead of for the community. This was the right move for both of us.”
“Well then, should we unload Honey into our new home too?”
Two hours later, you were happy that Honey was settled in her new field. You and Jinyoung had worked on putting up a tape fence to limit how much of the lush grass she peacefully munched on, making sure she could access the field shelter and the water trough you had scrubbed clean. Her things were stored, albeit not to yours or Jinyoung’s best standards, in the stable’s tack shed and feed room, and you were both in need of getting out of the late morning sun.
“Is it strange we’ve been here for two hours, and we’ve not even gone near the house yet?” you asked, and Jinyoung shrugged, reaching into the car for the chilled bag you had packed with lunch foods and drinks before setting out on the road earlier that morning. He then slung his free arm around your shoulders, and you instantly wrapped yourself around his middle.
“Ready to go inside?”
“Remember the real estate agent mentioned the side door by the kitchen is the best way inside. We’ll have to figure out how to unlock the front doors for when the movers come tomorrow with our stuff.”
“Jackson and Sarah will be here by then to help us clear a path for the bigger items to come in,” Jinyoung replied as he unlocked the door then looked at you, the bag he was holding, and inhaled deeply.
“Don’t you dare!”
“It’s customary.”
“You have been working all morning lifting things out of the trailer and car into Honey’s new yard. If you try to pick me up Park Jinyoung, you will break your – JINYOUNG!”
He grunted, almost losing grip of your body. “I mean this in the nicest way, but you’re heavier than I expected.”
“Of course, I am, you idiot! Put me down!”
“Just let me get you over the threshold,” he huffed as you clung to his broad shoulders, worrying about him toppling back with you in his arms.
Thankfully, he got you both inside before ceremoniously dumping you out of his grip as he slumped to the ground beside you panting. You glared at Jinyoung, and he winked, easing some of your disgruntled energy.
“Idiot.”
“Welcome home, Mrs Park.”
“I love you, but there was no need for that,” you scolded softly, wiping yourself off as you got to your feet and looked around the empty entryway.
“Well?” he asked, having picked himself up off his knees, now resting his chin on your shoulders.
“It’s a blank slate.”
“It is not!”
“I know we have a lot of work to do, but it’s blank from the last owner’s possessions. It feels like a great place to start this new chapter, don’t you?”
“Hmm. I think I need to get the Dyson mop out of the car. The floors don’t look very clean.”
“The last owner was eighty-five and moving into his son’s house three hours away. I wasn’t expecting to have a squeaky-clean home. It needs us to do that first clean before our things arrive.”
“I’m sore and tired.”
“Because you lifted me over the threshold!”
Jinyoung rolled his eyes. “And helped with Honey.”
“Farm life, Jinyoung.”
“Farm Adventures, more like.”
You watched as your husband walked further into the house, taking the right into the kitchen before hearing him yelp in pain.
“A cupboard door was open!”
“Farm Misadventures then?” you called out, hurrying in to find him nursing the side of his head. You couldn’t hide your mirth, even as you replaced his hand with your own, gently rubbing the area and being thankful there had been no immediate bump.
“With you around? Most definitely.”
_________________
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Cracked Lips Give The Best Kisses
Daryl Dixon x Fem! Reader • Prison • Fluff
Thank you so much for the request @cant-help-simping! I really enjoyed writing this one, so I hope you like reading it. Also, I know I have one more request, but I’m writing a part 2 to Brothers and having wayyy too much fun. So that’ll probably be out first lol.
Daryl was an observer. He was always looking, even if nobody noticed. That was especially true when it came to you, his partner, his lover, his light. 'Girlfriend' never seemed like the correct term when it came to you. It was too simple, not strong enough to define the bond he has with you.
One day, when he was lying next to you in your shared cot, he had confessed to you that you were the one good thing in his life. That you're the light in his life that keeps him going. It made his stomach flip, being so open and vulnerable to another person. But then, you smiled so brightly and beautifully. He makes sure to call you sweet names all the time now, even if it makes his face flush and his throat dry.
�� Daryl's always watching, and as of late, it seems his light is dimming. You've been busier lately, more responsibilities. The prison was thriving after taking in the people of Woodbury, and that was thanks to you and the council you were apart of. You helped to plan runs, scout places to check, devise ways to keep the fence secure and walkers away. You were pretty much wherever people needed help. You're always a holler away.
And it's taking everyone out of you.
Daryl could see it. How drained you are at the end of the day. Or how you almost never have time to join him on hunts or supply runs, because you're too busy planning the next one. How maps and planners took up too much of your side of the nightstand. Perhaps the most obvious detail to Daryl was how your lips had been in even rougher shape lately.
Your habit was one of the first things Daryl noticed about you. Even back when he first met you at the quarry, your lips always seemed to be bitten and cracked, even though you always had some flavored lip balm sticking out of your pocket.
It seemed to happen most when you weren't realizing. When your head was stuck in a book, or when you were thinking deeply and zoning out, your fingers would always make their way to pick at your lips. Your fingers would run over the cracked skin until they were bleeding and blood was clinging to the underside of your nails.
They were bad on the road, after the farm had gone up in flames. It was a dry winter, undoubtedly making you lips even more rough. The stress of everything made you resort to picking at them even more. It was a nasty, viscous cycle. Daryl had always made sure to give you chapsticks when he found them in gas stations.
You, and your lips, got much better for a short time. The short time of peace, after the battle with the governor, but before your responsibilities began to pile on and drown you.
Even now, your picking and biting at your dry lips while laying in bed with him. There's a fresh sore right in the middle of your bottom lip, and you absentmindedly pick at in as you write notes in your planner. Daryl can see fresh blood droplets form, quickly sticking to the skin on your thumb.
"You're doin' it again," Daryl says, quietly not to disturb others that may be sleeping in the nearby cells. It's late now.
You don't answer. Your brows furrow and you let out an aggravated sigh as you scratch something out on your planner. Daryl huffs, gently pulling your fingers from your lips.
"What?" You ask. You look at Daryl beside you, and you almost look like you just remembered he was there.
"Pickin' at your damn lips again." He swipes his thumb over your lip, gently and lovingly. You smile and kiss his thumb lightly. "Have you been usin' that chapstick?"
You hum and smile sheepishly at him. Daryl huffs again, narrowing his eyes.
"Well I finished one, and I had another but I gave it to Beth." You shrug.
"You gotta stop puttin' everyone else before you," he complains. You scoff and playfully poke his side.
"Look who's talking." He rolls his eyes. "Mr. 'I'm immune doing anything for myself' Dixon." He nudges you with his elbow.
"Yeah, yeah smartass." He plucks the planner from your hands and lays it on your side table, ignoring your annoyed 'hey!' "Time for sleep. You can work more tomorrow."
You sigh again, and open your mouth to argue, but you can’t when Daryl yanks you down the bed by your hips. You giggle when your head meets the pillow, staring up at Daryl towering above you.
Daryl leans down and kisses your lips softly, not wanting to irritate what he is sure is already a painful set of lips. You hum into his mouth, pulling him onto you further by his shoulders. Your fingertips caress the scars on his back, but he doesn't mind. He leans back and looks into your eyes.
"I love you," he says, lowly. His fingers brush against your cheek, his callouses slightly scratch at your smooth skin.
"I love you, too," you say, smiling as bright as the sun.
Daryl gets up from the bed slowly and carefully, trying his best not to wake you. It's early, the dim light of the early morning sun can ever so slightly be seen through the curtain that's working as a door to the cell.
Daryl gets dressed quickly and quietly. He's just throwing on a shirt when he hears you stir. He pauses and looks at you just in time for you to open your eyes. They're bleary and you rub them and look at Daryl confused.
"Where're you going? It's early," you ask, voice quiet and sleep ridden.
"Run. I'll be back in a few hours," he says in a whisper, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head. You smile, nod sleepily and settle back into your pillow. Daryl's lip quirks at the sight, and turns towards the cell door.
"Wait," you say, sounding more awake. "You don't have a run today. The next scheduled run isn't for three days from now." Daryl juts his chin towards the nightstand.
"Check your planner." You eye him scrutinizingly and sit up, grabbing your planner from the table. You flip open the book to the correct date, narrowing your eyes when you see the written notes on the page.
"Really?" You ask, turning the book to show Daryl. On the planner, below your neat and concise letters, is anything but your handwriting.
In a messy, chicken scratch like scrawl, is two words. 'Supply run.' No notes next to it, no details, not even a location. Just Daryl's messy handwriting. The difference in handwritings and planning details on the page is more drastic than night and day.
"Where are you really going?" You ask again, your brows furrowed in a questioning manner. Daryl shrugs.
"Like your book says." You click your tongue at him. If your eyes were any more narrow, they'd be closed completely.
"Uh huh," you hum, crossing your arms. "Are you cheating on me? Is it a hot date you're going on?" Your tone is teasing, a smirk on your lips.
"Yeah, she's a real looker, too."
"I bet." Daryl hums and takes a seat on the bed, making you curl your legs up for him to have room.
"She's real sexy," he begins. "Slick, too. She makes my heart race, and she's got this great body." Daryl sighs. "Only thing, she's pretty loud."
You look confused. Your mouth is slightly agape, the small cuts on your lips on full display. Suddenly, it's like something hits you, and you tilt your head at him.
"Daryl," you start, a slight sigh after. "Are you describing your bike to me right now?"
Daryl's lips pull to a smirk. You shake your head, a smile bursting to your face. You laugh and smack his shoulder lightly, pushing him off the bed.
"You're ridiculous!" You exclaim once he's off the bed. "Ok, go on your hot date with your bike." You giggle again, getting cozy under the covers. Daryl bends at the waist to give you a long kiss to the cheek. He pulls away after a moment and smooths your hair back.
"I'll be back soon," he says, standing completely and taking a step towards the door.
"Be careful," you say, tired eyes already starting to shut.
"Always am."
Daryl's back at the prison a few hours later. As it turns out, the items he was trying to find proved to be quite difficult to locate. He refused to go back empty handed, so he made a few extra stops. By the time he made it back, the sun was just beginning to dip behind the tree line, the sky an array of pinks and oranges.
He clutches a brown paper bag under his arm and makes his way to you. He makes a quick pit stop to the area of the cell block that's used as a kitchen, handing off a couple small items to Beth.
The girl is playing with Judith on the floor, who's laughing and fumbling with Carl's hat. Beth smiles brightly at Daryl and gives him her thanks. He just tilts his head in a quick nod and climbs up the stairs to your shared cell.
"Daryl!" You exclaim. You're standing in the middle of the small room, probably just paused from pacing. "Where have you been? God, I was worried." You briskly walk to him to grab him in a strong hug.
"'M sorry," he mutters into your hair. "Thought I'd be quicker." You nod into his chest before pulling back.
"Where were you?" Daryl retracts his arm from around your back to retrieve the brown bag under his arm. He hands it to you with a shy half-smile.
You grab the bag, a puzzled look on your face. It's a small, brown paper bag, the kind used by pharmacies for giving out medication. Except this one has a large, tacky looking red bow stuck haphazardly to the center to hold the bag closed.
"What's this?" You ask. Daryl shrugs.
"S'for you. Open it up," he encourages. You look at him with an adorable little frown. He nudges the bag. "Come on."
You give him one last glance before finally opening the bag. You push back the folded top and peer into it, your mouth parts. You look up at Daryl with a shocked expression.
You move to your bed and pour the contents out on the mattress. The center of the mattress fills with the gifts. There's lip balms, glosses, oils. Lip masks, sugar scrubs, hydrating ointments. They all come in an array of flavors, and some are even tinted.
"Daryl... I don't even know what to say," you mutter, in shock staring at the pile of lip care items on the bed. You turn to him, a huge smile on your face. Daryl shrugs, embarrassed by your reaction.
"Don't gotta say nothin'." You shake your head, rushing to him to throw your arms around his shoulders. He returns the embrace immediately, smiling into your hair.
"You didn't have to do all that," you say, pressed against his chest. "But thank you." You lift your head to look into his eyes.
"Welcome." You brush your hand through his overgrown hair, pushing back the strays that obscure his face. "And I gave some to Beth already, so don't be givin' those away."
"Ok," you say with a little scoff. "Deal, I won't, I promise." You bring your fingers down to caress his cheek before pulling away.
You pick through the pile before snatching up a lip oil. It's clear, and it smells like vanilla. You put some on, rub your lips together, and smack your lips dramatically. You turn to Daryl with a big grin.
"How does it look?" You ask, puckering your lips teasingly at him.
"Looks great," he says, a smirk forming. "But I'd rather see how it tastes."
You roll your eyes, but the smile playing on your shimmery lips shows you aren’t annoyed in the slightest. You oblige to Daryl, stepping over to him to plant a big, loving, sticky kiss to his lips.
#daryl dixon#the walking dead#the walking dead daryl#twd#twd daryl#daryl fanfiction#daryl x you#daryl dixion imagine#daryl dixion x reader#daryl dixon oneshot#the walking dead daryl dixon#daryl x reader#daryl imagines#daryl dixon fanfiction#daryl x y/n#daryl dixon x reader#daryl dixon fluff
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WIP excerpt for videogeek; Kara gets to Earth on time and the Kents get a two-for-one special on free kids. (( chrono || non-chrono ))
And then something far away rumbles. Kara looks up reflexively; swivels her head towards the sound. Kal doesn’t react–maybe his ears aren’t good enough yet–but neither do Ma or Pa. She . . . frowns. The windows are . . .
Ma’s put–wood, she thinks? she thinks it’s wood–over all the windows behind the curtains. She hadn’t noticed at first, with the sky all gray and clouded; she’d thought that was why there wasn’t any light coming in through them. But . . .
Why would she block off the windows? Is something dangerous out there? Some . . . wild animal or something? Is that why Pa brought them in early, because there’s something dangerous in the area? Or–someone, maybe?
She doesn’t know if the aliens have problems with criminals or raiders–she hasn’t seen any sign of that yet–but maybe they do. They are awfully far out, and she’s never seen any obvious Warriors around to protect either the farm or Smoll-Veel, so . . .
“Ka-Lair?” Pa asks–or Kara thinks he’s asking, anyway. It’s hard to tell sometimes, with how flat the alien’s voices and language both are. She hears the rumbling again, far-off and alien, and it makes her uneasy. “Kara?”
“Noy-say,” she tries to say, hoping it means “sound”; hoping Ma and Pa will understand what she’s asking. Is it an engine? Hoofbeats? Some raiders’ ship, or an approaching stampede?
Is it coming this way?
“Yuu heer ey noy-say, Mar-Tha?” Pa asks Ma, who looks puzzled and shakes her head. Kal fusses for more “cob-urr”, but–is it safe? Is he safe? Why are the windows all blocked up, and what’s–
The rumble sounds again, louder.
Louder, and closer.
Kara–doesn’t like that. She doesn’t know what it is. She doesn’t recognize the sound, and it’s coming closer, and Pa closed up the barn and the animals and brought them in early and Ma’s closed up the house just the same, she’s realizing, and also brought out all these unfamiliar things and that strange rustic machine, and the farm’s fences aren’t enough to stand up to a raiders’ ship or a stampede, and if there’s any other security systems she doesn’t know what they are or how well they work, and–
The rumble comes again, and it’s loud. Kal lets out an alarmed squeak, then knells in distress. Kara scoops him up into her lap as she tenses, her eyes staying fixed on the boarded-up windows facing the distant rumbling. She can’t even see anything through them, but it feels like she can’t look away.
“Ah,” Pa says, and comes over to pat her shoulder. “Jes thunn-darr, Kara. Ayn-tuh kno-thinn tah wurr-ree buh-out.”
She doesn’t know those words. Or at least, she doesn’t know what Pa means. He and Ma say “dun wurr-ree” sometimes when she’s trying to help, and she’s heard “kno-thinn” and “jes” and “tah” and “buh-out” all plenty of times, and they say “ayn-tuh” a lot, but she doesn’t know what any of them mean.
And she doesn’t remember ever hearing either of them say “thunn-darr” before.
#kara zor el#clark kent#ma and pa kent#superfamily#supergirl#superman#wip: kara gets to earth on time#videogeek
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Excavation of the Oseberg Ship 1904
On 8 August 1903, the archaeologist Gabriel Gustafson received a visit from Oskar Rom, a farmer who had dug into a large burial mound on his property and had come across the remains of a ship. The special thing about this ship - it is the grave of two women from the year 834 AD.
Two days later Professor Gustafson started his investigations at the farm of Lille Oseberg at Slagen in the county of Vestfold. He found several parts of a ship, decorated with ornamentation from the Viking era.
The archaeologist was certain that the mound was a ship burial from Viking times. But to avoid problems with the autumn weather, the archaeologists waited until the following summer before starting the dig in earnest. The excavation of the Oseberg mound was of great interest to the public.
The dig had to be secured with a fence, signs and a guard to ensure that nobody interrupted the work or came too close to the objects. In his diary, Gustafson complains about being on show when heworked.
When the excavation was completed, the most time-consuming and demanding work was still to come. Although the excavation itself took less than three months, it took 21 years to prepare and restore the ship and most of the finds.
The ship was dried out very slowly before it was put together. Great emphasis was placed on using the original timber where possible. Today over 90 per cent of the reconstructed Oseberg ship consists of original timber.
#naval history#naval artifacts#oseberg ship#viking ship#early 20th century#excavation#8th century ad#medieval seafaring
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Okie pea picker in California picker's camp, March 1937. "I seen our corn dry up and blow over the fence back there in Oklahoma." Photograph by Dorothea Lange for the Farm Security Administration, Library of Congress.
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harrowing kae (pt. 3)
DINO DAUNTLESS DINO DAUNTLESS DINO DAUNTLESS ✊ i would absolutely spar (and lose) to dauntless dino
tara, my dearest, i have nothing to show for my dauntless!dino wip except bullet points and one too many photos of how i imagine he would look like... as a dauntless security force member :)
[set pre-pre-divergent canon, which means eric and four are not yet in dauntless]
chan who is born in amity, and it's good, it's nice, it works, but it doesn't feel right. he's from a family that's fairly well-off in the faction. if he chooses to stay, he'll be set for life. marry some nice girl, farm his days away! he should be happy... right?
except he obviously isn't, and everybody knows it. his family is restless about him moving factions; their refrain/whispered prayer is relatively to-be-expected. go to erudite, go to abnegation, sure. anything but dauntless. anything but dauntless.
alas, chan lives to defy expectations. the more he's told "don't do it", the more he thinks the idea is appealing. next thing you know, he's cutting his palm over the coals of dauntless with that almost dopey grin on his face.
except chan kind of sucks. he passes initiation through the skin of his teeth. he's good with the physical aspect— body trained with years of toil— but he barely gets by through the emotional/mental aspects of the tests. he's goaded for being a pansy, one of those 'tree-hugging amity fuckers', and he gets into just enough fights that he's threatened by his trainers that he'll be factionless by the end of this whole thing.
he survives. by the grace of his old faction's gods, he survives, and chan is assigned to be a fence guard. he thrives a little more here, his amity sensibilities making it ideal for him to interact face-to-face with people. he gets promoted to the security force, where he maintains a cushy position involving keeping the City safe.
[branching plot points — need to decide which plot to go with considering this ↑ chan!]
dauntless!mc - either 1) dauntless born!mc who was in the same initiation class as chan. was so good that everyone thought she'd end up a dauntless leader, but has a seeming 'fall from grace' when she ends up in the security force alongside a bemused chan. "doesn't matter where we came from. we all end up in the same place, don't we?" or 2) dauntless!mc who works as a nurse and has to deal with chan's bullshit. "why are you always getting injured?" "maybe i'm trying to find an excuse to see you. ever think of that?"
amity!mc - the girl/life that chan left behind. she's a counsellor now, and chan is assigned to be one of her security detail. "do you ever regret the choices that you made?" "i don't. i can't."
factionless!mc - the factionless are restless, and prior to the arrival of evelyn johnson-eaton, there was mc. mc struggles to manage the ragtag group of factionless into a more coherent system, and chan has to reckon with what the City is expecting to be an uprising.
#(💌) mail room#diamonddaze01#i've briefly toyed with a full-blown divergent x svt setting type of thing#maybe it can be a colla-- [GUNSHOTS]#this reignited something in me maybe i'll make one of those imagine/hc posts LOL but for now#dauntless security force dino... u are so dreamy to me :)
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