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sirjaketkiszka · 2 months ago

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Josh Kiszka One Shot: Teeth Marks

You attend a Halloween party with your best friend, Josh.

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Josh Kiszka x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3,129

Warnings: 18+!!, sexual content, cursing, kissing, biting, a bit of grinding, oral f!receiving, unprotected sex, slight dirty talking, drawing of blood, cream pie, a sprinkle of overstimulation, and, of course, mediocre writing.

(Let me know if I missed any, please!)

Disclaimer: Apologies for any potential spelling errors or grammar mistakes.

A/N- So excited to be one of the authors selected for Gretaween 2024 by @moonlightisdancing. It's a short one, but I hope you all enjoy <3

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The muffled pounding of bellowing music shakes the rickety front porch beneath your feet, the aged wood groaning with every hesitant step. By the sound coming from behind the door, you can tell the party is in full swing, and like usual, you’re late. It’s not like you meant to be late, it was your ride’s fault. Speaking of which–

“The door should be open,” Josh huffs while rushing up the front porch steps of his home. He offered to pick you up since you’re wearing matching costumes– vampires– and wanted to show up together. Josh is dressed in a white long-sleeve button-up with fake blood dripping down the side of his neck, staining the stark white fabric of his shirt; implying that he’s your victim.

You, on the other hand, are wearing a deep red satin corset with a mesh flared long-sleeve underneath and a black mini skirt that rests just below your ass. Your lips are crimson, a similar shade dripping down the corners of your lips, which hide the removable vampire teeth implants on your canines. Josh is sporting the same implants, which flash every time he speaks.

“I know, I'm just waiting for you.” You lie, and he notices, stopping in his tracks and looking at you with a quirked brow. “Do you think we look ridiculous?” You sigh out, looking down at yourself.

“Of course not. We look amazing,” he frowns, looking at both of you. “Do you want to wait a moment?” He asks sincerely, his tone gentle, and his hand coming up to rest on your shoulder.

“No, no, I’m ready.” Nodding, he steps before you, turning the handle and passing the threshold as the door swings open. The once-muffled music blares in your ears with the uncomfortably humid air engulfing the two of you as Josh pushes past the dense crowd. His hand reaches behind him, encouraging you to take it while you weave between partygoers, the stench of their sweat and consumed alcohol reaching your nose. Your hand rests comfortably in his, his long fingers intertwining with yours and gripping tightly as you approach the cramped kitchen.

You’re honestly surprised by the number of people attending the party; the sea of individuals is a mixture of Halloween costumes– clowns, zombies, pirates… Multiple pirates, actually. You notice a few costumes as references to films and even spot a couple dressed as vampires, though they’re Twilight vampires based on the excessive amount of glitter stuck to their skin.

“Here we are.” Josh’s voice comes out in an exasperated huff as he stops in front of the array of cheap alcohol, mixers, chasers, and red solo cups. “Your usual?”

“Yes, please.”

Josh lets go of your hand and swiftly conjures up your usual drink, but you doubt you’ll be drinking much tonight. With parties this big, you prefer to stay alert, and you mostly end up people-watching– witnessing sloshed strangers embarrass themselves and act out of character.

“Nice costume.” A deep voice says behind you, causing you to turn around to see who it is, but you’re unsure when you look at him. He’s dressed as Frankenstein’s monster and has an equally terrifying smirk on his face.

“Oh, thanks. You too.”

“You here with anyone?” He questions despite your deliberate lack of interest.

“Yes, actually.” Just as Josh finishes making the drinks, he butts into the conversation, his arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you into him as he hands you a drink. You’re aware this is his way of asking the stranger to politely fuck off, but you can’t control the heat that creeps into your cheeks. Josh isn’t scary in the slightest, but the man still backs off, silently apologizing while backing away.

“Thank you for that.” You sigh, bringing the cup to your lips and taking a sizable gulp.

“Of course. Looks like I’ll be needing to keep an eye on you tonight.” He chuckles, leaving his arm wrapped around your waist as he reaches for his drink. This wouldn’t be the first time, and certainly not the last, that you and Josh acted couple-like to avoid the unwanted attention of others, but something felt… different.

That feeling remains persistent throughout the night, and while no one else bothers you, Josh still keeps his hold on you. His hands find your waist with ease, his eyes lingering on yours, and his body stays glued to yours while talking with mutual friends. You’re unsure if it’s the slight buzz clouding your senses, or if maybe his actions hold a deeper meaning. You’re not opposed to finding out, either.

~~~~~~~~~

The last stragglers eventually stumble out of the house, climbing into waiting cars to take them home in their drunken state. Josh’s brothers have already disappeared elsewhere, most likely to avoid the lingering mess throughout the eerily silent house. The music is no longer playing, and the constant murmur of people talking has gone void, leaving you and Josh alone in the mess of a kitchen. Crumpled plastic cups make themselves home on the counter, and floor, while piling around the perimeter of the overflowing trashcan. Half-empty cups are left on every surface of the house; above the fireplace, the coffee table, the dining room table, and even the bathroom sink. It takes you both some time to collect every piece of remaining trash and pack them into larger garbage bags, but once you finish, the two of you lean against the cleared kitchen counter, admiring the somehow spotless kitchen.

“Wanna stay the night?” Josh’s tone cuts through the silence of the kitchen, pulling you to look at him. You’ve both sobered up by now, and the exhaustion that’s built itself through the entire night consumes you. You’d be lying if laying in Josh’s bed doesn’t sound amazing right now, and it’s not like sleeping over is new for you, but still, you’re hesitant. The brief grazes, subtle touches, and flirtatious stares have you wound up, and you’re not entirely sure sharing a bed with him is a good idea.

“Sure, why not.” Fuck it.

“Perfect.” He smiles, flashing his faux vampire fangs, pushing himself away from the counter, and walking toward the living room. Following him, you depart from the counter, meekly mimicking his path into the next room and up the creaky staircase. The quiet house amplifies the sound of your heavy steps, your pulse matching as you come closer to his room. Why you’re so nervous, you didn’t know.

Josh swings the door open, allowing you to step in first, and closes it behind you, rounding your stance and plopping on the edge of his bed. You opt for his desk, leaning against the sturdy piece of furniture, and crossing your arms. He looks confused, tilting his head, surely wondering why you’re keeping your distance from him.

“Did you enjoy the party?” He asks, visibly pushing aside the previous thought.

“Of course, I did,” A small smile tugs at the corner of your lips from his small talk, the sudden awkwardness causing heat to wrap around your neck. While you’ve known Josh for years, it feels as though something shifted during the party, and you have a suspicion he feels it as well. “Did you?”

Taking him in as he nods, his doe-eyes look up at you from his seated position, the blood dripping down his neck now dry and cracking, and his lips are peculiarly plump as the fangs push against them. He’s leaning back, his arms propping him up on open palms, and his legs are naturally spread. He looks… Good. Rising heat settles in your gut as the pitch-black of your pupils expands, and ironically, given your costume, your mouth waters, and your skin prickles with pure desire.

You don’t exactly plan, or expect, the next phrase to come out of your mouth, in fact, you’re not sure where it’ll lead. However, you can’t help yourself when the stillness settles yet again between you, and he too looks like he’s expecting something… Waiting… His eyes are glossy, his eyebrows scrunched upward, and the minute twitch in his leg shows his anxiousness.

“Come here.”

With a simple rushed expression, he’s off the bed and standing mere inches from you, your slouched position against his desk prompting you to tilt your head back. The rich browns of his irises are consumed by the darkness of his pupils, reflecting a chilling amount of lust underneath the surface. His chest rises and falls quickly, small huffs of air pushing past his partially open lips. Wild eyes filled with uncertainty search your features, his hands hesitantly reaching for your waist, just ghosting over the thick material of your corset.

“Can I kiss–”

Without another word, your arms uncross, your hands grasping his face in a firm grip as your lips collide with his. A startled hum catches in his throat, his eyes going wide for a second before fluttering close, his body melting into yours and pushing you further into the desk. His hands find the courage to grab your waist, his fingertips turning white from the strength of his hold on you, and digging slightly into the rough fabric.

Your vampire fangs poke just behind your lips, causing you to part them, allowing Josh to brush his tongue against yours. He tastes exactly how you’ve always imagined… for an embarrassing amount of time. He’s sweet and smokey, and the lingering taste of alcohol dances along the corners of his mouth. It’s intoxicating. Insatiable.

His hips instinctively thrust against yours, fully propping you onto the flat surface of the desk. Your legs open for him, your skirt slowly hiking up your bare thighs as he settles between your spread legs. A small gasp pierces your lungs when you feel his hardened bulge pressing against your clothed core as he slowly grinds into you, deepening the kiss.

Hunger takes over, the sharp edges of both of your vampire fangs nipping at reddened, plump lips. Your crimson lipstick has transferred onto him, smudging along the edges of his lips as he pulls away, his pupils blown and yours mirroring his. Chests heaving and lips agape, you pause, his hands subtly trembling against your waist and your hands sliding down his cheeks to his shoulders.

“Keep going.” You whisper. Moving with haste, Josh reaches for the implants, struggling to take them off before you grab his wrist, stopping him. “Keep them on.”

A smug smile pulls at his lips, accentuating his perfect teeth paired with the dull sharpness of the fangs. He leans forward, dipping into your neck and planting soft kisses along the sensitive flesh. A soft breath brushes past your lips, letting out a silent sigh as your head tilts, allowing him more access to the expanse of your neck.

Gentle kisses become open-mouthed, his teeth grazing the tender skin. A moan melts from you when you feel him sink his teeth into the skin just below your jaw, biting hard enough to leave a mark, but without drawing blood. He repeats this motion along your neck, pulling needier whines the harder he bites. Your hips absently buck into his, chasing the friction you so desperately crave.

“Please, Josh. More.”

“Wanna enjoy this—” His words are mumbled against the crook of your neck as he switches to the other side, giving it as much attention as the previous. The unbearable heat that pools in your gut causes you to grasp at his waist, pulling him into you and rubbing his erection against your aching clit. A shared groan fills the silence of his room, and without much encouragement, he thrusts into you again, and again.

A consistent string of moans and silent curses blows into his ear as he grunts against you, his hands traveling to the outside of your thighs and gripping tightly to gain momentum. You could finish just like this, the tingling sensation already building deep in your cunt, your walls pulsing with arousal. But you want more. Need more.

With a squeeze of your legs around his hips, he pulls away, his eyes examining his work; red two-dot marks litter your blotchy skin with small developing bruises alternating between bite marks. From the smirk on his kiss-plump lips, he’s satisfied.

Watching intently, his gaze travels down your body, his eyes lingering on your restricted breasts pushing against the corset. You open your mouth to speak, but you shut it when he sinks to his knees, his face level with your aching cunt. His eyes hold yours, silently asking for permission as his hands hook in the waistband of your skirt. Nodding fervently, he tugs gently, pulling the stretchy fabric of the skirt and your underwear down.

He swallows thickly when his eyes settle on your glistening cunt, and if it were possible, his eyes become a black void. Nerves climb your throat as he leans forward, the soft huffs of his breath sending a chill down your spine. Slowly, he presses firm kisses along the inner of your thighs, occasionally sinking his teeth into the plush flesh. Strained whines melt off your tongue, your eyebrows scrunching the closer he gets to where you want him. Finally, his tongue darts between the fangs, swiping leisurely up your slit and nearly causing you to double over from the unexpected pleasure.

“Oh, god—” Shallow gasps expand your lungs while your hands fly to his curls and grip gently, encouraging his movements. He works faster, exploring your velvety folds and humming when he tastes your arousal spread on his tongue. His eyes roll back as they shut, his lips nuzzling against your clit and sucking harshly, making you throw your head back. “Fuck!”

The sound of his slurping and your drawn-out moans are borderline pornographic, but you can’t bother to consider the thought of anyone hearing. His movements are strategic, being mindful of his teeth, as he rhythmically flicks the tip of his tongue against your swollen clit.

“Josh— Fuck, I’m so close!”

Just when your peak heightens, the squeezing of your walls quickens, and your hips sporadically grind against his open mouth. You’re so close and your breath hitches, stopping completely as the coil tightens—

He pulls away and your climax disappears just as quickly as it came. A frustrated groan grumbles deep within you, and he snickers, getting up and standing between your writhing legs.

“Why’d you stop?” Your words are winded, your chest heaving from your heavy breaths.

“I need to feel you.” His lips are shiny with your arousal, his chin sporting the same shine, and his eyes stay on yours. It’s enough to distract you from his hands fumbling with his jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping them, then pulling them down to free his erection. Holding his gaze, sharp breaths enter you both when he rubs his tip between your slick folds, spreading your arousal along his sensitive tip and prodding at your weeping entrance. Your legs open further with your fingers still tangled in his hair as he pushes his hips forward. Inch by inch, your walls accommodate his impressive size, stretching around him and pulling him in the deeper he pushes. He lets out a groan with a breath you weren’t aware he was holding as he bottoms out, his forehead leaning against yours while he catches his breath.

A beat passes before he finally pulls back almost completely before thrusting back in slowly. Shaky breaths fill the space between you and his hands rest on your waist for reassurance, squeezing lightly. He remains the unhurried pace, allowing the dull ache to melt into pleasure, and the scolding heat returns to your gut. Restraint is present in his rhythm as he holds back, his jaw clenching as he chases for more.

“Faster.” You tell him, holding his curls tightly as he moves quicker, thrusting into you roughly. The desk rocks from the vigorous movement, and you wrap your legs around him, keeping him close as your climax rebuilds itself.

“Feels so good. So wet.” He mutters, his eyes squeezing shut as he thrusts harder. “Been thinking about this all night.”

“Shit– Me too.” You admit, “For so long.”

“Yeah?” His forehead leaves yours at your admission, his eyes boring into yours.

“Yeah.”

“Me too.”

From such simple words, your orgasm is at its peak and you can no longer hold it, but based on Josh’s thrusts growing sloppier, he’s not far behind. His grip on your waist becomes stronger, more desperate, as if he’s trying to hold on longer– to keep going.

“I’m– Fuck!” Before the words can leave your lips, your climax crashes into like a ton of bricks, leaving you hopelessly out of control of your body. Your head tilts forward and your open mouth latches onto his clothed shoulder, your fangs piercing through the soft material and sinking into his muscle. Your cries are muffled as your walls spasm around his cock, waves of arousal coating it as he continues to thrust into you, his orgasm hitting simultaneously.

“Oh fuuuck.” His words come out in a prolonged whine, his head thrown back as he finishes inside of you, milking his orgasm while his erection twitches with every pump. As if he’s unable to stop, he lazily continues, pulling exasperated whimpers from you both. “S’too good.”

Releasing his shoulder, specks of blood stain the white fabric, matching the fake blood that drips along the front of it. You examine him; his hair is a mess– a product of your tugging– his cheeks are bright red, and his eyes are hooded. He looks, well, fucked. And you’re sure you mimick his expression; brows furrowed from overstimulation, lips parted, and skin marked by him.

When neither of you can take anymore, he hesitantly pulls out, and a single moan escapes you from the lack of contact. A shiver travels down your spine when you feel the mixed orgasms spill out of you and onto the desk, leaving you a mess.

Josh is quick to find a towel, wiping the surface beneath and gently cleaning off your sensitive cunt. He assists you in sliding off the desk and your legs are immediately wobbly when you put your weight on them. Pulling you to the bed, he sits down on the edge, encouraging you to sit on his lap, straddling him. Not a single word is shared between you, though it’s not uncomfortable.

With his head tilted back to look up at you, you kiss him tenderly, earning a soft groan from him. Unable to help yourself, you grind your naked cunt on him, and you’re pleasantly surprised when you feel his erection returning.

“Already?” You chuckle, breaking the kiss and quirking a brow.

“Well, you know what they say,” He smiles, flashing those damn fangs, “Vampires don’t sleep.”

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Tags:

#greta van fleet #gvf fic #gvf smut #josh kiskza fanfic #josh kiskza smut #joshua michael kiszka #joshua kiszka #josh gvf #josh kiszka #gvf fanfiction #gvf #greta van fluff #greta van smut #greta van fic

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romanology · 5 hours ago

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tropes i plan to make jegulus fics out of

hitman (James) vs target (Regulus) Regulus is some sort of important figure like a politician or a CEO and James absolutely hates everything Regulus' business stands for, so he and his rebellion called the Marauders (which Sirius isn't in) decide that they're going to kill Regulus to send a message. But when they storm the building and when James runs upstairs to hold Regulus at gunpoint, he doesn't expect Regulus to be so young. It was as though he'd been thrust into this job. But as soon as a sentence comes out of Regulus' mouth, James realises just how wrong he was. Also enemies to lovers because obviously.

gentleman thief (James) vs corrupted detective (Regulus) 'Come on, don't you want to join the dark side?' 'I accept bribes. I'm already on the dark side, moron.' 'Harsh words from a guy with a pistol.' 'I can literally see your gun in your pocket.' 'Are you sure that's a gun, Detective?' '...shut the fuck up.' Rivals???? to (reluctant) friends to lovers

soulmates destined to kill each other When your souls are bound together, you feel trapped. There's nothing except the title of soulmate on your head. Like the blade of a guillotine hanging over your neck. Nobody can handle it for long. But Regulus seems so sweet. Why would anyone want to kill him?

lovers to friends to strangers Sometimes, things just don't work out. And that's okay. Regulus didn't really expect to stay with James forever. He saw how James sometimes looked at Lily. Regulus looked at Barty the same way too, sometimes. But no matter. They didn't work out. It's okay. They can still be friends, of course.

reverse hanahaki disease Instead of coughing up flowers, people would instead go into a zombie-like state where they start gorging themselves on flowers instead.

one-sided hatred + holiday fic 'James Potter? Is that the overly pretentious Chaser on the Quidditch team? Gryffindor, yeah? God. I hate him. He's awful.' 'Regulus Black? Oh, yeah, he's my best friend! My boyfriend, if my confessing to him this Christmas works out! <3' 'Sorry, James said he was going to what??'

WELL. I was going to add more but I can't find more tropes to twist into my weird mind. Anyhow. Which one do you think you'd read! ^^

#marauders era #james potter #jegulus #starchaser #sunseeker #starseeker #sunchaser #regulus black #fanfiction

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motherjoel · 2 years ago

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I’d love to read a forbidden love story where the reader is maybe Maria’s sister. Obv she doesn’t want her lil sister and Joel to fool around and I think it’s interesting to see how well they hide their relationship and how Maria is going to react when she finds out.. and Tommy too

Thank you for even considering this request

something special (joel miller/reader)

PART TWO

thank you so much for the request! I'm sorry if its a bit different from what you expected but I just kinda started writing and didn't stop!

wc: 2.4k

warnings: uhhh kissy kissy smoochy smooch, some cursing, idk pg-13

a/n: yes i know Maria's backstory is different and her and her dad started Jackson but lets just pretend here alright!!!!

just a side note- thank you all so much for reading and commenting on my works! arms tonite did way better than i expected and it just makes me very happy haha, so thank you!

Your lungs were on fire. One step after the other, breath ragged and uneven. You weren’t sure what you were running from, but you had a feeling it wasn’t cordyceps. You’d done this time and time again- the chase. It was never you on the other end as the chaser, though, with the nefarious things you were up to. Except, this time, you knew it was a nightmare. It was recurring, at least 3 times a week, and you’ve learned how to train yourself into recognizing reality from your dream hellscape. You woke with a start, clutching your chest and gasping for air. No matter how many times you went through this, it never got any less horrifying. It was simply something you learn to manage.

When people think of a zombie apocalypse, they think that the biggest threat would be the zombies. Emotionless, blood, and brain-thirsty monsters whose only goal is your demise. But the people… it's the people that are the real monsters. These people- the things they are willing to do for survival- well, it's simply inhumane. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t resort to that dark side every once in a while. But when there's no law enforcement, the sick and twisted people of society tend to take advantage. They harm others for the means of pleasure, not survival. You were never one of those people.

Jackson had been your home for about 5 years now, and you were considered an important part of the community. You remember reuniting with your older sister for the first time. It didn’t feel real when you first saw her come up to you on that horse- you thought you were hallucinating, maybe the cold had gotten to you. But that wasn’t a figment of your imagination- it really was Maria.

Maria had always been incredibly protective of you- you were young when the breakout happened. Too young to make it on your own. Only, you didn’t. Maria was by your side for the first 10 years, but when you got separated during a food run, you both assumed the worst for each other. But, five years later, there you were in her arms once again.

Joel was still getting used to life in Jackson. It had only been about a week, but he didn’t think he ever would get used to this feeling of safety for him and Ellie. And, the people, Joel thought. These people have no idea what loss is. It didn’t seem fair for him and Ellie to have this sense of comfort- not when Tess never got to experience it. And she never would.

He and Ellie were eating breakfast in the dining hall the first time he met you. Tommy was with the two of them, being the only person Joel really knew in town. He’d been giving him the tour, slowly, throughout the week, and Ellie had already seemed to make herself at home. This was evident in the way she scarfed down her eggs- Joel had to remind her to breathe every once in a while. Maria had been chatting with you near the kitchen before noticing the three of them. She made her way over to sit, you following behind a few steps.

“Joel, Ellie, this is my sister, Y/N,” she introduced you. You offered a small smile and a wave, to which Joel nodded. You were a pretty girl, and he knew that. Pretty girls normally didn’t bring a bit of heat to his face, but there was something about you that made him squirm.

“Hey, I’m Ellie,” she introduced herself. She looked to Joel, whose eyes hadn’t left you since you walked over to the table. She nudged him with her elbow, muttering a small “Joel” before he came to his senses.

“Oh, I’m, uh, Joel,” He said, nodding again.

“Nice to meet you Ellie, and ‘uh Joel’,” you smiled before sitting down across from him. Joel looked down, embarrassed that he stuttered in front of you. What the hell was happening to him?

“So he’s your brother, Tom?” you asked. Tommy wasn’t a fan of the nickname, but as his wife's younger sister, you felt it was your place to get on his nerves.

“That would be right. Though the old man’s got about 10 years on me,” he joked as Joel shook his head.

“Hm. Y’all got good genes,” you laugh, throwing a wink Joel's way. He avoided eye contact.

“No, no no. That is not happening,” Maria told you as you raised your hands in defense. Joel and Tommy looked confused. “She has dated a family member of every one of my boyfriends,” she said. Ellie laughed.

“The fuck is this, sweet home Alabama?” Ellie laughed before Joel nudged her. You had to come to your own defense.

“Hey, hey, it wasn’t like that,” you said, Maria gave you a look, “it was only two! Just Jeff and Chris! Oh, well then there's Brian, but it was his second cousin so does that really count?” you asked. Ellie giggled to herself.

“Well, whatever the case, you don’t gotta worry about that. I don’t think Joel’s exactly smooth with the ladies,” Ellie said, mumbling the last part. Joel nudged her again- she thought she might start to bruise.

“Oh shit, remember that one time, back in the day, at that bar in town? Ahh, what was it called… well, anyway, Joel met this girl there and-” Tommy started before being cut off by Joel.

“That is enough outta the two of you,” he silenced them before giving you an apologetic look. Tommy and Ellie laughed to themselves before the topic was changed. Small talk consumed the table, and breakfast ended fairly quickly. There was a mention of gathering at the bar in town that night- Joel was strongarmed into going by Tommy. Though it wasn’t exactly a scene for kids, Ellie wasn’t going to go. She’d rather die than watch a bunch of old people get wasted, as she so lovingly put it to Joel.

So, here he was, standing in front of his mirror, pinpointing every single one of his flaws to himself. His flannel was clean, at least- maybe too colorful? And his hair- maybe he’d have Maria cut it before- no, no, it’s fine. Why does he even care how he looks? He hasn’t cared for a good 20 years- probably much longer than that, actually. But when Ellie wolf-whistled at him as he made his way down the stairs, well, he’d be lying if he said that his confidence didn’t get a little boost.

The bar was a short walk from his place, and luckily he made it there at the same time as Tommy and Maria. They made their way inside and to the bar, where a few others were already sitting. Joel took notice of you sitting on the opposite side of the bar, next to a man about your age. He realized now just how out of his league you were. You were younger than him, prettier- what could he give you that a younger man couldn’t? He knew he was getting ahead of himself, but he still felt disappointed.

He didn’t notice you glance over in his direction, your pupils dilating as you breathed in the sight of him. Shit, did he look good. His hair was nicely combed- did he use gel? His shirt looked nice, tucked into his jeans. You could tell he put in the effort. It’s been a while since you’d seen a man put in the effort. You’d been so busy staring at him that you’d forgotten about the man next to you, who hadn’t stopped talking the entire time.

“And I haven’t spoken to him since,” the man next to you finished speaking and you snapped back to reality.

“Oh, hm, that’s interesting,” you said, stirring your drink.

“Oh yeah? Who was I just talking about,” he asked.

“You, uh, you were…” you started, furrowing your eyebrows.

“Jesus, you weren’t listening to me at all,” the man said, standing up from his seat with a huff. “Man, bitches like you just waste my time,” he said, bumping your shoulder with his as he walked past.

“Excuse me?” you asked, standing from your seat.

“You heard me!” he turned around. “And to think… I was gonna give you a chance with me tonight,” he said, shaking his head. Joel laughed at this from down the bar, drawing both of your attention. He didn't even realize he had laughed until the man asked “What's so funny?”

“Oh, well, I just find it funny that you think it's you giving her a chance. That’s all,” he shrugged before turning back to his beer.

“Man, fuck you and your bitch,” he said, making his way toward the door.

“Hey, watch it,” Maria said to him, noticing the commotion. Joel stood with a fire in his eyes. Tommy placed his hand on his chest, holding him back from doing something he may regret.

“Whatever,” the man dismissed himself and left the bar. You were embarrassed- you didn’t mean to cause a scene, but god was that guy an awful storyteller. Staring at Joel was much more interesting.

Things had calmed down a bit after a few minutes, but you hadn't moved from your position on your barstool. Slowly sipping your drink, you pondered simply going home. That was before you felt a presence on the stool next to you. You looked up to see Joel there, his brown eyes boring holes into your own.

“Well, hello there partner,” you said, offering him a smile. He normally wasn’t fond of people making fun of his accent, but it was cute when you did it. God, was he really calling another person cute?

“Hey, Y/N. Listen, I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have gotten involved, and-” you cut him off by placing your hand on his arm.

“Don’t apologize. It was sweet, what you said. Not many men do shit like that anymore,” you said, removing your hand from his arm. It felt colder now.

“Shit like what?” he asked, waving down the bartender for another beer.

“Shit like… I dunno, being nice to women?” you wondered aloud. It was the unfortunate truth- but the Miller boys must have something special in their DNA.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that darlin’,” he said. He didn’t mean for the darlin’ to slip out, but it only felt natural.

“Yeah, well, you’re a breath of fresh air,” you replied.

The two of you sat there for a few hours more, simply chatting. Tommy and Maria left a while ago- not that you'd noticed. You also didn’t notice that you were the only two people left- at least not until the bartender cleared his throat. The two of you awkwardly shuffled to the exit, Joel putting your jacket over your shoulders as you stood outside the bar.

“Well, I had a really great time tonight,” you told him.

“Me too,” Joel smiled, looking at his feet. What was he supposed to do now? God, he was so out of practice. Invite you back to his place? Well, Ellie was there, so probably not. Hug you goodbye? Kiss you goodbye? No, god no, that's way too fast! Or was it? Life isn’t the same way it used to be. Dating isn’t the same. Lord knows Joel hasn’t gotten the chance to really experience either in a while.

“It’s nice out, isn’t it?” you asked, looking at the stars. “You have a porch, right?”

So here you were, sitting on a couch on Joel’s porch with a bottle of wine between the two of you, laughing like you hadn’t laughed in years. You were inches away from him

“So, tell me… why do you always go after your in-laws? Is it some sort of… thing?” Joel asked. He would be horrified at the thought of asking someone this sober, but he was one too many glasses in and he was curious.

“No! No, nothing like that. It just seems to work out that way, I dunno,” you blushed, taking another sip.

“I guess that works out in my favor,” Joel says, a soft smile on his face.

“Yeah, I guess it does,” you turned to him only to realize your faces were inches away. You could smell the wine on his breath as your eyes flickered between his own and his mouth. The two of you leaned closer- really, as close as possible before Joel speaks.

“Is this okay?” he whispers, licking his lips.

“Shut up,” you said before placing your hand on the side of his face and leaning in, closing the gap between your mouths. Your lips slotted perfectly into his as they moved rhythmically with each other. His hand began to reach for your waist as you pulled at his hair, deepening the kiss. Your tongue flickered on his lips as you set the pace, speeding up your feverish kisses. He put both of his hands on your hips, and with a hop, you were on his lap, straddling him. It just felt so natural- your hands in his hair, his hands brushing the skin under the hem of your shirt. They were warm and callous and really big. You really would have fucked him right then and there.

“Hey, yo!” you heard from across the street. Maria. Next, a whistle from Tommy. You jumped off of his lap, quickly, as your sister ran up to the porch and grabbed you by your arm. “What the fuck Y/N?!” she yelled, dragging you off the porch.

Joel watched as you staggered away- the hem of your shirt was bunched and he could see the skin his hands were on just moments before. His mind was hazy as he observed you. You looked back at him and gave him a wink before Maria dragged you home.

“Man, I’m gonna be in for a treat tonight,” Tommy complained, half-jokingly as he sat next to Joel on the couch. “What the hell was that?” he asked Joel incredulously.“I don’t really know. That was her,” Joel said- it didn’t make sense to Tommy, as he assumed Joel was just a mumbling drunk. But that was her, that was you, and Joel decided at that moment that you were something special- something he can't lose.

a/n: tysm for reading this all! i finished writing this and am posting this while high so pls excuse if there's any mistakes i just got antsy and wanted to post something

#the last of us #the last of us hbo #Joel Miller #Pedro Pascal #Ellie Williams #joel miller/you #joel miller/reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal/reader #pedro pascal x reader #joel miller i love you

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stillbeatingheart · 1 year ago

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thought about burning the past

Also on Ao3

Harringroveson AU: Billy is a cat, Eddie is a bat, and Steve is just trying to keep everyone alive now that they're back to being that way.

Fic under the cut (I don't see any warnings that would apply, but this would be established poly relationship, post Upside Down)

A big orange cat paw stretches out and pins the chirping bat to the carpet.

“Knock it off,” Steve warns as he kicks off his shoes. When he walked up to the door it had sounded like a herd of buffalo in here. He’s been amazed more than once at how much noise these idiots can make, even in forms that should be quiet and agile.

The bat squeaks and the cat reaches out with his right paw to whack the bat before he releases him. The orange cat sprawls out on his belly in the strip of sun on the floor, licking his paw and running it across his head before laying both paws out in front of him, kneading the carpet and kicking out his back legs.

“Are you proud of yourself?” Steve wonders towards the cat. The cat flips his tail in response, rests his chin on his paws and closes his big blue eyes.

“Of course you are,” he mutters and he stoops down to offer the bat his open palm. The bat looks disgruntled but unwounded as he hops up into Steve’s hand. “Don’t act innocent in all this either,” he warns the bat, “I know you most likely started it.”

The bat squeaks in response, shakes like he’s flicking the dirt of the afternoon off his coat, and then tucks his wings in close to his body.

“You won’t dignify that with a response, then?” Steve sighs, brings his hand up to his shoulder to let the bat climb on.

“I’m out there all day earning money to pay the bills, working my fingers to the bone, and here you two are just playing a game of tag. It’s like you don’t even care if you ever go back to your human form.”

The bat squeaks, nudges against the side of Steve’s throat with his face. The cat opens one eye, his ear twitches and then he closes it.

“What if I kicked you out? Would that change your drive to figure this shit out?”

Eddie squeaks again, Billy flops over to his side and flips his tail.

“I suppose no one cooked dinner either,” Steve says as he makes his way towards the kitchen. “What’ll it be tonight? Insect soup with a mouse chaser?”

Eddie makes a coughing noise right next to Steve’s ear and Steve snorts. He reaches for a can of soup and dumps it into a pot, firing up the stove, he crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the counter. Eddie’s body weight is shifting from foot to foot on Steve’s shoulder and he knows he wants to tell him something but they’ve yet to figure out a way to communicate.

Sure, this whole thing seems a little like Steve’s fault but he doesn’t regret it. He’d been asking the world in general for his boyfriends to return from the Upside Down and reiterating plenty of times in his most distressed states that he didn’t care how they came back or how they’d changed, just that they came back. He tried witchcraft in his more desperate hour, and well, it worked he supposes because now they’re back. And not really human. It’s not like some Pet Cemetery thing or whatever, they aren’t zombie animals, they aren’t blood thirsty or taking any opportunity to bite Steve and eat his flesh. They’re actually kind of really fucking adorable, but he’s not going to say that to either of them. At least not yet, not until they figure out if his foray into spell casting fucked them over for life or if it’s something they can control and shift like a werewolf. Fictionally speaking. Steve’s never met a werewolf and used to doubt their existence but in the last couple years he’s decided to just never doubt anything. If he never doubts anything then he can’t be surprised anymore.

He hasn't told anyone about this just yet, it seems way too complicated to explain to anyone, including Robin. Though he feels guilty every time he’s around her and his mind wanders back to home, back to wondering what Eddie and Billy are up to, if they’ve killed each other yet being cooped up inside all day without anyone else for entertainment around. Then again, they did just spend months in the Upside Down with nothing but each other, so they’re probably pretty used to it.

He also knows the first thing anyone is going to ask is how exactly he knows it’s them. It’s just some random cat and some random bat that have come into his home and he’s crazy enough to believe it’s Billy and Eddie, like the truth is he’s fallen into some kind of delusional state and he’s truly just building his life around a feline and a mammal. He can’t really take the chance that he end up in a mental facility and Eddie is put down, Billy put in a shelter.

Steve’s gaze flicks over to Billy, he’s flipped over to lie on his back. Showing his belly. Steve never had pets, so he did a little research at the library. He knows they aren’t actually animals, so it’s not like he can follow pet owning as a golden rule, but he figures it doesn’t hurt to know about dietary restrictions and body language as much as he can. So he knows that Billy showing his belly doesn’t mean he wants to be pet there, it just means he’s in a place where he feels safe and he trusts the people he’s around. Yeah, there’s no way he can allow this cat to end up in a shelter. Billy would end up getting put down after he bit every single hand that reached for him.

And Eddie, well, he’d either be set free to go live amongst his own. Or they’d deem him incapable of survival in the wild after being domesticated. Steve reaches a hand up, scratches Eddie’s tiny furry head. Eddie leans into it and when Steve drops his hand to get the soup off the stove, he drops from his shoulder. It’s not enough height for Eddie to actually fly, but he can use his wings to slow himself down and cushion his landing on the counter. This was something that took some trial and error and a whole lot of Steve catching Eddie in his palm before he could hit the ground and hurt himself.

Steve pours the warmed soup into a bowl, spoons some of the veggies and chicken out onto a plate. He calls out towards the sleeping cat, “Billy, food’s ready.”

For Eddie, he cuts a few chunks off an apple and lays them out on the counter beside him. He squeaks what sounds like thanks, so Steve responds, “You’re welcome.”

Billy’s ear twitched, so he knows the asshole heard him. But he hasn’t bothered to get up yet. “Well, I’m not bringing it to you, so if you’re hungry eat before it gets cold. Or eat it cold later, I don’t care.”

Billy stays still, like he hasn’t listened to a word. Until Steve pulls the stool out at the counter and sits down to eat his own bowl of soup. Then he’s getting up, stretching long, yawning and sauntering over to rub against Steve’s ankle. He stands on his back legs, reaching up with his front paws to Steve’s knee.

“Yeah, except that I know you come up here all the time and lick the plates in the sink. So…” Steve reaches down anyway. If Billy is seeking touch, then he’s not going to deny him. He just needs to make it clear that he’s onto him without so many words. He lifts Billy from under his belly and sets him on his leg, pushes his little china plate over close to the edge so Billy can eat without getting up on the counter. There's a bat already on the counter, so it’s not like Steve is trying to impress anyone, but it’s kinda nice to have Billy keeping his thigh warm under his fluffy vibrating weight.

Steve talks them through his day, gives them any theories he has about how to get them back to their human states, while they eat. Eddie is making it clear he’s listening by giving Steve eye contact and doing this cute little nod thing every so often, squeaking softly like a hum when there’s moments between Steve’s words. Billy is not offering anything, he’s chowed down his soup and curled up on Steve’s lap. His tail flipping in a steady rhythm against Steve’s hip the only thing proving he’s even awake anymore.

When Eddie is done eating, he hops across the counter, climbs his way up Steve’s arm and settles in on his shoulder. As much as he loves cuddle time, it’d be a lot easier if they’d wait until he was done eating and sitting on something more comfortable than a kitchen stool. He tells them as much, Eddie nudges his neck and Billy flicks an ear. Neither of them bother to get up.

“Isn’t this what you two do all day already?” Steve wonders when he’s done eating and Billy is allowing a head scratching. Billy sighs and Eddie chirps.

“Alright,” Steve says after a few moments. He lifts Billy off his lap and instead of being still and trusting Steve to deliver him to the couch, he jumps down, digging his back claws into Steve’s thigh on the way. It startles Eddie when Steve stiffens under the pinpricks of pain, he dives off Steve’s shoulder and hits the counter with a thump. Billy hit the ground, went off like a shot and Steve is pretty sure he’s going to hide under the couch all evening.

“You alright?” He asks Eddie, laying his palm out for him to step into.

Eddie does so, and eagerly accepts the lift to his perch. The tips of his wings tickle against Steve’s neck when Eddie lays on his belly, using his wings to balance his weight.

“If this lasts much longer, I’ll have to clue Robin in on it so she can help me mend my wardrobe appropriately. Little pads on my shoulders for you. A sling to carry Billy in.”

Eddie squeaks his approval as Steve starts working on the dishes.

^~^

Steve is already in bed, with Eddie hanging off the curtain rod, by the time Billy makes his way back out from under the couch. He’s silent on his way into the room, the dim light from the hall slanting across the floor when he pushed the door open. Steve hears it when he jumps up to the foot of the bed, feels his weight on the mattress. He’s careful when he puts one paw out to test the waters. Laying it on Steve’s ankle like an apology for clawing him earlier.

Steve pats his chest, the place that’s become Billy’s favorite place to spend the night. Which is equal parts comforting and uncomfortable for Steve, but his warmth and purring outweigh the pressure of his body on Steve’s sternum. Billy carefully walks the length of Steve’s leg like a balance beam, keeping his claws in and making every footfall light. It’s impressive even with the careful stepping just how much weight is on each paw. It’s not like cats are heavy, Billy is kind of a brick of a cat, but he’s still a cat.

When he walks across Steve’s belly, Steve tightens his muscles to protect himself and to give Billy solid footing. Also, he can just imagine Billy’s voice saying, “Getting a little soft in the middle Harrington,” if Steve didn’t pull his abs taut for his crossing.

With all four paws on Steve’s chest, Billy headbutts Steve’s chin.

Steve lifts his hand and strokes Billy’s head, then follows the curve of his spine to his tail before he starts over at his head again. Billy arches into it, purrs so loud it might as well be the only sound in the room. It’s always been easier for Billy to offer affection in the cover of darkness, Steve’s not surprised it’d be any different in this form.

It’s really not hard to fall asleep with Billy’s soft warmth under his hand and against his chin, with that weight on his chest chasing the nightmares away. By morning Eddie has made himself comfortable tucked into the juncture of Steve’s shoulder and neck. His tiny puffs of breath tickling Steve’s ear and the undeniable feeling of being stared at are the things that wake him. Opening his eyes, he’s met with Billy’s big blue ones giving him the unblinking stare that only a creepy ass cat can dole out. As soon as Steve blinks at him, he’s launching himself off the bed and scampering out the door like his mission has been accomplished just by startling someone out of a deep sleep with only his eyes.

“Asshole,” Steve mutters, reaching out to slap his alarm before it can go off. The motion wakes Eddie, who immediately clambers up into Steve’s hair. “Not the hair, man, c’mon,” he grumbles as he pulls himself to seated on the bed to scrub at his face, “Why do I even put up with this? I gotta get you changed back before you both drive me insane.”

Chapter two

#harringroveson #harringrove #steddie #mungrove #metalsandwich #fic #fanfic #stranger things fanfic #steve harrington #eddie munson #billy hargrove #bat eddie munson #cat billy hargrove

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ink-ray · 10 months ago

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Have been in a bit of a creative rut recently but this one ate (lore below cut)

In my slender verse au after a victim dies / fulfills their initial purpose to the operator they are transported to a pocket dimension in which the “slender-mansion” resides

But before they can roam the endless fields and forests they have to be “approved” by the operator. (So for example if a random person is killed by someone involved with the operator they will be left to rot :( but if the operators victim winds up here they will be revived/let live in the pocket dimension) in some cases (Jeff) the victim isn’t considered useful (obedient) enough so they are allowed to run their course in the outside world until their inevitable demise.

It’s most common that victims end up here dead initially and the longer they remain dead the more they rot, obviously, but not in the traditional gruesome way that decay occurs in our universe.

First the victim’s features will begin to lose color (like hair, irises, skin, etc) beginning with the hair on the side of the body that the victim was lying on when they passed, so in Julia’s case her hair begins to fade on her front side because she was placed face down before her life ended.

Then about 7 months - a year in the body will begin to grow golden flowers at the point of injury that killed the victim. (In Julia’s case in on her stomach where she was shot) later spreading to any other points of injury and the ground around them. These flowers emit a soft glow.

It takes around 5 years for the flowers to fully over take the body and when they have done so the victim can no longer be revived. The flowers will lose their glow and pigment, eventually turning into a thick bed of white flowers.

If a person is revived after flowers had already begun growing the flowers will continue to live and will need to be removed manually, if not they will continue to grow creating a sort of zombie situation (rotting while living). When removing the flowers a short small pain occurs that’s similar to plucking body hairs.

The pale hair is permanent, similar to naturally occurring grey hairs, but any skin discoloration is not.

After being revived the person will find the mansion, which is a tall gothic style structure like this:

The house is able to expand based on housing need but it’s not common that this occurs.

The house has:

-heating/cooling

-electricity

-running water

Any other needs are covered during monthly trips where 2-4 victims are sent back out of the pocket dimension (while under close supervision) for 3-6 days. These resources are collected via shoplifting, pickpocketing, etc.

Proxies aren’t exactly a thing, there are more obedient victims but none are 100% in agreement with the operator. People like Kate the chaser are very obedient to their roles (mostly due to the influence of the operator still having an effect on them) but others like Tim or Brian can voice their opinions opposing the operator and face little consequence (mostly the operator makes their lives more inconvenient like cold showers, boiling water in the sinks, or blackouts only in their rooms, etc, etc.)

People I include in this au are

-Tobias Rodgers (Ticci Toby)

-Tim wright (the masked man / masky)

-Brian Thomas (the hooded man / hoodie)

-Jane Richardson (Jane the killer)

-Nina Hopkins (Nina the killer)

-Liu Woods (Homicidal Liu)

-Ben Drowned (brought to you via nintendo 64)

-Jack Nyras (Eyeless Jack (he sort of has eyes :I))

-Natalie Ouellette (clockwork)

-Sally Williams

-Kate Milens (Kate the chaser)

-…Alex Kralie (oops.)

This post is ridiculously long sorry😭)

#creepypasta #creepypasta au #Julia Clarke’s world!#marble hornets #help #i hate fanon masky‼️#masky marble hornets #hoodie marble hornets #jane the killer #nina the killer #kate the chaser #homicidal liu #eyeless jack #clockwork #sally williams #alex kralie #creepypasta oc #original character #artists on tumblr

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sigmxnd · 6 months ago

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mooties i wanna play a game (john kramer core). every single mutual i have can participate

rb/comment and tell me your favorite ice cream flavor, and i'll give you a song that reminds me of that flavor for you to listen to. if you've already heard the song i'll keep giving you ones until there's one you haven't heard before

(if anyone wants to get silly with this game, you can tag your own mutuals and make them participate :3)

(no pressure btw, just mentioning people to get it going a lil: @deadboybilly @crimson-chaser @polyel @mech-mantis @notquitehuman-creations @high-ass-zombie-angel-statue @al1enf1end & as stated literally any mutual of mine)

#text #me when i tag a game :3 #can you tell im bored

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missameliep · 22 days ago

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Twenty Seconds or Twenty Years

Book: Wake the Dead Characters: Angel Savage; Eli Sipes; Malia Jones (MC) and Troy Hassan. Pairing: Malia Jones (MC) x Troy Hassan. Rating: M (see notes bellow) Word count: 6.300k Summary: After getting separated from her friends during a scouting mission in a new city, Malia got injured and will struggle to survive against all odds. Is she going to make it on her own?

Notes:

English is not my first language;

Characters belong to Pixelberry and I’m borrowing them;

Post-WTD events;

This fic is rated M because of triggering subjects: swearing; mentions of death and violence compliant to canon; mentions of injuries and blood; mention to suicide; readers discretion advised

This fic was inspired by a prompt sent by the lovely @jerzwriter - It kinda took an unexpected turn from where I thought this fic would go! Thanks for sending the prompt and I apologise it took soooo long.

Running through unknown terrain is usually a bad idea and Malia would strongly advice against it, considering how easily one could stumble directly into the arms of the undead. However, given the circumstances, the only other option left is certain death if she tries to hold her ground and fight the ‘zombiefest’ on her own with an injured arm.

So, she runs.

Being chased triggered Malia’s brain in survival mode.

Adrenaline and pure will make her muscles climb another set of stairs and the next one. No amount of exercise at the colony could have prepared her for this.

Breathe, she reminds herself, breathe.

Dashing up, Malia reaches the next flight of stairs, barely catching her breath and a glimpse of the number six lying on the floor.

Six.

That’s the number of arrows shot and undead put to rest for good before a blur in her peripheral vision obfuscated everything.

The impact knocked the air out of her lungs. Stumbling back, her body landed on a pile of debris. A sharp pain on her arm didn’t stop her from kicking back, making the decayed corpse reel back, allowing enough space for the metal tip of the arrow sunk deep into an eye socket and exit through the back of the drone’s head.

Her brain didn’t register getting up or running. Next thing she remembers is the bang of the heavy metal door against the wall when she dashed, hisses and snarls following too close...

Heart pounding in her ears, almost muffling the sound of her own steps and those of her chasers, she climbs another set of stairs.

Going three steps at once is not something manageable for much longer; however, slowing down is not an option either until being certain of the distance put between her and the pursuers...

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. The voices in her mind alternating between her own and Troy’s, that one cheerful tone he used when she was sparring with anyone other than him. You can do this, Malia. You’ve got this!

Reaching the next flight of stairs, she slows down, pacing her run, and her trained ears capture the faint growls and dragging of feet echoing bellow. There is no need to turn around to know she’s gained on them. At least for now.

Tenth floor.

Ten.

That’s how many days passed since they barely survived the surge. But with all the work tending the injured, the extensive damages to the lodge and deciding on a new place to settle Olympus, one could think it happened months ago...

Using her good arm, she forces the fire exit door’s handle and pulls with all her strength in vain.

An inhuman screech echoes.

A fucking Scout! Just my luck! Every hibernating zombie in a mile will come here...

She darts upward, hoping the upper floors won’t be packed with drones.

On the wall, the numbers indicating she reached the sixteenth-floor conserve a faint glow despite the dust and spiderwebs. The fire exit door is also stuck, probably blocked from the inside. With a groan, she pushes and pulls harder, but it doesn’t budge.

“Better try my luck with the next one,” she murmurs, “Seventeen might be my lucky number.”

It wasn’t.

But it doesn’t matter. When your goal is not becoming drone’s snack, you’ll find the strength to keep going.

This building has at least forty floors... I’ll try the next one and the next one until I find one door unlocked or no more doors to bang on...

Hope fuels her entire body.

Twenty-two was her lucky number.

Pulling at the large bar, she easily props open the fire door. A long and dark hallway stretches before her, the faintest light filtering through the furthest door on the left.

From the stairs, the hisses are getting louder.

As quiet as possible, she closes the door and turns on the flashlight, searching for anything to barricade it. Drones shouldn’t be able to grasp on door handles, but they shouldn’t talk or have a conscience either, but Malia knows how untrue those statements can be...

A fire hose on the wall fits the purpose. Forcing the metal door open, she reels it out as best as she can with one hand, then rolls it around the bar to keep the door shut.

She barely finished securing the door closed when the horde tested its resistance. Scratches, bangs and ungodly hisses echo. Startled, she takes a step back and the gun out of the shoulder holster. In the darkness, her attention split between the door in front of her and the long corridor behind, from where a drone could be lurking.

Not daring make a sound, she stands completely still and holds her breath until most of the horde seems to continue the chase up the stairs. Only a few growls persist, but no signs they would manage to break in.

Letting out an exhausted breath, every muscle on her body seems to give up at once. Her lungs ache. Her vision blurs. She bends over with pain in her side and leans against the closest wall. Her palm is tainted crimson with the blood soaking the t-shirt.

“Fuck” she hisses and her body slides down. The muscles of her legs melting underneath her weight like frost when the sun comes up.

The silence that settles is a good sign. If the commotion didn’t attract any zombie, then it’s almost safe to say she’s entered a zombie-free floor.

Putting her backpack down, Malia takes a sip at the water from the flask and inhales deeply. Another sip at the liquid is not enough to wash the lingering taste of dust in her mouth, but she must save for later.

Later.

Eli’s words on the back of her mind reminding now’s the time to prepare for later. “Keep walking. Let your body decelerate. Sitting down is bad. Life is motion.”

The pain urges her to ignore all the advice.

There’s no strength left. Blood is pouring from the wound, soaking her t-shirt that has been shredded on the side by the drone’s tallons. Her left arm refuses to be ignored any longer. An acute pain irradiates through the entire limb. Her hand run over the thick fabric of the jacket, touching the bump caused by the bone sticking out... A fracture.

“Just my luck,” she mutters.

It’s unsafe to risk making any noise without securing the perimeter first. The fact there’s not a drone in her face, is no excuse to sit back and relax. But on the other hand, she cannot go on without tending to her injuries.

Rubbing her hand against her face, wiping the sweat, she needs to rest. One more minute. Two more deep breaths. Her back rests against the wall while she inhales and exhales, her breathing becomes steadier and her pulse less erratic.

From previous experience, if all the noise and the scent of her blood didn’t bring any drone here, she must be safe. For now.

Her training comes back to mind, and her brain lists everything she needs: a less exposed place; a first aid kit, since the one Shannon insisted on sending with the party remained in the van; and then she’ll find an alternative exit.

“I can do this,” she mutters like a mantra. “It’ll be fine.”

When she’s back on her feet the flashlight trembles on her left hand, her fingers barely bending to hold it. Ignoring the pain, Malia tucks it under her arm and holds the revolver with her right hand.

While she walks, the faint glow fights the darkness, the beam lingering on every closed door while her hearing trained to listen any minor noise. The first door is locked, and she leaves it be. The next one is some kind of storage room, with brooms and several containers with colourful liquids. A quick skim to make sure there’s something useful on the cramped shelves. If Angel were here, she’d probably fabricate an explosive with two of those bottles and a rag. Just in case, she picks up a small one with a highly flammable warning before closing the door and moving on to the next one.

Pushing it open, she finds herself standing in a bathroom with several urinals, broken mirrors and signs of death everywhere, if the maroon splotches on the white floor tiles and the impression of a hand on the door are not part of the decoration.

Ignoring the eerie sight and the pain, she takes one careful step after the other. The gun and backpack are placed over the counter next to the sink. She lets the jacket slide off her shoulder and down her arm, exposing the injuries in the mirror. Right beneath the ribs, there’s a gash in the t-shirt and a long cut wider than her index finger. It definitely doesn't need stitches, something undoable by herself. Fortunately, it’s also superficial and no ribs were broken by the collision. Taking a spare t-shirt from the backpack, she tears a piece of the cloth and press it to the wound and keeps the pressure on to stop the bleeding, all the while her gaze doesn’t avert from the bump on her arm.

She takes a deep breath, preparing to examine it.

Assisting Shannon while treating the injured taught her a thing or two, and she’s grateful for that. The fracture was right above the elbow and the bone didn’t pierce through the skin, which is a good thing, considering the risk of infection. It’s not the first time she breaks a bone, nor the second. She’s broken fingers and toes and a rib during trainings. But at the Tower you never had to deal with it alone, and if you were lucky enough, you’d even get a pill to ease the pain or some ice...

When she tries to push the bone back in place, an unbearable pain stops her from doing so. Gritting her teeth, she tries again. Her jaw tightened so much while she tried not to scream, she fears the teeth would just crumble to dust. Her eyes well with unshed tears when the bone seems to click in place. A string of curses is muttered under her breath while struggling to put the jacket back on. The rest of the spare t-shirt is converted into an improvised arm sling until she can treat it properly.

Collecting her stuff, she returns to the corridor that remains completely silent.

Ahead of her, the corridor takes a sharp turn to the left. Peeking from the corner, she observes how it widens near two elevators’ metallic doors, and she can almost picture it bustling with people in the old days.

Two wide lift doors are sided by what once might have been ostentatious vases with palm trees like she’s seen in magazines. One is lying sideways, dark potting soil spread over the floor. Indications of a small fire and singed objects close to one of the many doors on the other side, painted the wall black all the way up to the ceiling.

This corridor is also pitch black, except from a faint light emerging through one of the furthest doors.

Her gaze fixes on that promising natural light.

She crosses the remaining metres and walks into an ample and illuminated space.

Judging by the disposition of the remnants of countless desks and what she assumes once were cubicles, she’s stepped into some kind of office. A much bigger version of the one at the Tower’s fourth floor.

Walking carefully around piles of debris and tossed carcasses of metallic furniture, she finds no sign of drones. The floor is littered with paper and ragged pieces of what she can only assume once upon a time were someone’s clothes. One of the floor-to-ceiling windows is cracked in a spiderweb pattern and another was shattered, allowing the warm desert wind to blow inside. Next to them a chair lies tilted upside down. Tiny pieces of glass are scattered on the floor, glowing with the sunbeams.

She cannot even imagine the chaos that might have followed an attack in such confined spaces. A shiver runs down her spine. Suddenly the rules imposed at the Tower to prevent infected to get in make too much sense.

The flutter of wings startles her. She’s not expecting birds in a fucking building. Some of them fly across the room and out into the open space. She ducks in time to not get hit by one of them. There are feathers scattered on the ground and over the desks, droppings taint every surface and what she assumes are nests are hidden on the plaster above her head and into tubular lightings. She ignores them and moves forward.

A crunching noise beneath her boots calls her attention.

Lying at her feet, a frame with a broken glass. Despite the spiderweb-like shape of the crack, it was possible to see the picture. A smiling woman sitting on a porch’s stairs in the company of a child, a cat and a dog. A glimpse of what life used to be. Her jaw tightens at the sight of it.

Life in this New World lacks pictures, pets and smiles like those.

When the world spiralled into chaos, pictures were definitely the least of anyone’s concerns. Who would even stick some big-ass photo album on a backpack, considering you even had time to pack?

However, if you survive the End of the World, it becomes one of those sentimentalities that nag at your mind. At days when it seems her fathers’ faces have fallen into an abyss in her mind, and Brynn’s face is dangerously starting to fade, she’d give anything to have at least one picture of them. Just one. It didn’t even have to be a flattering one, just good enough to keep some part of them alive...

Pets were never allowed at the Tower. Too noisy, people said; and over the years she almost forgot about their existence entirely. Brynn, however, remembered the old retrievers from their home. Coco and Luna. According to her, they were soft, warm and loving, and you could bury your face in their caramel fur and forget bad days at school and boys who picked on you. Malia doesn’t remember them or the sound they made, but Brynn confirmed dogs were loud – even the old ones – and so were kids. That’s probably why so many disliked them at the Tower either and you won’t see a single kid with the Raiders...

And for the smiles, it’s not exactly people don’t smile anymore...

Malia certainly has smiled plenty of times and even laughed! And so have others... But it seems like everyone has worry lines, even the children. The constant looking over one’s shoulder might age people beyond their years, weighing down their expression, hardening it. The horror you cannot unsee becomes engraved in the skin, steals the brightness of the eyes little by little...

Unlike those old pictures.

At least not in the ones they’ve usually come across, hanging at houses and proudly displayed at stores. Only once she found something remarkably similar to the looks and smiles of people in the colonies. In a pile of detritus at one of Olympus’ rooms, she found this old magazine... The inner pages were filled with pictures of refugees of some war in a place she never heard of... Displaced, threatened, starving, separated from loved ones... Experiences most of the survivors know well by now.

Could the woman and child have survived the first hordes? And the surges that followed every seven years? Were they separated from each other, never knowing what happened to the other or were they allowed the mercy to live and die together?

The agony of not knowing is painfully familiar.

Almost reverently, she places the frame over a desk and keeps moving, checking for zombies... It takes only a few minutes to cover the whole floor. Thankfully she’s alone. Unfortunately, there are no other exit or external fire escape for her to climb down from this side of the building.

That’s a big complication, considering she cannot use the one she came from. With a broken arm, using the elevator’s shaft is too risky...

Standing by the floor to ceiling windows, she presses her forehead against the warm glass and gazes at the city bathed in the late afternoon sun. Long shadows stretch over the streets bellow. Maybe a hundred drones are hidden in those darkened alleys... Soon it will be completely dark. She takes a long deep breath and curses.

She’s trapped – at least for the night – and alone.

Getting separated from your companions on any mission can be bad.

Getting separated on a city you’re scouting for the first time is a nightmare.

They haven’t mapped escape routes or ruled out hazards apart from drones. One never knows if you’ll meet other survivors and of which kind...

Down below, one of the streets is partially blocked by abandoned vehicles. A small delivery truck hit a light pole that fell and smashed its hood and cabin. Other vehicles queued behind the truck, forming a long line with about twenty cars. Some of the doors were left wide open, reminders of the rush to escape and the chaos of those days.

Two decades have gone by, and you can always feel it hanging in the air. The tragedy. The lives lost. The stories interrupted.

Was there anybody left to tell their stories? Does anybody remember what happened here? All those people had names, lives, pets, jobs... All that’s left of their existence are abandoned cars and lost shoes...

If one is gone and nobody remembers them, is it the same as never existing?

When the last of her friends die, is it what will happen? Will they fade to nothingness? Should it even matter?

Her mind drifts to them. Troy, Angel and Eli have no idea where she is. And she has no idea if she successfully drove the zombies away from the van... How are they faring? Did they get the supplies to the van? And more importantly: are they alive?

Hopefully they are following the plan and will be leaving soon.

Leaving her.

That’s how it’s supposed to be, she reminds herself. If they’re safe, it was worth it.

Her stomach growls. The last time she ate was this morning, before leaving Olympus. While rummaging through the content of the backpack to pick one of the apples, her fingers glide over the radio Angel put together. They tested it a few times back at the colony, and it only worked within a certain range. After 10 miles it was hard to capture the signal, and the communication was ineffective. She considers how much she ran through the park till the building.

The object is heavy in her hands, like the decision she must make.

If she contacts them, they could come after her, which is suicide, considering all the drones.

If she doesn’t, they won’t know she’s fine and might be looking for her, wasting precious time and resources. Besides, the idea of them worrying unnecessarily is unpleasant. She’s been there and hated it.

The radio cracks when she turns it on, and she calls her friends’ names in a low voice. One after the other. Like a mantra.

“Hey? Can you hear me? Troy. Eli. Angel. If you guys can hear me, I’m fine. Don’t worry. Get back to the colony.”

The radio crackled with the strangest of noises. Malia wanted to make something out of it, to believe there were voices, familiar voices, talking back to her. But there were none. Only static.

The hopeful part of her brain assumes they are on their way back to Olympus, getting to safety and not staying outside after nightfall... That’s the logical thing to do – even if she’d never make that choice.

Shoving the radio in the pocket of her cargo pants, she moves away from the window and keeps herself busy. The drones are not resting if the noises somewhere above this floor are any indication.

If anything, life taught her the impermanence of things. There’s no safety.

Life is motion.

So, she moves.

First, secure the perimeter.

Pushing a heavy cabinet, she blocks the access to one smaller section of the office that has real walls and doors instead of the paper-like partitions that are everywhere else. A room with sturdier furniture and a two-seater sofa provides a good place to rest. Once inside, she shifts through the desks’ drawers and cabinets, finding a small hidden refrigerator.

After the task is completed, she collected two scissors that might be useful, granola bars and chocolate fabricated in the year the world collapsed, three bottles of water and one half-full of decent whiskey, judging by the way it doesn’t burn her throat when she takes a swig at it. Troy will be thrilled about that discovery. Everything gets shoved inside her backpack. For her own enjoyment and the kids at the colony, she takes notepads and a handful of pens and pencils.

Clearing a large wooden desk, she sits atop of it with her legs crossed. The hunting knife is placed beside her, ready to use. Looking outside, she munches on one of the apples picked at the orchard.

Even in the distance, the lines of vehicles on the roads exiting the town are visible. Decades spent in the same position, frozen in time. Living in a zombie apocalypse has taught her to see the horror beneath the quiet.

From time to time, there’s beauty too.

She picks up one of the notepads and takes a pencil to sketch the skyscape and hills in the yellowed pages. This is the first time she's drawn since leaving the Tower. It doesn’t matter if it’s a rough sketch. Her pencil moves quick to capture all the lines. She can better it later.

And she must believe there’ll be a later.

Without the sun, the sky darkens fast, and the notepad and pencil are shoved inside the backpack. She lies on her back in the couch, and stares at the ceiling.

Waiting and doing nothing are not amongst her skills.

Boredom turns the radio into a temptation, and she fishes the device.

Contacting them, she tells herself, is nothing but a selfless gesture. In doing so, she puts them at ease about her whereabouts, they can stop worrying and move on... She’s not thinking about the ache in her gut of not knowing if they’re alive. It’s not about the hope of being rescued either and going back to the home they’ve built.

In a world like theirs, why should she be so determined to survive? When their lives are basically navigating from a life-threatening situation to the next one? Isn’t it the strangest thing? To feel such helplessness and dismay daily and yet dread the possibility of an end? it makes so little sense sometimes all this effort... wouldn’t it be easier to cease to exist?

The answer to that question she knows too well. Hope moves her. It might sound silly if she ever says it out loud... but it’s hope. It’s hope that makes her wake up every morning, work hard and take care of herself and loved ones. They live and die for one another. They survive and they hope. They work and they hope. And she hopes and hopes. For a good day. For love. For respite. For a future. For the day her toes will touch warm sands at a beach. For the cool waves swaying around her body.

This day might’ve thrown a shitload of touble at her, but she can get over it. She always does. She’ll find a way, even if now she only wishes to break down and cry. Giving up is not an option. Brynn sacrificed herself for her, and she has followed the example more than a handful of times – including this afternoon. A month ago she promised Troy to live a good life, and she’ll do exactly that.

The memory makes her throat tighten.

Without thinking, her hand runs over the bump and the fractured bone... and the pain settles her. Nothing much she can do now, she must wait until morning, when there’s a better chance of leaving this building unscathed... Until then, she must act. Life is motion.

Time moves so slowly when you’re not doing chores; she remembers the times they got lockdown at the Tower and all the idle hours to fill. She and Brynn drank whatever crap beer one could get, played charades and word games, trained, and stayed silent for hours. Disrespecting the rules, Malia and Troy would often sneak into each other’s rooms, and spend some time together. Those were the best moments... The memories and the things left unsaid almost choke her. She’s faced zombies and more danger than her mind could’ve anticipated before leaving the Tower, and yet... the idea of telling him how much she loves him, how much she’s loved him for years is terrifying.

A bitter laugh gets trapped in her throat, and it’s hard to breath. Her hand presses against the back of her neck, it rubs the muscles, trying to alleviate the tension.

With each passing minute, fighting the idea of using the radio becomes harder. She wants them to pick up, to listen to their voices, even if it’s the last time.

If they do pick up, it means they are close, when they should’ve left. And she can’t bear the thought of being the reason of them dying.

What’s left unsaid, does it even matter now? If either of them does not see another day, do words change what they feel? Is it more bearable to hold it in, to not name what it is? Would the loss feel less devastating without the words weighting on it?

“What a fucked up world,” she mutters under her breath.

She fidgets with the radio, letting the static fill the silence for a few minutes. Then she speaks again. This time, she’s just calling Troy over and over. The minutes elapse, and she’s just rambling to the hissing device.

“Troy... if you’re listening... it’s me... I... I’m... fine... Don’t worry. I’ll make it back to the colony when I can,” she pauses, considering who is she lying to. Even if she makes all the way down, there’s no guarantee she’ll ever make to the colony by herself.

Another family lost.

She sighs, and the truth pours out of her mouth like a river, “Troy, I’m hurt and trapped... but I’m safe for now... there’s no drones here... but the lower floors are packed with... I don’t know... a hundred of them, maybe... I cannot go back... I’m at the twenty-second floor... it’s insanely high! You’d love the view! I need to thank Eli for bugging me to run every morning or I wouldn’t have made this far... I can see most of the city... I’m at Baker Street... and I’ve got water... and food... but I’m... but... I’m so fucking scared. You can’t die. I promised to take care of you... but... I hope you’re... okay... all of you... there’s so much I wanted to tell you... damn... This is stupid! There’s nobody out there!” She growled with frustration, and the radio hissed.

“Malia! I hear you! Can – Can you hear me?” Troy’s voice echoed before she turned the radio off, and it washed the tension off her body instantly.

“Yes!” she cries, “I can hear you!”

“We were so worried...” There’s a clear sign of relief in his tone the radio statics couldn’t hide. “The radio was cutting off... and you didn’t hear us. Are you okay?”

Before she could answer, Angel asked, “Where are you exactly on Baker St.?”

Apparently, they have been listening to her, but she couldn’t hear them.

“Tell us exactly where you are, Angel’s starting the van. Just keep talking to me, Maly!”

They are coming for her. They are coming. They are family. They are her people. They are not lost. They are not leaving her... They are coming to a building infested with a hundred drones. They’ll die because of her. Her heart tightens. A rush of emotions blurs her vision.

“No!” She won’t let anybody else risk their lives to save hers. “You can’t!”

“What? Of course we can!” Troy shouts, probably fearing what she’ll say. “We’re getting you out of there now.”

“There are too many drones! And at least one scout. There’s no way I can go back down... they fucked up my arm...”

“You got bitten?” Eli’s voice echoes louder than Troy’s.

“My arm is broken... I can’t use the crossbow.”

“What about your gun? Just shoot those z-bag right between the eyes!”

“I got five bullets left... it’s useless with that many... and the noise would just draw even more... I’m staying here tonight... And you guys must go home... Save fuel and go back. I’ll be alright. I’ve supplies. Have you seen how many abandoned cars? I got my eyes on a convertible,” she says lightly, even though her throat is tightening and her vision blurred.

The radio cracked, and there was a long silence before Eli spoke again. “We won’t leave you.”

“Sure, you will,” Malia tasted the salt of the tears on her lips. “Go.”

“No.”

Wiping the tears streaming down her cheeks, her voice started to crack, “You know the rules, Eli... Just... do what must be done... keep everyone safe. It’s up to you now.”

“Malia,” Eli’s voice was laced with a kind of pleading Malia never heard. “What about keeping you safe?”

“Have I thanked you for training with me? You’d be proud. Twenty-two floors, Eli. A gazillion steps. And no zombie got even close...” A low chuckle lace her words and there’s only statics on the radio. Maybe they lost the signal.

“Hey! Why does only he get a thank you? What about all that cardio we do together?” Troy’s voice cannot hide the uneasiness.

They are stalling, expecting her to change her mind...

“And Troy? I found the roller rink... It’s beside a comic book store, you just go past –”

“Don’t just ruin the surprise!” he cuts her off but his voice is higher and wavering with emotion. “You’ll take me there. We’ll come find you and then I’ll dazzle you with my incredible moves!”

When her reply doesn’t come, Troy calls her name softly at first and then with desperation, and Eli and Angel’s voices are almost muffled by the rumble of the van’s engine. She ignores them and the pang in her stomach.

“Angel, floor it,” Malia whispers, turning the radio off to not hear their protests.

Willing herself to stop crying, the tears are wiped in a brusque way against the fabric of her jacket.

They’re alive, so why’s she crying?

Crying is not the answer. It never is. If she starts to cry alone for all the losses and pain within, the things that have never been and never will be, all that’s left unsaid, she’ll probably never stop. And those are dangerous thoughts. The kind of thought that makes her touch her pocket...

Biting the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood, she forces herself to focus on anything else, like the fact she’s still alive and that no amount of zombie or disappointment can shut up the growl of her stomach. She’s alive. She’ll endure. She always does. Maybe this time around, she’ll have to do it alone. It’s good. She likes a challenge.

Munching on one the rest of the apple, she contemplates the stars peppering the sky over the desert hills outside the city. That’s one of her favorite things about being outside the Tower: looking at the sky and the stars. If there’s a full moon tonight, she might just fucking cry with happiness then.

Complete darkness has engulfed the world.

Malia decided to keep the flashlight off to save the batteries and to not give away her location. The darkness and silence left her too long with her own thoughts. But there's nothing else to do...

Besides the five bullets in the cylinder, there’s one inside her jacket pocket – the same one she’s keeping there since the night Brynn supposedly died at Eli’s cabin.

If it comes to it, she’d rather die than let them have a piece of her... It’s not that she’s eager to die or anything. Especially not now when, despite the chaos and losses, she is finally living. She’s got a taste of what life is supposed to be like beyond surviving: planning a future and basking in the sun and eating a piece of ripe fruit... and waking up and seeing Troy’s face first thing every morning...

Her heart tightens. Troy helped her feel alive after Brynn died, he reignited her hope... and she hasn’t said she loves him... It’s a silly thought. Do words really matter? Would it make a difference if she said and died the next day, not keeping the promise to go back to him?

The bullet is cold against her fingers.

One for herself, if it comes to this. Dying is not the worst thing when turning into a zombie is a real threat.

Somewhere in the building, a loud screech resounds, chilling the blood in her veins.

She hugs herself, reminding herself if she keeps quiet, she'll be safe. Finally, she let sleep take over.

Something heavy thumps outside.

Then a soft voice calls her name, the whisper breaks into her dreamless sleep. Her eyes flutter open. It’s still dark outside. She’s still all alone. The radio is silent.

“Malia.”

It's definitely her name and sounds like Troy. Maybe she’s hallucinating.

There’s a flash of light underneath the door.

She gets up and crosses the room to stand closer to the cabinet blocking the doors, and listens.

“Malia. Where are you?”

This time she hears it clearly. It’s Troy. She must be dreaming.

“Troy?” she whispers, “Is that you?”

The sound of footsteps halt. Her voice is enough to summon him straight to where she is standing.

Pushing the cabinet aside, she cracks the door open, and the flashlight almost blinds her. The white light travels from her face to her feet. The flashlight hits the ground when his cold hands raise to cup her cheeks.

“It’s you! It’s really you...” Troy’s voice is barely a whisper, and his gaze softens at the sight of her.

“What are you doing here?”

“Saving you, if my dramatic entrance didn’t make it abundantly clear...”

With one arm around her waist, carefully avoiding her injured arm, he pulls her closer and buries his face in her neck, breathing out his relief.

“Why would you risk coming for me?” she whispers against his ear. “I told you to go!”

He raises his head to face her, a slow winning smile stretches his lips. “Baby, in case you haven’t noticed, that’s what I do! I always come back for you. I did at those zombie-infested woods, at the amusement park... I'll always come to you... You’re my best friend. My person. My family. I love you. I don’t think I ever loved anyone like I love you... How could I go on living knowing that – ”

Once her brain processed the three words and what he’s saying, Malia doesn’t let him finish, kissing his lips with unusual gentleness. The kiss is unrushed, and the same words are whispered against his lips.

“Say it again,” he pleads amongst soft kisses placed against the corner of her mouth.

“I love you, Troy.”

Her hand caresses his cheek, and her thumb brushes against his lower lip, tracing his smile.

“It’s a shame now were both turning into zombie food...”

“Where’s your optimism?”

“I probably dropped it during my escape...”

His mouth stretches with a grin, and he reluctantly steps away from her.

“You certainly underestimate me. Do you think I’d come without a rescue plan?”

His eyebrows raised and even in the dim light she knows his eyes are sparkling with mischief. Kneeling, he grabbed the flashlight from the place it was lying next to their feet and went to the windows. His hands swirled, drawing the darkness with the light.

As if on cue, the roar of an engine resounded somewhere below, followed by a honk she’d recognize even in her sleep.

On the street, the van’s tyres screeched when swerved around the corner, allowing them a glimpse of Angel driving and screaming at the top of her lungs what she can only assume is a string of swearing at those fucking drones.

“What’s she doing?” Malia mumbles.

“You’ll see.”

A swarm of zombies poured out of the building, shattering the remaining glasses of the lobby on their way out of the building to follow the noise.

Swerving to the left, the van disappears.

“What the hell! Have you guys lost –”

“Wait. Almost there...”

A few minutes pass, before loud music blasts in the distance.

Troy points at an illuminated point in the far left.

“The stadium.”

Malia’s eyes identified the place right before the explosion. The glowing red lighted the darkness for an instant before being replaced by a column of thick smoke like tendrils on their way to reach the moon.

“Fuck me!”

“Oh! I will, but not here. We're on a tight schedule.” He chuckled, turning around to face her. “Impressed?”

“Are you trying to impress me, Hassan?”

Troy’s arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her to a sideways embrace. “We’re living on borrowed time, Maly... and it doesn’t matter if I have twenty seconds or twenty years... I want to spend them all with you... So, no, I’m not trying to impress you. I’m trying to take you home. It sounds nice, doesn’t it? Home.”

“It sounds perfect.”

She kisses him one last time, and they move on with the plan.

#choices wake the dead #wtd fanfic #troy hassan #choices fanfiction #troy hassan x mc #wake the dead #missameliep #mc: malia jones #tw blood #tw zombies #tw injury

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