#he could be holding a gun to his head every night and just doesn’t have the courage to pull the trigger

[kaylaacutiepie]

iii. Temptation’s Kiss (gun x reader)

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in this one-shot. All characters belong to Park Tae- jun, the talented creator of the manhwa Lookism.

This story may not meet your expectations, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. If you have any requests or suggestions, please feel free to leave a comment below!

Halloween night always seemed to bring out the bolder sides of everyone, but this year, I’d gone all out. My reflection stared back at me, almost unrecognizable in the sultry succubus outfit I’d chosen. The crimson dress hugged my body like a second skin, accentuating every curve, with a plunging neckline that left little to the imagination. The dark, delicate lace traced down to my waist, drawing the eye down the shapely line of my hips. Black thigh-high boots added just enough edge to the look, and the horns perched on my head gave me an unmistakably wicked air.

I felt powerful. Dangerous. And I couldn’t stop thinking of him.

I knew Gun would be at the party, and I had to admit, I’d chosen this outfit hoping it would get a rise out of him. He’d always been a bit of an enigma to me—a constant tension between us that simmered beneath every glance and every fleeting touch. Tonight, I wanted to push those boundaries, to see just how much fire lay under his cool demeanor.

When I stepped into the main room, the music and laughter surrounded me, but all I could feel was his gaze. It was like a pull, drawing me to him across the crowd. His eyes raked over me, taking in every inch of the outfit—my bare shoulders, the dangerously high slit up my thigh, the bold neckline. I could see the shift in his expression, from his usual confident smirk to something darker… more intense.

He made his way toward me, and with every step closer, my pulse quickened. By the time he reached me, I felt like I was on fire. He didn’t waste any time, slipping an arm around my waist and pulling me flush against him. The feel of his fingers pressing against my lower back, his touch warm even through the thin fabric, made my skin tingle.

“Did you wear this just for me?” he murmured, his voice a low growl that vibrated through me. His eyes roamed over the succubus outfit, lingering on the neckline, the delicate lace, the bare skin.

I bit my lip, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Maybe,” I teased, lifting my chin to meet his gaze. “Do you like it?”

His hand traced the line of my spine, lingering at the curve of my waist, and I couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath. “Like doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he replied, his tone heavy, almost possessive. He leaned in, his lips so close to my ear that I could feel his breath. “You’re playing a dangerous game, you know.”

I shivered, but I wasn’t about to back down. “Maybe I want to,” I whispered back, a hint of a challenge in my voice.

That was all it took. He pressed me back against the wall, his fingers tangling in my hair as his mouth found mine. The kiss was hot, intense, leaving no room for doubt about what he wanted. His hands moved with purpose, tracing the edges of my outfit as if memorizing every detail, every curve. I could feel his fingers toying with the lace trim at my hips, his touch sending sparks down my spine.

“You’re impossible to resist in this,” he murmured, voice husky as his gaze moved from my lips to the plunging neckline. His hands drifted lower, slipping under the fabric to find bare skin. My heart raced as he leaned in, lips brushing the curve of my neck, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

“Is this your idea of a trick or treat?” I managed to whisper, barely holding back a gasp as his hands tightened on my waist.

Gun’s dark eyes met mine, his mouth curving into a dangerously wicked smile. “Oh, trust me, Y/N, this is just the beginning.”

I barely had time to catch my breath before he pulled me deeper into the shadows, his hands sliding over every inch of the sinful succubus costume. Every touch, every teasing graze sent jolts of pleasure through me, and I could feel myself melting under his touch. I’d worn this outfit hoping to get a reaction, but nothing could have prepared me for the way his hands felt against my skin, for the low growl of his voice in my ear.

“Happy Halloween, my temptress."

[peachnecrosis]

I always see Ian being debated wether he is happy or not (which I’d agree, mostly not)

but do you think Max is happy? Specially I guess his career currently? Or do you think he’d prefer to be back how it all was before. Sometimes I see vids of him in public and he looks sad (or he’s drunk maybe)

i’ll preface this by stating the obvious and saying that i only have as much information as is willingly afforded to me by the people i discuss and orbit— in no way am i seeing 100% of anyone’s lives, or even close to that; none of us are and it’s an important thing to acknowledge. to briefly touch on the ian thing, yeah. i could say it a thousand times but he seems utterly detached, although his new video was cute and seemed to help him get into a bit of the classic idubbbz spirit without having to pander either way. it was pleasing.

i personally would say that max is simply maturing before i’d say he’s unhappy. he’s always been loud and unruly and admittedly childish, especially in his younger years, but ever since he got married i don’t think it’s a reach to say he’s been gradually sort of toning it down— it’s easy to assume that when someone of that caliber gets quiet or disengages they’re not happy, but sometimes it’s really just a desire to grow past an attitude that may be jarring to some, or that you simply don’t find as funny/entertaining anymore (look at george)

i wouldn’t doubt that all of them have their reminiscing moments— it’s normal human behavior to feel nostalgic and even long to be back in the midst of past endeavors once again even if they include puking your guts up weekly for ad revenue and almost dying over a dead bird your mates put on your pillow. i think it’s a fair assumption to make that they all had fun and enjoyed their time together, most of ‘em have said it outright

tl;dr is i can’t say for sure but i don’t see any reason why max would be unhappy with what he has, because he’s got it pretty good. if he ever feels bad about himself, he should just look at the pathetic state of his former hero. i think he’s just mellowing out a bit.

edit: just remembered you said specifically his career. i can’t really say too much about that but yeah maybe he’s getting over his hot young 20s lets get crunk scene princess alcoholism. im sure he still likes doing co tho

[gay-dorito-dust]

After request the kiss on the cheek and gotmany likes, its too joyful for me. Im craving angst

Stans brothers reaction when Bill told them that y/n will and always died in every universe and dimensions like stuck forever as zombie/wood statue/etc, which y/n will die in their own dimension too in matter of time or months, time is ticking, they can’t change destiny (can they?)

Ford

Didn’t like those odds at all.

He and bill had history and who’s to say that this wasn’t just Bill trying another method to get inside his head once more by using you, his beloved, as a cheap tactic to do so.

‘I thought a being would have more tact than this Bill.’ Ford would say as the dream demon only chuckled.

‘Oh Stanford, do you really think I’d bluff about this? You should know me better by now that I do not bluff, I’ll show you instead seeing as how stubborn you are into believing me nowadays.’ Bill said as he then showed Ford of all the infinite ways you died throughout the multiverse:

Drowned

Stabbed

Possessed

Lost in the multiverse

Body snatched

Turned to stone

Went through a curse doorway unknowingly and never returned, etc, etc.

Bill took immense pleasure in the horrified look upon Ford’s face as he gingerly traced your face as though you turned into porcelain and not stone.

‘Sucks doesn’t it knowing they your loved one is bound to die in every single timeline, it’s enough to suck the joy out of everything.’ Bill said as Ford only glares at him. You don’t deserve these fates, none of your alternate selves did and he could only imagine what you could’ve possibly felt before dying alone.

‘Oh and your beloved y/n is on route to die in like five months.’ Bill casually mentions and Ford immediately looks to him again.

‘What do you mean by that? How do they die! How can I stop it!’ Ford exclaimed as he felt his heart race and his blood run cold at the sheer helplessness he felt in the moment, but it only proved to humour bill all the more. ‘Oh you can’t prevent this one Stanford Pines, they’ll die regardless of what you do to try and prevent it they’ll die regardless and you’ll have to live with it.’ Bill says before leaving Ford alone with his rampaging thoughts.

He could send you away to Dimension 52 to stay with Jheselbraum for the time being, just until he figured something out, but what if Bill foresees this move being made and goes after you himself? Ford didn’t know what he could do to protect you and it was driving him mad with Bill’s vague nonsense not helping him in the slightest. He’ll become paranoid of every little thing you did from that point onward to the point that even if you got a paper cut Ford was expecting something unfortunate to happen, but it never did.

Shit like this kept him awake at night as he holds you tightly against his chest, staring at the ceiling as though daring it to try and take you from him, which it didn’t but Ford grew skeptical of everyone you came across in case they were the catalyst for your death and kept himself near you at all times, hand on his gun in the instance he need to use it to keep you safe.

Ford would busy himself down in his lab to the point of exhaustion looking and theorising methods on how he could prevent your death, so much so that you’d have to come down and practically dragging him out because he was worrying you and the rest of the family. But Ford was stubborn as stubborn could be when it came to you and your safety that he tends to drown out your concerns for him, much to your dismay.

Ford believed that Bill was tempting him into making a deal to keep you safe but he knew that even as powerful as Bill was, even he couldn’t prevent something that he himself and told him happened across the entirety of the Multiverse. So Ford stuck to his guns and buried himself in work to keep you safe because he couldn’t and wouldn’t loose you if he could help it.

Stan

Doesn’t believe a thing Bill is saying in the slightest and thinks it’s all a pile of horseshit, up until the triangle demon shows him of all the infinite universes of which you did indeed die did Stan actually start to believe that Bill was actually telling the truth for once.

Zombies made you one of them.

Got turned to stone by a gorgon like creature and wasn’t saved in time.

Possessed by bill and had multiple stab wounds, bruises, scratches and lacerations from his misuse.

Submerged in amber/tree sap, face permanently stuck in horror.

Eaten by the Summerween Trickster.

Replaced by the shapeshifter after you were killed for being the imposter.

So many timelines where you’ve died cruelly or unfairly and it broke Stan’s heart knowing that in all of these universes his other selves might’ve been either too late, or made the wrong choices that he probably regrets as he downs each and every bottle of the hardest liquor in hopes he’d numb the pain.

He was destined to loose you no matter what and things weren’t made any better when Bill tells him that you were on route to die really soon, taunting him with the fact that there was nothing he, Ford or even the Pine Twins and their stupid pet pig could do to stop it; you’re death was an inevitability across the entire multiverse.

Stan hated being told that there was nothing he could do to prevent you from dying, he hated being told what he can’t do in general! So he’ll much rather take his odds with trying any and everything in his power to keep you safe and sound, even if it means dying himself he’ll do it gladly knowing you were okay.

He was already protective of you to begin with but with the added fact that you were bound to die sooner or later had Stan become even more protective of you. So much so that he doesn’t leave the shack without a crossbow or even his brass knuckles to fight off whoever or whatever was going to try and take you from him; hell he might even teach you how to fight should you get into trouble and he’s not there to protect you.

He keeps you by his side almost 24/7 at this point and would shower you in affection as though he was going to run out of time to do so, even going so far as to keep you away from walking under any ladders, tripping over anything and or crossing the street when you shouldn’t. However it got concerning to the point where you’d have to sit him down and ask what was wrong. Stan isn’t one to talk about his emotions nor how he felt about certain things but this was something he knew he had to share with you sooner or later, regardless of whether you believed him or not.

Stan still thought Bill was full of shit and even acted like he didn’t believe him about you dying and everything, but deep down Stan was scared that his best attempts to keep you safe wouldn’t be enough and that you’ll be taken away, regardless of how hard he fought back but Stan wasn’t one to easily give up not when his loved ones are involved.

[freelancearsonist]

Won't You Suffer for the Angels to Fly?

➔ Joel Miller x fem!Reader - 2k

➔ Joel finds religion in the last place he expected to--a preacher's daughter.

➔ Rated MA for pure blasphemy. a lot of religious imagery and defiling of holy places--please read at your own risk. unprotected p in v sex, creampie, squirting, fingering (f receiving), corruption kink, HEFTY age gap (r is early 20s [unspecified], joel is 56), reader uses feminine pronouns and has female anatomy [please let me know if i missed anything at all :)]

➔ this is for my mid to plus!sized readers :) you're beautiful and valid and i love you. this was written in basically one sitting after i binged mike flanagan's midnight mass in one night. thank you to my lovelies @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin and @shakespeareanwannabe for talking me through this <3 title is from "heaven only knows" by bob moses

The Bible teaches–at least according to what Joel was able to gleam from the Easter service–that everything happens for a reason. That every pelting raindrop in its descent from the sky, even before it lands heavy and dark in his hair or soaks the lush green landscape of Jackson, has a purpose.

He’s struggled a lot with purpose ever since hearing that existential crisis-inspiring sermon that Tommy had dragged him to. 

In the preacher’s defense, it went over well with everyone else. So many people are lost nowadays, adrift in a world that doesn’t seem to have space for them. They need that hope, that reassurance that they’re here for a reason. That they’ve survived hell on earth not out of luck, but out of purpose. He pulled out the big gun that everyone needed to hear on one of the two days a year that everyone in Jackson has their ears open to him. It was tactful, and Joel has to acknowledge that. Your father is clever, if not cunning.

It’s a trait that you’ve learned directly from him, whether purposeful or not. But you sat right in the front row and nodded along to every word, accepting without thought or conflict that purpose is in every action, every reaction, every change of tide and every gust of wind.

And if everything has a purpose, your purpose must be to torture him.

You never have anything but a smile on your face for Joel. Joel, a man older than your own father, a man whose hands have broken every commandment that you hold so dear. A man that should know better than to let you get under his skin and infect his dreams.

He wonders what it would be like to hold someone so perfectly untainted in hands that have killed and destroyed and sinned. Hands that are strong, hands that are experienced, hands that are greedy. He’s certain he could teach you all about greed. He could make you beg, plead, sob for more and more and more until the only thought remaining in your pretty little head is how much you want to take from him. Until you become a glutton at the altar of his generosity.

And oh, how generous he could be once he had you begging. Minding your manners and asking nicely for what you need, of course, but he would never deny you anything you asked of him.

“Can I help you with that, Mr. Miller?” He hadn’t even noticed he was struggling–and he wouldn’t be, really, if he wasn’t so distracted. Putting new legs on a pew isn’t the issue after all; it’s the fact that you’re sitting there on the stairs that lead up to the altar and absentmindedly swinging your legs as if you’re taunting him. As if you understand that his resolve is slipping with every passing second he’s alone in this room with you. 

“Joel.”

“Hmm?” You shift your posture to lean closer, and that skirt that’s already way too short to be worn by the pastor’s daughter, in a house of God of all places, rides just a little further up your deliciously full thighs. 

How is he expected to work, to keep his mind on the job, when all he wants is to know what those thighs might feel like wrapped around his head?

He clears his throat and adjusts “You can call me Joel, sweetheart.”

He sees it, then. It’s so subtle, but it’s not imagined. You squirm at the pet name, at the raspy drawl of his voice, and it changes everything for him.

He sees in his mind the sweet girl, barely out of her teens, who sits in the front pew with a Bible in her lap. He sees the girl who sings so sweetly to the tune of every hymn. He sees the girl who’s so shy that she blushes every time she catches his gaze.

And then he sees everything underneath the act. He sees the girl who’s bold enough to wear a bright red dress to the Easter service. He sees the girl who makes eye contact with him across the dining hall every night to watch the way he reacts to her lips wrapped so tantalizingly smoothly around her spoon. He sees the girl who knew he would be alone in the chapel today–the girl who wore an easily accessible skirt just for the occasion.

You bookmark the page you’re on and set down the book you were reading, eyes fixated on him all the while. “Is there something I can help with, Joel?”

There certainly is, and it’s not the pew he’s supposed to be repairing.

He remembers, vaguely, hearing something about how God spares guilt from sinners when sin is necessary. It must be necessary to teach you a lesson, then–as you stride over and kneel beside him, your eyes heavy with anticipation and lashes fluttering, he doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt.

“Hasn’t your daddy taught you not to dress like this?” He takes the hem of your skirt idly in his hand, rubs the silky fabric between his thumb and forefinger. He’s not touching you, not really, but his hand is so achingly close. An inch or two, and he’d feel your warmth–those plush thighs that God created to rule over Joel Miller’s mind, body, and soul; ‘til death does he finally know peace, amen.

You shake your head and even manage to seem smug as you say, “No. He just teaches everyone else to resist temptation.”

“I’ve never been much good at that,” he murmurs.

He thinks that you know that. He thinks that you’re his crucible, his most important moral trial–that maybe, if he can turn you away now, he’s a good man.

Joel Miller is not a good man. His kiss is crushing. It’s hellfire, it’s brimstone, it’s everything you’ve been taught to fear your entire life. You melt into it so prettily, accepting your damnation with parted lips and eager eyes. A wanton moan gets caught in your throat when his hand slips further up your skirt. 

No panties–in a place of worship, no less. He should bend you over his knee for this transgression, make sure you understand how filthy you are. But there’s hardly time for that now, not when he’s even more desperate than you are. And you are desperate–dripping down his fingers into the palm of his hand as your teeth leave perfect little indents in the plush skin of your bottom lip.

His free hand grips your chin firmly, guiding your eyes to his. He wants to see your depravity, the flickering embers of lust in your eyes as you come on his fingers and cry out for salvation from the all-consuming pleasure.

“Oh my God–”

His hand tightens around your jaw just the slightest bit in warning. “No, baby. You moan my name when I’m touchin’ you.”

And you do–thighs trembling, eyes watering, you cry out his name like a prayer as your cunt pulses and squeezes around his willing fingers.

There’s an unpracticed tremble to your hand as you reach to work open his belt, and it makes his cock throb under the confining material of his jeans.

You want every inch of his skin pressed against yours, so desperate for it that you’re nearly in tears when he pulls your fingers away from the buttons on his shirt. He’s not foolish–no one steps foot into this place during the week, but he knows better than to tempt God’s sense of humor. This has to be quick and contained, and you know it too; you picked your little skirt for exactly that reason.

He catches a glimpse of your glistening need as you settle over his thighs, and once again he battles to resist temptation. He whispers in your ear as you settle your chest against his and grind that fluttering, sensitive cunt along his length–promises himself more than you, really, that he’ll bury his face in your folds and drink from you next time. Next time–the promise makes you clench impossibly hard around nothing.

His eyes have never been quite as heavy as they are when you start to sink that dripping heat down his cock. Head tipped back, throat exposed, completely at your mercy. He has to force himself to look up at you–to worship the goddess enshrined on his altar, all his for the taking.

You bite into your lip nearly hard enough to draw blood as your hips settle against his, completely overwhelmed by the burning stretch of his size. He’s a challenge, certainly, but one that you are determined to overcome. 

“Easy, baby girl,” he grumbles as you start to rock against him before you’re truly accommodated. His hands rest heavy on your hips–not anchoring, but encouraging. As wrong–as depraved–as this may be, he wants you to enjoy it without pain. “That’s right, nice and slow.”

It doesn’t stay that way, though; the desperation mounts to a boiling point until you’re bouncing fervently in his lap. It’s delicious, the way the thick head of him drags against something deep and sensitive within you. He guides you when your thighs start to burn, grip tightening enough to leave forbidden bruises in the soft flesh of your hips. His mouth presses to yours, breathing the oxygen straight from your lungs as he presses his hips up. There’s nothing you can do but take it, pliant in his hold, head rolling back to accommodate the wet drag of his mouth and the tickling scratch of his beard against your throat.

He feels it before you do–a subtle flutter as your cunt tries sucking him in even deeper. And maybe, if he was a good man, he’d lean away from it and have mercy on you. But he’s not a good man–he’s a greedy, wanton, desperate man. He angles his hips and thrusts as hard as he can, shoving you into your release with force.

You overflow with it; gushing over him like a flood, staining his hastily pushed down jeans and the floorboards beneath.

He pushes you onto your back like you’re weightless, adrenaline coursing as he starts to slam into you. It’s not polite or sweet or loving–he fucks into you and empties himself like an animal. He growls deep in his throat as his cock pulses within you, instructing you to “take it, baby girl” as if you’d consider anything less. 

You don’t know where your release ends and his begins. All you know is his weight on top of you, his mouth on your jaw, the collective breathless pants that fill the room as you both come down together.

You’re not sure how long it is before he pulls out of your warmth with an actual whine, breath heavy against your neck where his face is so comfortably nestled.

And you start to laugh, because you wish you’d worn panties after all–you don’t know how you’re going to get home with the mess of cum that’s dripping down the curve of your ass.

He even chuckles with you, until he tears his eyes away from your blissed face and sees the cross hanging heavy on the far wall.

“Th-that…” he gulps. “That can’t happen again.”

“It can,” you assure him, and he supposes you’re right.

You keep your head down and your eyes to yourself on Sunday, even as you spot the barely-noticeable stain on the hardwood floor next to the newly-repaired pew on the right side of the aisle. It’s so faint that no one would notice it unless they were looking for it, but it’s glaringly obvious to you. You should be ashamed; you should be begging for forgiveness. But then you meet Joel’s watchful eyes, and the shame washes away. How can you feel guilty over an act of worship?

THE END

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[allurilove]

Yandere x Zombie you

Rated 18 + — mature short content !

Includes: He’s depressed, gore, murder, death?, he steals someone’s teeth, he tries to fuck you with his… thing, and kidnapping.

*Sorry for not posting! I had to watch TWD to finish this and omg Rick is so fineeeeee. This is pretty unedited. This is also the third fic, and you can read the first, and second for better understanding! He is referred to as “your stalker.” This is purely fictional writing!*

Synopsis: You left him. He fell into a deep depression, not being able to function normally, and he tries to find you again. But trouble seems to follow him where ever he goes, and he has a little run in with a human.

This has been the second time you left him.

When he lifted his head back up, he saw that you were gone. He wiped his tears away and he stayed there on his knees. He doesn’t know how long he’s been there for, his knees slowly becoming numb, and sinking into the ground. He feels the weather change, how cool it becomes when it’s night, and how the birds chirp during the day. He feels the rain pelt him, he sees the grass grow, and the leaves fall down and sees the arrays of yellow and brown. His hair has become longer, a huge bush on his face, and he didn’t know how to function. He didn’t eat, didn’t move, and barely took care of himself. He ignored how his stomach would growl, or how it feels like his body would cave in itself at any moment.

He is now just a part of the sea of zombies, that would be eventually wiped out for human civilization to thrive again. He and you—would be gone. He hoped that there was a way to reverse this. His body has already gone through so much, he’s been eaten on, and generally looked like shit.

If his heart was beating, it would ache. Day and night, he doesnt move from his spot. He doesn’t acknowledge all of the wildlife checking him out, the occasional bunny or deer would sniff him, and he wouldn’t move. He was still as a statue, his eyes hollow, and his limbs were stiff. Soon enough, he flopped over and laid on his back, and stared at the stars.

He would imagine that you were still with him. That you would comment how the stars were so bright, and he would say that they couldn’t hold a candle to you. He would imagine that you two would have a little picnic— to be able to eat edible food instead of human carcass. He would imagine himself wearing his best, and that you would be in yours. That you would treat every outing with him as a date. He would imagine that you and him lived together, eventually getting married, and die old together.

If he died first, he would wish you to live your best life. And if you died first, he would join you. His best life wouldn’t come to fruition if you weren’t living. There was no point being on earth if you werent there with him.

He felt like he was stuck, his body glued to the ground, before he felt a sharp pain in his stomach. He never understood the whole concept of being a zombie, he’s been one for a while, and he feels like he’s failing miserably at it. He touched the bite mark you previously left on him, he sighed as he felt the ridges of your teeth marks, and he closed his eyes.

He would stay there— imaging what his whole life would be like if you just accepted him.

It’s now been years since he has seen you. He has been walking up and down the roads, hiding from humans with guns or knives, and he tried to find you. He wished you didn’t hate him. Or that the damn city you two were in wasn’t so huge.

Your stalker learned a lot from the short time he was with you. You taught him that he didn’t have to ask humans for permission, and that he could just eat them. It was odd at first, and he had to force himself out of the habit of pointing to the human and then back at his mouth. But eventually, he started to feast. To be able to find and recognize the human scent. To be able to spread the virus person to person. He hoped that you would be proud of him.

He continued his journey north, and he found himself at the same place he was last time— when he woke up as a zombie. He first grabbed a bag that was tossed aside, covered in dirt and blood. He then started to find the essentials: razor blades, scissors, rope (to tie you up with), and combs. He then came across a CVS, picking up some magazines incase he gets bored. He hesitated as his hand went to grab some condoms. And he slowly looked down at his crotch. His thing, was officially retired ever since he cut it off and sewed it back on, and he doubts it works like a normal penis does. He dropped the condoms and pushed the door open, and he went back on the road.

He started to learn about the things that zombies do. He also learned that there weren’t many zombies that had the same capabilities like him. Most of them seemed to just run on instinct, and bite at whatever they could. So, it was hard to make any friends.

He came across a restroom at what was presumably a rest stop. He entered the bathroom, and opened his bag. He scrubbed his face clean, and brought out the razor blade. He gently pressed it onto his jaw, praying that he doesn’t nick his skin. Slowly his beard started to disappear, and he then took the scissors started to trim, and style his hair. He looked more presentable this time, and he still looked… dead. But he couldn’t fix that somehow.

He found a man that looked like he was around his size… and your stalker slowly looked down at the pants he was currently wearing. The jeans he wore were tight. And he was pretty sure he was chafing down there, and it was awkward to waddle after your victim. No one exactly took him seriously when he wore pants like these. He bends down and he inspects the dead body, his hands grazing over the full set of teeth the man had.

Dental… was pretty hard to keep up with. He began to pull and even try to bite out the man’s teeth, his hand gripped the man’s lower jaw and he snapped it off. He wanted to find a way to take his jaw off and sew the man’s onto his face, but he ended up just stealing each tooth instead. He shoved them into the slots that were missing teeth, and a couple were stubborn. Not willing to be in a strangers mouth, so he had to force them into his gums.

Your stalker felt like a new man.

It’s been a couple of years since you left him in the woods. You took the opportunity to flee without him noticing, and anyone would be foolish not to do so. You ran for your life, or as fast as your feet could carry you, and you disappeared from him forever.

You traveled up north, dragging your feet to a rest stop, and you passed a body that was missing teeth and pants. Weird.

You’re pretty hungry, your mouth filled with chunks of flesh as you tear the man’s legs apart. You barely swallow and you feel the meat slide down your gullet.

You soon find yourself at a cemetery. It felt like you cheated “death.” All of these people below you, once lived their life to the fullest and unknowingly escaping the apocalypse. While you, a undead being, had to live through it. You were respectful and mindful of where you stepped, and you read some of the tombstones. It was clear everyone here was loved, a bunch of decorations were still up, and vases surrounded each one. Despite the flowers becoming wilted overtime, you knew how much thought and care their loved ones put into it.

You notice a trail of blood on the ground, and you curiously followed it. It was odd to see that, especially in an area as pristine and untouched as the cemetery. You continue to follow it, your feet leading you up to a grave that was dug up. A huge pile of dirt on the side and the gravestone next to it. You wondered if someone crawled out of their grave.

You peer down curiously, trying to look past the clumps of dirt and blood, and you see some skin and bones poking out. A hand twitching and grabbing onto the air as if it wanted to be pulled out.

You waved a branch around above the hand. You weren’t about to sacrifice your body for this random thing. You watched as the hand paused as the branch hit it a couple of times, but then it surged up, grabbing onto the branch. You almost fall into the pit, but your feet plant you onto the ground. You pull and pull, and you see a head stick out.

Your stalker coughed as he was pulled out of his tortuous doom. His eyes immediately land onto yours. They seem to widen, and fill with tears immediately. His top half of his body was now out of the ground, and he wiggled around to hug you. You quickly maneuver your body out of the way, and he hugged a pile of dirt instead. His face nuzzling against nature, his lips puckering into a kiss, and he pulled back as his tongue tasted a worm.

Your stalker whined for you. He threw a little tantrum and all of his frustrations were voiced into little “ooh-“ or “ungh” or “mggggh.” He just wished you could understand him! He’s gone through hell and back just to find you.

Your stalker was so hungry that he used his nose to find a scent of a human, his feet leading him to the cemetery. All until he fell into a pit, dirt falling on top of him and he felt suffocated.

You gape at him, almost impressed by how he seems to pull his whole body up with a wiggle. All of the wind is knocked out of you as he pushed himself on top of you. He seemed to be grateful, his lips pressing kisses on your neck, and his hands hold your hips close to his. If he could speak correctly it would all be praises and compliments.

He then began to gesture at his crotch.

You immediately shook your head to say no, and he pouted. He pointed again. You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms and still said no. He then gestured at your crotch with a sheepish smile, a tiny peek of his pink tongue sticking out.

It took everything within you to not shove him down the pit.

He pulled his pants down, right below his ass, and he shimmed his cock out. It was floppy, not hard and couldn’t get hard since his blood couldn’t flow into it. He bit his lip as he tried to undo the pink stitches.

You haven’t gotten… laid in a while, and there was a man offering himself right in front of you. He pulled at the stitches, undoing the pink thread and his cock hangs off his body. He leans down, using his new teeth to cut it off.

When he got it off, he frowned as his cock was just limp in his hand. He then got an idea. He rammed the branch into his manhood, and he finally got it to stand proud. It sort of looked like a hotdog on a stick. But now he was able to control and maneuver his dick inside you.

He first wanted to see it in your mouth, and to see your cute lips wrapped around his pulsing tip. But you know, this will work for now. He got you to part your lips, his dick prodding its way into your throat.

God it tasted disgusting.

He held your face with one hand, the other pushing his cock in and out of your throat. Your saliva coating it all.

You pulled down your pants, spreading a bit of your legs apart, and you tensed up as he aligned his tip to your entrance. You closed your eyes, not wanting to look at the mangled cock press inside you.

Your stalker been wanting to be with you, and he can’t help but be a bit jealous of the makeshift dildo he made. But he watched with interest, his face close as the dick slides out of you, and his tongue flicked your hole to help with lubrication.

Sure, he wouldn’t be able to cum inside you and mark you as his, but the faces you make as his dick stretched you out so nicely… Fuck. He watched your toes curl, your back arching off the ground, and just to see your legs shake was enough for him.

He pressed kisses on your stomach, his face nuzzling into your body as he moved his hand to pump his cock faster into you.

He would tell you to cum, he would tell you how great you look, and how he would love to eat you out more. But his voice is just soft grunts. As you closed your eyes, the arousal building in your stomach— his hand grabbing his rope from his bag. He pulled the cock out of you, tossing it to the side and he forced you into your stomach. He quickly wrapped your thighs together, your hands, and he took off his shirt to gag you.

You wouldn’t be able to run away from him, you won’t be able to scream, and he smiles hard.

Allure: Not proud of this one. tysm for 870+ followers!!! 🫶🏻 It always makes me nervous to see my account growing, and the fact that many people want to see my writing 😬

[hellsbedroom]

call out my name

pairing: winter soldier!bucky x f!reader

word count: 4k

summary: as an assassin for hire, you often worked alongside the Winter Soldier. immediately after the events of CA:TWS, that soldier shows up at your doorstep needing help. and he thanks you in a very particular way

warnings: 18+, nsfw, brief mentions of violence, mild alcohol consumption, heavy petting, hair pulling (m receiving), p in v, porn with actually a lot of plot, angsty ending because i couldn't help myself, google-translated romanian

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The frantic knocking at your front door shouldn’t be happening. Even though Hydra’s secrets had been blown open a couple days ago, your name wasn’t mentioned anywhere. Mercenaries’ names never are. So how could anyone find you?

You slow your breathing to counter the adrenaline as the knocking rattles the hinges again. Clutching your gun tighter, you throw the door open and aim into the night.

The barrel lands against a man’s chest and takes you both by surprise. You pull the gun away when a familiar pair of blue eyes blinks back at you from underneath a ballcap. His face isn’t one you ever expected to see again, especially after the carnage in DC.

“Soldier?” You’d never known him by any real name.

“Can I come in?”

“Am I gonna get killed for it?”

He glances behind him and tugs his backpack tighter. “Not if I’ve done my job.”

That’s enough of an answer. You wave him in with the gun still cocked in case it’s a trap. But after you lock the door, you turn to find him staring at you and all at once the gun is no longer necessary.

His eyes are different. You’d seen them empty, you’d seen them focused, you’d seen them angry, you’d even seen them lust-blown as he thrusted into you in some alleyway after a mission. But you’d never seen them scared.

And he is terrified.

“I need your help. I have to get away.” Vigilance strings his shoulders taut and you wonder how many sleepless nights had led up to this.

“Okay, my cover’s not blown and I’ve still got my contacts. Is the west coast far enough? Canada?”

“No. Farther.”

“London’s pretty big.”

He grips your forearms in a flash, gruffly pleading an inch from your face. “Somewhere they can’t find me.”

The intensity freezes you for a few moments before you nod. Wordlessly you cross the room and rummage through papers strewn across your desk. Identities, informants, any connections you still have. Anybody they can’t get to.

“Does Romania work?” You proudly hold up some papers with illegible scrawls. “I can get you out at dawn.”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks.”

His sigh of relief leaves you comfortable enough to grab a couple beers from the fridge. Might as well drink when it’s clear that he’ll stay the night. But when you try to hand him one, he’s staring off into space and doesn’t seem to notice. You aren’t the best at comforting people, especially not Hydra’s former war dog, but you clasp a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, it’ll be okay.”

He snaps back into the moment, nodding in thanks as he takes the beer and opens it with a simple flick of a metal finger. He rubs the other hand down his face, dragging away the last of whatever thoughts had distracted him.

“Yeah.” He still stands resolute in the center of the room, even as you sling yourself into a chair. “Sorry for grabbing you. I just—”

“It’s alright, Soldier. I’ve been roughhoused before.”

“It’s actually Bucky.”

“What?”

“My name is Bucky. I didn’t know that for a long time. Hydra’s doing.” He sinks onto your couch, still weighed down by the revelation.

You immediately sit up straighter, the gears in your head trying to make sense of it. The whole story comes out with just a bit of prodding. World War Two, his capture, his fall, Hydra’s brainwashing, all of it. You sit in stunned silence through it, nodding in support every now and then. He finishes after the second round of beers and checks the magazine of his gun from force of habit. You do the same, then venture with a question itching to be answered.

“Do you remember anything you did?”

“Some of it. I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t...I didn’t want to stop it.” A guilty silence follows and you hear the distinctive whirring of his metal arm as he clenches his fist.

You laugh to lighten the mood. “Hey, that’s better than me. I chose to do this shit and got paid for it.”

Bucky nods solemnly, staring down his empty bottle. Then he flicks his gaze back up to you. “I also remember you.”

“On a mission? Marrakesh was pretty memorable.”

“Yeah. But I remember us doing some other stuff, too.” A smile ghosts his lips for the first time that night.

Memories of him sucking angry marks into your neck as you writhe on his cock come flooding back, making you cross your legs. You clear your throat and try to seem nonchalant.

“I hope that’s not something the brainwashing made you do,” you joke.

Bucky’s eyes are sharp as knives as they cut across the room. “It wasn’t. And I didn’t want to stop that either.”

“Oh. Good.”

The next silence thunders with anticipation but you don’t push your luck. Instead you focus on clearing away stray dishes and papers, flitting back and forth and trying to remember how to play hostess. You cross in front of Bucky and easily lift the bottle out of his hand. But before you can step out of reach again, he takes your arm.

This time his grip is gentle, nothing like the way he’d ever touched you before. You swallow thickly and dare to meet his gaze.

“Yes, Soldier?”

The gentleness is abandoned as his mouth crashes into yours. You knock off his ballcap in a rush to card your hands through his hair, desperate to have him closer. It’s all practiced and familiar, tilting your head to deepen the kiss and his teeth nipping at your lower lip.

His scruff burns against your jaw and then he’s kissing in its wake, lips and teeth devouring down your neck as his hands dive under your clothes to brush at your waist and hips. The skin-to-skin contact lights you on fire and you help him lift off your shirt in a flurry that’s followed by his own jacket and shirt. The fleeting moment spent apart is enough for you to catch your breath and shiver at the desire swirling in his eyes.

You collide into his chest again, wasting no time in dragging him backward with you toward somewhere, anywhere sturdy enough for support. It’s like you’re back in Mumbai or São Paulo or Kosovo, desperate to find a pleasurable release at the closest available location where he could grind his hips into you. This time it happens to be your kitchen island, a throne of granite onto which Bucky lifts you and your legs easily split, letting him settle between them and pull you so that his bulge presses just so against your core.

You're grabbing his shoulders — clutching flesh and metal — and that familiar coolness of his titanium arm curving around your back brings heat pooling between your legs. He captures your lips in an eager, fluid motion, tongue darting out to graze yours. Expert at killing, expert at kissing. The tendrils of his long hair tickle your forehead just like you remember.

With the usual haste and fervor, you grind against his solid hips in search of friction and he obliges by slipping his hand down to rub through your pants.

Soldier...you nearly moan, but stop short. You don’t have to settle for this kind of quickie. He isn’t just Soldier anymore, and you aren’t under the pressure of a mission.

“Bucky,” you murmur against his lips, grounding him to something besides what you both once were. “Bucky, wait…”

He slows down, his grip moving to your thighs, two heavy palms weighing down on you. Then he looks up slowly — his gaze could crack you in half. There’s a vulnerable tenderness in his eyes, clouded over by the bewilderment of what being Bucky once was.

“Bedroom,” you order gently.

“What?”

“Let’s do this in the bedroom.”

He has a lot of unlearning to do after so many years of Hydra control, so maybe you can help him with this one thing. You aren’t sure why you want this extra layer of intimacy, but it feels right.

Your insistence makes him wary. His eyes dart around, calculating whether or not this, too, is an attempt to capture him. Anyone could be in on it.

“It’s not a trap, I promise,” you coax, holding your hands up. “It’ll be better like this. I’ll show you.”

He doesn’t move as you slide off the island, brushing against him and letting the moment linger. You leave your eyes locked on his as you turn and take a few inviting steps down the hall, not abandoning the gaze until his doubts subside and he follows you.

The sparse bedroom is suddenly alive with electricity as you kiss him again to pick up right where you left off. Your grip dives into his hair, pulling in the way you remember makes even the stoic soldier moan. The liplock is blinding and his hands mold to your waist and hips and everywhere, keeping you close as the last of the clothes are haphazardly tossed away. Once you’re bare it’s a short stumble onto the bed and he falls on top of you with his metal arm braced in the unmade sheets.

Somehow Bucky looming over you, sinking down with every delectable muscle, is more breathtaking than the Winter Soldier fucking you senseless against a brick wall that digs into your back.

You don’t get a chance to catch that breath before his hand snakes down to toy with your clit, expertly coating it with your slick with a particular brush of his finger that he knows works so well. The gasp wracks your chest — you’d been ready for this since he admitted remembering every salacious encounter — and you almost give in then and there.

But where’s the fun in that?

Your thighs are locked around his hips and you swiftly flip on top, sitting up to settle on his lap. You’re naked, with no chance of hiding weapons, so he quickly relaxes and focuses on how new this is. Studying your form, from draped legs to raised brow. His hand lifts and you catch it in sync, bringing it up to your breast where he rolls your nipple instantly, carefully watching the arch of your back in response. Bucky is nothing if not a quick learner.

He’s hard, aching underneath you, and the tug in your core calls for the same thing. He helps lift your hips and you brace on his chest and then you’re slowly sinking down on his length to draw out the sensation.

It’s a pretty thing to watch his lips curl as he hisses out your name — your real name, not just one of your aliases — and your own sigh flies out when you reach the hilt. You take a few moments to adjust and then start rocking to an inaudible beat. Or maybe that’s your heart thrumming with pride.

It’s different this time. Everything is still eager and strong and deliciously satisfying but this isn’t just a convenient tryst. That has its time and place, like a muggy Havana afternoon after a vicious shootout. This time there’s something in the way Bucky rubs along your thighs while you lean in close, the rhythm of the thrusts keeping you just out of reach of his lips and yet leaving you anchored to those blue eyes.

He cradles the nape of your neck, watching your face morph in pleasure while the tension builds. You can’t help kissing him then and there and everything winds tighter and tighter until the climax takes you, your open mouth grazing against his as bliss washes all over. His name is a whispered prayer from your lips.

Your stuttering hips drag him into the throes a moment later and his gasp rushes past your cheek. A moan rumbles through his chest and you collapse on it, daring to smile as you breathe him in.

God that was good. The two of you still have it.

You unceremoniously roll off and into the sheets before another thought strikes. You’d never had to deal with Bucky in the moments after a good fuck. You always went your separate ways down dimly-lit alleys or out of a jungle. But here he is, stretched out beside you, with no prerogative to leave until morning.

Apparently the same thing was on his mind because he suddenly sits up and tugs a weary hand through his hair. “I’ll take the couch.”

“No.” You catch his wrist before you know what’s happening. “It’s alright, stay. You need a good night’s sleep. Getting to Romania is gonna be a hell of a ride.”

His eyes sweep over you but there’s no wariness this time. Instead he blinks slowly, giving a half-smile as he settles back down and pulls the covers up. It’s quiet for a few moments, comfortably so, and his arm brushes yours without pulling away.

“You should come with me,” he finally says, voice raspy with sleep and sex. “You need to get out, too.”

It isn’t the first time that thought has crossed your mind but it suddenly feels much more serious. A real chance to escape. Your fingers trace the sheets and mattress below, a place to lay your head that you had never really called home. Of course you have a bag packed and ready to go at a moment’s notice, every good mercenary does — but are you ready to be on the run? To live your life at the whim of whoever finds you in every city?

Bucky has already dozed off beside you, his gentle breathing interrupted by furrowed brows and an occasional shake of his head. He has no choice but to run, though you doubt he’ll outrun the nightmares anytime soon.

Sleep does its job of lulling you, too, and you decide to make your choice in the morning.

***

Two Years Later Bucharest, Romania

The rusted faucet gives a weak stream of water but you still rinse off the dishes, watching stray peelings and seeds whirl down the drain. Big bowls of fruit are your staple breakfast now that you have the time to enjoy them.

The apartment is silent except for the gentle ceramic clinks, with Bucky having stepped out to the market next door to pick up more plums — the favorite household snack.

As ex-assassins, calling your arrangement “dating” feels childish. You and Bucky sleep in the same bed, fuck regularly, cook each other meals, watch each other’s backs, and take turns cleaning the arsenal of weapons. So whatever the term for that relationship is, that’s what you have. You need each other.

With the dishes clear and reading to catch up on, you step into the bathroom in the back of the apartment to grab a clip for your hair. Can’t have the locks in your way when novels await.

You hear the front door open and a smile tugs at your lips. “Ce mai faci?” you call. (How are you?)

The Romanian greeting is part of yours and Bucky’s precautions — a code for when one of you reenters the apartment, just in case. You expect to hear the coded answer: Voi fi mai bine mâine (I will be better tomorrow).

But there’s no reply. Only muted footsteps toward your kitchen.

Your heart slams into overdrive. There’s a handgun hidden under the bathroom sink and it’s cold in your grip as you level it at the door, cautiously stepping into the small hallway. No one is immediately visible but your senses don’t fail you. Someone’s there.

“Reieşi!” you spit. “Come out!”

Still no answer but a careful shuffling of feet just out of sight. You hunker at the wall for only a moment and then fling yourself around the corner, barrel first.

Standing by your refrigerator with arms warily raised is Steve Rogers, Captain America himself. You recognize him from both the news and Bucky’s attempts to piece his life together. He cocks his head in surprise — whatever intel had let him here, it hadn’t mentioned you.

But he keeps his voice steady as he breaks the silence. “Where’s Bucky?”

You don’t answer. It’s pointless to lie, since he somehow found the apartment, but you know better than to tell the truth. You can’t claim ignorance anyway — the unwavering handgun in your grasp says otherwise.

You stare back in silence and take a couple calculated steps forward while trying to figure out what the fuck to do. Despite the proximity Steve lowers his arms, correctly guessing that if you haven’t shot yet, you won’t do so without warning. Killing Captain America isn’t exactly the best way to keep people out of your life anyway.

“I just need Bucky. People are coming for him.”

That raises goosebumps along your arms. It makes sense, Steve only finding him when someone worse is on the way. You’re about to demand more answers when footsteps reach the outside of your apartment and pause, no doubt noticing the door slightly ajar.

“Ce mai faci?” It’s Bucky’s strained voice trying the code. Then he more urgently adds, “Esti in siguranta?” (Are you safe?)

“Da,” you call quietly, keeping your eyes trained on Steve. “I’m alright, Bucky. We have a visitor.”

Bucky carefully treads in, his eyes darting between you and Steve and the gun in your hand. The air stings with confusion. But eventually he crosses to you and closes his hand over the barrel to make you lower the gun, and not even your incredulous gaze changes his mind. He simply nods and runs his hand down your back. Trust me.

He pushes a newspaper into your lowered hands and you look down at the words plastered across the top: ‘Winter Soldier Bombs UN Headquarters’. The newspaper crinkles in your tightening grip. Underneath the headline sits a photo of Bucky’s face, clear as day, when it isn’t possible for him to have been there. You’d come out of hiding to vouch for it yourself.

But that wouldn’t matter, you know better. The little world that you and Bucky carved out is caving in fast.

“Do you know me?” It’s the intruder, his gaze no longer fixed on you or your weapon but on his long-lost friend.

“You’re Steve. I read about you in a museum.”

A pause. Steve clenches his jaw. “I know you’re nervous, and you have plenty of reason to be. But you’re lying.”

He pauses again as the comms unit crackles in his ear, probably warning of the distant commotion now rumbling up the building from many floors down. You sneak a glance at Bucky and the grim set of his mouth.

“I’ve got him here,” Steve says into his radio. “He’s with someone. Unclear whether she’s a hostile.”

He clips that last part at you, demanding your intentions as you still bristle at him. But you don’t get a chance to threaten him again before Bucky steps in front of you.

“I wasn’t in Vienna. I don’t do that anymore. Neither does she.”

“Well the people who think you did are coming here now. And they’re not planning on taking you alive,” Steve adds, the gravity in his voice sinking deep into your chest.

“That’s smart, good strategy.”

Bucky’s right. Special forces are always taught to eliminate a threat, not wait for heroic negotiating. That doesn’t happen in the real world when real consequences are at stake. A rattling shakes the staircase outside your apartment door, the telltale sign of heavy men and heavy guns on their way. You quickly realize that whether or not Steve is on your side, he’s a better option than what’s waiting out there.

Steve softens. “It doesn’t have to end in a fight, Buck.”

Bucky takes off the glove concealing his titanium hand, flexing the joints and heaving a sigh. He looks at you and tips another nod. Get ready. You grab another magazine of bullets for your gun.

“It always ends in a fight,” Bucky murmurs.

“That’s why we ran, you know. To try and stay away from the fight.” You cock the gun, staring Steve down. Blaming him for this situation is wrong but damn it feels right. “But when it comes to our door we have no choice.”

Steve gets agitated, glancing between you and Bucky and trying to piece it all together. “Bucky, you pulled me from the river. Why?”

Bucky stays still. “I don’t know.”

The thundering footsteps get closer, louder and louder like in every nightmare you’d had about being found. You walk to the windows, looking for any trace of the enemies no doubt rappelling down the building at that instant. There are more weapons hidden on that side of the room anyway, and you gather what you can.

“I hate to break this up,” you quip at the men behind you, “but we can’t keep standing here playing high school reunion.”

“She’s right, Buck. We have to go.”

“She’s coming with us.”

You spare Bucky a grin over your shoulder. Of course you’re going with them, but it’s good to hear him say it.

Steve steps closer, faint warnings still being yelled into his comms unit. “They aren’t looking for her. She’ll be safer away from us for now.”

That makes your breath catch. Arguing with Steve will make the oncoming fight that much more difficult. You turn, a sneer already waiting on your lips, but Bucky once again interjects. He catches your shoulders and his gaze sinks deep into yours.

“Steve’s right.”

“What?”

“They’re after me for the stuff in Vienna. You need to get out.”

“Bucky, I’m not —”

Crash! Grenades come flying through the windows, shattering the tension with shards of glass. You knock one right back out and Bucky kicks the other to Steve, who covers the blast with his shield. Bucky is two seconds ahead of you and lifts the mattress to cover you both from a third grenade tossed in. The explosion is hot against your back and your muscles tremble. With his free hand Bucky throws the steel table at the door, blocking it and buying a few minutes before the tac team can bust through.

Rappelers burst through the windows and Steve kicks one down, his gunfire raining into the ceiling instead of your flesh. You return fire to another, clipping his knee and shoulder, while Bucky yanks the third and knocks him against the wall. Two more come swinging in — your adrenaline kicks up another notch — and a scream grates your throat as you land a few good punches on the closest one. You hadn’t fought for your life like this in a long time, but it’s a skill that comes back quick as lightning.

Bucky dashes over to Steve, forcing the other rappeler out of his grip and onto the balcony with a swift knee to the chest.

“Buck, stop!” Steve calls. “You’re gonna kill someone.”

“I’m not gonna kill anyone,” Bucky grunts. Floorboards splinter under the force of his punch and he pulls out his backpack before tossing it onto the roof of the adjacent building.

You take a respite from watching for more assailants and step over downed bodies to reach him. The other backpack lands heavily in your hands and despite the chaos, the rest of the world briefly fades when Bucky drags you closer.

“Go, you have to get out!”

All air vanishes. “No. I’m not leaving —”

“Please.” Bucky’s voice is small against the rushing of blood in your ears. His iron grip pulls you toward the windows and he hands you a rappelling rope. “I’ll find you later.”

You know there’s no choice. And arguing further will put everyone in danger. You attach the rope to yourself and the balcony, still pulling Bucky with you as you back onto the ledge. Shotgun blasts at the hinges of the door across the room draw Steve away and you know this is your last blessed moment alone.

Whatever version of Bucky Barnes this is — the man out of time, the assassin, the shell of a vintage hero — you don’t care. This version is yours, and you love him.

You kiss him, hard. He returns it with fire, his hand tangling in your unkempt hair. A sad smile creeps onto your lips when you pull away and Bucky nods solemnly. One gentle push later and you drop from view.

[lemonlover1110]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐑 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑

Toji Fushiguro

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x f!Reader

Summary: Toji Fushiguro is hired to kill a woman- An absurd amount of money for her head. But she's simply too beautiful for him to not have some fun first.

He forgets about his job until the tables are turned on him.

Warnings: MDNI, Smut, Vaginal Sex, Oral Sex (f. and m. receiving), Spitting, Vaginal Fingering, Creampie, Attempted Murder, Toji is a hit man, Mentions of murder and a gun and knife

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

Toji doesn’t question any of his jobs as long as the money he’s paid is good. That’s why he didn’t question why someone was willing to pay ten million yen for the head of a twenty-something year old woman. He doesn’t ask much details when he’s about to do a job, just the name and a picture of the person.

When Toji got your picture, he almost felt guilty for even looking at you without your permission. He had never seen someone so drop-dead gorgeous, and he felt tempted to decline the job, thinking that such pure blood couldn’t be on his hands. But he knew your looks have nothing to do with this. With the little information he got, he knew you were a sorcerer. He never got if you were part of a clan or not, or any actual reason for your death, but they wanted you gone.

Toji thinks with his dick a lot, but this wasn’t one of those instances. He felt bad, sure, but he wasn’t going to turn down that much money for a woman he had never met. So he made a plan, and now he sits at a bar, drinking water as he waits for you to step into the place. With some help he figured out what your weekly routine is. And on Fridays you decide to go out for a drink. So he patiently waits for you to enter the place. 

Time feels so slow as he glances at the door, waiting for you to step into the place. It’s still quite early, but he’s been at the same spot for half an hour, not attempting to make conversation with anyone else. A couple of women have come up to him, trying to initiate something, but Toji shrugged them off. He’s only looking for one person, and none of those women are nearly as stunning as you are.

“Waiting for someone?” The bartender asks, and Toji hums in response. He doesn’t share any details though. There’s no need. Toji keeps looking at the door, and his eyes light up when the door opens and you walk through. He’s a minute closer to getting the money he was promised.

His eyes follow your body as you immediately approach a table, walking over to your friends. You wear a little black dress that hugs your body extremely well, it almost makes the man forget why he’s there. You simply look stunning, even better than the picture he was shown, which he didn’t think was possible. But he remembers why he’s here.

He didn’t expect you to meet up with your friends, so he has to slightly change his plans. He tears his eyes off you when you look back, he hadn’t noticed your friends had been looking at him and had begun to point at him. Great, now he just looks like a creep, however, he doesn’t worry too much about it. There’s no need for formalities, really. He could just get you alone, kill you, and bring your body to the person that hired him. That’s what he does every single time but tonight he doesn’t want to do it like that. 

Someone so beautiful deserves a little bit more. It’s a horrible mindset, but Toji is a horrible person.

“Hey.” He hears, and he turns his head to look at you. You’re smiling at him, and he wonders what you’re going to say. You know he was staring at you, yet you don’t look like you’re about to call him out for it. Quite the opposite. “Is this seat taken?”

“No, go ahead.” His voice is stern as he speaks. You notice how he holds a glass of water, or perhaps it’s straight vodka. You’ll never know because you’ll never question it. He watches as you tell the bartender your drink of choice to start off the night. You look at the handsome man that’s next to you before confidently saying,

“My friends told me you were checking me out.” You tell him. Each year you get older and realize there’s no point in holding back. You don’t lose anything by telling him that you find him attractive. Worst he can do is reject you, “And I have to say, you’re very handsome.”

“Hmm… I am?” He raises a brow while he turns to look at you. He licks his lips, once again looking over you. He brings his glass up to his lips and takes a sip, which is when you figure out that it’s water since he had no reaction to the liquid. “What’s your name, darling?”

You tell him your first name, which further confirms he’s got the right woman. You bat your eyelashes at him, hoping he introduces himself without you having to ask. As your glass is placed in front of you, he says, “That’s a very beautiful name.” 

“What’s your name?” You end up asking when he doesn’t introduce himself. You bring your drink up to your lips and begin to sip while you wait for the man to say something. He takes a long time to speak a word. He’s debating if he should use his real name. It wouldn’t be smart for him to do so, but in the end it won’t matter. 

At the end of the night, you’ll be dead.

“Toji.” He answers. You smile at him as you think of what to say next. You really aren’t interested in a conversation, in fact, you only want one thing from him. Of course, you won’t immediately just ask him to leave the place to have sex, you’ll talk to him a bit more.

“I haven’t seen you around here before, Toji.” You say, and the way that his name rolls off your tongue has him hooked. He feels his face get warm, and he can only imagine his cheeks getting a pinkish color, so he turns his face away from you. The lighting of the place isn’t great, yet he’s scared that it’ll be noticeable in the low light. 

“You come here a lot?” He asks, and you end up humming in response. 

“Every Friday night. Just to unwind with friends after a long week.” You share. He didn’t know that detail. He doesn’t usually ask for details, mainly because that makes his victims too human. Toji will do anything for money and he doesn’t feel guilty. But having you tell him something as simple as that won’t make him feel his best about his job. “How about you? Why did you decide to come here?”

“I’m new to the area, and saw this place.” He shares. 

You two begin to converse and find out about each other. You tell him miniscule things about yourself, while he does the same. Majority of the things that he tells you don’t seem genuine though. It’s believable enough, but it just doesn’t seem honest. Yet you don’t care. 

You get lost in insignificant conversation so much so that you don’t feel two hours pass by. You’ve had a little too much to drink by then, and have gotten a bit too touchy with Toji. Your hands are on his arms, and you lightly slap it when he tells a joke that isn’t all that funny. He finds himself laughing as well.

“How about we…” You begin to whisper in his ear. Toji’s hands are on your waist, helping you maintain your balance as you stand. Instead of finishing your sentence, you begin to kiss Toji’s face. He’s forgetting about his task. Your lips finally press against his, and he allows himself to get lost in the soft skin. A complete stranger is kissing him, and his palms are getting unreasonably sweaty. Toji has had one night stands before– Too many to count, but he’s never felt like this while kissing them. Maybe it’s because he knows that after this, it’ll all be over.

He shouldn’t even be thinking about sleeping with you, but when you say, “Let’s go back to my apartment” when you pull away from his lips, his mind is hazy and he hums in response. Maybe it’s your cursed technique or something similar that has such an effect on him. But he has to remember what he was hired to do. He won’t let some momentarily feeling get in the way of his prize. 

After closing your tab, the two of you begin to walk to your apartment. Your place is not too far away, it’s a five minute walk from the bar. Which he already knew. You happily talk to him, and from your speech he can tell that you’re sobering up, but you’re not planning to stay sober for too long. 

You get to your place, and he walks in, unsure of where to go next. You walk past him and go to the kitchen to grab two glasses of wine and open a bottle. You don’t care to ask if he actually drinks. You’ll just pour two glasses, talk a bit more, and then have sex. At least that’s what you think will happen.

“Please, take a seat.” You tell him, and he awkwardly looks around before going to the couch and taking a seat. His eyes inspect the place, noticing how it’s a bit disorganized. Next to him is a pretty white dress that most likely was going to be your choice for the night. He notices how sheer it is and how small it looks, which makes him glad you chose the black dress. Had you worn that dress, he would’ve died on the spot. You walk up to him with two glasses filled to the brim, “Sorry for the mess. I wasn’t expecting any guests.”

“It’s fine.” He responds, taking the glass from your hands. You take a seat right on his lap, after all, the plans you have with him involve more than just sitting on his lap. There’s no point in holding back. He feels his face get warm, and he distracts himself by looking at the glass of wine. “Man, you’re really trying to get me drunk.”

“I did overdo it a bit.” You tell him, taking a sip from your glass. He puts his glass down on the end table, his hands focusing on roaming through your body. “Not much of a drinker, now?” 

“Alcohol isn’t really my thing.” He comments, his fingertips feathering over your thighs before they go up to the hem of your dress. His fingers begin to trace lazy circles on your skin, completely forgetting what he’s here to do. You end up putting your glass on the coffee table, focusing completely on him. 

“Hmm, so what’s your thing?” You say, lightly biting down your bottom lip. 

“Pretty girls like you.” He responds, his lips placing a kiss on your jaw before his teeth begin to nibble on your earlobe. You smirk, your hands feeling the well built body that hides behind a thin black shirt. You get off his lap and get on your knees on the hardwood floor. God, he’d curse himself for being so dumb. He has a gun in his pants, and a pocketknife in his pocket. Yet he isn’t thinking about that when you’re undoing his belt and pulling down his pants. 

Your eyes glance at the gun, but you don’t say anything about it, instead you smirk knowing that he hasn’t noticed the fact that you know. Your hand wraps around his cock and you slowly begin to pump his length. “I hope I’m special.”

“Oh, you are.” He answers before your tongue begins to swirl around the tip of his cock. He watches as you do so, biting his bottom lip. Your hand keeps stroking his dick while your tongue keeps licking the tip of his cock, until you finally wrap your mouth around his dick.

It’s too much for you to take it all, so you take as much as you can in your mouth, your hands moving the parts that you can’t fit inside. You bob your head slowly, your eyes looking up at Toji who is clearly enjoying this. His cheeks are pink while he bites down on his lip. It makes you wonder if he’s touch-deprived or if you’re just really good at this. 

“Oh, fuck–” He ends up throwing his head back after awkwardly holding eye-contact with you for a couple of seconds. He’ll admit that you look better than ever while your mouth is wrapped around his cock, but looking at each other while he gets head is just awkward. Especially when he has very specific plans to kill you, and he won’t back down. Obviously, his plans have been pushed back. He’ll get his dick wet and then do it. As horrifying as it sounds.

You take your mouth off his cock, your tongue running down his shaft and going to his balls. Your mouth begins to suck on his balls while your hand pumps his cock. His eyes are rolling to the back of his head while you work your magic. Fuck, this isn’t even supposed to be happening. But it is and he’s so close to coming.

Your tongue licks up to his tip, and your mouth wraps around his cock again. Your eyes once again focus on his face, although it’s thrown back as he grunts. “S’ good. Love your mouth.”

His cock twitches and he releases in your mouth. So much cum fills up your mouth, and some of it dribbles down to your chin. You take your mouth off his cock and he finally looks at you. He brings his thumb down to your chin and picks up his cum, then brings it to your lips. He swipes his thumb on your tongue. His hand then goes under your chin and he turns your head. “You’re so beautiful.”

You get off the floor and grab his hand. You pull him up from the couch and begin to guide him to your bedroom. Your bedroom is even more disorganized than the living room, but he doesn’t notice because all that’s going through his mind is the fact he’s about to fuck you, and it feels like a dream. 

Your hands go to your side and you pull down your zipper, beginning to take off your dress. He watches, his eyes lighting up as he sees that you’re only wearing panties. His hand goes to your back and he pulls you closer to him. His lips meet yours for a brief second before his lips go down, from your neck to your breasts. His lips wrap around your nipple and he sucks, while his hand plays with the other.

He detaches his mouth from your nipple and kisses his way to your other nipple before his lips wrap around your other nipple. You softly moan while he does so. When he unlatches, he picks you up and puts you down on the bed. He spreads your legs apart and pushes your panties to the side before he gets on his knees.

His tongue runs through your cunt before it focuses on flicking your clit. You softly moan while his fingers go up to your mouth. He shoves his fingers in your mouth, getting them wet with your saliva before he brings them down and runs them through your folds. He pushes his middle and ring finger inside of you and you loudly moan.

“Oh, Toji-” You shut your eyes as he curves his fingers just right. The pad of his fingers brush against your sweet spot repeatedly. His tongue works just right, and you bite down your bottom lip so you’re not so loud. The walls are thin, and the last thing you want is for the neighbors to hear this. “You’re doing such a good job.”

And his ears are happy with what you say and with the moans that leave your lips. Oh and his tongue is also happy because you taste so fucking good. He’s definitely happy he’s getting to do this. At this point he’s completely forgotten what he came here to do. 

“Fuck– It’s so good!” You arch your back, feeling as your orgasm begins to build up. Your thighs begin to squeeze his head, and your mind begins to get cloudy. You definitely don’t regret bringing him over. 

Toji’s mouth begins to suck on your clit as your orgasm gets closer and closer. It’s so fucking good for the both of you. You get louder and louder with every passing second, until your legs spasm, reaching your orgasm. You moan his name really loud, and it’s the sweetest melody that he’s ever come across.

He takes his fingers out and detaches himself from your clit, standing up. He begins to get undressed, taking off his shirt before his pants follow. He makes sure that weapons are hidden by clothes before he completely focuses on you. You truly look like a goddess as you lay down on the bed, and he’s mesmerized. He’s never seen someone so beautiful before.

“You’re so beautiful.” He comments stroking his cock before he runs the tip through your folds. His other hand goes to your lower back and he lifts your upper body. His lips meet yours, his tongue going inside your mouth and pressing against yours. He slowly pushes his cock inside of you, and you moan into his mouth.

His cock definitely feels bigger than it looks, and it feels so good. You pull away from the kiss, and he brings his lips together, gathering up saliva before he spits in your mouth. It’s so fucking nasty but you love it, swallowing it. “Oh you’re such a nasty bitch.”

“I am.” You answer. One arm is wrapped around his shoulders, while the other goes down, your hand playing with your clit. “Your dick’s so good.”

“Oh? Is it?” He questions. He picks up speed with every thrust, getting lost in your cunt. His lips meet yours again in a sloppy kiss, muffling any sounds from the both of you. This feels so fucking good, by this point he’s forgotten about the ten million yen prize. He doesn’t want to leave you after this. “You’ve got such a sweet little pussy.”

Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head as you feel another orgasm approach. He just hits every spot and it makes your body feel so good. Every movement is enough to send you over the edge, and he’s relentless. You pull away from the kiss to moan, “Oh fuck! Toji!”

You reach your climax, your pussy feeling incredible around him. So tight and warm. He rapidly keeps thrusting in and out of you, chasing his release. He’s moaning your name, coming so close to finishing. 

His thrusts get sloppy until he finally comes to a stop, filling you up with his cum. He shouldn’t have done that, but he doesn’t care. And neither do you. He pulls out and lays down beside you on the bed. Now would be the perfect time to grab a weapon and do the job.

But he isn’t thinking of that. He catches his breath and turns his face to look at you, admiring your beauty, “You’re so beautiful.”

“Thank you.” You answer, smiling at him. He’s decided that he’ll push his plan to tomorrow morning.

The next morning Toji wakes up next to you and his mind is all over the place. He doesn’t exactly remember much. Maybe that you had sex a couple more times until you both passed out— That and that he pushed back his plan of killing you. 

He’s been stalling his plan simply because you’ve captivated him, and he can’t afford that. Not with the amount of money that’s on the line. You seem to be sleeping peacefully next to him, which would allow him to grab a pillow and just do the job. But he doesn’t. 

He gets off the bed, grabs his clothes and begins to look for the bathroom. Once he finds it, he uses the toilet. Once he’s done he looks over himself in the mirror. When did he become so pathetic for a woman? Last time that happened was too long ago. It’s just extremely disappointing that he pushed his plans back because he found the woman too beautiful. But for some reason so much weight has been lifted from him.

He notices the mouthwash on the sink and opens the bottle, pouring some on the cap and then bringing it up to his lips. While he rinses, there’s a knock on the door. “Uh… Give me a sec!”

But the door opens. His eyebrows furrow and he turns to look at you. You’re just wearing your panties, your hands behind your back as you sweetly smile, “Good morning, Toji!”

“Good morning.” He’s rather cold this morning. You take small steps to get closer to him.

“How’d you sleep?” You question.

“I’m still tired.” He confesses and you chuckle.

“You wouldn’t be so tired if you had drank the wine.” You tell him, and he finds himself confused.

“Does wine help you sleep or something?” He questions. When you’re close enough, your hands come to the front, but you’re not empty handed. Toji feels the barrel press against his abdomen, and that’s the weight he felt that had been lifted. He puts his hands up in the air.

“The great Toji Zenin was after me, I feel honored.” You begin, and Toji is bewildered. “The sorcerer killer… I want to know who hired you, but I also want to keep it a surprise.”

“You knew?” He asks the obvious, causing you to laugh.

“Of course I knew. I was surprised you didn’t do it faster though. But I’m glad. You were a good fuck.” You tell him, and he slowly blinks. Reality slowly settles. He has a gun pressed against his abdomen— His gun. He’ll most likely die, but he can’t begin to plead for his life because he can’t seem to find the will to live. There’s no point. He’s been outsmarted. “I’m glad you didn’t drink the wine either.”

“Not only beautiful, but also smart.” He’s actually blushing, and he can’t seem to care enough to try and turn his face to hide it from you.

“Any last words?” 

“I think I’ve fallen in love.”

[leighsartworks216]

In Your Arms

Sylus x gn!Reader

Huge huge huge shoutout to @blueroseava for steering my "Sylus isn't used to gentle touches" thought into this fluffy little thing. This one takes place in the Raven universe (the same MC as Lap Dog and The Raven), but I may write another one with a softer MC later. Thank you again for sharing this idea bc now I cannot think straight I just wanna cuddle this huge man so bad <333

Warnings: fluff, cuddling, some biting, established relationship, selectively mute reader, reader is the only one who can boss him around like this

Word Count: 898

Main Masterlist

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Every single deal this week fell through. Every. Single. One. It wasn’t even because the deals were unfair or that he was being duped. No. It was worse. His competitors swept the deals right out from under him.

As a result, Sylus was irritable and quicker to snap than usual. Not at you, of course. He was upset, but he didn’t have a death wish. The twins were mostly the outlet for his bad mood, alongside his punching bag.

You find him in his office, the knuckle of his finger brushing against his upper lip as he read a series of documents. You don’t bother knocking before you enter. He doesn’t look up, but you know he notices your presence. He always does, even in a crowded party.

You walk behind his chair and press your hands into his shoulders, digging your thumbs against the tense muscle at the back of his neck. He sighs, lifting his head up from his work to encourage you. You kiss the back of his head.

“The sun is up and you’re still here.” You drag your thumbs along the sides of his spine before moving back up again.

“Is my kitten missing me?” he teases. His voice is rough with exhaustion, low and slightly airy as you massage him. You lean down to bite his neck. He chuckles at your way of scolding him. But, he finally relents.

The papers in his hands land carelessly on his desk, no longer worth his time when you’re here trying to drag him off to bed. Your magic touch abandons him as he stands. The tension seems to return tenfold when he looks down at you, neck strained once again from the simple fact of his being taller than everyone else.

You grab his hand, holding it to your face briefly to press a kiss to his palm, before intertwining your fingers together and dragging him out of his office. Luke and Kieran are nowhere to be seen or heard. Mephisto is off spying for Sylus, gathering intel that could turn his hand back against his competitors. He sighs. He doesn’t want to think about it anymore.

You’re already dressed for bed, but Sylus is still in the nice dress clothes from his meeting earlier that night. He lets your hand go so he can change. When he comes back, the soft pajama pants are hanging low on his lips, but you don’t even spare them a glance.

You’re sitting up, back against the headboard. It’s his usual position, or it was until he found someone worth laying down next to. Someone he knew full well could slit his throat, but who chose to protect it anyway. Any intruders who dared to break into the Onychinus base and make an attempt on his life would be praying they were never born without him ever needing to worry.

“You’re in my spot,” he points out, raising his eyebrow.

You pat your lap. “It’s my spot tonight. Lay down.”

“So demanding.” He crawls up the bed until he can rest his head in your lap. It wasn’t a completely foreign position, when the roles were reversed. It’s the first time he’s ever been down here, looking up into your face. Your thighs as his pillow, keeping him from straining his neck any more. It… feels nicer than he expected it to.

Fingers which have taken lives without hesitation, that he’d seen pull apart guns in seconds just to put them back together equally as fast, traced delicately along his cheek. Soft, tender touches that felt along his jaw and brushed down the bridge of his nose. At one point, they close his eyes, with an accompanying huff of annoyance from you.

“Sleep,” you command.

He chuckles. “Of course, sweetie.”

The gentle caresses tempt him to bite your fingers when you brush them over his lips, but he resists, if only to avoid pissing you off. He doesn’t expect the groan that’s pulled from his lips when your other hand drags through his hair. Your nails scratch lightly at his scalp, his hair sliding through your fingers like silk.

It’s so different to when your hands are usually tangled in his hair. Usually, it’s rough, grabbing fistfuls of white locks and pulling hard enough to sting, commanding his head to be where you want him. This is the closest to heaven he’s ever felt.

He exhales and the tension in his body goes with the slightly shaky breath. You drag your nails from the crown of his head to the nape of his neck, praising him for letting go so easily in your care. Your other hand glides down his neck and arm until you can lace your fingers together once more.

As his exhaustion takes hold, his trust is implicitly and wholly in your hands, peaceful in the knowledge that he will make it through the night even in such a vulnerable position.

In the morning, he’s on his stomach, arms wrapped around your back and face pressed tightly against your belly. Your hand is still tangled in his hair, limp as you sleep, but sturdy in its willpower to stay there. He’s the first to wake, disoriented and slow to piece together how he ended up here. But then he closes his eyes again, nuzzles like a cat into your welcoming heat, and drifts off.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow

[dreamwritesimagines]

The Eye of the Hurricane [22] - Newcomers

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful feedback, you made my day! ❤️I hope you’ll like this chapter as well, and please don’t forget to tell me what you think! ❤️

Summary: New deals mean new players.

Word Count: 2300

Pairing: MobBoss!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Violence, guns, crime, blood, explicit language, dysfunctional relationship. This is an AU, friendly reminder that I don’t condone any of the actions depicted on this story and please read with care.

Series Masterlist

You had always loved watching the city at night.

When you were little, after making sure everyone else at home were asleep, you would sneak out of your room to get to the terrace, and sit there for hours, watching the glimmering stars and the city lights. Even after you grew up, it still filled you with a sense of peace-

Well.

Until now.

You were so lost in your thoughts that you only noticed Bucky’s presence in the living room when he touched your arm to hold out a cup of coffee. You paused for a moment, then shook your head.

“No thank you,” you murmured and he put it on the coffee table, then clicked his tongue.

“You didn’t sleep last night?”

“I couldn’t,” you managed to say. “I know I said I’d come to bed, but…”

A silence fell upon you before Bucky heaved a sigh from behind you.

“Charm, last night—”

“Was the proof, wasn’t it?” you asked. “He doesn’t believe in me.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It makes it official.”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s official or not.”

You shook your head again and he clasped his hands over your shoulders, your eyes fluttering close for a moment despite your better judgement, a warmth spreading over your skin before you opened your eyes again.

“The therapist said open communication,” he told you, making you roll your eyes.

“You don’t even believe in all that.”

“You do,” he said. “And he said we’re supposed to talk about our feelings so, how do you feel?”

“I want to kill Ian.”

“I don’t think that counts as a feeling, Charm.”

“Not with that attitude, it doesn’t.”

A small chuckle spilled from his lips.

“Listen, you know I have no problems with killing him, but you told me yourself that it’s not the way to putting you on top. Besides—” he paused and shook his head. “Your father named him his heir, and he’s not an idiot. He would know that we killed him, which is fine by me but…”

“That’d officially put an end to the truce,” you finished his sentence for him. “It’d make me look just like Ian, and then no one would back me up because the whole reason why we’re doing this is to keep the truce.”

“Not the whole reason.”

You turned your head to look at him and he scoffed a laugh.

“Come on Charm,” he said. “You can tell everyone else whatever you want but part of the reason why you want that crown is because you want power. It’s not the worst thing in the world.”

You swallowed thickly and turned around to see him better.

“I want to keep the peace.”

“Never said you didn’t,” he murmured. “But someone has to be on that throne while keeping the peace.”

You ran a hand over your face.

“The meeting is next month with the rest of the bosses,” you said. “If my father named him heir, it means he gave him some sort of responsibility, something to give him the opportunity to show off. A part of the territory, or…”

“He wouldn’t give him a part of the territory,” Bucky told you. “Not with HYDRA attacking every territory. He can’t afford any security flaws.”

You arched a brow. “Shipment?”

“Shipment,” Bucky said with a nod of his head and you tapped your lips with your finger, stepping away from him.

“That could make things easier for me,” you said. “And to make sure he makes a mistake.”

Bucky grinned at you.

“You know how it works,” he said. “A lot of things could go wrong with the shipments.”

The question you wanted to ask him was on the tip of your tongue but before you could open your mouth, his phone started vibrating and he took a look at the screen, then held it up.

“Speaking of shipment,” he said. “Excuse me.”

He answered the phone and walked away from you, and you bit inside your cheek, massaging your temples. Your headache from last night was getting heavier by the minute the more you thought about it, so you pressed your palms on your eyes, then dropped your hands.

“I need a nap,” you muttered to yourself and made your way to the bedroom with Alpine following you.

                                            *

When you woke up from your nap to the nonstop vibration of your phone, it was already afternoon and as the note on bedside table told you, Bucky had already left for work. You rubbed at your eyes and grabbed your phone, pressing your lips together when you saw your father’s name flashing on the screen. For a couple of seconds, you considered not answering but the old habits were hard to shake off so you touched the screen and took the phone to your ear.

“Y/N, sweetheart,” he said. “I hope you weren’t busy?”

You bit inside your cheek, commanding yourself to be calm.

“Father.”

“We could barely talk last night,” he said. “How are you?”

“How do you think?” you asked back and he heaved a sigh.

“I’d rather it if we didn’t have this conversation on the phone,” he said, making you let out a dry chuckle.

“I agree.”

“But I’d like to invite you and Bucky for dinner whenever you’re free this week,” he said. “Your aunt is back in the city, she arrived this morning and she’s so excited to see you again.”

You rolled your eyes and made a face.

“She said that?”

“Of course. Despite some disagreements, we’re still a family and she knows it. So does Ian.”

You dragged the tip of your tongue over your teeth, willing yourself not to take the bait.

“I know you’re angry,” he said, making you raise your brows. “But in time, you will see that I’m looking out for you.”

“Oh do you now?”

“Y/N…”

“I’ll ask Bucky when he’s free this week,” you told him. “I can let your assistant know.”

“You can just let me know,” he told you. “It’d be a nice change, getting a phone call from you. Just saying.”

You bit back the retort and threw your shoulders back.

“Is there anything else, father?” you asked, your voice completely calm and he paused for a moment before heaving a sigh.

“No,” he said. “See you at dinner then.”

“Sure,” you said and hung up, then threw the phone on the other side of the bed with a groan. Alpine meowed from her spot on the floor and you hung your head off the side of the bed to see her better.

“Fathers, am I right?” you asked and she blinked at you, then made her way to you to plop down next to you. You reached out to scratch at her head and heaved a sigh.

“Do you want to come to that dinner?”

Alpine meowed again and ran back to her spot, making you click your tongue.

“Of course you don’t,” you said and sat up, then pushed yourself off the bed. “Very well then. Let’s text auntie Becca and Leila to see what they’re up to and if they want to go shopping with me. Some distraction can’t hurt.”

                                                   *

As it turned out, Becca and Leila were busy; Becca had therapy while Leila had to drop by her office to take care of some last minute changes. You did manage to distract yourself a little with shopping, and once you got bored you decided to pick up sandwiches from the shop you knew Bucky liked, then told your driver to take you to Bucky’s office.

When you got to Bucky’s office, his assistant greeted you and stood up.

“He’s about to be finished with his meeting, Mrs. Barnes,” she said as Bucky’s laughter reached outside, making you tilt your head.

“Sounds like a fun meeting.”

She offered you an apologetic smile.

“The sign of a deal gone well,” she said. “Miss Williams was already sure of herself when she walked in, I’m not surprised."

That made you arch a brow.

“Miss Williams?” you asked and she nodded.

“Mr. Barnes’ appointment,” she said, motioning inside and you nodded.

“Ah,” you said, your stomach doing an unpleasant flip for some reason before you threw your shoulders back. “I’m in a bit of a hurry actually, I’ll just—”

You didn’t even bother finishing your sentence as you walked to the door and knocked, then stepped inside and closed the door behind you. Bucky’s smile widened when he saw you and the woman sitting on the armchair across from his desk looked over her shoulder, letting you see her face.

Oh.

Well, apparently this Miss Williams was not only funny, but also very beautiful.

What you were feeling couldn’t possibly be jealousy of course, perhaps just mild irritation but you didn’t dwell on it as Bucky stood up to walk to you.

“Hi sweetheart,” he said, pressing a kiss on your temple. “Anna, this is Y/N, my wife. Y/N, this is Anna, our new shipment manager.”

You willed a smile on your face and walked to her as she stood up as well, then offered your hand.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Barnes,” she said with a smile as she shook your hand. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“So have I,” you said as Bucky went to sit behind his desk again and you took the armchair across from her. “Sam speaks very highly of you, Miss Williams.”

“Please call me Anna,” she said with a wave of her hand. “And I’m forever in Sam’s debt. He was the first person to actually give me a chance in all this.”

“Sam has a talent for finding the best people for the job,” Bucky said, making Anna grin.

“I’ll make sure to tell him that.”

“No no, don’t,” Bucky told her. “He will hold it over my head forever.”

You bit inside your cheek, trying to shake off the discomfort pulling at your stomach before you crossed your legs.

“Oh but I must tell him,” Anna teased him. “He’s my first reference after all. There has to be some loyalty.”

“Can I by any chance buy your loyalty?”

“I wouldn’t be standing here if anyone could buy my loyalty,” Anna said with a grin, making Bucky chuckle.

“Very well then.”

It wasn’t jealousy.

Of course it wasn’t, you and Bucky weren’t even together.

In any case, you were irritated because this was a business decision and Bucky had decided to hire her without so much as your input, that was all.

That had to be it.

Anna’s phone beeped and she took a look at the screen, then gasped.

“Oh I completely lost the track of time!” she said, jumping on her feet. “I had another meeting, I’m so sorry.”

“Not a problem,” Bucky said, standing up as well. “So my people will send your people the details then.”

“That sounds good,” she said and shook his hand. “Looking forward to doing business with you, Bucky.”

First name basis.

Great.

“And it was a pleasure to meet you,” she told you and you nodded, giving her a smile.

“The pleasure is all mine.”

“I’ll see you later then,” she told Bucky and walked out of the office, then closed the door behind her. You tried to get rid of the bitter taste in your mouth, then cleared your throat, shifting your weight.

“The new shipment manager?” you asked and Bucky nodded.

“She’s a genius,” he told you, making you arch a brow. “Seriously, I thought Sam was exaggerating it, but apparently he downplayed it.”

You picked at a piece of lint on your dress, humming.

“I thought I was going to be involved in the business decisions,” you said, making him frown slightly.

“Yeah but this has nothing to do with your father’s business,” he said. “Or the plan. It’s just shipment, and I killed the last guy because he tried to kill me. You were there.”

“Right.”

“Sam vouched for her,” he reminded you and you shrugged your shoulders.

“Yeah I know, it’s just…” you trailed off and shook your head. “Never mind.”

“Charm.”

“I just think it’s funny you had no problem involving me when it was a guy, and now that it’s a very hot woman, you decided not to involve me.”

“That’s not what it’s—are you actually jealous?” he asked as if the mere idea was ridiculous and you let out a small laugh.

“Jealous?” you repeated. “Get over yourself Buck. You told me I would be involved in the business decisions, you can’t blame me for questioning whether it has changed.”

He gave you a chiding look.

“It hasn't,” he said. “Sam vouched for her, and it’s just one shipment right now as a trial period. I can give you her file if you want.”

You rolled your eyes and shook your head.

“No, if you decided she’s good, I’m not going to muddy the waters,” you said. “Trial period it is.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “And you’re sure it’s just the business side of things?”

You scoffed.

“No, this is me telling you I desire you carnally,” you spat, making him chuckle and hold up his hands.

“Fine,” he said. “Just asking.”

“I brought you lunch but if you’re going to be like this, I’ll eat what I brought in front of you—”

“You brought lunch?” he cut you off, staring at you and you nodded.

“Yeah, why?”

“Marry me.”

“Way ahead of you on that one,” you deadpanned, then let out a laugh. “Why?”

“I haven’t eaten anything whole day,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “What did you bring?”

“Sandwiches from that shop you like.”

“Jesus, you’re amazing,” he told you and you grinned, then stood up from the armchair.

“I really am,” you told him as you walked to get the paper bags from the waiting room. “Make sure to keep that in mind, will you?”

Chapter 23

[marvelfanfn2187a113]

Too Much

Dean Winchester x little sister!reader

Requested by Anonymous

Synopsis: Dean’s been getting a little overbearing, and it’s your job to find out why.

Dean was…off.

It wasn’t a drastic change, and if you didn’t know him so well you wouldn’t have noticed. Well, maybe you would have, because it was starting to bug you.

Every second that he wasn’t on a hunt, he was practically hanging over you. For the first few days, you thought he was doing it to bug you. It was just little things at first; taking you with him to libraries so you could do homework while he searched for information on monsters, insisting on going with you whenever you wanted to leave the motel room, always sitting next to you when you stopped for food, things like that.

“Gotta keep you outta trouble,” he said with that easygoing smile when you asked about it. And that was fine, at first.

Then it started to get worse.

“Isn’t it my night?” You looked up to see Sam staring at Dean, who was sliding in next to you in the motel bed. There was only ever two beds to a room, so the brothers took turns sharing a bed with you. Dean had shared your bed last night, so Sam was right, it was his night.

“Is it?” Dean’s ignorance was clearly fake, but he carried on anyway. “Doesn’t matter, I’m fine with it.”

Sam just shrugged it off, glad to have a bed to himself, but you stared at Dean, confused.

He just shrugged, “What? Just stay on your side and we’ll be good.” His easygoing smile didn’t quite meet his eyes.

It kept getting weirder after that.

In the morning, Dean had to go out for a supply run, and you were about to get started on some school work when he said,

“Hey, wanna come with me?”

You just shrugged, “That’s ok, I have some work to do.” You looked up when you felt his hand on your shoulder.

“Nah, c’mon. It can wait.”

You might’ve thought that he just felt like bringing you along, but his grip on your shoulder was just a little too tight, his eyes a little too desperate. He needed you to go with him.

“Yeah, ok,” you tried to sound casual, and you hoped the worry you were feeling wasn’t bleeding through in your tone.

A few minutes later, Dean pulled into a small grocery store and led you inside with a hand on the small of your back. His nearness to you was starting to become familiar, but it still worried you. It’s like he always had to have a hand on you at all times.

You’d noticed his anxiety when he didn’t; he’d stare at you from across the motel room, scratch at his arm, tap his foot, things like that. It was freaking you out.

Dean turned his back from you to look at the pies, and you wandered down another aisle trying to find the bread. You’d only just found it, along with some condiments, when you felt a strong hand grip your arm and whirl you around. You jumped in surprise, but relaxed when you saw it was only Dean.

“Where were you?” He demanded, checking you over as though you might be injured.

“I…went to find the bread,” you explained, staring up at him. His breathing was labored, his hair disheveled. You imagined him running up and down the aisles searching for you, and your stomach twisted.

“You can’t just wander off!” He grabbed you by the shoulders, and your eyes widened when he shook you. “I didn’t know where you were! You can’t do that, understand?”

“Dean-“

“Understand?”

“I understand!”

Dean’s hold released, and you took half a step back.

“Ok,” Dean took a deep breath. You stared at him for a long moment, unsure of what to say.

Without a word, Dean took the bread from your hand and put it in his basket.

“Dean-“

“Come on, we should go.”

You followed him without another word.

…

That night, Sam and Dean were prepping to go out on a hunt. You felt Dean’s eyes on you as you sat on your bed reading. You glanced up at him, and he turned his attention to his gun, not meeting your eyes.

You knew he was nervous about leaving you here alone, though you couldn’t imagine why. He’d done it about a hundred times.

Sam headed out to the Impala, and Dean lingered for a few seconds, hesitant to leave.

“Don’t open the door for anyone,” he insisted. “And just…be safe.”

He glanced at you one last time, before finally heading out, his gun slung over his shoulder.

…

The door to the motel flew open, slamming against the wall. You jumped up, tensing at first but relaxing when you saw Sam and Dean enter the room. Sam tossed his bag on his bed and started towards the shower, but Dean beelined right to you. You stiffened in surprise when he pulled you into his arms, before hesitantly relaxing in his tight embrace.

“Dean, what’s going on?”

He didn’t respond, instead lifting you in his arms and settling onto his bed, cradling you to his chest as he rocked back and forth.

“Dean,” Sam approached slowly, almost nervously. “She’s ok, it wasn’t her.”

When Dean still didn’t respond, you looked to Sam for an explanation.

“It was a shapeshifter,” Sam explained. “Somehow, it must’ve seen you, because it…it looked like…” Sam sighed. “Dean had to-“

You felt Dean’s arms tighten around you, his hand coming up to hold the back of your neck, his chin coming to rest on top of your head.

“He was worried that it got to you, we got here as fast as we could,” Sam explained.

“I’m ok, nothing happened here,” Sam nodded, glad for the reassurance, but your words had no effect on Dean, whose tight grip on you threatened to make your arms go numb.

“We’re ok here,” you told Sam, and he left the two of you seated on the bed to go and take a shower.

“Dean?”

“Just don’t go away,” Dean’s whispered harshly.

“Dean, I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here, I’m ok.”

“I stabbed you through the heart. You-“ Dean’s voice caught, and he choked through the rest of his words, “You died in my arms.”

“Dean it was just a shifter. It was a monster, you know that.”

“You can’t go away. You can’t do that to me, understand?” His arms tightened around you, and you were pulled even closer into his chest. “I-I can’t lose you the way I lost Sammy. I can’t watch you die, I won’t.”

Oh.

You couldn’t believe you hadn’t figured it out sooner. Dean’s clingy behavior had started just after he made a deal to bring Sam back from the dead; just after Dean watched him bleed out from a stab wound.

“That’s what all this was about?” You tried to pull back enough to look up at Dean, but his arms tensed when he felt you trying to pull away.

“Don’t go,” he breathed.

“Ok, ok I’m right here, I’m staying. But…but is that why you won’t let me go anywhere alone? You think I’ll…” you swallowed. “I’ll die like Sammy?”

“No,” Dean choked out through gritted teeth. “No, you won’t. Because I won’t let you.”

“Dean, you can’t…” you sighed. “You can’t be around me all the time. It’s too much, it’s not healthy.”

“You can’t leave. You can’t.”

“Dean,” you tried again to wriggle out of his arms, and you heard his breath catch.

“Please, don’t go, please.”

You froze. You’d never heard Dean sound so desperate.

“Dean, we can’t live like this. You’re gonna make yourself sick with worry, and I’m gonna go nuts if you don’t give me some space.”

There was a long silence, and you hoped that it meant Dean was processing your words.

“Dean? Are you hearing me?”

“…Yeah. Ok, I hear you, and I’ll try to do better, but…but can I have tonight?”

“What?”

“Just…just let me do this tonight, ok? I saw you die, and I-I can’t…” his voice broke, and your heart ached.

“Ok,” you leaned into Dean’s embrace, letting him hold you tightly as he twisted into a laying position.

And Dean did get better after that night. He still worried about you, and he’d always be overprotective, but he knew when to give you some space.

But for that night, he would be comforted by nothing but the steady beat of your heart as he held you securely in his arms. It was the safest place he could think to keep you.

[dirtytomatoedwrites]

HIS GIRL - PART 3

Summary: You were always Topper’s girl—until Rafe decided you were no longer his.

Paring: Rafe Cameron x Fem!Reader

Strictly 18+ No Minors to Interact

Warnings: Dark!Rafe, Rafe/Reader, Topper/Reader, Dub-Con/Non-Con, Coercive Behaviour, Fingering, Oral (w receiving) Drinking, Graphic Scenes / Smut.  

Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Please don’t steal or copy bits of my writing or any writing from other writers cause karma will get ya.

There’s something about holding a secret over someone’s head. Something utterly intoxicating. The kind of power that simmers quietly, waiting for just the right moment to unravel everything.

It’s better than any drug. Better than the rush of a line of coke or the burn of whiskey sliding down Rafe's throat. That buzz, that hit, it fades. But this? The high of knowing something no one else does, of holding it over them like a loaded gun? That shit lasts.

Rafe leans back in his lounger, sunglasses shielding his eyes from the blazing sun. He barely registers Barry’s voice droning on beside him, the steady hum of poolside chatter and laughter fading into the background. None of it matters to him. His focus is on you.

He’s been waiting for this moment, for the first sight of you since last night under the pier. And now, here you are, standing across the pool, arms folded, eyes darting around like you're either searching for someone or trying to avoid them. He knows exactly which one it is.

Rafe feels a surge of satisfaction at the thought. He knows it's him you’re trying to avoid, which only makes the secret between you that much sweeter. He follows your every movement, waiting for you to notice him, knowing what will happen when your eyes finally meet his.

You’re standing next to Topper, his arm slung casually over your shoulder as he laughs with friends. After what happened last night, Rafe doesn’t feel particularly territorial anymore—why should he when he’s tasted you in ways Topper never has, touched you in ways Topper never will, and made you cum in a way Topper can only dream of.

Instead of feeling jealous, Rafe finds it even more intriguing to see how you hold yourself, stiff and rigid, clearly uncomfortable with Topper’s touch.

But he does not have time to dwell on this and what it means because your gaze sweeps the pool, and finally it lands on him. For a split second, your expression freezes—shock, maybe fear? It’s all there in that brief moment before you quickly look away, pretending you didn’t see him. You shift closer to Topper, angling your body away, using him as a human shield.

Rafe almost laughs at the sight, at how oblivious Topper is to the whole thing.

Last night, when Rafe walked you back from the pier, Topper had been waiting by the house, looking confused and a little worried.

“She wasn’t feeling well,” Rafe had said smoothly, “We just went out for some air.”

Of course, Topper had bought it—hook, line, and sinker. Why wouldn’t he? You were his sweet, perfect girl, always doing the right thing. Rafe had watched as Topper fussed over you, pulling you into a hug, his hands moving gently across your back while Rafe stood there, basking in the tension. You hadn’t looked at Rafe then, barely even glanced at Topper, your mind clearly spinning.

And now, here you are again, trying so hard to pretend nothing’s wrong. But Rafe sees through it all—the way you avoid his gaze, the way your body tenses whenever he shifts. You can feel his eyes on you. He knows it.

He knows you're on edge, waiting for him to say or do something to ruin everything. To tell the "love" of your life what really happened at the pier. And that type of power? Rafe loves it—he’d snort it like a line if he could. The high of being in your head, twisting your thoughts, making you second-guess everything, making you think about him—always him, never Topper. He’s there, in your mind, taking up space.

When your gaze flicks over again, Rafe pushes his sunglasses up to the top of his head, making sure you see his entire face as he grins at you. He catches the flicker of panic in your eyes just before you quickly turn away. You’re scared. Scared of what he'll do next. Good. You should be.

Rafe’s about to lean back, content to just watch you squirm, when Barry’s voice breaks through the haze. It’s lazy, a little amused, and it cuts right through Rafe’s focus.

“You're one sneaky asshole, you know that?" Barry drawls, his voice low but not low enough to miss. Rafe doesn’t bother looking at him. He already knows where this is going. Barry gestures lazily with his cigarette in your direction. "Ain't that your best friend's girl?"

Rafe doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. He lifts his drink, taking a slow, deliberate sip before responding, voice calm, casual. “Yeah,” he says, barely giving the words any weight. “And?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Barry’s expression shift, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. Barry’s always been one to poke at things, to see just how far he can push.

“You fuckin' her?” Barry asks, not even pretending to soften the question. It’s just Barry being Barry, blunt and unfiltered.

Rafe keeps his voice steady, not a hint of emotion in it. “Not yet—but I will.”

There’s a beat of silence before Barry lets out a low whistle. “Damn, that’s cold,” he says, leaning back, clearly entertained. “Remind me never to bring my women around you.”

Rafe’s gaze never leaves you. You’re laughing at something Topper’s said, but he knows it’s forced. The stiffness in your smile gives you away. You’re pretending, and Rafe can see right through it. Through you.

"Since when are you into women?" Rafe deadpans, finally turning his head just enough to glance at Barry.

Barry snorts, shaking his head as he exhales smoke. “Touché,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth quirking up. He watches you for a moment longer before leaning in slightly, lowering his voice, like he’s sharing some inside joke. “You're fucked up for even thinking about trying to fuck her, you know that, right?”

Rafe doesn’t answer immediately. He just lets that dark smile curl across his lips again, savoring it. The power. The control.

"Oh, if you only knew," he says quietly, the words almost lost beneath the hum of the poolside chatter, but Barry hears them.

There’s a moment of silence between them, just the soft crackle of Barry’s cigarette as he takes another drag. Barry’s not a saint, never claimed to be. But even he can tell when someone’s going too far.

Barry stubs out his cigarette, shaking his head with a soft chuckle as he stands. Before he walks off, he throws a casual warning over his shoulder. “Just don’t get yourself shot, Country Club,” he says, the words half-joking, half-serious. “'Cause I know you—you ain't gonna stop 'til someone sheds blood”

Rafe leans back, sunglasses sliding down over his eyes, that familiar grin creeping back onto his face. He’s not worried. Not about Topper. Not about Barry. Not about anyone.

Because in the end, Rafe always gets what he wants.

And right now, what he wants is watching him from across the pool, pretending she isn’t.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

PART 2 / PART 4 / STORY MASTERLIST

Thanks for reading x If you enjoyed it please like / reblog / comment as I would love to know what you think. Part 4 the final Part drops on Sunday. Stay tuned. Meantime lots of love ❤️

[munson-blurbs]

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

Summary: Conflict arises with Harris's new teacher, filling Halloween with more tricks than treats. But it's nothing a visit with Ms. Sweetheart can't fix.

Warnings: allusion to Reader and Eddie's one-night stand, panic attack, Reader's grandma has dementia.

WC: 5.6k

Chapter 6/20

Scruffy!Eddie edit credit to @eddiemunsons-missingnipple Divider credit to @saradika

Guns N’ Roses t-shirt: check. Goodwill jeans with makeshift holes in the knees: check. Bandana tied snugly around his forehead: check. Arms littered with an assortment of temporary tattoos: check.

Eddie grins as he assesses his son’s costume, reaching into the thrift store bag as he pulls out the pièce de résistance: a denim jacket, only two sizes bigger than Harris would usually wear. It was a bit over what he’d been hoping to spend, but he’d reasoned with himself that it could also be worn after Halloween. It was an investment, he’d decided, not a splurge.

His smile falters when Harris indignantly stomps his foot, crossing his arms over his chest. While Eddie had hoped his son would go with more badass tattoo options, perhaps a skull and crossbones or even a snake, he had insisted on a Sesame Street theme. Cookie Monster munches on his signature treat as Harris pouts.

“No, Daddy!” he whines, twisting away when Eddie holds the jacket closer to him. “I can’t wear that!”

“C’mon, Har,” he tries, scouring his brain to come up with a convincing enough lie. “Axl Rose wore jackets all the time!”

Harris doesn’t just shake his head; he swivels his entire body back and forth in protest. “I don’t care! No one’s gonna be able to see my tattoos!” He holds out both arms in front of him; nearly every square inch (besides the section blocked by his cast) is covered. Eddie had spent most of last night diligently applying them precisely where Harris had asked, lest there be a tantrum. There was, unfortunately, a headless Elmo from when Harris had asked–no, demanded–that he try by himself. Still, Eddie figured that only one casualty was a win.

“Those are some sweet ol’ tatties,” Eddie muses, biting back a laugh at the two-dimensional Big Bird on his son’s forearm. “But wouldn’t it be cool if you wore the jacket into school and then–BAM!--took it off and surprised everyone with them?

Harris appears to consider this, mouth tucked into his cheeks. “Can I show Ms. Sweetheart?”

“Sure, bud. We’ll stop by her classroom when I pick you up.” Whatever gets us out of the house in weather-appropriate attire. “But first, show me your most metal pose.”

The boy opens his mouth wide and sticks out his tongue as far as it extends, scrunching his face dramatically until the corners of his eyes crinkle. His middle and ring fingers press into his palm, thumb crossing over them, with his forefinger and pinky raised in the quintessential rock ‘n roll symbol. 

Eddie swoops down and smacks a wet kiss to Harris’s cheek. “That’s my boy!”

Standing among the crowd of parents at pick-up, Eddie opts out of making banal small talk and instead chooses to look at the bulletin board. The previous art project that had been hanging against the faded blue paper–”self-portraits” that the students had made on the first day of school–have been replaced by finger paintings of orange blobs that vaguely resemble pumpkins. There wasn’t one for Harris because he was in Ms. Sweetheart’s classroom then, so it’s his first art project in his new class. He eagerly scans the board for Harris’s, frowning when he can’t find his name. 

Maybe it’s still drying, he tries to convince himself, imagining his son over-saturating the paper with globs of paint. It wouldn’t be entirely out of character.

Ms. Marion’s classroom is a sea of costumed children. A boy dressed as one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles stands by his mom. A Cinderella, a black cat, and a Thomas the Tank Engine surround Ms. Paula. As soon as Eddie spots Harris, he smiles and waves him over, hurriedly scribbling his signature on the sign-out sheet.

He expects Harris to zoom past the other kids, fueled by the standard Halloween diet of sugar and chocolate, but he just kind of…mopes to the doorway. His shoulders slump dejectedly, and though he keeps his gaze low, Eddie can still see the film of mist staining his innocent eyes.

“Har, what’s wrong?” He waits for an answer, and when he doesn’t receive one–an oddity for his perpetually chatty son–he tries a new tactic. “Wanna show me where your artwork is? I must be gettin’ old, because I couldn’t find it on the board out there.”

“‘S not there,” Harris mumbles, scratching off a flaking piece of the Rosita tattoo on the back of his hand. “I didn’t get to finish.”

Eddie watches as the tears start to slip down his cheeks, and he brings him into the hallway before Ms. Marion or Ms. Paula sees what’s going on. He can’t be certain, but his paternal instincts tell him that they’ve contributed to Harris’s sad state. “Why not?”

“I-I t-tried, but M-Ms. Mar-Marion and Ms. P-Paula got m-mad at me.” The words come out between choked sobs. “‘C-Cuz I c-couldn’t sit d-down.”

“What do you mean?”

“I k-keeped st-standing up, ‘cuz m-my legs wanted to st-stand.” The explanation tumbles out of him so quickly, as though he’s trying to beat the clock. “And they s-said if I did-didn’t sit down, I c-couldn’t do art. But I k-keeped f-f-forgetting, and th-they t-taked away my pay-pay-paper and said, ‘sit in the c-corner!’”

Eddie’s breath hitches, and he has to clear his throat before speaking again. “Did…did that happen in Ms. Sweetheart’s class? The legs thing?” 

“Mhm,” Harris manages, “b-but she let me stand and d-do ju-jumps to get the wig-wiggles out. She just t-t-telled me not to do ju-jumps with s-s-scissors, ‘cuz of s-safety.” His breathing increases to a rapid pace, face flushing red as his chest heaves. “B-But Ms. M-Marion ye-ye-yelled at me!”

Eddie’s brows pinch together, and he gently presses his calloused palms against Harris’s narrow shoulders, desperate to prevent him from hyperventilating. “Harris, you gotta calm down. I can’t understand you when you’re crying like this!” Despite his efforts, his frustration bleeds into his tone, and he winces when the latter sentence ends with an unwanted snap. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s just an art project.” 

“Harris?”

The sound of your voice draws the attention of both Munsons. You let out a small oof as Harris flings himself against your legs, and though he practically flew the five foot distance between his father and you, now is not the time to remind him about using his walking feet.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on?” You crouch down, taking his hand in yours, and notice his quick, shallow breaths. “We’re gonna breathe together, okay? Eyes on me.” You demonstrate inhaling for three seconds, holding for three seconds, and exhaling for three seconds. “Now let’s do it together.” 

He hesitates but ultimately follows your lead, and you guide him until his breathing slows enough for him to sputter, “I t-tried to sit, b-but I c-couldn’t.”

You haven’t the slightest idea what he’s referring to, but Eddie fills you in. You feel the heat of anger creeping through your body, not just for the way your co-worker treated the sweet boy, but for her insolent approach to teaching as a whole.

“We can go to my classroom,” you offer, silently sighing in relief when the boy nods in agreement. “I don’t know if I have the supplies to make the same project as Ms. Marion, but if you have a few minutes, you can draw something now. I bet Mr. Will would love to help you; he’s a super-duper artist.”

Just as you’d predicted, Will jumps at the opportunity to help Harris with his impromptu art project, encouraging him to draw something that makes him happy. While he does that, you comb through the mess left behind from the Halloween party you’d thrown. You’d sooner toss one hundred cupcake wrappers in the trash before attempting a conversation with Eddie Munson. He’s simply too unpredictable; kind and thoughtful one day, harsh and guarded the next.

One of the wrappers in your hand drops to the floor and you reach forward to pick it up, pinching the pleated material between your pointer and middle fingers. You can feel Eddie’s eyes on your form, the way the backs of your thighs are slightly exposed when you bend over, and you stand up quickly. 

“Are you the Magic School Bus lady?” He takes in your lavender dress with planets and stars stamped all over it. Oh. He wasn’t checking you out; he was just trying to figure out who you’d dressed up as. Good. Anything else would be inappropriate.

So why does a twinge of disappointment radiate through you?

You glance at your costume; with all of the commotion, you’d forgotten you’d even been wearing one “I mean, would I even be a teacher if I didn’t jump at the chance to be Ms. Frizzle?” You motion over to Will, decked out in green from head to toe with two yellow horns glued to a headband atop his mop of brown hair. “Have you met my trusty sidekick, Liz the Lizard?”

Eddie laughs. “Yeah, Byers actually used to play in my D&D club back in high school. Made some pretty sick art pieces to liven up that dingy excuse for a room.”

You look between the two of them, trying to do the mental math. “Will, didn’t you say you’re twenty-four?” And if Eddie is thirty, that means…

“I, uh, had a little trouble graduating,” Eddie sheepishly admits, ruffling the back of his hair and offering a tight grimace. “But I got there eventually. Class of ‘86, baby!” 

“Worked out for me,” Will shrugs with a grin, looking up from Harris’s drawing. “You were the best DM Hellfire ever had. Although, rumor has it that Erica Sinclair gave you a run for your money.”

Harris picks up a yellow marker, furiously scribbling a circle in the left-hand corner of his paper. You try peering over to see the whole drawing, but he presses his whole body against the table, successfully thwarting your plans. “No peeking!” he warns, not putting his feet back on the ground until you’ve averted your gaze. “‘S a surprise.”

You put your hands up in surrender. “All right, all right. I’ll be surprised.” You raise your eyebrows at Eddie, who shares a similar response in return.

“Dunno when he got so bossy,” he snorts before calling out to his son, “Har-Bear? Five more minutes. We gotta get home to trick-or-treat with Grampa Wayne.”

“Ooh, that sounds like fun!” you echo as Harris grabs a purple marker from the box. “What’s your favorite candy?”

“Hmm.” Harris uses his free hand–the one with the cast–to tap his chin, continuing to color with the other one. “M&Ms. But only the plain ones. Daddy doesn’t let me have the peanut ones ‘cause he says I could choke.”

You shoot a sly, knowing look at Eddie. “I’m sure that’s the only reason. Such a selfless father.” You cross your arms over your chest and cock your head innocently. “And what do you do with all of these confiscated peanut M&Ms, Mr. Munson? Donate them?” 

Eddie tucks his lips into his mouth to mask his grin. “Listen, the jig is gonna be up at some point,” he mumbles out of the corner of his mouth, loud enough so you can hear but soft enough that Harris can’t. “Let me enjoy my free candy while it lasts.”

“No judgment here,” you say with a small laugh, “they’re one of my favorites, too.”

“TA-DA!” Harris shouts, startling you, Eddie, and Will. He holds up the construction paper and smiles widely. To anyone without kids–or who didn’t teach preschool for a living–it would look like a bunch of colorful scribbles. But you can tell that he’s drawn a group of people standing by a tree (or a really, really tall flower) underneath the sun.

“Wow, Harris! That’s amazing!” you clap your hands together to punctuate your enthusiasm. “Who are all those people?”

Harris’s pointer finger travels left to right across the paper as he names each person: “That’s me, Grampa Wayne, Daddy, you, and Mr. Will!” The stick figure that represents you has a purple scribble on it, which you realize must be the costume you’re wearing. “An’ we’re all smiling because we’re happy!” Sure enough, each person has a curved red line at the bottom of their face. But there’s something else that catches your eye.

All of the people have a small space between them, except for you and Eddie. The circle that Harris drew to represent your left hand overlaps with the circle that is Eddie’s right. 

You glance at the real Eddie, and if he notices, he doesn’t give any indication. “I love it, buddy.” He takes the drawing and inspects it closely. “Yup, this one’s definitely going on the fridge when we get home.” He flicks the paper for good measure. “Go clean up the markers so we can head out, Axl Rose.”

Among the noise of markers clattering back in the bins, you lean in to Eddie, inadvertently inhaling the scent of his cigarettes and cologne. For a brief moment, you’re transported back to the night fate had led you to cross paths; the thought of his lips on your neck in the stairwell has you clenching your thighs and swallowing thickly as you murmur, “I can ask him to make a new one with just you, him, and his grandpa.”

Eddie shakes his head. “N-No. I like this one.” He lets one hand drop to his side and it grazes yours. His rings brush your knuckles, and you instinctively draw back at the sensation of the cool metal and the zing of heat that pulses at his light touch. “Sorry,” he mumbles, not making eye contact.

“S’okay.”

He blinks a few times and redirects his attention to his son. “What do you say to Mr. Will and Ms. Sweetheart for letting you do your art project?”

Harris’s little chest swells as he inhales deeply, storing up as much oxygen as he can fit in his lungs before bellowing, “THANK YOUUUUUUU!”

Eddie brings his palm to his ear canal, rotating his forefinger as though trying to repair a punctured eardrum. “Love the enthusiasm,” he says through gritted teeth. “Seriously, though. Thank you both so much.”

“Of course,” Will says warmly, picking up the marker bin and placing it in its space on the shelf.

“Anything for Harris.” You smile, motioning towards the little boy already by his father’s side. “Have fun trick-or-treating tonight, bud! I can’t wait to hear about all the yummy candy you got.”

Harris scrunches his nose in contemplation. “Are you going trick-or-treating, Ms. Sweetheart?”

“Nah,” you laugh, “I’m gonna stay home and give candy to all the kids who come by.” And pray that Grandma doesn’t curse them out, you silently add.

“Oh.” Harris pauses, grabbing his dad’s hand. “Okay, bye!”

Eddie chuckles as his son pulls him towards the door. “That’s my cue. Um, Happy Halloween,” he adds awkwardly, waving once before disappearing down the hallway.

There’s so much more that he wants to say: you’re the best; you saved the day; you should be my son’s teacher instead of that old, bitchy bat. But he didn’t have time. Maybe another day. At least, that’s what he tells himself. 

Wayne arrives just a few minutes after Eddie and Harris get home. As soon as his gruff voice comes over the intercom, Harris excitedly buzzes him in. “Grampa Wayne’s here!” he yells, even though Eddie’s standing right next to him. He grabs the pillowcase from the couch; it was originally white, but after Eddie accidentally threw in a red sock with the white laundry, it’s tinted light pink.

No sooner does the older man cross the threshold into the apartment, Harris is trying to drag him out again. “Let’s go, before all the good candy is gone!” he whines. His eyebrows pinch together and he drops his grandfather’s hand. “Oh, wait, I gotta show you something.” He scampers off into the kitchen, and Wayne winces when he hears the rattle of magnets falling to the floor.

“I’m okay!” Harris calls out, running back with a piece of paper in his hand. “Look what I drawed at school today!” He gives Wayne the rundown of who’s who.

Wayne analyzes each person in the picture, stopping at the overlapping circles between you and Eddie. “This is great, Har-Bear,” he muses. “Are, um, are Daddy and Ms. Sweetheart holding hands?”

“Mhm,” Harris casually confirms, taking the drawing back. “‘Cause they’re married.”

Eddie chokes on air as Wayne does a double-take. “Congrats, Ed,” he jokes, clapping a hand to his nephew’s shoulder. “Gotta say, I thought I’d at least get an invite.”

“Shut up,” Eddie grumbles, rolling his eyes. “Harris, why do you think that Ms. Sweetheart and I are married?” He wracks his brain for answers, but he can’t come to a logical conclusion. Did I talk about her in my sleep? Oh, shit, what if it was when I had that dream—

“Because you gived her a present,” Harris says, eyes innocent and wide. “And when grown-ups love each other, they give each other presents.”

“Oh, he gave Ms. Sweetheart a present, huh?” On the surface, Wayne’s words are as innocuous as Harris’s, but Eddie hears the teasing buried just beneath. 

Harris nods. “Mhm. He gived her a tape!”

“It was the Toni Braxton one that she came into the shop for…that day that, uh…” Eddie raises his eyebrows at his uncle, who nods in acknowledgment. He brings his focus back to his son. “It doesn’t mean that we’re married. People have to go on dates and fall in love before they get married.”

The young boy absorbs this information. “So you should go on dates and fall in love with Ms. Sweetheart!” His face lights up at the idea of it, and it breaks Eddie’s heart to let him down. 

So, he doesn’t. 

“Why don’t you hang that back up so we can get outta here and get you some candy, huh?” He forces a smile and watches his son scamper into the kitchen before turning back to Wayne and shaking his head. 

Harris peels a magnet off of the fridge, the one Eddie bought him on their Daddy-Son day. It has a sea lion balancing a beach ball on its snout, with HAWKINS ZOO printed in bolded letters along the bottom.  

Lowering his voice to a whisper, he speaks directly to his drawing. “When Daddy and Ms. Sweetheart fall in love and get married, I’ll finally have a mommy.” He presses his hand flat against the paper as though he’s sealing in the wish. He stays like that for a moment until his dad calls his name, and he clutches his pillow case as they head out the door. 

Eddie assumes that the love and marriage talk is done for the evening, but the feeling of relief doesn’t last long. The trio of Munson men is halfway down the stairwell when Wayne starts instigating. “Hey, Har, is Ms. Sweetheart pretty?”

“WAYNE!” Eddie grits his teeth and shoots a sharp look at his uncle. The last thing he needs is for Harris to get his hopes up about a blossoming romance between his dad and his former teacher. 

“Oh, yeah!” Harris gleefully agrees, oblivious to the mounting tension. He grips the railing and jumps from the second to last step onto the tiled landing below. “Super pretty! Like a princess.”

The eldest Munson turns to Eddie. “Didja hear that? Pretty like a princess.”

“I heard him,” Eddie replies tersely. 

“Daddy?”

No. Don’t ask me. Harris Wayne Munson, do not ask me what I think you’re going to—

“Do you think Ms. Sweetheart is pretty?”

Although he anticipated the question, Eddie still freezes. If he disagrees, Harris will inevitably want to know why not. And if he’s being honest with himself, he can’t name a single ugly thing about you. 

He does think you’re pretty. He thinks you’re beautiful. Gorgeous. Stunning. And even though he’s literally seen you naked, fully on display for him–a memory he revisits more often than he’s willing to admit–it’s the thought of what you did today that solidifies your beauty. The way you’d effortlessly calmed Harris down without Eddie even having to ask. The frown on his face almost instantly became a smile, the flow of his tears ceasing and turning into the giggles that brought sunlight into Eddie’s life. You did that.

Any woman can be sexy, but you? In that moment, you were perfect.

Fuck. 

“Daddy? Hello?”

At the sound of Harris’s voice, Eddie realizes that he physically hasn’t moved from his spot on the stairs. His hand is gripping the banister so tightly that it leaves an imprint in his palm. “Yeah, buddy,” he manages through his Sahara Desert throat. “I think Ms. Sweetheart’s pretty.”

“Like a princess?” Wayne’s eyes twinkle mischievously. It’s been a long time since he’s been able to tease his nephew about a crush, and he’s not passing up this limited opportunity. 

“Yeah. Like a princess.”

Education outsiders might think that Halloween is one of the worst days to be a teacher. The lethal combination of sugar and excitement barely contained in tiny costumed bodies seems like a recipe for disaster. But any teacher worth their salt will tell you that there is a day far, far worse than Halloween: November 1st. 

On Halloween, there is the expectation for fun. There’s a costume parade, classroom trick-or-treating, and even a little party. The kids are out of control, but who cares? It’s Halloween. 

But on November 1st, there is work to be done. And you’re expected to teach the months of the year to 10 four-year-olds who are suffering from candy hangovers and won’t stop asking why they can’t go trick-or-treating again today. 

You and Will are preparing for battle as students trickle in, excited to show off the candy stashes they acquired the night before. Abby Carver cries because she ate her Reese’s cup and now she’s sad that it’s gone. Joshua Harrington is continuing to “sling webs” at the other kids despite your incessant reminders that he is no longer Spider-Man. A fight over a KitKat bar breaks out not even five minutes into the day, and you confiscate it before someone causes serious bodily harm. 

Two fingers lightly tap on your shoulder—too high up to be a kid—and you whirl around with an irritated, “what?”

“Whoa,” Eddie says, concern etched into his otherwise soft features. He takes a small step back, nearly tripping over a rogue Lego that somehow made its way out of the toy area. He stumbles but catches his balance easily. “Everything okay?”

“‘S a warzone out here,” you try and joke, but you feel it fall flat. You’re too tired for humor. Grandma may not have yelled at the trick-or-treaters like you’d feared, but she did get increasingly angrier with each knock on the door. After the fifth time of her snarling at you to “shut the hell up” (like you could simultaneously be on both sides of the door), you’d relented and just put the candy bowl on the welcome mat, scribbling “TAKE ONE” on a yellow sticky note, adhering it to the plastic container. 

Two decades earlier, Halloween at Grandma’s house had a completely different connotation. She’d have a little pizza party all set up for you, and she’d buy a big bag of your favorite candy, in case you didn’t get enough during your door-to-door quests. And she’d always let you watch whatever spooky movie your heart desired, regardless of your parents’ rules. 

“That’s what grandmas are for,” she’d said with a wink, and the two of you curled up to watch Little Shop of Horrors. Her demeanor matched the hokey magnet on her fridge that read, If I knew how fun my grandkids would be, I would’ve had them first. You’d stay like that until you both fell asleep, only being roused by your parents arriving to pick you up. The good old days, before Grandma waking up involved watching the confusion in her eyes as she tried and failed to place you.

“C-Can I help you with something?” Your guard goes up immediately when you notice that Harris isn’t with him. The time you’d spent together after school yesterday had been nice, fun, even, but you couldn’t trust that today would be the same. Not after what happened a few short weeks ago. 

“I, um…I just swung by to give you this.” He reaches into the inner pocket of his denim jacket; it’s the same one that he lent to Harris when he’d forgotten his at home. A flash of yellow paper catches your eye, and he unfurls his palm to reveal a small bag of peanut M&Ms. “You said they were one of your favorites, right?”

You look at the treat, not willing to reach out and grab it. What if it’s a joke? An elaborate ploy to reel you in, just to shout “gotcha” when you finally let your walls come down?

“Are they poisoned or something?” you quip, crossing your arms over your chest. “Did you spike them with Ex-Lax?”

Eddie’s lips part in surprise before he collects himself. “Guess I deserve that,” he mumbles. “But, no. They’re not. I swear on James Hetfield’s life.” He drags his fingernail over his heart in an X-formation. 

You take the bag, inspecting it for any sign of tampering, but you come up short. The edges are sealed, and there are no pinpricks as far as your eyes can see. “Dipped into Harris’s stash for me?”

“Hey, these bad boys are technically mine for the taking until he figures out that he can eat them without dying.” Eddie chuckles lightly, peering at you through impossibly long lashes. “But, yeah, I was hoping you’d accept these as part of my apology. Or apologies, I guess. For, uh, for not calling when I said I would, and all of the awful shi—awful things I said to you.” His voice is barely above a whisper as he steps closer and says, “I am so fucking sorry.”

You make a small tear in the bag, tapping it against your palm until an M&M falls out. Popping the blue candy in your mouth, you allow the shell to start dissolving on your tongue before crunching on the peanut, hoping you can process what he’s said by the time you’re finished chewing. 

This is what you’ve been waiting for—an actual heartfelt apology. His brown eyes reflect nothing but shame and remorse, and you can tell by the way that he’s fidgeting with his rings that he’s anxiously awaiting your reply. 

His vulnerability softens you slightly, and considering you haven’t keeled over after ingesting the candy, you throw him a bone. 

“This fun size bag covers the ‘not calling’ part, but I’m gonna need a lot more candy if you want me to forgive you for what you said at the music store.” You keep your tone light; teasing, even, but there’s a layer of truth to it. He can’t merely waltz into your classroom with a gift and expect you to forget his hurtful words. 

Eddie nods, his frizzy curls brushing the tops of his denim-clas shoulders. “I know. I’ve said some pretty terrible things in my life, but that might’ve been the worst. And, um,” he fumbles his words, desperately searching for the right ones. Semantics has never been his forte. “You didn’t deserve that. It’s not true; your grandma didn’t want to forget you. And…neither do I.” When you raise your eyebrows, he starts to backtrack. “Because you’re so great with Harris; like, you understand him and stuff. He’s always talking about you.”

Daddy, do you think Ms. Sweetheart is pretty? The question replays like a song he can’t shake from his head, its melody familiar but the notes still keeping him on edge. Pretty like a princess, only instead of saving her, I’m the one who needs to be rescued. So much for Prince Charming, huh?

The M&M melts in your mouth while you formulate a response to his candid admission. Sweetness seeps into your taste buds as you try to straddle the line between careful consideration and overthinking. Speak too quickly and you might say something you’ll regret. Take too long and you’ll make this even more awkward.

“W-Well, I’m glad to hear that.” Short, simple, to the point. Your words are slightly slurred by the candy obstruction, but what else is there to say? You could add that you forgive him, but you’re truthfully not sure that you do. His words scarred, had taken your already mangled self-worth and snapped it into pieces, and so did his reasoning for hurting you. Despite the love and kindness you’d shown his son, Eddie had fully believed that you were responsible for spreading personal information that would wound him. It was exactly as Jeff had said: Eddie struck below the belt at the first sign of conflict, so determined to protect himself that he didn’t even realize that he was attacking the people on his side.

The sound of books clattering to the floor snatches your attention from him, and you whip your head to your little classroom library to see two kids standing over a pile of fallen books, guilty looks stamped on their faces. “I’ve gotta go,” you blurt out, dashing off to assess the damage. You’ve never been so grateful for your students causing mischief.

The hour hand crawls to the number two; at one point, you swore the clock was moving backwards. The chaos of the morning was only a preview of the rest of the day’s fiascos, but you and Will had navigated as best as you could.

“Jesus,” he murmurs once the kids have all been dismissed, gingerly rubbing his temples, “that was brutal. I can handle the day after Halloween; I can handle Fridays, but when they coincide? Nope, never again.” He slumps into a chair dramatically, letting his arms drape over the sides.

“Gonna have a glass of wine when you get home?” you joke, wiping Play-Doh residue from a tabletop.

Will nods. “Or a whole bottle.” His focus shifts to your desk, and he nods his chin in that direction. “I see you have something to look forward to tonight, too.”

You follow his gaze, widening your eyes when you see the object he’s referring to. A bag of peanut M&Ms–much bigger than the one you’d inhaled this morning–sits on top of your desk calendar; resting next to it is a cassette. You walk over, curiosity getting the better of you. The cassette is Guns N’ Roses’ Appetite for Destruction; you recognize the iconic cover as soon as it comes into view. It’s not your usual music choice, but you’ll listen to almost anything.

There’s a piece of paper taped to the giant yellow M&M bag, folded in equal triads. Messily scrawled across the front in black ink is Ms. Sweetheart. You gently pull the adhesive loose and open the letter, nervously running your forefinger across the irregular edge where it was obviously torn from a composition notebook.

Fun size mistake=fun size bag of candy

Family size mistake=family size bag of candy

I’m really good at fucking things up, but really bad at fixing them. I wish I could say that I didn’t mean to hurt you, but we both know that I did. 

You don’t have to forgive me, but I need you to know how sorry I am. 

-Eddie

P.S. Not sure if hard rock is your thing, but I saw this at work and it reminded me of the kindness you showed our favorite little Axl Rose yesterday.

“Who’s it from?” Will asks, breaking into your thoughts. “A secret admirer?” He brings his clasped hands to his cheek in mock dreaminess.

You manage a laugh as you fold the note back up and tuck it under the calendar. “If it is, he’s really bad at it, because he signed his name.” When did he even sneak in here to do this? Kind of scary that someone could walk in and you didn’t even notice.

“Aha! So it is a guy!” Will pumps his fist triumphantly, though you’re not quite sure what he thinks he’s won.

“Just Eddie Munson, thanking us for letting Harris draw here yesterday.” 

It’s not a total lie, but Will sees right through it. “Uh-huh. Thanking us? So that note is also for me? Can I read it?” He starts towards your desk, outstretched hand reaching towards where you’d tried to hide it, but you playfully swat them away.

You glance at the clock and frown. “If you leave a little early, I won’t tell anyone.”

Will flips you off; over the last two months, you two had developed a sibling-esque relationship that came out more once the kids had left for the day. He grabs his backpack from the supply closet and slings it over his shoulders. “You’re lucky I’m exhausted, or I’d stick around and keep bothering you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You roll your eyes, knowing full well that he’s itching to leave regardless. “Gotta save up your energy for when Marshall visits.”

Will blushes at the mention of his long-distance boyfriend’s name. He still wasn’t out to many people, but when you’d casually mentioned the date Jess had with a girl named Robin, he’d felt comfortable opening up to you. “I can’t wait!” His grin is so wide you swear it’ll stretch right off of his face. “Thanks again; you’re the best.”

That leaves you alone with your gigantic bag of candy, a Guns N’ Roses cassette, and an apology that you have no idea what to do with.

Once again, Eddie Munson has given you more questions than answers.

--

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[ijustthinkhesneat]

Okay but realistically imagine what Bruce would do when Jason came back.

Chasing this knee criminal who keeps referencing his dead son. Pushing his buttons. How dare he presume to know anything about Jason. The lost light of his life, his baby boy. He can feel that darkness creeping around the edges of his mind. That pit of anger and murderous rage he is scared he will never pull himself out of.

Hearing that robotic voice taunting him about failing Jason, failing to avenge him. He tried, god he tried. He was so close he had the knife against the jokers throat. And then he was being pulled away. Clark stopped him. Told him that he wasn’t acting like himself.

God he loves Clark but he can still feel that small pit of resentment fester whenever he thinks about bleeding that clown.

How dare he say he never loved Jason. He would have given everything to have him back for even a moment. His wealth, his status, Batman, his soul, Gotham itself. There were only three things he would never trade away. His sons. His precious boys. He would destroy himself without a second thought for their happiness. If there was anything he could give, any price he could pay to just see his baby one more time he would do it happily.

Then they are alone. He’s cornered the Red Hood. An abandoned warehouse, a bomb. He should tear him apart where he stands. He dares to make a mockery of his greatest failure? How he failed Jason. His son. His baby. His world. He will make him suffer.

Then the helmet comes off. A young man. Gentle black curls with a shock of white running through them. A domino mask over his face. It can’t be. And the mask comes away. And Bruce sees them. Those beautiful blue eyes that have haunted every sleepless night. Filled with hatred. Swimming with green fury.

But none of it matters. All the anger in Bruce is gone. He tears of the cowl, he has to see, has to see his baby’s face. Jason has a gun leveled at him, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters because Jason is here. He is alive in front of Bruce. Every wish, every regret is washed away in that moment.

Bruce falls to his knees, it’s too much, more than a wretched creature like him deserves. Jason is stunned. His hand shakes slightly. He moves forward, places the gun against Bruce’s temple and still there is no fear, just wonder and adoration in Bruce’s eyes.

“Is it you Jaylad? Please this has to be a dream, please let this be real.” Jason is shocked he expected anger, disappointment, bargaining, but all there is is a father, a broken man looking upon his life’s purpose renewed before his eyes. Bruce reaches up, slowly, reverently, like at any moment Jason will disappear, he takes Jason free hand and holds it against his cheek and then Bruce’s weeps. Not silent tears or stoic crying. He weeps, snotty and red, hiccuping sobs wracking his body. He can only repeat Jason’s name like a prayer.

Jason doesn’t even realize he has dropped the gun. His Dad is caressing his hand, wailing and babbling apologies and platitudes. Jason feels himself sink to his knees. Tears spilling from his own eyes. His Dad still loves him, never stopped, he doesn’t even care that Jason had only a week ago filled a duffel bag with human heads. He is holding onto Jason like he is sacred and he can feel the anger breaking under the desire to be engulfed by his father.

In that moment they both know that no matter what happens, they’ve come home and for the first time in a long time they both feel whole.

[cultofdixon]

People change, it takes time to prove that

Daryl Dixon • She/Her Pronouns • Not every Savior is bad. Some were stuck in the Sanctuary because of Negan’s manipulative ways. You wiggled your way into the archer’s heart and understood why he didn’t trust you right away. But when the war was over, he would do his best to get his family to accept you • ANGST/SFW • TW: Canon Violence / Injuries / Scars / Suicide Mentioned

Requested by: Anon

“I met someone”

The declaration only brought a confused expression onto Carol’s face when her best friend said such. Met someone? In the middle of a war?

“Who is this…someone?”

“Her name is Y/N” Daryl picked at the soup that Carol made for him when he came to check on her in the house given by King Ezekiel. “She is…something. Definitely another made for a world like this”

“Like you?” Carol smiles resting her head in her hands. “So she’s a perfect match for you already. Tell me more”

“She’s a savior”

That was pretty much the end of that conversation because who wants to hear Carol tell Daryl how wrong that is? Or that she could be manipulating him for Negan’s gain? He’s going to hear this from more than just Carol so it doesn’t need to be told now.

When the final fight came and the Saviors were lined up on one side of the field with their weapons full of ammunition made by Eugene. The second they triggered their guns, the ammunition backfired against the few. Daryl immediately tensed to the action searching through their lineup for her and noticed Eugene quickly helping Y/N to her feet as she noticed Negan booking it.

“Eugene someone—-“

“No one is going anywhere” Rosita caught the two off guard by pressing a gun to Y/N’s back after taking out a few saviors to save Eugene.

“Rosita. She ain’t a threat”

“You’re on thin ice, Eugene. But I know you, I don’t know her” Rosita frowns debating on taking out the Savior for what she indirectly has done.

“Drop it.”

The stern gravely voice that came from the archer took all three off guard to the point that Rosita listened. But to the degree that she knocked Y/N onto her knees making her crawl to the other Saviors they were holding hostage until Negan met his end. Even then, some expected to bring out revenge on the saviors that caused them trouble but they were met with a second chance.

Especially…Negan.

When the crowd dispersed back into the communities for the night knowing tomorrow will be the start of the rebuild for every community. The Sanctuary especially.

Before Daryl could even think about making his way to Y/N, Jesus had stopped him asking to come with him and Maggie back to the Hilltop to talk about the decision Rick made that is supported by Michonne and a few others but not immediately.

“I have to check on someone”

“The Savior?” Jesus questioned only for confirmation by a nod. “I know what she did for you, but tonight is a lot. Especially on Maggie and you’re the closest thing she has to a brother. For now just. Please stick with your family”

The archer didn’t even give it another thought, but that didn’t mean she left his. Just meant that late in the night when Y/N found herself in the loading dock of the Sanctuary taking care of another pile of dead walkers, she didn’t expect to hear his bike rolling in. Daryl brought his bike closer to the building to avoid the fire pit that the now ex-Savior had made to contain the blaze keeping it from catching onto the main building.

“Why’re you up?” Daryl asks as Y/N fiddles with a matchbox but her hands were shaking too much. “Hey…I’ve got it” he reaches to take the box noticing her wounds from before weren’t treated. He tosses the box down quickly making her turn toward him to find she bled through the bandages that were covering the shrapnel pieces that embedded in her when the ammunition backfired. “Why haven’t you changed your bandages? How’d yea even—“

“Please stop asking a lot of questions…I’ll just tell you what you want if you re-dress it” She sounded defeated and granted she was. That day was a lot and not just for the victors.

As Daryl got out his bandages that he started carrying on his person, Y/N started to talk about what happened after Rick practically dismissed everyone.

Those from the Sanctuary returned home, but as for those who were more of the civilian variety were given the opportunity to disperse into the other communities. Some stayed to help rebuild it, given Rick checked on the place once Siddiq and Jerry took Negan back to Alexandria with Michonne’s supervision. He’s going to have to have one of his own watch the Sanctuary and it’s rejuvenation because he doesn’t trust any of the soldiers of the Sanctuary. He even snapped at Y/N when he heard about her association from Carol, because she offered to watch the rejuvenation but he took that as her possibly becoming the next Negan.

But she left out that part when telling Daryl. Rick is his brother who already made a terrible decision by letting Negan live and that took a toll on his image. She didn’t want to make it worse, though she’s still a bit confused on why he cares so much for her.

She may have not done any of the killing…but she was still a part of the wrong side.

Daryl tossed the lit match onto the pit watching it burn for a moment before returning to his spot right beside Y/N. He kept his eyes on the fire for a moment longer before bringing his attention to Y/N who seemed to be watching him.

“Somethin’ on my face?”

“Besides sadness? No”

“I ain’t sad” He scoffs. “Disappointed more so.”

Y/N frowns bringing herself closer to him and gently taking his hand feeling him squeeze it instantly. She brought both hands to hold his one gently tracing her fingers against his knuckles.

“I’m sorry”

“None of this is your fault, sunshine” Daryl reassures with a squeeze of her hand. “I just…wish for a few things and time can only really make them happen”

“Anything I can help you with? Any wish to make come true” Y/N chuckles lightly, being taken by surprise a bit when Daryl pulled gently on their conjoined hands bringing her close enough to bring his lips softly onto hers.

It lasted for just for a second and as Daryl slowly pulls away he couldn’t help the small smile to grace his lips when hers finally returned to her features with a hint of a blush to her cheeks.

“Let me take care of yea, like you’ve taken care of me”

________

“Y/N? The fuck are you doing here?”

“Was asked by Negan to check on his new prisoner. To make sure you haven’t killed him”

“That son of a bitch has zero faith in me” Dwight scoffs as Y/N rolls her eyes to his words. “I haven’t even touched the man. All I did was do the usual for our prisoners. Hose them down and strip them”

“That’s…we do that?”

“You’re lucky you’re not that important”

Y/N was struck by such but it doesn’t entirely matter. She wished she was the one to die at her line up. Instead Negan took her as collateral that eventually had her become one of his men and her old group perished.

“Negan is the one that asked me to check his injuries given our doctor is currently with one of his wives” Y/N gestures to the medical bag she had as Dwight’s expression fell instantly.

“You can handle this by yourself?”

“I knocked Negan on his ass once, yeah I got socked after but I think I can handle myself”

Dwight gave her a certain unreadable look before swinging “his” crossbow over his chest. “I’ll be back”

The second he left, Y/N approached the door unlocking it from her end as she opens the door she noticed the naked man flinch to the sound.

“I’m sorry” She frowns hesitantly approaching setting her bag on the floor and while she knelt by her stuff she pulled out a pair of clothes which Dwight didn’t know about.

Daryl didn’t say a word only grunted when this woman he barely knew asked if she could take a look at the bullet wound amongst others. He felt a bit exposed half way through the whole check up but Y/N kept her attention where it needed to be.

Once he was patched up, he noticed her quickly glance back outside before reaching into her bag for a few more things. A water bottle and a sandwich wrapped it paper.

“I’ll come back in after thirty minutes to clean up so it looks like I didn’t give you these. The clothes are also meant to be spray painted, I can’t control that”

“Why are you doing this?” He finally spoke in a whisper loud enough for Y/N to hear.

“Because I can. And I’m going to help you out of here” She whispered the last part and with that took a step out closing the door but left a crack for him to be able to see what was in his cell.

________

It’s been about a little over a week since the war ended.

Y/N stood outside the Sanctuary amongst other Saviors listening to Rick’s list of items from their place and where they were going into the other communities. Hence the three cars behind the man. A few of the people protested but he of course offered sanctuary in the other communities as long as they help with their rebuilds just like they were doing with this community. It honestly felt like they were purging the Sanctuary and who could blame them? Who else would want a physical reminder of where the dictator used to call home? Well then you remember all the places your history teacher talked about and it’s really saying nowhere is a good place for most glorified individuals.

“Y/N.” Rick caught her a bit off guard and granted a few of the men that Negan had favored as well. “You’ll be in charge of seeing everything on the list make it to the trucks while I scout out the place with a few others”

“Seriously trusting this woman?”

“Yeah she could never follow an order correctly back during the Savior days” Savior days…gross.

“Negan only had her in his arsenal of command for the woman vote type shit” a third made the final comment as Y/N was both tensed and defeated, but she was feeling the second one already today.

She was supposed to go hunting with Daryl but Michonne and Carol had asked to join him when they came with Rick to the Sanctuary, where he’s been staying. He told them he already had Y/N, but Michonne argued saying it could benefit the other communities if they caught more game and Carol added the “you need people you can trust to watch your back” hence why Y/N didn’t go. Daryl trusted her, but Y/N knew they didn’t.

“I don’t trust her with my life but I trust her enough to get this shit done and since y’all seem to like to poke the bear—-You’re comin’ with me to see the integrity of your gates and scope out what y’all have to add to the place” Rick gestures for them to follow and of course they did, meanwhile the others followed Y/N’s lead hesitantly.

A couple hours went by and Y/N found herself in their infirmary putting away what was almost ransacked when they came through. It really did feel like they were purging when 90% of the equipment is gone to replace most of Alexandria’s and give one to the Kingdom. 80% of their pantry and artillery was split between the communities. Then a few more people left entirely or into another community.

Daryl had returned to the Sanctuary in hopes of finding her but instead found Rick loading up the last vehicle, the Alexandria one.

“The fuck are you doing?”

“Giving back to the communities. What else would I be doing? I told you this the other night”

“Yeah but looks like you’re liquidating”

“Five dollar word coming from the man that barely shared more than three words with me when we first met” Rick jokes and it obviously didn’t reach. “They’ve lost a lot of their people to the other communities. For the most part it’s those who have grown to live in the sanctuary or ex-Saviors that need to be monitored if things go south”

“Is Y/N still here?”

“Who? The ex-Savior that a lot of the men don’t like?”

“Who doesn’t like Y/N.” Daryl said with a bit of sternness in his tone taking that more as they are messing with her. And he’s not far off on that note. “You’re dodging—-“

“She’s still here. Cleaning up the mess we made when shifting shit around.” Rick states shutting the trunk. “You coming with or what?”

“Or what” Daryl scoffs about to head inside when he heard Rick mumble to himself. “What’d yea say?”

“Carol told me you fell for a Savior and I’m sorry that my immediate thought was she manipulated yea”

“Are you—-Is she fucking endorsing that thought when she’s never met the girl completely?! How’d yea think I got out of this fucking hell hole?”

“I’m sorry Daryl, but you keep comin’ back cuz she’s here. You sure she’s not trying to make you into the next Ne—-“

“I’m not”

Y/N just had to walk into the wrong moment of the conversation as she held herself with this disappointed look on her face toward the retired sheriff and a bit toward the archer but more in a different sense.

“Daryl doesn’t have to be here if he doesn’t want to. Besides, you should’ve tried harder to get him out instead of sitting on your hands.”

“Are you seriously gonna go that route with me? You have no idea how much we’ve lost because of that bitch dog you called a leader”

“Rick—-“ Daryl was about to cut in when he watches Y/N hop down from the platform she stood on bringing herself up in Rick’s business. Then suddenly her fist met his jaw knocking him off balance as he quickly collects himself. The shock stunning him.

“HE KILLED THE ONLY FAMILY I HAD LEFT TO BEAT ME INTO SUBMISSION IN THE BEGINNING. KILLED MY ONLY BROTHER IN OUR LINE UP. TORTURED MY FATHER TO HIS BREAKING POINT AND HE GAVE UP ON HIS LIFE. HE DID UNTHINKABLE THINGS TO MY BEST FRIEND THAT SHE DIDNT WANT TO LIVE ON THIS FUCKING EARTH ANYMORE” Y/N shouted in Rick’s face making him retract but she kept on. “HE BROKE MY NOSE—-BROKE MY RIBS—-…” she hesitated and fell the hot tears get the better of her. “I wouldn’t let him use me and he wanted to kill me because of it. Instead I watched his prisoners, made sure they were taken care of while their main watcher did all the dirty work. I never killed a single person while as a savior, expect for another savior when it came to getting Daryl to escape….Ive lost enough and I lost myself.”

Daryl felt the blade dig deeper in his chest hearing all of that come from her as she’s never shared so much all at once. He tried to bring himself to her and all he wanted was to engulf her in his embrace but Y/N stepped away wiping away the tears that just continued to fall.

“I wasn’t going to let him kill another of your family…and I wasn’t going to let Daryl never see his again.” Y/N frowns turning to Daryl and feeling the tears come on strong. “You don’t have to keep coming here. Trust me I get what it’s like stepping in that building…It’s just been my home for too long. I can’t go anywhere else without being labeled a monster”

And with that she headed back inside but after cleaning up the mess, Y/N went outside with her pack and lighter to have a smoke before turning in when she noticed Daryl sitting on the platform in the loading dock with his pack beside him. She brought herself to sit beside him at a respectable distance but he closed the space between them bringing his full attention onto her as she didn’t utter a word only felt more tears spring on feeling his rough calloused hands gently brush away the tears.

“I’m not going anywhere. You’re a part of my family now whether you like it or not” He states feeling a small smile grace his features when he heard her laugh escape her lips. “Rick’s gonna talk to the others about yea and thinks you’d be more comfortable in Alexandria…plus you can stay with me”

“Daryl…I…“

“You saved me, and…I love you for that” Daryl gently pressed his forehead against hers. “It’ll take time for them to get used to yea, yeah. But they’ll eventually love you almost as much as I do”

Y/N felt an old warmth return in her chest after so long of not feeling it as she brought her arms around his neck pulling herself into his embrace feeling him pull her into his lap keeping her close as humanely possible.

“I love you too, Daryl”

[bullet-prooflove]

Tomorrow: Mikey Berzatto x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @cleacc @cutebookdragon1 @bungurus @nogoodbee

Companion piece to:

Mess - Mikey tries to prove to you both he made the right decision by leaving.

A Fucking Saint - Mikey thinks you're a fucking saint for putting up with him all these years.

Prequel to:

The Diagnosis - Mikey recieves an explaination regarding his behaviour and addiction issues.

Save It (NSFW) - Mikey tries to apologise for all the terrible shit he's done over the years.

On the nights it gets bad, almost too bad for him to exist Mikey sits down and makes a list of the reasons that he’s still breathing.

You are always number one.

He recounts the nights he’s spent with you, tangled up in your bare skin, your hands threading through his dark hair as you tell him that you love him, that you’ll always love him.

It’s the only thing that stops him from ending it all on the days the noise is too loud, when he feels like he’s failing every single other person in his life.

The way she looks at me, he writes, it makes me feel like I can be the man she sees, the one she believes I can be.

He wants that so badly, to be more, to do more, but things just keep spiralling and he doesn’t see a way out of it. The bills are piling up, the suppliers are refusing to deliver because he can’t pay them and the pills he’s taking, the ones that numb him, they don’t seem to be doing the job anymore.

It’s why he’s started dry firing his father’s gun recently. He sits on his mother’s bed and he takes out the bullets one by one, counting them before he puts the thing against his temple and pulls the trigger.

What would it feel like to fall into oblivion? He wonders as he recounts the bullets. To not have to think or worry or fight anymore.

Bliss, he thinks as he places them back in the cartridge.

It becomes a daily ritual, something he starts to look forward to because any day could be the day he ends it all, the day he finally gets the silence he craves.

It’s when he runs into you at the market that things start to change. He’s hung over to fuck and buying a pack of smokes when he literally collides with you on the way out. He reaches out to steady you, his palms coming to rest on your shoulders and he’s right back there in his life with you, in that little house on the corner, talking shit as he cooks you dinner.

The memory it’s so fucking visceral, he almost chokes on it. His thumb traces along the line of your jaw as you tilt your head up to look at him and he knows that you’re still his, that the break up didn’t change anything, that you’re just as in love with him as he is with you.

This is the reason he doesn’t put bullets in that gun, the reason he hasn’t blown his own head off. He’s not ready to say goodbye just yet, he still holds this fragile hope that things will work out, that somehow the two of you will end up back together again.

It’s a dream, he tells himself but then your fingertips brush over his grizzled cheek and he’s falling all over again.

He doesn’t intend to kiss you, he just gets caught up in sensation of being in your proximity again. His mouth brushes over yours with a tenderness he has only ever reserved for you and it feels like heaven when you kiss him back, because even after all this shit you still want him and that in itself is fucked up.

“I hate myself for doing this to you.” He whispers against your lips as he cradles your face between his hands. “For not being able to let you go.”

“Mikey…” You say but he’s already pulling away, tucking his hands into his pockets as he heads towards his truck and you watch him go because you can’t stop the tide, not when it’s on its way out.

It’s when he gets into his truck that he takes the near empty pill bottle and deposits the rest of them into his hand. He throws them down his throat, swallowing them dry before he lights up a cigarette with trembling hands and inhales the smoke, waiting for the Oxy to kick in.

It’s later that night as he lies in bed, staring at the ceiling that he realises he hasn’t touched the gun tonight. His head’s been too full of you, of all those memories of the time you spent together, the good and the bad.

He thinks of that kiss, of how grounded he felt in that moment and he knows he isn’t ready to leave this earth just yet, not when there’s still a chance for the two of you.

Tomorrow, he promises himself as he turns onto his side and imagines you lying there in the space beside him. I’ll find a way to fix it all tomorrow.

Love Mikey? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[frannyzooey]

Short Days, Long Nights: 2

Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: none — I’ll change it to E when we get there (slow burn, forced proximity, age gap — no age actually mentioned but rather more implied through lack of life experience, competence kink, hunting)

Summary: Part of a band of travelers, your party is slowly picked off one by one, until there are only two of you left. Finding an abandoned cabin in the woods, you decide to make camp there until you figure out your next move. As the seasons change, the nights get longer and longer…..

A/N: a truly endless amount of thank you’s to @the-ginger-hedge-witch who took SO MUCH TIME to make this actually coherent, and @mourningbirds1 who always asks the best, most inspiring questions. I love you both ❤️ Enjoy!

Chapter One

--

He shouldn’t be encouraging this. 

He shouldn’t. 

His head bowed, his steps careful as his eyes scan the forest floor for animal tracks, he had thought the wide open forest and a temporary relief from your close presence would help clear his head, but it doesn’t.

The bright optimism in your eyes flits through his mind, the confidence in how you told him about the various plants you chose to start with and why, the content smile on your face as you went about your tasks this morning. Cleaning out the old pots, filling them with fresh soil, setting up an area in the kitchen near the window to keep them safe. 

He should have said something then, but he didn’t. 

Should have said no to begin with, but he couldn’t. 

The night you had suggested the garden, he watched you leave the room and felt the urge to call you back, but like many urges he has where you’re concerned, he resisted. Hated himself for immediately shutting down your idea, but reasoned that you were too naive for your own good anyway. 

It makes him angry, your hope. He wants to stomp it out of you, harden you like he’s been forced to harden, solely because it will give you the best chance at survival in this world. 

That’s what he should do, but the second he had found himself unable to say no, he laid bare a dormant part of him that he had been denying for a while: another piece of him that wants you to keep that innocence. Unable to fathom how you’ve kept it this long, he wants to protect it, like those seeds. Keep it tucked away from the ugly world, save both it and you from waste and ruin. 

He hears the whisper of ferns brushing against each other, sees them moving out of the corner of his eye, and he crouches low, listening. Reaching back, he pulls an arrow from the pack he has on his back and, keeping his eyes on the bush, notches it in his bow. 

He waits, still and silent. 

He had stayed awake long into that night, thinking about how you were right. Every settlement is a nightmare, FEDRA no better than the free cities, smuggling a dangerous game that would most likely end in death the longer he kept on doing it. It’s not something that had really bothered him before – the thought of dying – but that was when it was just him. 

For you, it didn’t sit right. 

For you, he can’t let that happen. He won’t. 

He had gotten up from the couch to pace, mindlessly scanning the bookshelves as his brain ran through every scenario. Stopping on a gardening book, he had decided that if you wanted to make it work, then he was going to do it right. Keep some of that innocence of yours while also being smart about it. 

It’s not that you couldn’t hold your own. He has seen it before, but there is still so much that you don’t know. The sole idea of staying in this cabin betrayed your naivety, highlighting what he had already been fighting with himself throughout this entire trip: teach you, so you’d be ready, or keep you from it, so it wouldn’t be your burden to carry. 

If you are going to stay here, that changed things. 

He should teach you basic skills: how to hunt, how to set traps, how to properly handle a gun if you need to. You could do it if you had to, but you aren’t great. Inexperienced, at best, and as he waits there in the grass, he makes a mental list in his head of the topics he should cover. 

Maybe if he focuses his energy on teaching you those things, he can stop thinking about what it would be like to teach you other things. Not that he knows if you need teaching in those areas, but the idea had taken root weeks ago in his dreams and refused to let go. 

Waking up hard and aching every morning, trying to close his eyes and will it away — being ashamed of those thoughts though unable to stop them from happening, he shoved them down deep, just like he shoved you away.

Or tried to, anyway.

Impatient, harsh, taking advantage of how intimidated you are of him, he’s been gruff and dismissive, but you followed him all the same. Sticking to him like a shadow because of the protection he offers and he knows that’s part of the problem. The real reason you bleed into his dreams every night, because you’re constantly around him and on his mind every hour of the day.

A sort of misplaced attraction due to proximity alone, just like your own is due to his protectiveness - that’s all. 

He has protected you, and he still does. He will protect you from what’s out there, including himself.  

He sees the flash of shine, the animal’s eye catching the sunlight, and his fingers react on instinct, letting the arrow loose.  

Finding its target, the plant stops moving.

–

“I was good with my hands, but I was never good at that.” Joel gestures at the pot in front of you, leaning against the wall as he watches. “I always killed ‘em all.”

You laugh, gently tamping down the cool soil with your fingers. “You? Big bad Joel Miller? There’s something you’re bad at?” 

You haven’t seen it. Not yet, anyway. 

A small smile curls under his mustache. “Hard to believe, I know.”

Late afternoon sunlight streams through the now clean windows, and you shake your head at him, reaching into the bucket next to you. Pulling out another fist full of loose soil, you sprinkle it over the surface of the pot.

“Well, good thing I was always good at it.” 

You were. Had once thought it a relaxing, mindless hobby. Houseplants all over your apartment, you had found it fulfilling when something bloomed and blossomed and grew. Loved the delicate sloping vines, the broad leaves that reached for the sun, the endless shades of green. 

This new version of the world holds growth as well, but it isn’t the same. It is chaotic and overwhelming, plants and roots and whole trees sprouting from beneath the concrete, overtaking whole structures as it takes back what once belonged to it. You find beauty in it still, but sometimes the growth is disgusting and horrifying – when it’s the unnaturally colorful warning of fungus instead of plants, and when it’s a body buried underneath instead of a building. 

Pouring a little water into the soil, you think about the tiny red watering can you had, the reminder of the mundane action that used to bring you so much joy weighing heavy on your chest for a moment as your hands wipe together to brush off the dirt. 

He pushes off the wall and steps closer — always stays close, even inside, just in case. 

The swirl of his protective presence is a heady one, and you’ve become so used to it that you feel a perceptible absence when he’s not in the cabin. The same orbit pulls you unconsciously into his direction now, tilting your body to the side so he can get a better look. 

“This one should bud fairly fast, according to the packet,” you say, trying hard not to noticeably breathe in his warm scent. He doesn’t often get this close, and you hold as still as possible to encourage him to stay. “Then we can move it outside.”

He says nothing, his skepticism apparent through his silence, and you turn your head, looking at him. The wiry patch of gray that gathers at the edge of his jaw calls out for your touch, the light strands threaded among the dark, and you keep your eyes on it for a moment, tearing them away when he looks at you. His eyes focus on yours, a pull of something filling the air between you for a weighted beat, and then he shifts his gaze back to the pot. 

“We’ll see.”

You roll your eyes at his ever-present pessimism, opening your mouth to ask him what he had meant about being good with his hands before since he’s never talked about before with you, but he stands, talking first.

“I was thinking this morning,” he starts, leaning against the wall again. “I should teach you how to hunt.” He pauses, his expression shifting into something more resolute. “I’m going to teach you how to hunt.”

You look up at him, wide eyed and questioning, and he meets your eyes again for a moment before looking away, directing his words at the floor. 

“You should probably know how to do it, if we’re gonna stay out here. Just in case something happens to me, and I can’t do it.”

Your face goes still at the thought, and he backtracks, “Like if I get sick or something. Can’t get outta bed.”

“Knowing you, old man, you’ll be faking. Anything to stay in bed longer.”

He huffs, amused. “It’s a pretty comfortable one, I have to admit. It’s been nice not sleeping on the ground.” 

The beds are better than the ground for comfort, but you liked the ground for safety. Better to have him close should you need him, and you assume he feels the same way, given the way he conveyed his displeasure with the distance wordlessly, insisting the doors stay open at all times. 

“We better go before the sun goes down, try to get more than I got this morning.” His eyes flick over to the hallway. To your open door, the privacy of your room just beyond. 

“Sure. Just lemme get dressed.” 

Standing to carry the pot over to the window sill, you arrange it just so, right next to the other seedlings, and when you turn to head towards your bedroom, you feel his eyes on you until you’re out of his sight.  

–

Leaves crunch underfoot as you walk behind him, the slope of his broad shoulders a map that you follow without question. You’ve followed them for months now, those shoulders ones that you’ve seen damp with rain, covered under the taut drum of his flannel, tight and tense in unfamiliar territory and now, relaxed and loose, as he walks over to the now still bush.

“Did you get it?”

He nods in your direction, crouching with a soft grunt. “Yea. I got this one, next one is you.”

“You’ve always done it,” you grumble to yourself, watching the path. Your heart aches for the animal, but you’d never admit that softness to him. You know you have to eat, but to see it happen, to be the one who kills something so innocent - that’s a whole other matter. 

You should be used to it by now. But while you have been able to justify killing people as a means to survive, knowing they would do the same to you if given the chance, you still get slightly squeamish about doing it to animals just minding their own business.

“You wanna stay out here, you’re gonna have to learn sooner or later.” He reaches down, grabbing the small, limp rabbit by the ears, and it hangs dead in his grip, not as heavy as he hoped. He stands and turns, leading you deeper into the woods. 

Your fingers catch on the feather light branches of ferns, everything a wash of muted color as dusk descends, and it’s peaceful in your mutual silence, the woods around you alive with its own sounds. 

“We can wait here,” he says, stopping at the edge of a small clearing. The leaves of the trees rustle in the wind, a rabbit popping out long enough to hide behind some tall grass nearby, and he crouches low, your body automatically following his lead. 

“Normally you wanna keep walking. You can scare em’ out of the bushes that way. Rabbits, you let em’ know you’re coming. It’s deer you gotta stay silent for.”

You plant a knee in the moist earth, dampness creeping through your jeans, and he fixes something on his bow. Your eyes rest on the skillful way his fingers move along the bow string, the size of them compared to the delicate wood. 

Satisfied, he holds it out to you with an expectant look. 

“Show me how you’re gonna hold it.”

Unsure, you hesitate before you take it from him, but he waits patiently all the same. You’ve never held a bow before and when you look down at it for a beat too long, he shifts until he’s right next to your side. 

“Like this,” he says quietly. 

He positions your body how he wants it, the practiced weight of his hold guiding you into place, and you let him do it, trying to ignore the increasing thrum of your heart. Something stirs deep in your belly, arousal beginning to bud and unfurl, and then his calloused hand is sliding down your forearm, wrapping your fingers around the bow. 

“Hold it up, and look with your dominant eye. Like when you shoot.”

You test it out, closing one eye and then the other, the tip of the arrow visually landing directly in the middle of a thicket of tall grass. 

“Just like that,” he murmurs, his drawl curling low in your ear and a shiver rolls through you under your jacket, your fingers starting to tremble. He sees it, placing his hand on top of yours with a reassuring squeeze, and you hold your breath. 

“They always come out at dusk,” he says softly, the husk of his voice matching the low lit setting. “That and right away in the morning.” He glances at you with a smirk. “Thought you’d prefer this with how you like to sleep in.”

You can’t turn your face to look at him, lest your mouth brush his, and so you breathe out a laugh instead. 

“Very funny,” you whisper. 

Your leg cramping slightly in your tense position, you shift a little and he places his hand on the small of your back to steady you. 

“You wanna look for something shining in the dark. Their eyes, you’ll be able to see them. They reflect whatever light is around, and you’ll see it flash if you’re patient.”

You keep your eyes trained on the spot, a slight rustle to the brush, and focusing there with intensity, you wait, slipping into a sort of trance. His closeness is intoxicating, the solidness of his hold still pressing lightly into you, his voice a gentle, guiding murmur as the woods grow darker around you. 

His voice lingers in your mind, catching on every ridge, embedding itself and playing on a never ending loop. He’s spoken more to you today than he ever has, and every word has been a piece of useful information - things you’re trying hard to hold onto, but he’s making it difficult with how overwhelming his presence is. The way he’s guiding you with that soothing, low voice makes you think about what other things he can talk you through in the middle of the quiet night. 

You swallow hard, your mouth dry, and he looks from the bush to you, a frown pulling between his brows. 

The grass rustles again, and between the blades of ferns, you see it - a sudden flash of something shining.

“There,” he whispers urgently, prompting you to let the arrow loose, but you don’t. Instead you find yourself hovering on the edge, hesitating just long enough for the animal to sense you, and it moves suddenly with a thrash, bounding away. 

He lets out a heavy sigh. “What happened? Why didn’t you shoot?”

You look at him, the words pulling you from your head. Your eyes are hooded with want, your mouth slightly parted and his own gaze narrows in something akin to recognition, but it disappears from his face before you’re sure. He stands, getting some distance between the both of you. 

“Nevermind. It’s fine.” He won’t look at you, instead letting his gaze rest somewhere out in the field, and your head clears as the thick tension you felt earlier dissipates into thin air, vanishing into the twilight. 

“I think you’ve had enough for today. We can uh – we can pick up tomorrow. It’s getting dark anyway.” He stands there for a moment, weight shifting from one leg to the other while he taps the edge of his thumb against his thigh, and then he’s gone, leaving you sitting there alone. 

–

Choosing to dress the rabbit he shot earlier alone down by the water, you prepare everything else inside. You watch him make the pit, his thighs taut in their crouch as he prepares it to burn hot and low, and when he’s done cooking, you eat together in relative silence. 

He hasn’t said anything about your lesson or about picking it up tomorrow, but the way he won’t meet your eyes has embarrassment and shame coursing through you. Becoming a burden to him is something that you can’t afford and taking his avoidance of the topic as disappointment, you are stewing on apologizing when he clears his throat, sitting forward with his forearms resting on his knees. 

“I’m gonna set some traps tomorrow. I think you should help me, so you know where they are.” He brings his eyes up to yours for the first time since he’s come inside. “And so I can show you how to set them.”

Relief washes through you, and you nod, agreeing “I’m sorry, by the way. About earlier.” He frowns in confusion, and you clarify. “With the rabbit. Sorry I didn’t shoot. I’ll – I’ll try harder next time. Focus, like you asked.”

You had been focusing, just on the wrong thing, and his frown gives way to a look of understanding.

“Don’t worry about it. Your first time holding a bow, wasn’t it? Wasn’t expecting you to actually make a kill or anything. Just wanted to get you used to it.”

Second chances are something you aren’t often afforded, but here it’s different. Here, you can take your time and learn without the pressure of death as a consequence for your mistake, and it’s like he knows it too, with how understanding he’s being. 

He stands, preparing to do his usual checks for the night while you gather the dishes and place them in the sink for washing tomorrow. He grabs his rifle from the counter, leaving the cabin to walk the perimeter and then comes back in with a stomp of his boots on the rug to check every lock, scanning the forest through the window before he tells you he’s going to turn in for the night. 

“Goodnight,” you say, settling in to read on the couch. 

Delighted to find a bookshelf in nearly every room, you had spent the last couple of days going through the titles, selecting the ones you wanted to start with and reorganizing the shelf in your room to store them.

Assembling your own personal library, Joel’s face had been amused as he watched you, and you had thought maybe he would say something to discourage it. At the very least make a teasing comment, but he had held back.

Victory was yours later when you spied a worn western on his bedside table, the paperback lying open, face down.

You read for about an hour, your eyes eventually burning with tiredness in the low, flickering light of your lantern, and deciding to also turn in, you glance at that western when you pass by his bedroom. 

Stopping in the shadowed doorway, you look at him for a moment.

His broad back facing you, his shoulders are a steady, slow rise and fall. He shifts, rolling onto his stomach and the t-shirt he’s wearing strains tight across his torso as he bunches his pillow, adjusting it under his head. You see a sliver of his back in the darkness, a slice of it beneath the hem of his shirt, and the dip of his spine leads downwards, disappearing into the waistband of his sweatpants.

Crawling into your own bed with your door open, you lie in the darkness and concentrate on the sensation of warm, firm velvet skimming under the pads of your fingers, his back still on your mind.

Crawling into your own bed with your door open, you lie in the darkness and concentrate on the sensation of warm, firm velvet skimming under the pads of your fingers, his back still in your mind.

Stopping in the shadowed doorway, you look at him for a moment.

His broad back facing you, his shoulders are a steady, slow rise and fall. He shifts, rolling onto his stomach and the t-shirt he’s wearing strains tight across his torso as he bunches his pillow, adjusting it under his head. You see a sliver of his back in the darkness, a slice of it beneath the hem of his shirt, and the dip of his spine leads downwards, disappearing into the waistband of his sweatpants. 

Satisfied that he seems to be okay, you crawl into your own bed and with your door open and lying in the darkness, you drift off to the sensation of firm, warm velvet skating under the pads of your fingers, his back still in your mind.