#and he just looks over the edge to see her just dead on the ground like ''oh god''

[netherfeildren]

FABLE OF THE DOG : 1. The Two Headed Calf

Pairing: Joel Miller x FMC

Summary: Welcome home and buck up, cowgirl.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Cowboy/Heiress AU; Slowburn(ish); Original Characters; Alcohol & Drug Use; Discussions of Grief; Daddy Issues; Graphic Descriptions of Vomiting; Description of a Dead Body; Death of a Parent; Parental Neglect; Older Man/Younger Woman; Jealousy; Past Teenage Crush; Unrequited Pinning; Yearning and Longing Galore; Boss’s Daughter; Complicated Family Relationships; A Home is a Place but ALSO a Person!; Found Family

A/N: Disclaimer, I know nothing about Wyoming and it’s geography, ranching, or being a cowboy and just made all this up. Any and all misrepresentations are fallacy of my laziness.

The FMC tag was decided because she has a last name. It was just too difficult for me to speak in depth about her father without giving him a name, and thus her one too. After that decision was made, she kind of went away from me and devolved into her own person who I have come to be quite obsessed with. It’s still written in ‘you’ format, anyhow.

I’ve been having a whole lot of fun with this, I hope you do too.

Word Count: 10K

Read on AO3

1: The Two Headed Calf

“She’s been shut up in that house for goin’ on three days now, Joel,” Tommy says as the two brothers make their way across the lawn. 

The ride had been long and hard, and Joel is tired—he levels a dark look at him. “Just sayin’. Nothin’ you find in there’s gonna be pretty to look at.” He raises his hands in surrender at the brooding glare, that non-confrontational shrug that’s set Joel on edge since they were boys. 

“One of you’s should’a gone in there. Made sure she’s okay.”

“The housekeepers’ve been keepin’ an eye. And Frank tried to go in there and check on her himself, but she’s angry as a barn cat. Hissin’ ‘nd yowlin’, and just bein’ downright scary as hell, to be honest. You should be prepared is all I’m tryin’ to say.”

“Her father just died, Tommy. I’m not expectin’ pretty sights right now,” Joel gruffs, trying to swallow the panic that flutters in his throat as they crest the final hill up to the big house. 

The beautiful stone, oak, glass monstrosity that’s stood as monument to this place, this home that is not truly his, for over a decade now. The Kelly Ranch. The sky above is still a sultry, yawning blue, deep and tired, basking in the throes of dawn as the sun just now makes its way over the crest of the Tetons in the distance so that the house sits for just a moment longer in its pool of shadowed blues. 

Joel pauses on the border of that somber darkness, afraid suddenly of what awaits him inside; boots glued to the ground with the gum of cowardice. He doesn’t want to see her broken. He doesn’t want to see her hurting. But there’s no other recourse, he knows this. The death of the estranged father she’d fought with all her life, the inheritance of this world that seems suddenly too big for just one orphaned girl, all alone now. 

He’s afraid that he’ll walk into that house he’s always seen as other and home all wrapped into one—that Olympus that was so far removed and out of reach even when he walked through it’s halls to the man who’d given him sanctuary and salvation, to the man he knew mistreated her sometimes, didn’t love her enough—and not have the capacity to recognize her, this girl who’d always been familiar and stranger all in one also. 

Joel Miller suddenly feels afraid of the memory she exists as in his mind, in the face of the woman he knows she is now. 

When he lets himself in the back kitchen door, it’s still nighttime within. The cool dryness of the AC cranked up to inhuman temperatures makes him shiver once while sprouting a damp sweat along his nape. He should’ve showered before coming, should’ve washed the ride and the days of camp off his skin before walking into her presence, but all he’d managed were his hands and face. There’d been panic to make sure she was well, if not then alive, at least. But he should be more presentable for her. 

Hell, he should’ve been here for her when she came home for the first time in two years to the house where her father had died. He should’ve been here when the man died. 

But the herd had needed moving. He hadn’t thought it’d all happen so quickly, thought he had more time, that they all had more time. He’d hoped she wouldn’t return at all, if he was being honest. There was nothing here for her. Nothing except memories of a gilded and loveless, already motherless childhood. The reality of all she was set to inherit. The truth of an aloneness Joel didn’t know if she was prepared for. 

He moves through the house slowly, afraid to disturb the ghosts and the silence. The interior, immaculate and beautiful and solemn. Something out of a movie picture or the gloss of a magazine. Something covered not in dust but in sadness. The stairs are silent as his spinning mind makes up for the creak, the boots she’d sent him on his last birthday hit the richly piled rug at the top, and the hallway to the bedrooms yawns long and frightening in front of him. Two grand a pop, the boots—Lucchese, he’d looked them up on the iPhone she’d sent him the year before. A gift giver, generous to a fault, kind to a detriment. She sent something to all the ranch hands that’d worked for her father since she was a girl. Something for the entire ranch at Christmas. And all he managed each time was a perfunctory thank you card, like he did every year because he remembered, years ago, in her little voice, polite people send thank you notes, Joel, my grandmother told me so. Last year he’d written that they were too much, that she shouldn’t have, that he was grateful. There wasn’t much else to say. 

That was the extent of their communication, familiar and stranger in one, the far removed golden child of the Kelly. They’d all called him that, the Kelly, for as long as he’d known the man. As if he was some Scottish laird of old, ruling over his clan and half the world. Egotistical, was what it really was. He’d thought himself a god among men, in the face of his only child. Ridiculous was what Joel saw it all for, a put on play, a farce.

And wonder of wonders, she was entirely unlike him because of course she would be. Of course a man ruled by nothing more than ego and narcissism had been sent his polar opposite in the form of his only child. Kind hearted, was what she was—sending him a birthday gift every year. Remembering them all here always no matter how far she’d gone. He sent her a thank you note for each benevolence in return, a word of respectful gratitude for the fact that a person like her could ever remember a dog like him. 

Sometimes, Joel had wanted to go to him, the old man, Oswald Kelly, and ask him where his daughter was, why he wasn’t looking for her, keeping her closer, caring for her. He wasn’t the sort of man that could’ve ever understood such callous behavior towards one’s child.

The last time she’d been here, over two years ago: less than forty eight hours that had ended in screaming so terrible they’d all heard it down from the barn, sitting in uncomfortable, swollen silence, the spinning of tires ringing as she yelled at her father that he was never going to see her again, the man’s echoing laugh as she’d fled him. 

Joel hadn’t seen her on that visit, it’d been so quick and angry. Flying down on the jet from New Haven for her father’s seventieth birthday and not even making it long enough for the festivities. This was what her life was, as he’d observed it from a distance for all these years, the singular daughter of this great house, coming to her father, attempting joy and finding nothing but disappointment at the end of him. 

She’d been right, a knowing streak running through her. Kelly had never seen her again, and Joel didn’t know if the old man had regretted it or not, the anger and the estrangement and the lack of love. But the last time he’d spoken to him, hours before setting off on their move, the herd always came before everything else, the ranch was all that mattered is what the man had always said, with death scratching at the window, his frail and withered body licked down to almost nothing from the austere and imposing figure Joel had always known him as, he’d asked for her. His only child. Do you think she’ll come, Joel? The dying man had asked him. My daughter, do you think she’ll come see me? Joel had lied a lie he hadn’t known was one, said she would, that he’d call her as soon as he was back. 

In the end, he hadn’t even afforded her that decency, a personal call.

He comes to her open bedroom door now, pitch dark as grief within, and the stench of sorrow and liquor seeping from the living grave. He looks down the long and empty hall for a brief second, wishing it didn’t have to be him, that again, he didn't have to see her any way other than okay. And he realizes that there’s something about her, as she will exist now, that makes him cowardly. Something about this house without the man who’d granted him the absolution of a hiding place all those years ago, who’d understood and sheltered Joel in the midst of his own past grief, that makes him cowardly. The house feels wrong without Kelly within it, wrong with only her as its holder now. 

Joel steps into her dark, and it’s a battleground—

—You are silent and motionless in the blue room. 

Nothing of the gleaming splendor that dresses the rest of the home sleeps in here. There are clothes everywhere, an exploded suitcase lies open and massacred in the middle of the plush white rug, a turned over bottle of red wine bleeding into your clothes. Shredded pages with scratched on writing slashed across them, the dusted white mounds of crushed pills, as if you’d smashed each one individually beneath the thumb of your grief. The sight makes him more afraid, the scent of weed and cigarettes heavy in the air, as he takes the final step towards the wrecked bed, and a single small foot hangs limply from the edge.

He stares at it long and hard for a second, afraid, afraid again, still, of what he’ll find. He says your name once, short and gruff like a dog’s bark. It’s what he feels like. Animal, bestial, lacking any sort of cognizance amidst this minefield. His heart beats against his spine, and he thinks he should do something else, shake you, check for a pulse, his bones throb inside his skin. He needs to fucking move, but the smell of smoke is so cloying he’s choking on his own tongue. 

Your ankle twitches.

And Joel sucks in a sigh of relieved air without panic, saying your name again. His voice is level now, maybe gentle, no more barking dog. His eyes move up the length of one pretty leg, and then quickly, he averts his gaze when he gets high up enough he’s met with soft-creased asscheek covered in silk. Swallowing his tongue, his eyes roll in their sockets, looking for anything else to look at besides the sight of panty clad ass. He steps closer again, gripping the edge of the sheet to pull it over your scantily clad body, eyes flitting to the silver spun clock on the nightstand, the warm glow of the hall light shows that they have two hours to get you sober and presentable before the funeral. 

Joel should have been here. He does not feel that he is even here now. And the guilt eats at him like acid. The fear too. 

“Darlin’, you’ve gotta get up now,” he says softly, taking hold of your shoulder, scalded by the feel of fragile skin, realizing with the suddenness of a gunshot that you’ll be the Kelly now. He gives you a gentle shake, “We’ve gotta get you ready,” and his heart pumps blood like a machine. The sight of the dry liquor bottle toppled on the nightstand, the shattered glass glittering the floor in crystal, the empty pill bottles, it all taunts him. His guilt is a cacophony in his mind. He knows he’s going to have to stick his fingers down your throat, make you spit it all up, that you’ll hate him for all of this afterwards, but when his gaze meets streaked rust, dark and shocking against the white sheets, he’s kicked into terrified action. 

He turns you over, your head lolling sickeningly in unconscious stupor, hair a tangled mess strewn about your face so that he has to dig for your eyes, parting the curtains of your fringe to uncover you. He focuses on your closed eyes, the too long lashes clumped together, lips cracked and parched. 

He should’ve fucking been here. 

Smoothing his fingers along the lengths of your arms, he keeps his eyes on your face and averted from all the skin that keeps peeking out below, searching the divots and slopes of your arms for hurts. When he gets to your right hand, battleground of a long ago broken hurt, he finds the drying crust of blood, the ragged split in the soft, small palm, thankfully shallow.

 His eyes smart, looking down at the broken glass, feeling the tear in you. 

Gripping you gently below the elbows he pulls you into his arms, cradled like a child, light as loss. Your head lolls again, neck crooked at an unnatural angle as he carries you into the restroom, careful of your head, knocking the lights on and putting you down in front of the toilet bowl. He pulls your camisole to rights, making sure everything is covered, and gathers your mess of hair as carefully as he can, trying his best to not snag the fragile strands in his too rough hands, but gripping you firmly in position. And ignoring the sound of your awakening cry, he sticks two fingers into your slack jawed mouth and down your throat until he feels the hot rush of vomit. 

Crouching behind you, his thighs bracket you, keeping your form from slumping over as you empty the poison from your belly, flushing the alcohol soaked bile as you struggle. He wipes his messy hand on the leg of his jeans and rubs soothing circles on your back, his fingers woven through the soft silk of your hair to keep your head in place and your face clear. His heart thumps in rhythm with your heaves, your too quick, panicked breathing. There seems to be not enough oxygen for the two of you and your grief in the too small room of the commode, and Joel gasps like a dying fish, trying to swallow calm breaths. 

When you finally stop your heaving, you rest your arms at the edge of the gleaming porcelain, head hung low, defeated, wracked with shivers or silent sobs, he isn’t sure, a strange and horrible keening noise, so small he barely catches it, held in your throat. There’s the finest down of peach fuzz that covers the tender slope of your vulnerable nape, and it makes Joel feel suddenly, just as vulnerable, just as unprotected. At a complete loss for how to help you. 

“Finally decided to show your face,” you croak, voice ragged with your sick. 

His fingers tighten once around your shoulder, a panicked tick of reminder that he’s here now, that he’s him. “I was moving the herd. It had to be done. Your father, he—” he stutters, trying explain, tripping over his own guilt ridden words. “I didn’t think it’d happen now, so fast, that you’d get here so soon. I thought we had more time.” 

We. 

Your skin seems to cool by the second beneath his fingertips, and then you’re shrugging his touch away, huddling closer to the porcelain bowl, further away from him. 

“Get out.”

“Let me explain. I—” And he’s begging now. He can hear the note of it in his voice. Begging for forgiveness. For a chance. 

“I don’t want to see you.” You don’t say his name. “Get out.” It feels worse than anything. 

“I’m here now. I didn’t know— I didn’t think.” He reaches to grab for you again, but you turn to face him suddenly. Wiping the back of your hand against your mouth, pushing your heels at his shins to kick him away. Your eyes are red rimmed, the hollows beneath bruised with lack of sleep. But fire spits from the deep color, all anger and hurt. 

“Go deal with your fucking ranch,” you fling the words at him. “It’s all you care about anyways.” And they weren’t shivers, he sees now, they’re tears tracked as proof of all his guilt, all his lacking, along the slopes of your fine grained cheeks. 

Your, you say. As if this place and anything in it has ever been his. He’s never wanted any of it like that, only ever seen a thing that needed taking care of, and him, with the ability to care for it. 

“I needed you,” you whisper as if the thought comes along on a second wind of anger, a realization that sends your voice breaking, hitching, your chest caving in on itself as the tears come faster and faster now. “He’s dead, and I needed you.”

“I’m sorry,” he begs. “I’m so sorry.” His voice breaks now too. He thinks he’ll cry now too, for the man who he also lost, who despite it all meant something to him, as well. For you, who’s lost even more. For Joel’s own guilt. 

But he doesn’t think you see any of that, not his apology, not his regret, not his own grief. You turn away from him again, laying your temple down again on your forearm. “Get out. I’ll be ready soon.”

And so he goes.

-

Your father is made small and withered in death. 

One of the wealthiest men in the entire world. A stranger, a titan, a nightmare of a man. 

It wasn’t something you’d ever considered, that a human body could look so colorless and frigid and not alive. Like a shock or a ringing bell, it’s a realization that you’re an orphan now. That you’re all alone. 

You feel something like a memory of regret. Or something that’s like the idea that you should feel regret, that you should feel guilt for how it was between the two of you. But all that is overshadowed by the reality of what you weren’t. All you feel even more, or in actual reality, is the old loss of what you’d never been to each other. That, you realize, is the seed of your grief. That long ago wound, that child’s understanding that he wasn’t like all the other fathers, that he’d never care for you the way other children were cared for. 

Looking down at the frozen face that looks nothing like the one he’d worn the last time you’d seen him, the wispy thatch of hair that hadn’t been so jarringly white before sickness had ravaged his body, you realize that this is no new loss, it is only a continuation, a reopening of a very old one. 

The cavernous cathedral at your back is silent, vacated by the sea of people that had congregated here earlier. And with sickening curiosity, you uncoil an arm from where you’ve got it wrapped around yourself, reaching out to press a finger against the ice cold back of his hand. Shockingly not alive; he feels made of rubber. 

Everyone that’d been here to bid farewell to this behemoth turned slip of a man, to catch a glimpse of you, packed like teeth into Jackson’s grandest cathedral; business men and heads of state from around the world, the oldest family names in the country, figures of the highest echelons of wealth and society, vipers circling the barrel—half the world here to see this person who was supposed to have been your father but was really only a stranger. 

You take your hand back, and you don’t say goodbye as you turn away from his body. There’s no farewell to really tell. 

And at the back of the church, hiding in a bright ream of sunlight, Joel stands propped against the face of a saint. Dark and silent and maybe even more far removed than your dead dad. Watching sentinel. Oswald Kelly’s hovering man—come to watch over him one last time. 

The silk of your stockings slide against each other at the junction of your thighs, the hiss of your skirt around your calves as your reed thin heels click against the stone, and you pull your armor as tightly around yourself as you can. There’s a hollow echo inside of everywhere and everything, your mind like a gong, reverberating, and his gaze is so steady, hazel bright, deeply shaded by the lip of his dark hat, beckoning you towards him from beneath the brim. 

Large and strong and steadfast, your heart gives a painful, longing thump—stupid, writhing thing—and you can only bear to look him in the eye for a second, and if you were to really think about saying goodbye to that father that never really was, lying behind you, slipping further and further away, you’d say it to the man that always stood as his shadow before the world, before you ever said it to the man himself. 

-

The drive back home is cast in frigid silence and made all the more uncomfortable because you can practically hear Joel’s brain clicking and ticking away with worry. 

He’d sent your car and driver away with a harsh word while you collected your final goodbyes and words of respect from the last smattering of people congregated and waiting for the newly birthed heir to one of the greatest fortunes in the world. 

Hovering over your shoulder, he’d kept anyone from stepping too close or getting too friendly, so close you could feel the heat of his chest through the silk of your blouse, and then going suddenly full on aggressive when a reporter from the New York Times had approached, fishing for a quote on the future of the Kelly empire. Ushering you away with a hovering hand at the small of your back before the man could get half a question out, he’s opening the truck’s door for you as a haze descends over your eyes, the distant shutter and flash of cameras bursting in your peripherals, a latent hangover and sleep deprivation and not enough to eat in the last forty eight hours causing you to sag in his hold. Then it’s only his big fist wrapping around the span of your wrist as he lifts you into the truck, your eyes downcast and unable to take in sight or sound, vision all a blur. You murmur a barely there thank you with his hand fitting at the dip of your waist, big body blocking yours entirely from prying eyes trying to catch a glimpse or a stumble, and for a single second, your entire weight is suspended in his hold, allowing you to bypass the struggle of balancing your high heel on the step up, and then you’re sliding onto the leather of the seat, the whisper of your cashmere and silk rustling around you as he handles you like a child being spirited away from the scene of a crime. 

The door shuts gently behind you, face turned away from the flashing lights, the watchful eyes of the whole world, and worst of all, the assessment of his concerned gaze. All you’re afforded are thirty seconds of privacy to let out a single gasping sob. 

And now, an hour and a half of silent purgatory. 

You slip your heels off, flexing your smarting toes against the damp of your stockings and tuck your folded legs beneath you on the seat. Paying the frantic energy of his anxiety and lodged words no mind, you consider instead: your new reality. The burden of it all means very little to you now. The last of your worries is being readied for entombing as the two of you speed down the eighty nine, zinging past the bright Wyoming green. The thrum of his truck drowns out your thoughts, brand new, probably over a hundred grand, only the best for your father’s right hand man, and the Kelly Ranch insignia emblazoned proudly on the sides. A brand for the whole world to see just who exactly is being whisked away to her old home turned brand spanking new grave. 

You might be feeling a little bit dramatic. But then again— you’d just put your last remaining parent in an actual grave, surely that provides you some allowances. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his big paw gripping the leathered steering wheel in a death clutch, knuckles white with his frustration at the dilemma you pose, his own discomfort. You’re sure if he thought you wouldn’t catch him, he’d be squirming in his seat. 

You do something to him sometimes, you know this. Not in any way you’d like, not in any interesting way, that of a woman affecting a man, but something respectfully harrowing. Maybe something a little bit like fear. 

There has existed between the two of you, always, that strange intimacy of two people who’ve known each other for a very long time, and yet, have always remained at a far removed, arms length distance from one another. 

A professional intimacy of sorts. Your father’s foreman, shadow, fixer. The man who guarded that treasure trove you’d inherit one day, today; the thing your father loved most in the world. Two people who’ve known each other a long time, and yet, don’t really know each other at all. 

There has always been, however, the fact of the birthday. 

The birthday. Your birthday.

The way you’d latched onto that small, immense, detail when you’d first discovered it at fourteen, when he’d newly arrived at the ranch and the true weight of your first real crush had really hit you, it was probably not entirely healthy. But you’d thought yourself in love with your father’s man, the first figure of the male species who’d ever drawn your attention in such a way. 

He’d never paid you any mind; you were the boss's daughter, a figurehead or a responsibility, maybe a nuisance, although he’d never ever treated you as one. But the day someone had let slip it was his birthday, on the same day as yours, your teenage heart had swelled with the naive hope of fate. It was meant to be, the two of you were connected, so on and so forth, swallowed by girlish innocence and made buoyant by fantasy. 

But you’d had something to share with someone, which was what really mattered. Something tangible, even if only in your inexperienced little mind, something to wield as comfort so that the first time your father had forgotten your special day, fifteen, and what a tender age it had been, you’d had something to cling to. That's when your gifts to him had started. It was your way of making sure there was at least one person in the whole world who’d remember that was your day too. That you were alive, that you mattered. A reminder of yourself. And as the years and birthdays passed, sometimes, when he sent those coldly gracious notes of his, you’d wished you could’ve written back with honesty. Said something like, I’m so lonely, wish you were here, wherever it was in the world you’d found yourself at the time. 

And of course, he was gorgeous and older, strong and patient and capable, entirely unattainable. Impossible to forget. You’d gone so far, traveled wide, gotten yourself an overpriced education that would probably serve you for nothing, had lovers and parties and splendor, and always, you remembered your gifts for him, you remembered him. It was the single most important detail of your birthday every year. 

The leather creaks beneath his fist again, chapped knuckles set to burst before he flexes his fingers out, long and straight. Thickly built hands, strong, made for working or hurting, on a man who you’ve never seen be anything but stoically patient. 

He was strange in that way, neither wholly impulsive nor purposefully premeditated in his mannerisms. More so, it was that there was something extremely neutral about him, a middle buoyancy of personality. Strict with the cowboys, exacting, wielding his title as ranch foreman with an iron fist and your father’s blessing, and yet still, quiet, serious, with that patient gentleness about him. You’d seen it in the way he’d handled Ellie when she’d first come to the ranch, young and skinny with that hollow look of trauma kids who’d seen things they shouldn’t have shamed adults with. She’d been a little older than you, and with an air you’d not understood, a sort of lived past you’d been naive to the existence of, frightened when confronted by it, and yet inevitably, the two of you’d become fast friends eventually.

You’d even experienced it yourself, on two treasured occasions, that gentleness that you’d held onto for years. Nurturing the memory of him in your mind like a delusional bloom. 

He stretches his hand again, wheel caught between his thumb and forefinger, cinching it there, back and forth. His nails are meticulously clean, cut to the quick, and you imagine he must spend a great deal of time cleaning himself up when he works so hard at getting himself so dirty most days. 

You can see him sneaking glances at you, and he coughs once, a clearing of his nervous throat. Averting your gaze, you turn your face away so that you’ll be able to watch him through the reflection in the window. He monopolizes the space in the cabin of the truck, broad shoulders and hulking form, all the fine leather smell washed away in the scent of him. That bay rum aftershave he’s always worn, the one with the distinctive notes of bay leaf, cloves and citrus. An old fashioned scent, masculine and crisp. 

You’d snuck into the bunk once with Ellie, before he’d moved into the foreman’s cabin, before Switzerland, when the two of you were still girls running rampant and free through the ranch, clutching desperately at the last vestiges of any sort of happy childhood you could scrounge up for one another. You’d peeked in his things, found a whole world of Joel shaped curiosities. The glass etched bottle of aftershave, a hole spotted t-shirt with a burnt orange longhorn across the front, Flannery O’Connor’s The Complete Stories—something you found comforting, knowing he could read about the small, the freakish, real life; thinking that perhaps he was homesick for the comfort of the South, hungering for a taste of the life he’d had then, through books. And then, in a spine cracked copy of Suttree, the pages almost falling apart beneath your fingertips, dog eared and well loved, her picture tucked between the pages.

It had been the first time you’d done something you knew you shouldn’t have and actually regretted it, looking down at that green eyed photograph. 

You’d run back to your room after that, ashamed and something a little bit like jealous, desperate to know who she was, desperate for someone to keep a picture of you like that—as if they loved you. And years later, you’d found the scent for yourself. The little molasses glass bottle you still have and pull out on occasion, when you’re feeling extra bad, extra lonesome, extra far away from the whole world, just for a reminding of home. 

Beside you, he sighs again, coughs again, brings you back to himself and the present. Just spit it out already, you think exasperatedly, say something, anything else besides how sorry you are. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he starts, and you roll your eyes, scoffing quietly. 

“You already said that.” Sullen. Mullish. You wish you were a child who could still throw a tantrum and get away with it. Letting your eyes go unfocused from his reflection in the window, you brood at the sight of everything that’s yours now as he turns off the highway, passing below the iron eave of the Kelly Ranch entrance. Eight hundred thousand acres of pristine Wyoming land nestled into the deep valley surrounded by the Grand Tetons mountain range. 

“Well, I’m sayin’ it again.” He’s driving too fast, and you refuse to turn and look at his face. Your heart beats blood in your ears, and you screw your eyes shut to the dizzying blur of green legacy, not wanting to see any of it—him. 

Your belly swoops, going slightly nauseous and gurgling. 

“I didn’t think you’d get here so quick.” He swallows, “Hell, I didn’t think it’d all happen so damn fast.”

“I was already in New York,” you tell him, voice clipped with breathlessness. “I left Paris last week.”

“What? I didn’t know— I—”

“Why would you?”

“I would’ve called you. I would’ve gotten you out here quicker.”

“Ellie called. It’s better like this, Joel.” Finally letting yourself say his name out loud, it feels wrong and molten on your tongue, a heaviness being spit up from the depths of your stomach. “We don’t have to pretend anymore. He’s dead now.”

“There’s no pretending. He wanted to see you—”

“Please, stop.”

But he urges on unheeded: “He told me so before I left. Told me—”

“Stop,” you snap. Finally turning to look at him and hating him for it. For how gorgeous he is, for all the things he’s always made you feel for as long as you can remember what it was to feel something for a man, for all he did or did not have with your father when you had none of it or so much of an entirely different thing. “Stop. I don’t want to hear any of it. It doesn't matter anymore, Joel.”

“But you should know. You deserve to know that—”

“What?” Because that one hurts. “I deserve to know what?” That he actually had loved you but had just never been able to show it? That now it was too late? That the only person the great Oswald Kelly had ever been able to speak to of the supposed care he had for his only daughter was the hired help? You’d read once that one should never let their parents anywhere near their real humiliations. You’d tried your damndest to follow that as soon as you’d grown up. “It’s not your place,” you seethe with teeth bared, an animal shoved into a corner and made to fight for its life, deciding you won’t ever let Joel near them either.  

He spits a cursing, growled sound of frustration, but doesn’t continue. The two of you find yourselves at an impasse, and you turn back to your windowed mirror of him, eyes pinching hot, filling with tears. One of the things your father disliked most about you, your easy tears, and a single salt marred inadequacy tracks down the slope of your cheek, dripping off the edge of your jaw into the bandaged cup of your palm, and you breathe slow and measured through your open mouth, watching the fog cloud grow and shrink against the glass obscuring your vision of him. 

-

The last time you’d missed your mother, the one you’d never known, in any sort of real and true way, you’d been eighteen. Returning to an empty house after celebrating your high school graduation in a far off school, alone. 

In the midst of your sophomore year, you’d been sent away to a Swiss boarding school. It had been something worse than devastating, losing your life in Wyoming, the only home you’d ever know, Ellie, the other people on the ranch… But it was far removed enough that you couldn’t bother, where you couldn’t ask for things like attention or consideration. The education had been excellent, the upbringing desperately lonely ending on a whimpering sigh despite your many accomplishments. You’d wanted her very badly then indeed, your mother. To have been there, to have helped you pick your dress, kissed your cheek after watching you walk across the stage. To have wiped your tears when she told you that your father wasn’t there because he was busy managing the whole world, but that he was proud of you, that he’d have been there if he could. You’d wished she could’ve been there to lie to you so that you wouldn’t have needed to lie to yourself. 

Peering down from your balanced perch atop the deck’s bannister, you survey the deep bed of Lily of the Valley, destroyed beneath the vindictive soles of your bare feet. He’d planted them for her all around the house after she’d died, her favorite flower. 

You’d always hated them. 

And that was the thing of it all, which you’d learned when you grew old enough to recognize such things like disdain. He couldn't stand you because you reminded him of her. Clichéd and old and tired. An excuse for being a neglectful father. The daughter who was too much like her dead mother, and thus did not deserve to be loved. 

You tip your head back, nursing at the lip of fine aged Macallan, and the sky is a glass mirror of blackened silver streaks. You’re almost positive that all the stars in the Milky Way are visible from right here at this very spot in the heart of Wyoming. The sight makes your broken heart feel full and falsely mended. 

You’re certain you’re painting a pretty picture right now: tipsy on a bottle of your dead dad’s sacredly hoarded whiskey that probably cost as much as someone’s house, staring up at the stars in your newly inherited home with a whole unappreciated life full of possibilities ahead of you. Basking in the title of your newly minted— orphan-hood? Orphan-ness? A peer of the orphans. 

You snort softly, sucking on the bottle again, letting the heat of it settle in your belly, smolder in your heart. Your head feels full of bubbles and sugar and sad. 

There’s a part of you that feels a little ridiculous, despite the circumstances. You’re good at compartmentalizing, good at being objective of your realities. Obviously: sad because your father is now dead, and it’d been nine months and eleven days since you’d last spoken to him. Sad because he’d never given a shit about you. Sad because you’re alone, dumped by the stupid French jockey boyfriend who you’d not even liked very much, just a few days before this whole pathetic ordeal of acquiring your orphan-hood, yeah, that’s what you’re sticking with, had occurred. Not to mention the army of looming lawyers and financial advisors and various heads of business vying for your attention, waiting for the what next?

And Joel.

A one man army of looming Joel. 

So you’re feeling morose, blue, maybe a little spoiled, but brought low and cut short. Depressed and unsatisfied with your life thus far. 

Poor little rich girl. Poor little orphan. Poor little me.

What you want? 

Someone to care. 

Someone to love you. 

Hard to come by. Impossible to buy. 

The stars gleam purple silver, winking at you. The bracketing black so dark it swallows the eye. Another taste of the nutty bouquet of smoked apple oranges, and soon you’ll be tipsy enough you won’t be able to balance your butt on the bannister’s ledge anymore. Maybe you’ll go humpty dumpty over the edge and crack your skull against your mother’s valley of destroyed Lily’s. 

You laugh again with sound now, not crazy, only an orphan, ha, but you think that it’s only that it feels shockingly as if you’ve fallen through the surface of your life. As if you are still falling with nothing and no one to grab on to, to help stabilize you. A really terrible, shit-out-of-luck feeling. 

Your eyes continue their infernal leaking, and you blow your nose loudly on the inside of your sweater. You’ve given yourself three days to do whatever the hell you want, be as disgusting as you may. When the three days are up you’ll plan to get your act together, take responsibility and hold of your life and become the woman you should be. 

Who that is? Still being decided. 

You think that maybe you’ll buy another jet before that time’s up. Or an island. Something ridiculous. Maybe you’ll sell the goddamn ranch. 

You eye the dark rolling hills of the valley with seething suspicion. Let’s see what Joel says about that. You, marching up to the highway entrance and spearing a For Sale sign in the dirt of the largest privately owned cattle ranch in the continental United States. Way more than that God forsaken surly frown is what you’d get. 

So long, Joel, it’s been swell. I’m done with this place. It’s time to pack it up and find some new hunk of land to care about more than you care about me or anything else. 

Maybe you’ll be real funny and put up a Craigslist ad. 

And it isn’t that you don’t love this place, the only home you’ve ever known. You do. In a way that is passionate and consuming and irreconcilable. Everything about it, the serenity, the guarding mountains and the deep woods, the home you’d been born in, that both your parents had died in. You do love it in your way. 

It’s only that every man you’ve ever loved—loved—had always cared more about the place than he’d ever cared about you. 

For the longest time, most of your youth until you’d decided that you officially felt an adult, you’d thought you’d hated your father. There was just so much anger and resentment and the resound of his ever furious words and insults and endless disappointment. The echo of no mother ringing so loudly in your ears that the confounding feelings had all been mistaken for hatred. But with age and distance and life, you’d realized you didn't hate him. You never had. You thought, actually, and this was a very good and mature thought of yours, that you were the only person in the whole world that had ever seen him as only a man and not a god. 

He was only a man, full of greed and grief and missing the mother of the child he’d probably never wanted. Nothing more or less. 

Maybe it was that you felt sorry for him. Not in the way of pity, but in the way of one person feeling empathy for another in a clinical and helpless sort of manner. And a numb, detached sort of sadness. A longing for something that you’d never had and had always wanted but eventually learned to live without. 

Ultimately, his disappointment had turned on him, and now it was all you felt you had for him at the end of it all. 

But, for some reason, and an annoying one at that, you do think that, if you try very, very hard, you could bring yourself to hate Joel Miller. There’s satisfaction in that possibility, vindication—resentment that even now, as practically strangers, you know he’d be able to pull that sort of feeling out of you which could result in hatred. Something strong and overwhelming and not easily escaped. 

Your stomach rumbles, and you smile blithely at all your inherited legacy, filling the hollow with more drink. Three days to behave very badly, as badly as you can. The whiskey is so good, and swishing it around in your mouth, you tip your head back further, gurgling it loudly at the back of your throat. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

You jerk, scrambling to keep your balance, choking a little on smokey apples and your own spit. A trickle of the golden amber liquor drips out of the corner of your mouth as you find him hiding in the dark across the deck. Accustomed to drooling over him, you wipe it away with the back of your hand. 

“Having a party. Would you like to join?”

“Are you drunk again?”

Tough crowd. Ugh.  “Never mind. You’re not invited. Go away.”

“You need to go inside and go to bed.”

You tip your chin at him, putting on doe eyes. “Alright. And are you going to be my new daddy also?” You say in a baby voice.

Fucking Christ, you hear him whisper under his breath, turning away to run an exasperated palm over his mouth. Frustration seethes off of him like sulfur. He’s tired. Of you maybe. Of the whole circus this place has become in the past few days—and rightfully so. 

“What do you want? I’m extremely busy, if you can’t tell.”

“Just thought I’d check on ya.” Courteous, always the gentleman, bullshit. You roll your eyes at him. 

“I don’t need you to check on me.” And you, ever the child. One day you swear you’ll grow up. 

But it can’t be said that you’re entirely selfish either. You have considered the fact of Joel’s own grief at the loss of your father. After all, they’d been much closer than you’d ever been to him for many years. And maybe, in his own cold and removed and superior way, your father had seen this man who you’ve thought yourself in love with since you were a teenager, as something like a son. 

Probably, that’s just your own wishful thinking: that Oswald Kelly had ever been capable of such tender feelings.

Maybe the fact of Joel’s own grief is the thorn beneath your nail bed that’s making you so angry with him, so needing of his attention. Maybe it’s that he’d failed to fulfill your silly and girlish fantasy that upon receiving the news of your only remaining parents death, he’d have been here waiting for you, at this home he’d guarded for you for so long, ready to take you into his arms and console and care for you. 

When instead, he’d been off doing what he’d always done for as long as you’d known him. Protecting your father’s interests, his legacy. 

“Is this how it’s going to be?”

“How?”

“You, being difficult.” Driving me fuckin’ crazy— he adds again under his breath. 

“I’m an orphan now, Joel.” You’re becoming quickly addicted to the word. “I think I should be afforded a tiny bit of leeway to drive people fuckin’ crazy,” you mock his Southern drawl. Enough of your time has been spent in Europe over the past two years, kissing Europeans, that you’d sloughed off the last of your America twang; something of a vaguely European lilt peppering your words every now and then that Ellie likes to tease you for whenever the two of you speak on occasion. 

A muscle under his left eye twitches at the jab, and you take another deep swig of the bottle, provoking him with your gaze. Wishing you had whatever it is a woman needs to entice this man. Like the fucking vet. Fucking world renowned, brilliant, highly coveted, beautiful veterinarian. You know about her. You’re sure he thinks he’s been discreet over the years with their whatever they’ve had, Tess, but you know. 

Maybe you’ll be insane and irrational and possessive, taking advantage of your three crazy days, and fire her with your new found power. See what he has to say about that. Ha.

Ha. Ha. Ha. 

Obviously not. 

Despite your current hysteria, your goal is not to send the ranch head over heels into a tailspin.

But the imagining is soothing. 

“Want some?” You hold the heavy crystal out towards him in a peace offering, held precariously between two sweaty knuckles. “It’s probably worth as much as your truck. Would be a waste for me to finish on my own.” You eye what’s left of it, about half, and give him a sheepish grin. It really is very good. 

He looks at you for one long, solemn moment, always so silent and pensive, this strange enigma of a man. You get to watch in real time as he loses whatever fight it is he’s trying to fight against you, victorious when he shrugs and comes over slowly, resting his butt against the bannister—a carefully respectful distance away from you. 

When he takes the bottle from your swinging clutch, gripped from the base, careful not to touch you in any way, you see the real sad in his eyes. The dim lights bleeding out through the big windows of the family room without a family shine on his face in strips and bursts. A shadow here, golden warmth there. He’s got more lines around his eyes than you remember from the last time you’d been this close to him. Smile lines made bright white in the center and gold burnished at the edges from too much sun. There’s little bursts of silver threaded at his temples now too, a gleam here and there in his dark beard. Forty four years old, he’d turned on your last birthday. 

You dig your nails into the soft meat of your palms, and your belly smolders as he brings the bottle to his lips, tasting the exact place your own mouth had just been moments ago. You press your knees together as hard as you can, head a little woozy with the color of his eyes; the most gorgeous green, caramel hazel. 

You’d graduated two years ago with a degree in art history and had done absolutely nothing with it since. It was just that everything appeared boring and pointless and shallow. Your whole life had one day suddenly seemed just a little silly. Useless, overpriced degree, nothing to be done with extensive knowledge in color theory when your world is expecting such different things from you now. 

But you sure as hell can appreciate the color of his eyes in extensive and meticulous detail. There is that. 

Watching the slow slide of the amber liquor down the bottle-neck, the long pull of his lush mouth, the ripple of his strong throat, and the way his eyes go a little wider, shocked at how good it is. You laugh soft: “I know, right.”

He takes another pull, another swallow. That’s what you want to be—swallowed just like that. “Damn, that’s good.” His mouth is a little wet, bottom lip shiny with thousands of dollars worth of your father’s favorite whiskey, and his eyes are sad. 

You’d said you were going to be bad, but you don’t want to be bad to him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He swallows again, tipping his head towards you, trying to catch your too soft words—he’s got a bad ear, you know why—and turns to peer at you from beneath his low pulled brow, the tip of his tongue peeking out to swipe at the drop of liquor you wish you could suck off his tongue. 

“You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry for.”

The first time he’d shown you that gentleness of his: You’d fallen from your horse at school in your junior year. Something had frightened the beast, and she’d bucked you, sent you flying ten feet in the air, ragdoll-like, before you’d landed badly on your right arm, a comminuted fracture in your radius that you’d needed surgery to fix. At your insistence, and with only a few weeks left to spare, you’d been sent home for the remainder of the semester. Your father had been incensed but eventually allowed it. He’d been away from the ranch on business, after all, at no risk of being truly disturbed by you. But when you’d been readying to return to Switzerland at the end of the summer, arm healed, courage not, you’d not been able to get back on a horse no matter what you tried. Joel had helped you, before they’d shipped you off again. Trotted the corral with you for hours and hours before you’d finally been able to relax and sit on your own without tears and vertigo. No questions or admonishments, nothing but the quiet burr of his deep voice, guiding you and the mare along. 

It had been a kindness unlike any you’d experienced in maybe your whole life. 

“I’ve been bad.”

“Nah. You couldn’t ever be.”

The second time: “Did today make you think of Sarah?” Years after you’d found that green eyed photograph, he’d shared her with you. 

His gaze turns suddenly sharp, but you’re not worried you’ve stepped in unbreachable territory. “Yeah.” The echo of her name rings around the two of you. 

“In a bad way or a good way?” He takes another long swig, a low whistle through his teeth and a shake of his head before he’s handing the bottle back to you—again, carefully. 

“Both.”

You take your own swallow, slicking your tongue all around where his just was, and you’re drunk for real now. Drunk on a man. 

“Do you ever regret telling me about her?”

“Nah.” He tips his head back, looking up at the thick beams of the deck’s awning. He’s got the longest lashes you’ve ever seen on a man, thick and curling. The deepest voice you’ve ever heard too, sultry, a bedroom voice. A voice for fucking. Your belly swirls and dips, and you want so much you’re dizzy with it. 

Heart beating like it’s about to burst, out of breath on the verge of hyperventilating, you can taste his mouth in your mouth, the imagination flavor of it. This is what it must feel like to die. This is what your father must have felt like three days ago, this agony. 

His Adam’s apple bobs, and it’s so pronounced, the skin of his throat sun pebbled. There isn’t an inch of him that isn’t all rough-hewn man. “You needed to hear about her then, I s’pose.” 

Yes. “You told me when I needed you to.” After that lonely graduation, the last time you’d missed her really very badly, longed for a mother. Alone, alone, alone little girl. 

“You were missin’ your momma somethin’ fierce. Needed to know you weren’t the only one that felt like that sometimes.”

You laugh a not-laugh, butt scraping against the railing, slipping off your perch, socked-feet thudding beside his gifted boots. The pleasure you feel whenever you see him use one of the things you’ve given him is indescribable. 

“Silly,” you say with barely any sound, his bad ear reaches for your voice again. “At the time it felt like I was the only person in the whole world that had ever felt like that.”

“We all feel like that at one point or another, I reckon.”

“Will you miss him a lot?” You ask looking up at him, the beautiful profile, the strong jaw. You’ve always wondered how he sees you. If he’s ever thought you were beautiful. Other men do, it’s a common thing, a nothing sort of thing. There are always men, there will always be men. But this singular man—this one is not like the rest. 

“Maybe. Can’t tell yet, don’t think. But it felt wrong earlier, walking through his house without him in it.” His house, not yours. 

“Do you wish he’d been your father?” And he turns to look down at you at that, gaze snapping, and you can tell you’ve shocked him with the question. But you’d always wondered. 

“No. Never,” he says with such assuredness, an uncompromising shake of his head. 

And the answer doesn't necessarily shock you in turn. You don't think anyone could have ever wanted a father like that. But it also doesn't help you understand what it was that lived between them either. 

He sighs, perhaps reading the confusion in your gaze. “He helped me at a time when I needed it real bad. Gave me a place and a purpose and a thing to do and take care of. You get me? It was gratitude—maybe. He saved me in a way, after Sarah. Nothing more.” He thinks for a moment, and then, “Perhaps it was that we understood each other about certain things.”

You gaze across the sprawl of dark land as far as the eye reaches, that point of no return where the earth shoots up into the sky, purple blue behemoths in the shape of mountains. 

From this spot, rooted to the deck of your family home, it seems like the whole world is yours to keep. Also, like you’ll never be able to touch any of it with fingers or taste or meaning. 

Your love for this place is complicated—tied up in the people, the memories, the could’ves and should’ves, the whole dreamscape idea of the monument of childhood and all it’d really never been. The time away had felt eternal, like you’d never really been here to begin with, like the young girl who’d grown up on this land had never really existed. But you’d not forgotten them, this, despite your distance. Your home, the father that wouldn’t want you, Wyoming and all its splendor, the people you’d left behind, Joel and Ellie and shared birthdays that meant a secret world to you. Morsels of small happinesses interloped amidst a largely lonely and sad childhood. That’s what it was at its core. 

“Would you be angry with me if I gave it all away?”

He thinks for a moment, maybe you’re making him sadder, but then finally says with a swallow, “No. It’s yours to do with as you please.”

You eye the quarter of whiskey left, but your belly isn’t hungry for its warmth anymore. You want something heavier now. 

“Could you even do that—legally—sell it or somethin’?”

“Probably not. He probably tied it to my fucking life. Sell and die.” You mime your name in an imitation of your fathers deep voice, frowning at yourself the way he’d always frowned when he looked at you, but it pulls a laugh from him, and the painful memory is worth it. “But I have a billion dollars to spend now. More?” You tap your chin—you want to make him laugh again. “Gotta think of something interesting to do with it all.”

His mouth slides into an easy half grin. Like the moon—that beautiful. And he turns to face you fully. “You’re gonna be just fine. You know that, right?”

You turn to face him too, gripping the bannister for dear life. “What? Will you make sure of it?”

“That’s my plan.”

“How’re you gonna do that, d’you reckon?” The American twang bleeds back into your voice, and you’re all swollen lush on the inside, heart a beating fist in your chest. 

“Haven’t gotten that far, if I’m bein’ honest with you.” God. His eyes, the strong bridge of his nose, his mouth. He’s so tall your head has to crook back to look up at him. “I’ll figure something out.” And after another pensive second, and still with that soft, sloped eye smile, he asks, and nicely, “Will you stop dinking now—for me?”

“Maybe tomorrow,” you say with the same sort of smile in return. 

And then suddenly, like vomit again but maybe more humiliating this time: “Did you respect him?” Because you don’t know all the things about him that there are to know, but you do know that Joel Miller’s respect is a thing hard earned. 

He clicks his tongue, and you hear the pop of his jaw as he shifts it like he’s chewing on an honesty. His eyes, his eyes, they’re serious, mercurial, warm and deep also. You worry he won’t answer, that he wouldn’t want to disappoint you or something, but then: “No,” said real simple like.

“Why not?”

And the way he looks down at you, you know already, and it makes that falling through the surface of your own life feeling rise up inside you again, makes your ears pop with embarrassment. Ah. “He never did a very good job of hiding the way he treated you, sweetheart. I couldn’t ever respect a man like that.” 

This is reality right here, this is you falling through your life, this is the realization that it wasn’t only you imposing yourself, your existence, on someone with gifts they didn’t want or ask for. Joel had seen. Joel had understood. 

Someone else had noticed that you exist, and it had been him. 

What else had you ever wanted?

And in the blink of a desperate, yearning eye, drunk on a man still, you’re throwing yourself at him, pressing your mouth hot and heavy to his, kissing him full on the way you’d dreamt of since you knew to dream of such things.

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#fable of the dog fic #vic fic #joel miller fanfiction #Joel Miller x FMC #joel miller smut #Joel miller angst #the last of us AU

[cera-writes]

"Ma chère, you are mine." 🃏

Part Three

Pairing: Remy "Gambit" Lebeau x F!Reader Tags: slow burn, angst, jealousy, mentions of death Remy never thought there'd be someone else besides Rogue who'd just waltz into his life, but there you were.

The world splintered into a cacophony of violence. Emerald energy, a malevolent serpent uncoiling across the Genoshan sky, lashed out with indiscriminate fury. Buildings crumpled like sandcastles under a child's fist, their infrastructure spilling forth in a grotesque display of shattered brick and twisted metal. Remy, with a snarl that mirrored the savagery unfolding around you, shoved you roughly to the ground, his body a meat shield against the onslaught.

The impact with the ravaged earth sent a jolt of searing pain through your body. A high-pitched whine filled your ears, a relentless wail that threatened to drown out the world. When the world finally refocused, its edges blurry and tinged with red, you found yourself staring into the smoldering ruins of what was once Genosha.

Remy lay beside you, groaning as he pushed himself up on one elbow. Dust and grime painted his face, a mask of grim determination etched beneath the grime.

"You alright, cher?" His voice, rough with concern, cut through the ringing in your ears.

"I'm fine," you rasped, pushing yourself up with a grimace. "But we need to find the others!"

Your gaze swept across the scene, a desolate wasteland where once stood a haven for mutants. Bodies, like fallen marionettes, littered the ashen landscape – stark reminders of the Sentinel's ruthless efficiency. A strangled cry escaped your lips, a prayer whispered into the acrid smoke-choked air. "Oh gods..."

There was no time for lamentations. Remy, ever the pragmatist, grabbed your hand and pulled you towards the meager cover offered by a half-collapsed building. As you stumbled through the debris, your eyes scanned the devastated landscape for any signs of life.

A flicker of movement – Rogue, her green eyes narrowed in fierce concentration, stood beside Magneto, who scowled at the wreckage with an almost inhuman intensity. Relief, a fragile butterfly taking flight in your chest, was swiftly extinguished by a cold dread that coiled around your heart.

"No...no, no! Kurt!" You tore free of Remy's grasp and sprinted towards the crumpled figure lying in the debris. Kneeling beside him, your hands shaking, you cradled his head in your lap. Blood, a crimson stain blossoming across his blue fur, marred his pale face. He lay unmoving, his chest rising and falling with a shallow rasp.

"Rogue!" Remy's voice, sharp with urgency, cut through the haze of terror that threatened to consume you. You looked up to see him kneeling beside you, his face etched with concern as he checked Kurt's pulse.

"He alive! So are you," Remy announced, his voice laced with relief. A wan smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he met Rogue's gaze.

The choked sob that escaped your lips caught in your throat. Tears, hot and stinging, streamed down your face. Relief, a tidal wave threatening to pull you under, washed over you. You squeezed Kurt's hand, murmuring a desperate plea for him to hold on. "Good," you choked out, your voice thick with emotion. "You can't die on me yet, you hear?"

The grim tableau before them hung heavy in the air, a macabre tapestry woven from shattered concrete and lifeless flesh. Magneto joined them, his voice a gravelly rasp cutting through the stunned silence.

"Gambit, how many?"

Gambit, his usual carefree swagger replaced by a haunted solemnity, shook his head, the movement conveying the immensity of the devastation better than words. "Too many...so many," he muttered, his voice thick with a grief that mirrored the ashen wasteland that stretched before them. "Some vile Godzilla. You go at it, you wind up dead. Can't even dent it. We tryin' to evacuate folks now, but the Morlocks… they stuck in the bay. Right under it's belly and there's no way to get to em'."

A cold dread coiled around your spine, its icy tendrils tightening with each passing moment. "Remy's right," you confirmed, your voice a mere whisper against the cacophony of devastation still echoing around you. "This… this is beyond anything we've ever faced before."

Magneto, his face a mask of thunderous fury, stood with his head bowed, lost in a war council of one against the smoldering ruins. Finally, he raised his head, his steely gaze meeting yours. "A promise was made," he rumbled, his voice heavy with a barely concealed tremor of emotion.

You nodded in grim agreement, a shiver racking your body despite the oppressive heat radiating from the smoldering wreckage. "We have to stop this, Magneto," you stated, your voice firm despite the fear threatening to bubble up.

"Eclipse is right," Gambit concurred, his eyes landing on a lone motorcycle half-buried in debris, its chrome glimmering defiantly against the ashen landscape. It might not be much, but it was a lifeline in the storm. Just enough to get them where they needed to be, fast.

Rogue was about to place a gentle hand on your shoulder, but thought better of it. Instead she offered words, a grounding force amidst the swirling chaos. "Then let's do what we X-Men do best, sugah," she said, her voice laced with a steely resolve. "Nightcrawler wouldn't want us sittin' here mournin'. He'd want us fightin', protectin' those who can't protect themselves."

With a reverence born of desperation, you lowered Nightcrawler onto a scrap of relatively undamaged concrete. A silent promise hung heavy in the air, a vow to see him again, hopefully under skies that weren't choked with the acrid tang of destruction. You had to. All of you had to. This wasn't just about survival; it was about clinging to the fragile thread of hope that remained for the mutants trapped beneath the metallic behemoth.

Striding towards the lone motorcycle, you felt a surge of renewed determination. The roar of the engine, a guttural growl that echoed off the shattered buildings, was a battle cry, a call to action. Joining Remy on the steel stallion, you wrapped your arms around his waist, a silent anchor in the impending storm.

Beside you, Rogue was ready to fight, flying high through the smoky air beside you. A grim exchange of glances solidified the unspoken plan. Magneto, his voice a rasp, spoke, his words carving through the chaos.

"I will draw its fire away from the gardens," he commanded, his gaze unwavering. "Rogue, clear a path for Gambit and Eclipse to reach the Morlocks. Save as many as you can."

A flicker of admiration ignited in your chest, a brief respite in the maelstrom of emotions. Magneto, the master of metal, would become a lightning rod, drawing the Sentinel's wrath and diverting its destructive energy. It was a desperate gamble, but one he was willing to take.

"Hang on tight, cher!" Remy's voice was a shout over the engine's roar as he revved the motorcycle to life. With a surge of power, they shot forward, a precarious bullet weaving through the hail of emerald blasts.

You channeled the shadows, a tapestry of darkness swirling around the three of you, forming a shield against the Sentinel's onslaught. It was a delicate dance, a constant push and pull against the relentless energy.

"Never much cared for roulette," Remy shouted above the din, his voice laced with a sardonic humor that belied the seriousness of the situation. Each dodged blast, each fleeting moment of reprieve, was a victory won in a game with impossible odds. You knew it wouldn't last forever, but for now, it was enough. They had to reach the Morlocks, had to offer them a sliver of hope in this crucible of despair.

A rebellious glint sparked in Rogue's eyes. "Then how bout we spice up these rules?" she quipped, her flight maintaining a steady pace alongside the motorcycle.

You smirked, one hand gripping Remy's waist for dear life while the other channeled shadows. The shield pulsed around you three, a tangible darkness that defied the emerald onslaught.

Suddenly, Sentinels loomed ahead, their metallic forms blocking the path. With a guttural roar, Remy pushed the engine to its limit, the motorcycle whining in protest as he executed a death-defying drift.

You narrowed your eyes, focusing your energy away from the shield and towards the lead Sentinel. It was a hulking monstrosity, hell-bent on ending your desperate mission. A surge of power coursed through you, manipulating the shadows into tendrils of inky darkness. They latched onto the Sentinel's head, momentarily obscuring its vision.

"Let's shuffle the deck, chere!" Remy yelled, a wild grin splitting his face. With lightning-fast reflexes, he charged his playing cards with a surge of kinetic energy. They shot through the air, imbued with raw power, and whipped into the Sentinel's head.

The impact was a thunderous roar. Metal shrieked as the Sentinel's head detached from its body, the emerald blasts it had been firing careening wildly into other Sentinels. A chain reaction erupted, triggering explosions that showered the landscape with molten debris.

"Three down, mon ami!" You crowed, a wide grin splitting your face. "But leave a few targets for the rest us, okay?"

Gambit chuckled, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of the fight. He wrenched the motorcycle's handlebars, veering off into another direction as the echoes of the explosions faded behind them.

But their precarious victory was short-lived. A colossal Sentinel, dwarfing its brethren in size and ferocity, came hurtling through a building in a desperate bid to cut them off. Rogue, a whirlwind of fury and concentration, was fending off one of them on her own.

A roundhouse kick, a ballet of raw power and focused fury, connected with the Sentinel's chest cavity. The impact resonated through the air, a metallic clang that echoed through the smoke and debris. The machine itself didn't stand a chance. Rogue's enhanced strength cleaved through it like a hot knife through butter, transforming the Sentinel into a shower of sparking fragments and molten slag that rained down upon the ravaged cityscape.

In the rearview mirror, you watched as the fire and smoke of the Sentinel's demise dissipated into the acrid air. Relief flickered in your chest, a fleeting ember in the inferno of destruction that surrounded them. Rogue rejoined their formation, a whirlwind of emerald energy coalescing beside you.

"Badass!" you shouted over the engine's roar, a silent nod of approval telegraphed through the urgency of the moment. There was no denying it, Rogue was a force of nature, a badass sculpted from pure determination and raw power.

But even the sweetest victories were fleeting in this war of attrition. Each Sentinel they felled seemed to be replaced by another, a relentless metallic hydra rising from the ashes of its fallen brethren. Yet, you pressed on, driven by a desperate hope and the dwindling sliver of time before they reached the Morlocks.

The tunnel entrance loomed ahead, a dark maw in the concrete sprawl. Just as you were about to reach it, a colossal Sentinel, a leviathan dwarfing its brethren, materialized from a side street, blocking their path with menacing intent.

"Ready, cher?" Remy's voice cut through the din, a question punctuated by a steely crimson glint in his eyes. You met his gaze, a silent understanding passing between you. A curt nod was all the confirmation he needed.

With a screech of tortured metal, Remy slammed the motorcycle through the shattered window of a nearby building. The sudden change of course was a tactical maneuver, a desperate gamble to gain the upper hand. You and Remy dismounted, back to back, facing the encroaching Sentinel.

Remy whipped out his bo staff, a blur of lethal grace as he parried the Sentinel's initial energy blasts. You channeled your power, weaving the shadows into a thick, inky cloak, obscuring the Sentinel's vision and preventing it from unleashing a devastating blast upon the already-fragile tunnels below. The air crackled with raw energy as the battle raged.

Remy, a whirlwind of movement, landed blow after blow on the behemoth with his staff. Finally, with a flourish that belied the gravity of the situation, he hurled one last charged card directly at the Sentinel's head. The impact triggered a chain reaction, igniting a spectacular explosion that ripped through the metallic monstrosity, leaving only smoldering wreckage in its wake.

"Bonne soiree, mes amis. Now, kindly follow Eclipse and me."

Your outstretched hand met Leech's clammy grasp, a beacon of hope in the choking gloom. Together, a ragged procession of Morlocks tumbled out of the tunnel entrance, faces etched with terror and exhaustion. But before you could savor the brief reprieve, a soul-rending scream tore through the smoke-choked air. A pillar of emerald energy slammed into Magneto, sending him hurtling through the air like a discarded rag doll. His body crumpled with a sickening thud against the mangled wreckage of a car.

A guttural curse ripped from your throat, a stark counterpoint to the symphony of destruction. While your attention had been momentarily diverted, a hulking chunk of debris – a twisted remnant of a building sheared in two – hurtled towards the fleeing Morlocks.

Gambit's reflexes, honed by years of navigating chaos, kicked in with lightning speed. With a flourish that belied the urgency of the moment, he ripped the silk of his necktie from around his throat. In a single, fluid motion, he charged it with a surge of kinetic energy. The tie, imbued with raw power, transformed into a blazing projectile, slamming into the hurtling metal with a deafening boom.

The resulting explosion, a spectacle of incandescent pink, vaporized the debris into a cloud of shimmering particles.

You, meanwhile, fought on a different front. Your hands danced a desperate ballet in the air, weaving shadows into a thick, inky tapestry around you and Remy. You poured every ounce of your will into the shield, praying it would hold against the relentless onslaught. Rogue coalesced beside you, her arrival a much-needed reinforcement.

A chilling mechanical voice boomed from the depths of the Sentinel's metal maw, pronouncements echoing through the shattered cityscape. "Omega-level threat detected," it intoned, its robotic pronouncements devoid of any emotion. Its cyclopean eye, a glowing orb of malevolent green energy, locked onto you and your companions, a death warrant hanging heavy in the air.

"No..." you rasped, your voice strained from exertion. You gritted your teeth, pushing your powers to the limit, desperately trying to maintain the integrity of your shadow shield.

Across the battlefield, Magneto, miraculously still alive, rose shakily to his feet. Anger, a molten inferno, burned in his eyes. He raised his hands, and the wreckage around him pulsed, metallic tendrils snaking towards the Sentinels in a defiant show of force. He, too, would stand his ground, a lone bastion protecting the vulnerable. The stage was set for a final, desperate confrontation.

The clash of energies painted the sky in a grotesque ballet of destruction. Where Magneto stood, resolute and defiant, a shimmering dome of crackling crimson energy deflected the Sentinel's emerald onslaught. It was a titanic struggle – the telekinetic master against the cold, calculating fury of Sentinel technology.

You, wracked with concern for Magneto, pushed your own abilities to the limit. Your shadow shield strained, a flickering ebony curtain attempting to hold back the storm. You channeled just enough raw power to deflect the brunt of the impact away from you and Remy, but not enough to completely isolate the battle raging before you.

Rogue, ever the impulsive force, couldn't bear to witness Magneto face the Sentinel alone. A primal urge to protect flared within her, overriding all sense of caution. With a defiant snarl, she shot towards the emerald death ray, a solitary speck of emerald defiance against the mechanical behemoth.

Remy, his face etched with a mixture of fear and determination, lunged towards Rogue. "No, chere! It's too dangerous!" he roared, his voice swallowed by the cacophony of the battle.

But his warning came too late. A sudden surge of crimson energy erupted from the clash above, a sign that even Magneto's defenses were faltering. The resulting shockwave slammed into you with the force of a freight train. You, Remy, and Rogue were sent sprawling backwards. Your shadow shield, overwhelmed by the sheer force of the impact, disintegrated into wisps of darkness.

The three of you found yourselves pinned. The impact had caused you, Rogue, and Remy to become pinned beneath a large piece of warped metal. You were trapped, cocooned in a makeshift cage of debris, mere feet away from the epic clash unfolding beyond the barrier.

You could hear Rogue's frustrated screams, the Sentinel's monstrous pronouncements, and the clang of Magneto's valiant defense, but you were helpless to intervene. Panic gnawed at the edges of your resolve, but a stronger emotion burned bright - the desperate need to find a way out, to rejoin the fight. You were trapped, but you wouldn't be broken.

The detonation echoed through the shattered cityscape, a thunderous knell that shattered your fragile shield. Inky tendrils of darkness dissipated into the smoke.

A primal scream ripped from Rogue's throat. It wasn't a battle cry, but a torrent of raw emotion – a desperate plea laced with anger and a flicker of something resembling fear. "Don't you dare, Erik!" she roared, her voice cracking with the strain of witnessing him teetering on the precipice. "You hear me?!"

"He's trying to protect us, Rogue!" he shouted above the din, his voice a beacon of reason amidst the chaos. You watched, heart clenching in your chest, as the battle lines shifted. Magneto, his face a mask of resolute determination, wasn't fighting for dominance; he was fighting for a sliver of time, a desperate gamble to shield you and the Morlocks from the Sentinel's relentless assault.

A metallic groan sliced through the air as Magneto exerted his telekinetic prowess to the limit. The twisted wreckage around you pulsed once more, the mangled metal coiling and twisting into a grotesque, protective cocoon. This wasn't a cage – it was a desperate shield, a last-ditch effort to buy you precious moments. You could feel the strain on him, the telekinetic exertion echoing in the way his features contorted in concentration.

And behind the flimsy barrier you were forced behind, the Sentinel loomed, a mechanical monstrosity bristling with malevolent energy. The air crackled with anticipation, the inevitable doom hanging heavy in the air. You could only watch in horror as the Sentinel, unfazed by Magneto's valiant defense, continued to barrage the shield. There was no escape, no recourse.

You were trapped, forced to witness the battle through the warped metal bars of your makeshift cage, a helpless spectator in a life-or-death struggle.

The pronouncement echoed through the ravaged cityscape, a metallic monotone devoid of any semblance of triumph. "Omega threat eliminated." The words hung in the air, a chilling epitaph for the valiant stand Magneto had taken.

You stared, your voice a mere rasp escaping your lips. "No...oh my god," the words tumbled out, barely a whisper against the symphony of destruction that roared around you. It was as if the world itself had been plunged into an abyss of despair.

But within that despair, a flicker of primal rage ignited in Rogue's emerald eyes. Grief, raw and unbridled, morphed into a terrifying fury. With a strength that seemed to defy physics, she ripped apart the metallic cocoon that had served as your temporary prison. The mangled metal groaned in protest as it yielded to her touch, showering you with debris.

You and Remy scrambled to your feet, your gaze falling upon Rogue. Her form, a whirlwind of primal raw energy, streaked across the battlefield towards the colossal Sentinel. 

A desperate cry escaped your throat. "She's gonna get herself killed!" The raw terror in your voice resonated with Remy, his face mirroring your own growing panic.

He didn't hesitate. In a blur of motion, he launched himself onto a nearby motorcycle, a battered relic amidst the wreckage. The roar of the engine masked the fear that gnawed at him. He sped towards Rogue, desperate to intercept her suicidal charge. He ignited the bike in kinetic energy, sending it flying toward the sentinel and saving Rogue in the process. 

The air itself crackled with anticipation as the Sentinel, its victory seemingly assured, prepared to unleash another earth-shattering blast. A beam of emerald energy, the largest and most destructive you'd ever witnessed, beamed within its metallic eyes, threatening to annihilate the last vestiges of life on Genosha.

Your eyes darted back and forth, taking in the scene with a horrifying clarity. You looked back at your friends.

 You couldn't let them die. This wasn't an option. With a glance back at the imminent threat, a resolute determination hardened your gaze. You knew what you had to do.

"Hey Rogue," you called out, your voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in your heart. You turned to face her, forcing a smile onto your face despite the tears that welled up in your eyes. You wanted to etch this image of her – beautiful, strong, defiant – into your memory. Then there was Remy. You're best friend. The one person who had your heart forever. 

A single tear escaped, tracing a glistening path down your cheek. You had found love in this fractured world, and now, you were ready to give it all up to save them.

"Take care of Remy." 

The words hung in the air, a stark counterpoint to the cacophony of devastation. You looked at Rogue, her emerald eyes blazing with a grief that threatened to consume her. This wasn't her fight anymore, not if you had anything to say about it. You couldn't risk looking at Remy one last time in fear that you wouldn't be able to go through with this. You turn a heel and looked up towards the hazy smoke filled sky. 

With a resolute nod, you rose. It wasn't a physical movement; you willed yourself upwards, defying gravity with a surge of pure, unadulterated power. Your body became a mote of light, ascending towards sun. It was partially obscured by the Sentinel's monstrous shadow, but it held the key to your desperate gamble.

Your mind became a crucible, a furnace where your mutant abilities burned at their most intense. You channeled every memory of a total eclipse, every flicker of darkness that had ever devoured the sun's brilliance. You needed more than just darkness, though. You needed a celestial eclipse, a cosmic puppet master pulling the strings of the solar system.

The effort was Herculean, a battle waged on a universal scale. You could feel your very essence straining, the potential for oblivion a mere hair's breadth away. But the thought of your friends, their faces etched in your mind, spurred you on. You wouldn't let them die. Not today.

As you neared the sun, its corona, a fiery halo, blazed with an intensity that threatened to immolate you. But you pressed on, driven by an unwavering determination. You were a cosmic moth drawn to the flame, but instead of destruction, you sought a metamorphosis, a transformation that would turn the tide of battle.

Your body, now a conduit for celestial energy, reached a critical point. With a cry that echoed through the shattered city, not as sound, but as a ripple of pure willpower, you unleashed the culmination of your efforts. A shadow, vast and obsidian-hued, erupted from you, engulfing the sun. The once-shining orb receded completely, swallowed by a darkness born not of the moon, but of your desperate will.

The Sentinel, its emerald death ray poised to deliver its final, apocalyptic blow, faltered. Its mechanical systems sputtered in the sudden absence of its power source. A wave of unnatural darkness blanketed the battlefield, turning the day into a spectral twilight. The battle was far from over, but for now, you had rewritten the rules of the game, drawing power from the heavens themselves to tip the scales in favor of humanity.

The strain was immense, a war waged not just on the battlefield but within your own essence. The air crackled with raw power, a testament to the titanic struggle being waged. Visions flickered at the edges of your consciousness – your friends' faces, etched with worry and determination, a stark reminder of what you were fighting for. You wouldn't let them down. Not today.

The shadows that now pulsed through your body, tendrils of darkness imbued with the power of a celestial event, surged outwards. They lashed out at the Sentinel, a tidal wave of midnight propelled by your unwavering will. You roared, a primal sound that escaped your hoarse throat, "Go to hell!"

The shadows connected. The deafening hum of the Sentinel's weapon died with a whimper, replaced by an eerie silence. For a heartbeat, the battlefield held its breath. Then, with a sickening groan of metal, the Sentinel began to disintegrate. The shadows devoured it, consuming the mechanical monstrosity whole until nothing remained but a smoldering pile of scrap.

As the last remnants of the Sentinel crumbled, you felt the darkness within you begin to recede. It was like a tide pulling back, leaving you drained and adrift. Your vision swam, the familiar faces of your friends blurring at the edges. You had achieved the impossible, but the victory came at a steep price. The world faded away, consumed not by the eclipse you had created, but by the exhaustion that finally claimed you.

Your body fell gracefully back down to the earth that was once a lively Genosha. Your body, still the color of faded moonlight, lay motionless on the dirt and ash surrounding you. The last thing you could hear were footsteps dashing madly in your direction. Your eyelids were getting heavier. You didn't know how much time you had left. 

The world dimmed around Remy, the edges blurring with a sickening dread. Eclipse, usually a beautiful, sarcastic ray of light, lay fragile in his arms. Her eyes fluttered open, a spark of confusion battling the haze clouding them.

"Remy?" You whispered, your voice faint.

He choked back a sob, tightening his hold on you. "I'm right here, mon coeur. You're gonna be okay. Gambit's gotchu." Each word scraped against his throat, a desperate promise at odds with the chilling fear that coiled in his gut.

Eclipse blinked slowly, your eyelids heavy. "It hurts, Remy."

He traced a gentle hand over your cheek, his fingers brushing against a damp tear track. "I know, mon amour. But the medics are almost here, you just gotta hang on."

A weak smile played on your lips. "Always the hero, huh?"

Remy forced a smile back, his heart shattering with each shallow breath she took. "Always." He knew better. This wasn't a situation he could fight his way out of. But he wouldn't let you face the darkness alone.

Your grip on his hand tightened, then relaxed. Your eyes fluttered open once more, a question lingering in their depths. "Promise me..." Your voice trailed off, barely a whisper.

Remy pressed his forehead against yours, willing his strength into you. "Anythin', Eclipse. Promise anythin'."

A single tear escaped your eye, tracing a glistening path down your temple. "...don't forget me."

Remy's breath hitched. "Never. Tu me hanteras toujours."

He choked back a sob, burying his face in your neck.  Your hand, cool against his cheek, brushed against him one last time, a whisper of a touch before falling limp.

A/N: I'm adding one more part to this, just to close this fic out. How we feelin'?

#xmen #x men 97 #gambit #remy lebeau #gambit x reader #remy lebeau x reader

[tastycitrus]

i want to see a game like the batman telltale series featuring the entire bat-family, not only because i want the bat-family to get represented in its entirety more often outside of comics and i think a more story-driven game would be great for letting their characters and interpersonal dynamics shine, but also because i want to see the whole family comically get wrecked whenever i fail the quick time events, spider-man web of shadows style

#batman #batfamily #batfam #bruce wayne #dick grayson #barbara gordon #jason todd #tim drake #stephanie brown #cassandra cain #damian wayne #duke thomas #i don't press X in time and nightwing falls flat on his face trying to save a woman and they both die in an explosion #(inb4 obligatory joke about jason's death) #i press the wrong button and batman gets kicked off a building by catwoman #i fail the QTE right after and batman fails to react in time to save catwoman after kicking her off the building #and he just looks over the edge to see her just dead on the ground like ''oh god'' #if you haven't seen the spider-man web of shadows or spider-man 3 QTE fails you really need to watch them #to really understand what i'm looking for in a bat-family game

[moon7jay]

i keep thinking abt noncon w sunghoon like just imagine….

THIS. like idk but something about being helpless under sunghoon would fix me😩. Sorry it took so long anon but here u go!

Forced to take him (p.sh)

🫴Read part 2 here

Warnings : MINORS DNI, non-con, squirting, creampie, cheating, I guess that's it? , mentions of the word "RAPE"

It's non consensual so please if u are not comfy with it, DO NOT READ.

Your sister's boyfriend was weird to say the least. The first time your sister brought him to your shared apartment was last month and ever since then he has made it his second home. See you wouldn't mind this home invasion if only he didn't glare at you with the most intensity u have ever seen someone direct towards u everytime u were in his vicinity. Dead dark eyes following your every move as u pranced around the house.

Your sister's boyfriend was definitely weird, but you had never sensed any sort of danger from him, despite the hostile stares now and then, you never thought he could cause any real harm to u. Not until..

The first time it happened, you were in the kitchen. feeling a presence looming behind your back as u made coffee "lana why r u hovering" u spoke thinking it was your sister but a response never came. In mild curiosity u turned around and your breath hitched when your eyes met his dark dead ones. He was too close, way too close for it to be appropriate.

"W-what do u want? " U asked his tall figure hovering over you, looking anywhere but his eyes, they made u so nervous, like a prey.

He moved more closer to u, this made u look into his eyes, to assess his intentions but the dark glare that he was giving u made u tense up and press your back to the kitchen counter.

You were not expecting his big hands to wrap around your mid section, a gasp escaping your lips when he squeezed your mid section as if spanning your waist and stomach

"So small" he whispered as if in a trance. Your eyes widened but u were frozen, unable to move or speak, something told u that if u upset him, u could end up bloody on the ground. Tears gathered at your waterline, threatening to fall from your eyes as he kept squeezing more and more.

"I'll have a field day forcing myself inside u" he whispered , his eyes not leaving what he was doing with his hands

The tears finally fell at his words and your mouth gaped like a fish, wanting to say something, scream, anything, wild eyes looked up at your face and all breath left your lungs when he smiled at u in an almost maniacal way

"So pretty when u cry aren't u, it drives me crazy, You drive me crazy" he said moving in to lick your tears, making u shudder and close ur eyes, trying to move your face away from him but a large hand came up to hold the back of your neck to keep u in place and u squeaked when his other hand started groping your ass.

You were full on sobbing now as he moved his tongue to your neck and collar bones, your hands holding on to the edges of the kitchen counter in a deathly grip. His teeth punctured your delicate skin making a pained cry leave your lips and that seemed to catch his attention as he stopped doing what he was doing and stepped back all of a sudden. He stared carefully at your heaving form before walking out of the kitchen like it was a normal Tuesday.

As soon as he was out of sight, your knees buckled and you fell on the kitchen floor, sobbing and trying to catch your breath.

Your sister's boyfriend was weird. And you should have told your sister about it, you should have confronted him, you should have taken his words more seriously, you should have sensed the impending danger, you should have... But you didn't.

The next time it happened, u had just gotten home from classes, hearing weird noises in the living room, your feet moved towards it.

Nothing could have prepared u for the sight in front of you. Your sister was spread open on the couch as her boyfriend fucked into her, her legs over his shoulders. A gasp escaped your lips which made sunghoon and your sister look at you. Your sister started pushing sunghoon out of her to apologize to u but sunghoon's thrusts only got harder as his eyes met yours, your sister struggling underneath him, telling him to stop, but all u could hear was static as his expression morphed into one of pleasure as he held eye contact with you, smiling lewdly at you as he came inside your sister. You turned on your heel and ran up to your room, locking it and leaning against the door to catch your breath.

What the fuck was that.

Outside, you could hear your sister yelling at him but the next second you could hear her moans of pleasure again.

Your sister's boyfriend was so weird.

The sound of your door closing woke u up. Sitting abruptly to look around your darkened room.

"lana is that you? " you asked as u turned to ur bedside to turn the lamp on.

Your eyes met his dark ones and your palms started sweating. Sunghoon stood at the edge of your bed, scanning your skimpily dressed body like a predator. Before you could say anything, he started to unbutton his shirt

"What-what the fuck do u think you're doing? " your voice shook as you asked him

"fucking you" Is what the reply came.

"You c- can't" tears started to gather in your eyes again, why were you so scared of him??

"I'll scream, lana will find out, she'll kick you out" You tried threatening him confidently as he unbuckled his belt, his naked chest on display, you averted your eyes.

"she's passed out baby, some sleeping pills is all it takes" he whispered climbing up on the bed.

Your head could not register his words. He drugged your sister.

He drugged your sister to rape you.

You screamed as he grabbed your legs to bring you closer to him as he hovered over your body. His hands trapping you under him as you thrashed and hit him to let go. You did not see the slap coming, but your throbbing lip was enough to make u stare at him with wide eyes, ceasing all your movements.

"I can bleed you to death u know" He whispered scarily calm. His hand moving behind his jeans to pull out a shiny blade. Tears started falling from your eyes as you whimpered in fear of your life. Something in his crazed eyes told u that he had done this before. This wasn't his first time. Not his first time Raping someone. Not his first time Killing someone.

"Please... " u whispered, your lips trembling and bleeding from his strike.

He pressed the cold blade to your throat

"What's it gonna be baby? Want me to slit your throat so I can fuck you to death? or will u let me fuck your warm body while you're still alive? " He asked, his eyes sparkling with excitement at the prospect

"Tell me. Dead or alive? "

"A-alive" u croaked, your body starting to shut down from the terror, the blade pressed to your throat making you numb to everything else.

He smiled and tsked in a disappointed way

"Damn u didn't fight much, was looking forward to some blood bath as we fuck" He chuckled and kept the blade back inside the back pocket of his jeans.

Hands started to grope your body, your night gown torn apart within seconds. You layed back and stared at the ceiling, having given up in trying to stop what was about to happen.

You were a virgin, you had been saving yourself for the love of your life. Park Jay. The smartest and kindest boy in your class. You had recently started flirting with him, letting him know you were intrested. You had thought countless times of this moment. But not like this.

Curious and rough hands squeezed your breasts making your breath get heavy, this was painful. His breathing was laboured too but for entirely different reasons than yours.

He leaned over you to press his chest to your tits. "Press them up against me cmon, need to feel them " He whispered in anticipation, you arched your back to do what he said, your nipples rubbing against his own, a hiss of pleasure leaving his teeth "good girl, such a good fuck toy for me"

His hands spread your legs apart and he quickly undid his jeans, just enough to fish out his hard cock. You prepared yourself for penetration, clutching onto your sheets as you watched him jerk himself off.

His teeth biting his lower lip as he stared lewdly at your spread and naked body

"Such a pretty fuck hole" He whispered before hastily slotting himself between your legs, hands grabbing your midsection like he did that day and the next thing you feel is an excruciating pain. A pain so intense as he forces his way inside of you. Your walls are dry but he doesn't even care, curses and whines falling from his lips and he bottoms out in you, tearing your hymen. You start to sob uncontrollably "s-stop please" U croak between sobs but it only causes him to grind more into u

"Beg more for me baby, beg me to stop" He grunts with a hard thrust inside you.

He rests his forehead against yours,hands resting beside your head, tongue darting out to lick your tears once again

"Gonna tear ur pussy so good"

"Like fucking virgins so much" He whispered and pulled all the way out to thrust back in, hitting your cervix in a painful way. A pained scream ripped out of you and he smiled in sick satisfaction. Soon his expression morphed into one of wild desire and pleasure as he kept thrusting inside of you, your body started secreting fluids which made his experience all the more pleasurable and he gritted his teeth at your tight walls

"you like being raped like this don't you? Keep fucking my dick just like that"

"Fuck it baby oh yeah, god so tight"

"It's fun isn't it? Feels so good doesn't it? Pleasure me come on, make me relieve my lust"

His words sound static to your ears as you come on his cock, your body betraying u once again, sobbing continuously, you keep taking his assault.

He groans like an animal when u dig your nails in his back, begging him to stop

"Yeah baby? Want me to stop? " His thrusts getting wilder, pounding your cervix

"ask me to stop, scream for me to stop baby, makes me so hard when u beg "

His dick keeps dragging against your walls in the mix of both pain and pleasure, his hands groping your body as he unleashes his inner animal to fuck into u however he wants, he's on his third orgasm but his dick is still hard in you

"You're gonna make me cum , I'm not the only one enjoying this rape yeah baby? Fuck yeah, squeezing around me so good"

You scream hard at a particular thrust and he laughs while panting

"Oh yeah? "

"Just like that? "

"fuck fuck fuck" he gasps as he comes inside your wet heat again. Fucking his come back inside of your leaking hole, overstimulating your body, your lower region feeling numb, your mind slipping in and out of consciousness.

You felt him pulling out, hissing as he observed your leaking and abused hole

"Fuck yeah" He breathed, turning your body around and mounting you again, thrusting deep inside of you, your face squished against your pillows as he breeds you from behind.

It's animalistic, the way he fucks you.

"Wanna keep it in u forever,can't stop, I can't stop"

"Pussy So good oh fuck"

He groaned, digging his teeth at the back of your neck, you were sure u were bleeding.

Your consciousness left u somewhere in the middle of his animalistic panting and grunts.

When u came to, u found yourself in a mating press, his face right above yours as he fucked u folded in half

"Ah u're awake sunshine, raping u so good yeah? "

He breathes and licks your lower lip. His hips moving relentlessly, grinding into u at a slow pace now

"Open " He panted and as if on autopilot, all strength leaving your body, u open your mouth

He spits in it "swallow" He says and u do. He curses and bites your lower lip as his thrusts become erratic

"Mhmnn fuck yeah, one more oh yeah"

He grunts as he fucks his cum into you. Making u squirt all over him.

His mouth lapping on your pussy is all u feel before u drift into unconsciousness.

Your sister's boyfriend is so weird.

#enhypen hard thoughts #enhypen smut #enhypen hard headcanons #enhypen #sunghoon smut #park sunghoon #enha x reader #enha

[kettlefire]

Booo-merang Trouble DP x DC Idea

Okay but leeching off the idea that Jason gives off an ecto-signature, and I probably saw a post about this somewhere. I just for the love of me can't find it. If anyone knows it, please link it so I can credit!:

Jason isn't even on patrol, he's visiting the manor. His chilling, eating away at lunch. He doesn't come to the manor often, but he always needs a dose of his crazy family every once in a while. There's no way he'd stay away from Alred's cookies for long.

Then boom, something shatters the window behind him. On instinct, Jason moves. Taking cover and trying to get a sight of the situation. Of the perceived attack. However, before Jason could do much a heavy object rams into his chest before landing on the ground before him. It doesn't really hurt, nothing compared to his prior injuries.

A boomerang. A glowing green and silver boomerang laid on the ground before him. Jason's a million and one ways confused as he stared at the device. His hands carefully picking it up, and looking over the softly beeping device.

Jason thinks maybe it's a bomb, but something in his gut says otherwise. He can think of a million different things it could be. Maybe one of the rogues got a hold of their DNA, and it tracked them. Maybe it's going to expel a gas any moment, an attack on the Waynes rather than their vigilante personas.

Except it's none of that. The beeping stops and suddenly a robotic voice sounds from the boomerang.

"Ghost located, prepare for your end ghoul."

Jason tenses once again at the clear threat in those words. His gaze scans around the kitchen, still crouched behind the kitchen counter. Except nothing happens.

Except for a voice ringing out from the boomerang once again. This time, this time it's not a robot. It's a clear record of a young woman speaking. Her voice filled with fear, concern, and urgency.

"Okay, this should work right? You know what, that doesn't matter. No one but you should have a signature. Beside's Tucker thinks he set this up to go to you only. So Danny, you should be hearing this..."

Jason only finds himself more confused. The urgency in this girl's voice was enough to keep his nerves on edge. It sounded important, but Jason had no clue who these people are. Who these names could be refering to.

"Danny... Things here aren't doing to good. Look, I know why you left. You have every reason to. What mom and dad did... It's unforgivable and I don't expect you to come back. But, thing is..."

There's a lull in the recording. The distant sound of soft chatting. If Jason strained his ears, he could somewhat pick of the sound of another woman and man.

"Everyone thinks Phantom is dead. Which I would think is a good thing, but it's not. Danny, the GIW is on a rampage now that you aren't here. Mom and dad are on their side..."

Jason made the conclusion that the speaker was this Danny's sister. The message was intended for him, yet it somehow landed in Jason's lap.

"They have everyone locked up in the school... Radars to see if anyone has a signature, and if they do... They separate them from everyone else."

Jason's brows furrowed, finally pulling himself to a stand. He placed the boomerang on the kitchen counter. Leaning forward as he took in the words.

"We don't know what they are doing. Sam, Tucker, and Valerie... We're all hiding. We'll have the highest signatures, and... Listen Danny..."

Jason had a growing pit in his gut. He knew something wasn't right. These people were in danger. It didn't matter he didn't know about what, or who the GIW was, but these people needed help.

"... We need you. We need Phantom, baby bro. I'm sorry, I know you're still recovering. We can handle things here, but please. Please tell me you're still alive, you're in Gotham right? Tell me you're safe, and you're healing and still kicking Danny."

Jason swallowed, placing his hands flat on the kitchen counter. He needed to get this down to the cave. Have the computer tracked where it came from. But Jason couldn't move, not at the sound of pure desperation in this woman's voice.

"I just need to know you at least made it out of this nightmare. I don't care how you do it, just please let me know things are okay... They have... They have Vlad, Danny. Things are complicated, and I hate to put this on you... But Amity needs Phantom..."

The recorded suddenly broke into static, but Jason thinks he got enough of what he needed. Amity. The place these people were was called Amity. It gave him a lead, something for them to work with.

"Da... We... Help... They..."

Jason could hear the woman's voice breaking through the static. He gripped the boomerang, turning on his heels and heading towards the cave.

"Sam... Mom... Tech... I..."

Every broken word only fueled Jason's own urgency. Jason felt a strange urge, a connection. Something that told him he had to help. They needed to help. The boomerang found him, and that had to mean something.

"... I love you, Danny..."

Those four words were the clearest compared to rhe rest of it. It made Jason's heart seize, and he took a breath. He was going to help.

It didn't matter if Jason didn't know these people. If they weren't from Gotham. This was important, and something told Jason he needed to find this Danny.

Danny would be the only one that would know that to do. If Jason manages to rewind the recording, he was certain Bruce would be equally on board.

That voice, the emotions that dripped from it. It gave the sense that this wasn't just life or death. This was a world ending problem.

And Jason would be damned if he ignored it.

#danny phantom #fandom things #fandom #multi fandom blog #fanfiction #dc x dp #dp #dpxdc #dc jason todd #jason todd #red hood #batfamily #the batfamily #danny phantom batman #dc batman #batman #bruce wayne #Jason has an ecto-signature #Danny ran away to Gotham to heal from parental trauma #Team phantom are the only ones that know this #so Tucker reworked the boomerang #Jazz recorded the message #and it was meant for no one else but Danny #whoospies #jazz fenton #sam manson #tucker foley #team phantom #guys in white

[leaawrites]

Take away the pain

Percy Jackson x daughter of Apollo!reader

Warnings: Blood, open body, might be disturbing, mentions of organs, broken limbs, nightmare, mentions of death, mentions of wounds, scratch marks, tight throat, female reader,

Category: angst, a bit of fluff, comfort

summary: after reader has a nightmare Percy comforts her.

Masterlist

Blood. It was everywhere. Soaking her clothes, staining the fabric in a crimson color. Her body felt weightless, but she felt alive. Her limbs were broken, they were shattered, thorn by the ends. Her chest was open. She couldn’t feel it, but she saw it. It wasn’t neatly opened by a knife. She wasn’t slashed or stabbed by a human creature. It was a hole. She was opened by something more forceful. Part of her organs were laying beside her. Her skin was opened.

The stone beneath her feet was flat, sanded smooth by millions of feet walking over it. But hers couldn’t feel it. She couldn’t make her mark on it. She couldn’t polish it with her own. She destroyed it.

Her body was weightless and she wasn’t alive.

Her eyes opened, sweat was soaking the shirt she slept in. Her hair was a mess. Nothing felt real anymore. But it was real. This was real.

Her hands clutched her chest, fearing to feel it soaked. But all she felt was skin to skin. A body moved on the other side of the bed. Percy pulled the blanket up to his face, probably fighting with his own nightmare.

The air in camp Half-blood felt clearer at night. No one was awake at this hour, the sky was dark, nature was silent. A tree moved from the wind, somewhere something else moved through the night, making sounds through the leaves that covered the ground.

Y/n gently removed the blanket from over her body, hoping she wouldn’t wake Percy in doing so. Her feet were soundless on the wooden floor. Tears were pricking on the edge of her eye. Her eye lids felt heavy from the water forming beneath them.

Being a kid of Apollo was great in her eyes. She couldn’t complain too much. However, one thing that made her want to change her godly parent, were the wounds she’d seen. The blood that has been on her hands while trying to safe someone else. She saw people in pain that she wanted to pull them out of, often that was Percy. If there was a way of taking their pain and put them onto her she would gladly do it. But she couldn’t.

Slow rivers were trailing down her face as she sat down on the stairs, watching the outside in hope of forgetting what she saw. It may wasn’t real, but it felt realistic enough to scare her. Images came flashing back into her mind. And every time they did, she shut her eyes, imagining his face. The way he would smile at her whenever he saw her. Until it was forgotten.

“What did you dream about?” Of course he knew that was the reason she was up. Of course he felt whenever she wasn’t by his side, even when his eyes were closed and his body was on stand-by.

Y/n moved her fingers over her neck, scratching her fingernails against the soft flesh. It hurt, she noticed. The simple motion made her throat feel tight, it felt like strings were laced around it, pulling themselves together by the second. A deep breath in the pain began to gave up on paining her even more.

“I was dead,” she said, her voice shaking while she spoke. Percy sat down beside her, looking confused at the raw explanation. “My chest was ripped open, there was blood everywhere and my body wasn’t my body anymore. Percy, I- I was nothing more but a dead, rotting body. Nothing more than flesh split open, with broken bones.”

Percy knew about the dreams she had before. They were mostly about other people dying, never her. He put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her body into his chest, the other covered his face.

"It was just a dream," he assured the girl. It pained him to see her so broken over what others called her gift. He didn't know what he would do if he saw what she saw.

"But can I be sure of that? What if it was all just a vision of what will be in the future?" There were a hundred thoughts on her mind. Most of them bad ones. If this was all a vision, when would it happen? When would whatever ripped her open rip her open?

Kissing her head, he softly spoke, “Nothing will hurt you. I won’t let it.”

“How can you be so sure about that?” She asked, thinking back on the girl who was in the infirmary a few days ago. She was on a quest, abandoned by her other two acquaintances. He told me he would never leave me, she recalled the girl tell her. Percy wasn’t like this, but what if something acquired him to go away? What if someone was the reason why he wasn’t there?

Percy thought back to his mother. He believed she would always be there, until she wasn’t. But he got her back. He believed, that if you truly loved someone, that nothing could make you turn away from them. “Because I love you.”

It was his only reasonable answer to that question. He would protect her as long as he loved her. There was nothing that could make him turn away when she was hurt.

The pain on her neck left completely when Percy planted a kiss on the back of it. He made the pain disappear. The string detached from another, leaving her to breath freely and purely. The pain from her stomach unraveled when she felt his skin against it. He was what she needed when the pain was too much. With Percy everything felt lighter. Every one of her problems solved around him. He was the light she needed on dark day for her sun to shine.

#percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #percy pjo #percy series #pjo show #persassy #pjo #percy jackson imagine #percy jackson x reader #percy jackson x you #percy jackson x y/n #percy jackson tv show #pjo tv show #pjo series

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Queue me sprinting to the inbox when I got the notice that your inbox was open! First off, congrats on 5k! Ok now business: can I request something along the lines of Ghost realizing he’s become attached his partner (maybe the reader is the same rank or a sniper or something where they’ve known each other a while) but it’s a situation where it’s a harsh realization. Like it was the one time they didn’t go on a mission together and the reader got hurt real bad (like Ghost only found out because he happened to be on the tarmac when the reader’s body was being carried out of a helicopter by medics) and that’s how he realizes he loves the reader. Because it hits him like a ton of bricks that he might loose them and just breaks down but it ends with him being by the reader’s side and confessing in his own way when they wake up

—Blood Like Obsidian

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [Simon can only fight against so many nurses as they shove him back from your operation room.] ❞

He doesn’t recall how he felt the moment he spotted your body being dragged out of that Helo, arm limp over the shoulder of one of the men in your unit. He doesn’t even remember what Soap was talking to him about on the tarmac. 

Because at that instance, the entire world seemed to stop in one horrible moment of mute panic and brown, wide eyes. 

Simon watched for a moment in shock, seeing your limp form as the soldier carrying you screamed out for a medic, moving as fast as he could in the direction of the on-base hospital; jostling you. Soap finally looks over.

“Holy hell,” the Scot breathes, head pulling back. 

Simon’s already sprinting. 

“Give her to me,” he growls to the soldier, who looks up at him in shock as he appears like an apparition. 

“S-sir, I—”

“Fucking hand her over!” Simon orders, eye flashing, his accent already making the aggressive voice even more so as he spits from behind his mask. 

The man immediately presents your unconscious form, blood so saturated into your gear that the black looks like obsidian; shiny like that natural glass formed after lava cools. There’s a damn hole in your chest. 

Taking you up easily, your dead weight makes his chest tighten, a sharp inhale sounding off from Simon before he grits his teeth and holds you tighter.

The Lieutenant grunts and takes off, feet slamming into the ground. He glances down at you in rapid intervals, gazing at your expressionless face for long seconds before it snaps back up to the road ahead—it’s no more than a few seconds before Simon slams his shoulder into a door. 

The barrier hits the far wall and nurses all look up in momentary fear.

“Help her!” He sounds desperate, and his hands dig into you harshly. If you’d been awake, you’d be telling him to let go before you developed marks. The nurses are still paused at the sudden appearance of the monster-ish man in black and gray. Simon barks like a dog, stepping closer. “Fuckin’ hell, are you bastards bloody deaf?!”

The others dash forward and tell him to place you on one of the rolling beds, and he does so without another word; heart so violently beating in his chest that he’s panting, breath loud in his own head.

The nurses are calling to one another, yelling to grab an available doctor and get you into surgery, beginning to wheel you away. Simon jogs along, eyes not leaving your face but ever silent with his hands clenched.

He hadn’t given much thought to how he felt about you—nothing was ever going to come of it. Years of missions and companionship with you. You, the ever-present bit of light that had stayed longer than all others. 

You, the only woman he would ever love.

The realization makes Simon’s legs nearly lock from under him, stumbling for a moment as one nurse peels back your vest and takes a pair of scissors to cut away the fabric over the mess of torn flesh and spitting veins.

You leave droplets of blood behind you, trailing off the limp hand that points to the floor from over the edge of the bed. 

Simon grabs at it and brings the hand to your chest, and he notices his own fingers shaking as he desperately moves his eyes up and down your body. He can’t even look at the wound—large, deadly. You jerk around with every movement as if you're already dead.

The Lieutenant feels his eyes burn with stark betrayal but barely pays attention.

As they’re pushing you into a pair of double doors, Simon remembers he was supposed to be with you during this mission, but had been reassigned last minute. The thought is so sudden he nearly forgets to ask where they’re bringing you. But the man recovers quickly.

“Oi!” He shouts, arms pushing him back from the door. Half of the nurses are telling him he needs to leave. He growls and jerks away from them, eyes flashing dangerously but always darting back to the door as it sways back and forth. 

But he knows why he’s out here—and the Lieutenant certainly doesn’t know how to operate on someone no matter how much he did.

He steps back and the rest of the nurses disappear back into your room. 

Simon puts a hand on the back of his head, gripping tightly at the fabric of his covering as he fears his teeth might break from how hard he’s clenching his jaw—grinding them across one another like a cheese grater. 

He loved you. Oh, God, he loved you. 

And he wasn’t there.

Turning away from the door, Simon paces the hallways until Soap re-joins him, any attempt the Sergeant makes at conversation is immediately slashed down ruthlessly. Simon’s shoulders widen; eyes grow more dead the longer you’re gone from his sight. 

It’s five hours until there’s any word, and when there is, the Lieutenant is alone again—his leg jumping along the floor and his hands held in a single fist under his nose; elbows on knees.

When he’s able to see you—stable but the future still uncertain, he sleeps there. 

Simon sleeps on the floor beside your hospital bed for two days straight, and the nurses are too afraid to tell him he can’t do that. So they don’t tell him at all. 

On day three, the man has only left the room to go to the bathroom; no food, no showers, or new clothes. He’d gone through worse, what was hunger? What was the small uncomfortableness in his chest? Nothing. It was nothing. 

During the day he watches your face, standing or sitting doesn’t matter. The nurses come and go, the doctor too, and he lets them work silently. Simon doesn’t speak to them.

But he does speak to you. 

And on day four, he plays with your fingers with a single hand, taking the flesh and watching it move. Feeling your pulse. 

The Lieutenant grunts. 

“Should’ve been there,” he hisses to himself harshly. “Should ‘ave never let you bloody go alone, yeah? Been by my side for ages.” Simon scoffs, glaring at the bedsheets. “My fuckin’ fault you’re ‘ere. No one can watch your back better, should’ve known that.” He misses the small twitch in your hand, too self-absorbed with his faults. 

Simon was never one for airing his grievances; the man was a master at suffering in the quiet nights. But this was a special case.

Your finger twitches again. 

“...Shouldn’t say stuff like that,” your words slur, and Simon’s head snaps up; heart lurching. He goes silent. 

Your eyes are only half-open, body heavy. You’ll be going back to sleep in mere moments, but you’d been awake long enough to understand what was going on. Simon watches, but his hand slips into yours. Grasping tightly. 

An unknown weight is taken from him at the twitch of a smirk on your lips.

“Care about you too, Big Guy.” 

He won’t tell you he loves you—he’s not that kind of person. He won’t explain the panic or the fear. Terror, really. 

But he’ll slip off his mask and let you see him, his thumb running the length of your knuckles. He’ll sigh and those browns will give way to the rare expressions he shows so few. 

He’ll let his head bend down to rest on your thigh as you fall back to sleep. Simon’s hand still holding yours.

You know.

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @waves-against-a-cliff, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

#cod #cod x reader #cod x you #call of duty #cod mw22 #x female reader #mw2 #call of duty x you #mw2 2022 #cod simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #cod simon riley #simon riley #simon ghost x you #simon ghost x reader #ghost call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare 2 #call of duty x reader #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #cod x female reader #x fem!reader #cod mw #cod mw2 #cod ghost #cod mwii #modern warfare 2

[fcthots]

“I swear to you, that as long as I’m alive I won’t let a single soul ever harm you.” with protective upset and slightly unhinged jason would be so so good oh my god. like if something bad happens to reader and he has to get violent to defend her… yeah.

-🧸

You were on you way home, out later than you should have been, but your friend needed moral support after a breakup and you lost track of time.

Unfortunately while both you & Jason's apartment and your friend's were just off the edge of crime alley, your friend's apartment was on the opposite end of you and Jason. All of this is to say, unless you wanted to be out after midnight, you had to pass through crime alley after dark. It was just a five minute walk there, when daylight spared you of most of the dangers of Gotham, but it was pitch black now. You should have driven, but at the time it didn’t seem necessary.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

You walked as fast as possible.

You didn’t even have a purse on you. Your phone was in the leather jacket Jason had bought you as a present and you had 20 dollars stuffed somewhere in your pant pockets.

Were you supposed to turn left here? Yeah, you recognize that streetlamp.

You would call Jason, but your phone is fucking dead and it's not like you were gonna ask your crying friend for a charger. And you didn’t realize how late it had gotten until you stepped outside with no way to get back into your friends apartment.

You were in the home stretch, just in the outskirts of crime alley. Almost freedom.

Never let it be said that you were lucky. All of your luck was used getting your hot ass boyfriend. Luck gone.

The man had a knife and was screaming for your wallet. Your wallet that you did not bring with you.

"Give me the wallet or I'm gonna spill your guts on the fucking ground!"

Just because your boyfriend was scary looking, did not mean you were used to scary men, especially ones that yelled at you. Your hands shook and you weren't sure what to do.

"I don’t have it. All I have is 20 dollars, please."

"That's a fucking lie. I see your jacket. I know that shit is expensive. Lie to me again and I'll slit your throat."

Fuck. If you had to guess, it would be Jason that would find your body. You didn’t want it to be Jason. He wouldn't be able to handle seeing your lifeless eyes. You know what it's like to look into your soulmates lifeless eyes and realize they're gone forever; you were hoping Jason would never have to experience that.

"It's-"

"Tough luck... I guess I could accept other forms of payment."

He bares his teeth in a grin as he sees the look on your face.

"Unless you'd prefer that no one ever finds your body?"

You're really glad you told Jason you loved him before he left for patrol.

The man starts getting closer to you. You can't talk, can't scream, can't think. You were gonna die alone.

You think you mumble out a 'please' before your back hits the wall. His knife was to your throat, but all you could think about was Jason.

There was a bang that you didn’t fully register. Before you could think twice about it, your mugger was on the ground. You didn’t move. You stayed, frozen, silent tears running down your cheeks.

"Shh, it's ok. You're ok. It's me."

You finally focused your eyes and saw the white lenses staring at you, his arms in the air.

You babbled nonsense. You couldn't breathe.

You tried to back away from the man on the floor, but you almost fell. You swore your legs were going to give out. Jason was at your side in less than a second. He lifted you over the bleeding body on the ground, supported your weight as your knees buckled.

He tucked your face into the crook of his neck and you choked on air.

"I've got you. Match my breaths, ok? Good. You're doing great. You're ok, I promise."

All you could manage to get out was his name.

"'M right here. Just breathe. Focus on that for me." His hand cradled the base of your neck.

Eventually you stopped crying. Eventually you could breathe again. Eventually Jason led your face away from his neck to look at you. Your whole body shook. You watched as he drew his hand up to his helmet and heard this hiss and click and he took it off. He took your jaw in one of his hands.

He wiped the splattered blood and tears off your cheeks with a gloved hand, traced the trail of fresh blood and broken skin on your neck from where the knife was pressed against you. “I swear to you, that as long as I’m alive I won’t let a single soul ever harm you.”

You looked into his eyes as they flashed an inhuman green, and you believed him.

Bonus:

"Wait, Jay. Did you just happen to stumble across me?"

"There...may or may not be a tracker in the jacket I bought you... You were in one place for too long."

"I hate that that makes me feel safer."

He smiles apologetically. "I love you."

"I love you too."

#tw: sa mention #tw: sa threat #I am the angst queen #saph’s love letters #jason todd #jason todd x reader #saph’s thots #red hood x reader #jason todd imagine #red hood #jason todd x you #red hood imagine #red hood x you #jason todd angst #jason todd x reader angst #red hood x reader angst #red hood angst #angst #🧸 anon

[star-girl69]

New Romantics

Clarisse La Rue x Fem!AphroditeCabin!Reader

—-

sypnosis: you and clarisse meet during a capture the flag game, In A Good Way prequel!!

a/n: IM SO GLAD EVERYONE LIKES MY CLARISSE FIC ☹️☹️☹️☹️ i have so many planned but i just wanted to say thank you all sm!!!! this one is so silly….. i hope you all enjoy!!

LMK IF YOU WANNA BE ON MY CLARISSE TAGLIST!!!!!!

New Romantics - Taylor Swift

warnings: violence, swearing, mentions of death and blood, insane clarisse bc she gets a LITTLE too into capture the flag, protective clarisse obvi i will never write a fic without her showing up, clarisse makes me SWOON if you couldn’t tell, not proofread we get turned into pine trees like thalia over here, tell me if i missed anything!!

—-

Your legs ache. You’ve been at Camp Half Blood all your life, but you just spent the entire school year doing absolutely nothing. It was an adjustment. You’re already being forced into the horrible tradition of capture the flag. You met up with your favorite and best friends Jackie and Tyla at the beginning of summer, and you’ve all been attached to the hip ever since.

The three of you thought you could escape to a random part of the woods and skip out.

It’s not like you were lazy, or couldn’t hold your own in a fight- but you had just taken turns doing each others nails yesterday, and it would be such a shame to see them all smudged and broken.

You were on the red team, so you watched as the incomparable Clarisse La Rue ran around instructing everyone what to do- completely skipping past the three of you. Jackie took it to heart, complaining about how she had lasted two minutes sparring with Clarisse once, and she had no right to label all Aphrodite kids as weak and useless.

You remember the night you finally made it to the crest of camp, blood staining your hands, your satyr protector dead on the ground behind you as some monster you didn’t know the name of chased after you.

The three of you thought maybe a nice walk at the edge of the woods would be nice, when suddenly a squadron of the blue team came running out trying to catch you as prisoners. It wasn’t a rule of the game, but it was generally expected that that the winner had more prisoners, or else the victory just didn’t seem right.

The blue team saw Aphrodite kids as easy targets to pick off.

This felt all too familiar to that stormy light, your pounding heart, looking around as everything crashed around you. One of them even jumped down from the freaking trees, and you screamed at the top of your lungs as all three of you sprinted off into different directions.

There was only one chasing behind you, a Hermes kid you didn’t know the name of, but he was fast on your tail.

Just as you had reached the crest of the hill, you screeched at the top of your lungs as you saw four figures in front of you. A satyr. Two girls. One boy.

“Not another one,” the stayr moaned, before beckoning you towards them. You stayed frozen in place. The monster was big and slow, but you could hear it approach.

The boy held out his hand.

“I promise,” he breathed, locking eyes with the smaller girl, maybe a year or two younger than you, before looking up at the older girl. You could tell she was battle hardened, she was ready to win this. “We’ll all make it to camp.”

Both monsters chasing you let out ear-piercing roars, and you quickly slapped your hand into his and sprinted away.

Thalia, you would later learn her name, didn’t survive that night. But you did. Luke did. Annabeth did.

The three of you will forever be bonded by that, even if you’re on different teams in capture the flag. Gods, you wish it was Luke chasing you right now- but it’s not.

You’ve forgotten everything about swords and fighting in exchange for the Russian Revolution and the Periodic Table. You hate school even more in this moment.

He reaches out towards you and you’re distracted by his hand touching your shoulder, heart pounding in your ears, and you trip right over a root and stumble before falling to the ground.

You faintly see the flash of bronze armor pass you, then you suddenly hear a body slam into the ground. You whip around, only to find a girl wearing a red-tipped helmet on top of the boy chasing you.

“Clarisse!” she shouts. “I got him!”

You breathe heavily, watching at the boy yells and tries to buck her off of him, but you faintly remember seeing her constantly around Clarisse. She must be another Ares kid, which means there’s no way she’s letting this Hermes kid gets away.

Clarisse saunters out of the woods on your left, looking between you and the boy on the ground.

You sit up on your hands, watching it all play out, not able to catch your breath.

She smiles, slow, like a cheshire cat.

Gods, why does she have to look like that? Why does she have to smile like that? Why does she have to make you feel this way?

Why doesn’t she just drop the spear and make out with you?

“So, this is the dummy who thinks it’s funny to chase around Aphrodite kids,” she says, slowing walking turns him. The girl holds up his head so he has to look at Clarisse. She places the end of her spear into the dirt. She leans down in front of him. “Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the Aphrodite cabin is on the red team, right? Right?”

The girl tugs his head up and he winces, but nods.

“And who captains the red team? Cause I think it’s me, isn’t it?”

He’s learned his lesson. He nods quickly, now.

“I’m feeling nice today. Why don’t you apologize to the pretty girl, and maybe I won’t kill you.”

His eyes lock with yours. He says nothing.

“I said apologize, dumbass.”

He glares at Clarisse.

“You’re fucking insane.”

She laughs a bit. “It’s capture the flag, Zander, why are you not getting a little crazy? Chasing after Aphrodite kids is just embarrassing, honestly.”

“Fine,” he spits. “Fucking fine. I’m sorry.”

“Was that so hard?” she coos. She nods, and the girl let’s him go.

Holy Hades if that wasn’t the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

He runs straight off into the woods after a moment, when he realizes they’re not gonna chase after him, not now at least.

The other girl turns to you. “You ok?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you dust off your knees. “There’s more of them by the edge, just so you know. Just north of the river.”

The girl smiles. “Gods, yes. Fuckin’ love destroying the Hermes cabin.”

Clarisse turns to you. She tilts her head to the side, watching you breath heavily on the ground. She sticks out your hand. Your grab it quick, scared she might pull away, and her hand is so warm and fits perfectly with yours. She pulls you up and you dust off your knees.

The other girl takes off running, following the boy, yelling for Clarisse to hurry up.

She smiles a bit, and you swear to Zeus her cheeks are a little flushed, you swear she looks at your lips for a second.

She brushes her thumb across her cheek.

“You’ve got some dirt on your face, gorgeous.”

She runs off before you can say anything, electrical spear crackling to life.

Oh, you fucking love capture the flag.

—-

clarisse “you’ve got some dirt on your face, gorgeous” la rue the woman you are

—-

#clarisse la rue #clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse la rue x y/n #clarisse la rue x you #pjo tv show #pjo x reader

[eat-limes-bitches]

Sanctuary

PAIRING: Female Avenger! Reader x Bucky Barnes

SUMMARY: We all need a safe place to rest, even when some of us don't believe it

WARNINGS: umm, major fluff, Bucky thinking badly of himself

Word Count: 1408

A/N: wow surprise surprise, I'm not dead. I just fell into the hole of no inspiration paired with real-world stuff (gross) but please enjoy this lovely little thing I wrote. First thing I've written in months so sorry if it is not the best.

Enjoy! <3

Divider by Rookthorne

It was nearing three am when Bucky finally walked through the compound doors. He crept silently through the halls, his final destination in mind: his bedroom. Not to sleep, he was still too on edge from the mission he was returning from even to consider sleeping. He just wanted out of his wet clothes from the rain. Upon reaching said destination, Bucky rid himself of the soggy garments and slipped into a pair of grey sweatpants and a random t-shirt he pulled out of his dresser before leaving his room to head to the gym to work off some of the remaining adrenaline. No matter how loud his body screamed at him to rest, he was more fearful of the monsters inside of his head than the aching pain radiating through his body. When he reached the kitchen, he wasn’t planning on stopping until he heard a soft humming which caught his attention. He paused just inside the door frame and looked around for the source of the sound when his eyes landed on Y/n.

Y/n was an enigma to Bucky. Everyone gravitated towards her, something about her presence was enough to soothe the battered souls of the team and it wasn’t uncommon to find her in the lounge with one or all of the Avengers piled up around her in some form or fashion, most nights one of them would be snuggled up in her bed after a rough mission just needing human contact to help ground them, even now, watching her put a bagel in the toaster, with the setting turned up much too high for her preferred toasty-ness, Bucky felt the tension in his shoulders give out just a little, his heart doing little flips as well, but he refused to give in. He didn’t want to taint the sweetness of her aura with the bitterness of his demons. He instead opted to watch as her soft Y/h/c curls swayed around as she rummaged through the refrigerator for a new stick of butter, still humming gently as she did so. 

“I don’t bite, you know. You can come sit down,” She called out to him, not bothering to turn around, causing Bucky to flinch slightly. He hated being caught observing her from afar. His teammates would see the longing looks he gave in her direction, longing to feel the soft safety she provided but refusing himself as some sort of twisted punishment. Bucky slowly crept over to the kitchen counter where the chairs were neatly tucked up under the ledge until he pulled one out to sit on. Only once situated did Y/n turn around and look at him. Her soft eyes traced over his form examining for any injuries.

 As if sensing the reason for her intense gaze, Bucky whispered, “‘M not hurt darlin’.”

She moved her eyes to meet his, checking the validity of his statement. Whatever she found there was enough to confirm his statement and she nodded, cocking her head to one side as she asked, 

“Then why are you not in bed resting? Your body is obviously trying to tell you to rest and you are ignoring it. Why?”

Bucky sighed, refusing to look at her. She had the uncanny ability to read everyone who lived in the compound, but somehow, she read him better than everyone else, knowing exactly what was going on with him without him saying a word. 

“Are you worried about the nightmares?” Y/n questioned, voice no more than a whisper as she ducked her head to catch his gaze with her own. Darting his eyes to catch her gaze before looking away, Bucky nodded. Y/n hummed before returning to the toaster to retrieve her bagel, slathering it with butter when Bucky finally spoke, 

“What are you doing up at this time?” Y/n flashed a smile over her shoulder before replying,

“I knew you were coming home, I had FRIDAY tell me when you arrived so that way I would be around if you needed anything. I know how you get after missions like these, I just wanted to be available.”

Now, Bucky was a sensitive guy, underneath all of the tall, dark, and brooding, was a man who was starved of any sort of affection for over 70 years, and hearing that simple statement from Y/n was enough to break down the little self-control he had to stay away from her. 

“Y-y/n?” He asked, a wobble evident in his voice as he spoke, catching Y/n’s attention immediately.

“Can-” Bucky started to ask before snapping his mouth closed, the thought of ruining her running through his mind before he could finish his question,

 “Actually, never mind.” He mumbled, pushing himself off of the chair and making a bee-line for the exit when Y/n called out after him,

“Wait, Bucky!” He stopped in his tracks, not being able to just ignore her when she said his name so sweetly. He listened as her quiet footsteps got closer until she was standing slightly in front of him, not wanting to stand directly in his way in case he still wanted to leave. 

“You know, you yourself, as much as anyone else in this universe deserve love and affection, even if you think don’t. I know that’s hard to accept right now, there’s a lot of turmoil going on in that noggin of yours,” she said softly, taking a few steps closer to him as she continued,

“but I need you to know that and to know that I am here. I am always here for you. Now, if you want to ask your question you can, and if you still want to leave you can as well. I just needed to make sure you knew that.”

She smiled at him, a smile he had never seen before. It was soft, bright, and warm in ways that he had never seen before that made him realize this smile was just for him, and only for him. For some reason, that knowledge made him brave and with a deep breath, he asked to question he was afraid to,

“D-do you think that you can let me sleep with you tonight?” His voice was so soft that if Y/n’s complete attention wasn’t on him, she may not have heard him. She smiled that special smile at him as she extended her hand for him to take,

“Of course, c'mon then, let’s get you to bed. You need some solid sleep,” she murmured as she led him towards her room. 

Y/n pushed the door open and walked through, letting Bucky enter in his own time, not wanting to overwhelm him. Slowly, Bucky crept into the room, the smell of lavender, mint, and cedar invading his senses as he approached the bed. Y/n smiled at him before pushing the grey sheets back and climbing in, motioning for him to do the same. Once underneath the soft sheets, Y/n turned to face him.

 “How do you want to do this?” She asked, “Do you want me to touch you?” In the dim light, Bucky could see a soft flush on her cheeks, as she continued to explain herself, realizing that the word choice was a little provocative. “I-I mean like, some people like to cuddle others just like knowing someone else is there I don’t mind either way, I just didn’t want you to think-” 

Bucky chuckled softly and reached over and pulled Y/n closer to him so that he could lay his head on her chest, listening to her steady heartbeat. Y/n froze slightly before completely melting and moving her hands to his hair, running through the soft chestnut strands. 

“So you’re a cuddler. Got it.” She murmured, smiling as Bucky snuggled deeper into her embrace, arms still wound around her frame to keep her close. Bucky began to grow drowsy, between Y/n’s gentle finger in his hair and the soft song she began humming again, sleep was not far from wrapping Bucky in its soft embrace.

“Thank you,” Bucky muttered, his voice muffled by the fabric of Y/n’s old university t-shirt.

Y/n smiled and pressed a kiss to the crown of Bucky’s head. “Of course, now get some rest, you need it.” With a final squeeze, Bucky began to drift off to sleep. Maybe, this was the exact sanctuary he needed.

#bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky fluff #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky x reader fluff #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky×reader #bucky fanfic #james bucky buchanan barnes #winter soldier

[myhappylittlesideblog]

Make It Back

A/N: A right of passage- sticking the reader character into the 'Andrea shot Daryl' scene :) Reader goes OFF on her, so be prepared lol. Sorry if you love Andrea

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem! Reader

WC: ~4k

Warnings: talk of Daryl's injuries, falling down the cliff, Walker attack- nothing too graphic; Andrea shooting Daryl but just grazing him; mentions of gore/blood- nothing too graphic; angst, comfort, fluff, cuddling; Daryl being sassy; reader character fighting with Andrea (yelling match)

Summary: You confront Andrea after she shoots Daryl, thinking he's a walker. With your anger taken out on her, you then comfort Daryl as he spends the night in the Greene farmhouse.

You heard the gunshot. Everyone on the farm did. You just didn’t know exactly what had happened.

Following Lori’s lead, you jogged around the house, hoping it wasn’t another accident like the one that almost killed Carl. It was a single shot. Why would anyone risk a lone round out in the open like this? On this beautiful farm.

Once you circled the house, landing in a clump of Herschel’s family and a few others from your group, all you saw was sun. Its rays were blinding yellow as they cut over the tall, deep treeline on the edge of the meadow. It was the middle of a gorgeous day.

You heard Rick scream. It was a booming, worried thing. Then he screamed again.

“What the hell is going on here?” Herschel bellowed. 

You moved closer to the field, the gravel of the driveway turning to grass under your feet as you neared the van. Dale was standing beside it with his hands on his head, panic clear in his figure as he looked out to the scene in the pasture. 

“Shit,” Andrea said as she hastily climbed down the ladder from the top of the van. She started whining, more to herself than anyone else. “No, no, no, Daryl.”

“What?” you asked, a cold shock running down your spine from the back of your neck to your heels in the dirt. “What? What about Daryl?”

“I-I thought he was a walker,” she said.

Your head whirled to the cluster of men at the treeline. You tripped, your feet rooted to the ground in horror and misunderstanding. Was Andrea actually saying-

“I shot him.”

You bolted at her confession. These days, you were used to running, having done plenty of it through the woods to escape walkers. Then, you had to be careful of roots and puddles and dead bodies and the trees slowed you down, making sprinting difficult. Now, as you watched Rick fall to his knees in the distance, reaching for Daryl’s head after it hit the ground, speed came easily to you. The open meadow of freely growing grass under the clear blue sky was practically a racetrack.

Andrea panted behind you and the useless coins in Dale’s jeans clinked together, but you were faster, your feet agile in their swiftness. Your boots didn’t pound into the dirt like theirs. You sped to Daryl, only slowing when Rick threw one of Daryl’s arms over Shane’s shoulder and took the other one over his own. Daryl’s body fell limp against them, his feet dragging.

As the men caught their balance, you took Daryl’s face in your hands, seeing it drenched in blood.

“He’s unconscious,” Rick said to you. “We’ll get him back to the house.”

You nodded, otherwise silent. 

Andrea, however, let loose her apologies and worries in a shrill voice that made everyone around tense up like their limbs were attached to drawstrings. 

You didn’t listen to her words. Or T-Dog’s or Glenn’s and you didn’t notice Rick pull something from Daryl’s neck. Only the grass had your attention as your mind ceaselessly spun. Your boots pushed the tall blades around, making them sway with your every step. The shades of green were glowing in the slowly setting sun until they were marred- darkened by the looming three-headed shadow making its way across the field. Daryl’s blood dripped with every step, leaving red droplets behind with the last of the dew.

“I’m sorry,” Andrea said. When she touched your arm, you jumped, jarred back from the peace of the meadow and into the grisly present.

You didn’t answer her.

Daryl was still unconscious by the time Rick and Shane laid him down in the bedroom. While they’d carried him into the house, you beelined straight to Maggie, asking for a rag and some warm water. You ducked into the bedroom and dodged the panicking men so you could sit on the bed and wipe as much grime from Daryl’s face and hands as you could manage before leaving Herschel in peace to bandage his wounds.

When the door to the bedroom closed you out, you sat on the floor in the hall. Earlier, you had wondered if what Rick told you was true, if Daryl was only unconscious. If the bullet had truly only grazed him. You only fully believed Daryl was alive when you washed his face clean. His brow even crinkled when the wet cloth touched it. He was in there still. 

Lori sat down quietly next to you in the hallway. She patted your knee. She didn’t have to say anything. You knew her well enough by now to know what she thought. You’re a good friend to him, she’d say. And he doesn’t have many.

You leaned your head back against the wall with a soft thunk and closed your eyes. It was tranquil there for a moment before a familiar, unwanted voice interrupted. 

“Can I talk to you?”

You opened your eyes to see Andrea standing above you and Lori.

“Now’s not a good time,” you said. It was awkward and uncomfortable. “I’m waiting for- for some word.”

“I’ll be quick,” she asked, sliding down the wall and sitting beside you.

Andrea had a knack for rubbing you the wrong way at the worst times. You wouldn’t call yourself a ‘strong personality,’ but she certainly was. Whatever it was deep down in you was constantly butting heads with whatever lived in her core. You disagreed with her most of the time, but tried your best to be patient and gracious given the losses she’d suffered and the emotions clearly wracking her. Still, you couldn’t help but feel she went about most things all wrong.

Like insisting she speak to you now.

So you stood up. You asked Lori to come find you when Daryl woke or when you could go visit him- whatever came first- and you left the house. The turmoil in your chest almost made you scream. But instead of letting it rip through you, you sucked in a deep breath and walked down the front steps. To be alone.

“(Y/N), wait.”

You could tell it was her by the sound of her voice. 

“Andrea,” you warned, “I’m not in a place to talk right now.”

“To anyone? Or just to me?”

“Does it matter?” you asked, spinning around in the gravel to face her. “Can’t you just respect that I’m- I’m trying to-”

“What?” she shouted, hands in the air. “Trying not to yell at me? What if I want you to? What if I want you to scream at me? Tell me I’m reckless! Tell me-”

“Tell you what you need to hear? That’s not my job.” You were calm, considering the outburst in front of you. “Just leave me be.”

“No.” She ran in front of you, standing with her feet spread wide, blocking your path from the farm house. Like a child. “I need to… I need to apologize. To you. For what I did to Daryl.”

A laugh escaped you. “Apologize to me?”

“Yes. And-”

“You know who you need to apologize to, Andrea?”

“Daryl, I know, but-”

“And Herschel and Rick and Glenn and T-Dog, and everyone else you put in danger when you decided to not do what you were told.”

You watched her jaw clench and set in place. Lowly, she said, “I don’t need to be told what to do.”

“Apparently you do. Apparently you don’t have your head screwed on straight!” you said.

“What’s that supposed to mean-”

“No, Andrea!” you cut her off with a stabbing shout. “You’re gonna follow me around like this and beg for a piece of my mind? Let me give it to you! Lord knows no one else here will.” You took her arm, leading her away from the front of the house where your temper- or loss of it- wouldn’t disturb Herschel’s family. When she tried to talk over you, tell you she knew what she was doing with that gun in her hands, you snarled at her. “Shut up! I’m speaking now.”

***

You didn’t realize that the hidden spot you led her to happened to be just below the bedroom Daryl and the other men were in. You had no clue that your every word rode the breeze up and through the window above where Rick, Shane, and Daryl could hear you as clearly as if you stood right before them.

And you didn’t know Daryl was already awake.

Shane, arms crossed over his chest, peeked out the window at the sound of Andrea’s voice. He whistled to Rick. “Catfight.” 

“What?” Rick asked. He followed Shane’s gaze and shook his head when he saw you. “Nah, (Y/N)’s good. She’ll keep her head.”

“Wouldn’t be so sure,” Daryl grumbled. “Girl’s got a temper.”

“Never heard anything out of her,” Shane said.

“Thas ‘cause you ain’t never heard her complain ‘bout you.”

“Man, shut up,” Shane growled over Rick’s chuckles. “If (Y/N) gives Andrea a talkin’ to, that’s one less thing on my list.”

Daryl violently shifted the pillow under his head. “Dun even wanna know what’s on yer list.”

Shane shushed him, spitting on the window screen, and nudged Rick. “Wanna listen to her.”

***

You stuck an accusing finger at Andrea, keeping her staring at you and squinting into the low sun. “You need to understand, there’s no ‘girl jobs and boy jobs’ here. It’s not that simple. Just because you don’t like doing laundry and washing dishes doesn’t mean you get a gun to flaunt around by default.”

“They’re wasting my skills!” she hissed.

“Those guys,” you pointed out to the pasture, where Daryl went down, “Rick, Shane, Daryl- those guys are trained with those weapons. They were fucking cops and hunters, Andrea! That’s why they get the guns right now, not because they’re better than us, or whatever the hell story you’ve told yourself.”

“Then I should be trained the way they were,” she said. “Before they took it from me, I had my own gun for years-”

“After what you did today, I hope you never get your hands on another gun! You put every one of those guys in danger today. What if your aim was further off, huh? What if you shot Glenn? Or Rick? You could have killed him right in front of his boy! Right after Carl got back on his feet, doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“Of course it does!” 

“Are you sure?” The sun was beating down on your back. The heat of its rays added to the roiling in your gut, making sweat drip down the side of your face and pool on your lower back. Its slick had your t-shirt clinging to you. “Are you really sure? ‘Cause if your shit aim was a half an inch better, you would have killed him today! One of our own. And you’re acting like you barely care- you’re here apologizing to me?”

“You’re closest to him,” she grumbled. “I was trying to be-”

You spoke over her meaningless words. “Daryl is an asset to this group. He keeps us safe, feeds us- he was coming back from looking for Sophia and what thanks does he get? A fucking bullet to the head. You took down a good man today-”

“I thought he was a walker!” Andrea screamed in defense.

“So what?” Your throat ached from its work and Andrea flinched. You forced a calming breath before you continued slowly and deliberately, hoping some of your words would actually stick in her head. “We are so lucky we’re allowed on this property. That we found this doctor.”

“I know.”

“And he asked one thing in return. No guns. You were told by Rick, by Shane- no guns. You saw- you thought you saw one walker and you waste a bullet on it? That one gunshot could have led a whole herd to this house, Andrea. What would have happened then?”

“I get it, okay?”

“I don’t think you do. Four men went out there to take down that walker. They explicitly told you not to shoot that gun. And you did it anyway. And for what? Pride?”

She stared at you. Then she shrugged flippantly. “I wanted to do it. I knew I could do it.”

“Well, I hope it was worth it to you.”

***

Shane whistled again from his spot in the window. “If we ever need a lawyer, she’s the one.”

Daryl laid his head back on the pillow after holding it in the air to listen carefully to your argument. His cheeks, ears, neck and chest were hot and flushed from your words about him. 

“She still down there?” he asked. 

“No,” Rick said. He rounded the foot of the bed and walked towards the door of the bedroom. “I’ll go check on her. She’ll wanna know you’re alright.”

“He’s red as a tomato,” Shane said, slapping Daryl’s foot, “but alive, right Daryl?”

“Barely,” he grumbled. 

***

It was Lori who found you first. She grabbed your wrist and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Daryl’s okay,” she said. “You can go up and see him now.”

You ran your palms up over your cheeks and into your hair, feeling the sweat that had gathered. You sighed. “Maybe later. He should probably rest.”

“He was askin’ for you,” Rick said, appearing behind Lori with a hand on the small of her back. “Go on up.”

At that, you nodded and headed for the bedroom.

Miraculously, you didn’t run into anyone else as you made your way through the house. You would have been embarrassed to see one of the Greenes after what had gone down today in the pasture or even after scolding Andrea, whether anyone had heard you or not.

You couldn’t quite get yourself to open the bedroom door, even as you stood before it, hand on the knob. There was no talking or snoring or shifting of sheets from the inside and you debated if you would be a disturbance or a comfort to whatever mood you’d meet inside.

Finally, at length, you pushed it open.

Daryl was shirtless, legs tangled in the thin sheets on the large bed. He only took up a small portion of it, though he was laying almost diagonally across it so he could watch the door. Of course he and his tracker’s ears had heard you open it. He looked at you with narrowed eyes. 

“Hey killer,” he said.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t even.”

You stood in the doorway, watching him. His arm was tucked tight under his head as he looked away from you and down into the sheets. He tucked them up all around him, blocking his injury and most of his skin from view. You knew why, but ignored it. You instead stared at the bandage tied around his head. It made his short hair stick up wildly, like a bloody coyote in the woods. 

“You wanna be alone, or you want me to stay?” you asked, hanging onto the doorknob. 

He shrugged. “Dun matter ta me.”

That was the closest to a yes you were ever going to get. You closed the door behind you with a soft click and walked to the emptier side of the bed to sit on its edge. “You need anything? Water, or-”

“Got it,” he said, blindly pointing to the nightstand beside the bed.

“Kay.” The air in the room was hot, but since the sun was setting lower and lower each minute, you knew there’d be a breeze blowing through the lacy curtains soon enough. You wiped your brow again. “How are you feeling?”

“‘Bout as bad as I look.”

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

You breathed out a laugh. “You looked like death itself before, though, so this is an upgrade.”

He glared at you, but it was playful. For him, you knew it was. “Well, I was shot.”

“Yeah.” 

You swallowed hard at the reminder. Next to his glass of water was the bowl and cloth you’d brought to him earlier. You reached for it now, wringing it out some before bringing it to his forehead which was as damp with sweat as yours was. 

“What else happened out there?”

“Nuthin’,” he said, shrugging off the cloth. 

You didn’t budge and asked again. “You look rough, Dare. Herschel said there was something with your side too? I saw all the blood.”

He was quiet, attention again on the sheets as you dabbed at his forehead and cheeks. There was still blood on his chin and grime on his neck- mud and something else you didn’t care to guess at. You stopped at his shoulders. It was clear he didn’t want you looking anywhere near his chest or back, buried in the sheets. 

Then you noticed him watching you.

“You…”

“Hm?” you pushed.

“You were worried? ‘Bout… ‘bout me.”

“Of course I was. Still am. You’re one of us, we’re all worried-”

“I fell. And a couple’a walkers found me.”

Panic shot through you like lightning, branching through your veins and up your limbs. “Walkers?” No one told you. No one said anything about a bite or scratch or anything- “Is that, the injury on your side, it’s from a walker?”

“No,” he was quick to correct. “Nah, I fought ‘em off. Didn’t get me.” “Christ,” you whispered. You squeezed your eyes shut, desperate to keep the unshed tears stuck in your eyes.

“When I fell down the cliff, I took an arrow through my back.”

It didn’t-couldn’t-register. “You fell down a cliffside?”

“Twice.”

That was all you could take. The emotion, the stress and panic of the day, of the weeks past, caught up to you in one drowning swell. You felt your lips tremble and tried to keep them shut up tight, tried to count the bumps in the washcloth still in your hands, dripping on the knee of your jeans.

“Ay,” Daryl said, gruffly. He took the washcloth from you and smacked your arm with it before tossing it near its bowl. “Dun do that. Dun- dun cry fer me-”

“Argentina?”

“Wha?”

It made you laugh. It was a wet, snotty laugh and the curve of your cheek pushed out a fat tear that carved its way down your face. “It’s a song,” you said.

“Don’t start singin’ neither.”

You chuckled again, losing more tears and the fight to not cry in front of Daryl. 

With a painful grunt, he moved himself on the bed, opening a spot for you. He patted the empty space, mumbling. “Come on.”

You kicked off your boots and laid down on the bed, mirroring him. One arm supported your head, while the other tucked tight against you, keeping to your own space as you looked at him. His teeth dug into his lip over and over as he studied the hair and freckles on his arm as if he’d never seen it before. 

“Were you scared?” you whispered.

After a long while, narrowed blue eyes met yours and he nodded.

“Out there alone.” Your voice broke, shaking with the tight breath in your chest. 

“S’alright. M’back now.”

You flopped on your back, away from him for a chance to breathe. You were losing your grip and you didn’t want to break in front of him. You were there to support him, not force him into comforting you. But the thought of him in fear and suffering alone was stubbornly lodged in your throat. 

“When I was out there climbin,’ that’s what I was thinkin’ ‘bout,” Daryl said. “Thought ‘bout comin’ back. Seein’ ya. Knew I had ta get back.”

His words hung in the air. They were soft and open, his voice less harsh than usual. 

“That’s right,” you said. Using the collar of your t-shirt, as sweaty and dirty as it was, you wiped the tear tracks from your face and cleared your eyes.

“Now we both look bad as I feel,” Daryl said.

“Shut up,” you said. But you laughed.

The air felt clearer now. It wasn’t so stifling hot and you watched the transparent curtains dance in the breeze coming in through the window. Again, you turned to him, laying on your side, able to study him more. Daryl, however, seemed like he couldn’t bear the attention. His flitting gaze fell on just about everything in the room except you until he seemed to settle upon the safety of the bare ceiling above, studying it as if it were a map to a hidden treasure. Like a cure to the world’s mess.

“You okay?” you finally asked.

“Did you mean it? What ya said?”

“When?”

One of his hands flew up, gesturing toward the window. “Earlier. To Andrea.”

You hummed, lips glued together for a moment. “You heard all that?”

He chuckled. “Loud and clear. She deserved it.”

“Mm. Just lost my temper.”

He grunted, agreeing. “But’cha- what ya said ‘bout me.” He struggled for the words, throat and mouth working for the right thing to ask. “Said I was a good man, ya mean that?”

“Of course.” You sat up, moving your face into his line of vision. You made him look at you. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it. And I wouldn’t be here with you right now if I didn’t think it.” Your fingertips grazed his skin, tickling down his cheek until they turned the other way, your knuckles running the same path for good measure. “You are a good man. I see you. I see the things you do and no matter how much you like to hide it, I know you have a big heart. I’ve seen it.” You gave him a soft shove on the shoulder, teasing. While you were there, close to him, you brushed the hair off his forehead before returning your hands to yourself and laying back flat on the bed.

He grunted and pressed his lips together, staring at where your face had been, the spot that was just the bare ceiling now. Then he shrugged away from you and turned to the opposite wall and grumbled, “S’not what I asked, girl.”

“Gave ya some extra bang for your buck, that’s all,” you said. When he didn’t turn or even chuckle, you bent towards the floor for your boots. “Want me to go? So you can get some rest?”

He gave you nothing in answer. You at least hoped he heard what you said, took it to heart. But, you thought, that’s what you get for blubbering all over his bed. Only slightly bothered, you leaned towards the nightstand to see if he had enough water for the evening. Then, you’d leave-

“Dun haf’ta go,” he mumbled. 

“Oh.”

“So long as ya don’t go all girly ga-ga on me again.”

You narrowed your eyes at him as he peeked at you over his shoulder. “You mean telling you that I actually care about you? Then don’t go tryin’ to die on me again.”

He flopped over. “Ya think I wanted to fall off the damn cliff? Fuckin’ horse threw me off.”

Setting your boots back down, you settled into the bed next to him. “Horse shoot you with your own crossbow too?”

“You shut your mouth, girl.”

“Mhmm.” you hummed, grinning.

Like two parallel beings, you laid opposite each other, close, but not touching. You used your own arm for a pillow and tucked yourself under the sheet of the bed. Daryl looked past you, as if watching the door as another breeze blew through the room.

“Here,” he said, shimmying up towards the head of the bed and sliding the arm of his uninjured side under your head. You laid close, tucking your arms into your chest so only your elbows and your knees crossed over into Daryl’s space.

At least, it was that way until he leaned down into you, resting his chin on your forehead and letting his other arm drop over your side. You let loose a sigh at the touch- he’d made it back.

#daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon #daryl dixon fluff #daryl dixon fanfiction #the walking dead daryl #twd #twd daryl dixon #daryl twd #twd daryl #twd fanfiction #the walking dead #daryl dixon twd #the walking dead Daryl dixon #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead Daryl dixon x reader #my writing #daryl dixon comfort

[apoemaday]

Eurydice

by Carol Ann Duffy

Girls, I was dead and down in the Underworld, a shade, a shadow of my former self, nowhen. It was a place where language stopped, a black full stop, a black hole Where the words had to come to an end. And end they did there, last words, famous or not. It suited me down to the ground.

So imagine me there, unavailable, out of this world, then picture my face in that place of Eternal Repose, in the one place you’d think a girl would be safe from the kind of a man who follows her round writing poems, hovers about while she reads them, calls her His Muse, and once sulked for a night and a day because she remarked on his weakness for abstract nouns. Just picture my face when I heard -- Ye Gods -- a familiar knock-knock at Death’s door.

Him. Big O. Larger than life. With his lyre and a poem to pitch, with me as the prize.

Things were different back then. For the men, verse-wise, Big O was the boy. Legendary. The blurb on the back of his books claimed that animals, aardvark to zebra, flocked to his side when he sang, fish leapt in their shoals at the sound of his voice, even the mute, sullen stones at his feet wept wee, silver tears.

Bollocks. (I’d done all the typing myself, I should know.) And given my time all over again, rest assured that I’d rather speak for myself than be Dearest, Beloved, Dark Lady, White Goddess etc., etc.

In fact girls, I’d rather be dead.

But the Gods are like publishers, usually male, and what you doubtless know of my tale is the deal.

Orpheus strutted his stuff.

The bloodless ghosts were in tears. Sisyphus sat on his rock for the first time in years. Tantalus was permitted a couple of beers. The woman in question could scarcely believe her ears.

Like it or not, I must follow him back to our life -- Eurydice, Orpheus’ wife -- to be trapped in his images, metaphors, similes, octaves and sextets, quatrains and couplets, elegies, limericks, villanelles, histories, myths…

He’d been told that he mustn’t look back or turn round, but walk steadily upwards, myself right behind him, out of the Underworld into the upper air that for me was the past. He’d been warned that one look would lose me for ever and ever.

So we walked, we walked. Nobody talked.

Girls, forget what you’ve read. It happened like this -- I did everything in my power to make him look back. What did I have to do, I said, to make him see we were through? I was dead. Deceased. I was Resting in Peace. Passé. Late. Past my sell-by date… I stretched out my hand to touch him once on the back of the neck. Please let me stay. But already the light had saddened from purple to grey.

It was an uphill schlep from death to life and with every step I willed him to turn. I was thinking of filching the poem out of his cloak, when inspiration finally struck. I stopped, thrilled. He was a yard in front. My voice shook when I spoke -- Orpheus, your poem’s a masterpiece. I’d love to hear it again…

He was smiling modestly, when he turned, when he turned and he looked at me.

What else? I noticed he hadn’t shaved. I waved once and was gone.

The dead are so talented. The living walk by the edge of a vast lake near, the wise, drowned silence of the dead.

#poetry #carol ann duffy #eurydice

[dilfl0v3rss]

im tryna see how ony dealed wit connie😁

nice and slow

continuation of ours

cw: m x m, ony cleaning his gun

word cound: 2.8k words

── ⋅⋅⋅ ────꒰ ୨ ♡ ୧ ꒱───────

days have went by since ony told connie that he’d be “delt with” and he was starting to feel like he was off the hook. ony would still wake him in the morning with a kiss and he'd still act like his normal self throughout the day. "maybe he forgot" connie thought to himself as he eyed him from the other side of the living room. there he was, quietly cleaning his gun while he watched videos with his phone laid on his lap. his shirt probably on your small figure as he sat in just his pajama pants and durag. "need sum baby?" he didn't even need to move his head to know that his boyfriend was staring.

connies eyes widened a little as he continued to breathlessly stare at his lover. "when somebody say sum to you, its polite to answer." ony sucked his teeth, looking up from his phone with a pointed look that was shot directly at connie. "n-nah...nah m'good pa" a kind smile bloomed on his pink lips to sell the act that he's not panicking in his mind right now. why is he acting so normal? "shouldn't you be gettin ready right now anyways? you said you was gon drop suge off at mikasas for her lil spa day/sleepover shit."

before connie could reply, he was interrupted by your sweet voice. "m'ready papiii" you came down the steps with your duffle bag on your shoulder, letting it plop on the ground before walking to ony and giving him a kiss on the cheek. when your eyes met connie's pajama wearing figure you sucked your teeth. "babyyy why aren't you dressed. i don't wanna be late to miki's because of youuu" you whined, stomping your feet to add exaggeration.

connie gave you a stern look, making you stop instantly before getting up and grabbing his keys from his coat hung up at the door. "cut that shit out or you not going at all. ion need to be dressed if m'just dropping you off and coming back home." you shut up immediately, letting connie give you a kiss before you began walking quietly to the car while he carried your bag. "i can't get a kiss too?" ony mumbled, stopping connie dead in his tracks before he turned around. "my fault pa" he mumbled as he made his way to the couch, leaning down to give his boyfriend a kiss on the forehead.

his dick jumped in excitement when ony grabbed him by the neck and gave him a sloppy kiss on the lips. his long tongue quickly winning dominance over connies as his grip on his neck grew tighter. strings of spit connected the two as ony moved his face back to speak. "drive safe" was all he said before loosening his grip, letting connie stand up straight before he replied. "i will pa, see you" ony's focus was put back on his gun as he listened to the front door close.

the drive to mikasa's was about twenty minutes there and back, but connie made sure to drive real slow so his boyfriend didn't get a notification that he was speeding. "bye babyyyy, see you tomorrowww!" you squealed before giving your boyfriend and quick kiss and practically sprinting out the car before he could reply. he chuckled at your excited little body jumping for joy at you knocked on mikasa's door. connie waited for you to go inside before driving back home.

as he walked in the door he noticed that ony was nowhere to be seen in the living room. his gun cleaning supplies were still laid out on the table as he walked deeper into the house. connie made his way to his room where he saw ony sitting on the edge of the bed. "was looking for you. what you doin?" his dark brown eyes gave connie a bone chilling stare as he toyed with the ring on his middle finger. "waiting for you...c'mere pretty boy lemme talk to you real quick."

ony bent his fingers in a come hither motion, making his lover's body move towards him on instinct. connie stood in between ony's legs as he leaned back on the bed, inked chest on full display for his light brown eyes to ogle. "you know you still in trouble right?" connie nodded his head. he never stopped thinking about what his boyfriend had in store for him, but now he doesn't have to anymore. todays the day he gets what he's been dreading.

"listen, ian mean to-" "sh sh sh...let papa do the talking aight? you just gon get yourself into more trouble and you don't want that now, do you?" connie quickly shook his head as he watched ony rise from his seat on the bed. connie was tall, standing at about 6'2. but ony was a little taller, larger frame standing in front of him as he licked his lips before moving to the side. "take allat shit off and lay down f'me." connie slowly removed his hoodie and tee shirt before toying with the waistband of his pajama pants.

ony grew annoyed at his slow pace, grabbing him by the back of the neck before pulling his ear towards his mouth. "hurry the fuck up or ima rip it." connies hands moved quickly, pulling down his pajama pants and letting his hard dick spring free. he didn't like to sleep with underwear so his boxers were nowhere to be seen. he lied down on his back while watching ony begin to crawl up towards him, sitting in between connies legs as he ran his big hands over his chest, purposely neglecting the leaking red tip near his belly button.

"what you supposed to do when i tell you something?" ony whispered, leaning over connies body with his hand resting right by his head as his free hand played with his nipples. "im 'posed to lis...listen papa...fuck" he stuttered as the large hand wrapped around his dick. ony began slowly stroking him, occasionally rubbing his thumb over his leaking tip as connies back arched off the bed. "mhmm but you aint do that, did you? nahh, you was being greedy." his pace quickened, heat running through connies dick as he thrusted himself into ony's hand to bring his release closer.

"just like you are right now. not being my good boy." connie groaned as the frictions stopped. ony sat on his knees as he freed his dick from his pants. "y-you gon prep me right?" a fearful expression on his light brown face as he looked at his boyfriends girthy dick. ony chuckled as before sticking two of his thick fingers in connies mouth. "m'not a monster, baby." the smaller man sighed in relief as he let his tongue swirl all over his fingers. spit falling down the sides of his mouth as ony continued to thrust them in and out of his wet cavern.

as he removed his fingers from connies mouth with a pop, ony groaned at the sight in front of him. plump spit soaked lips shining in the dim light of the room as his lover lay naked in the middle of the bed. pretty ink dancing along his fit body as his dick leaked precum onto his stomach. "you so sexy baby. making me wanna skip all this shit and fuck you right now." connie didn't get the chance to reply before ony rubbed his wet middle finger on his tight hole.

wetting it before breaching it lightly with half of his middle finger. "f-fuck pa" light brown hand instantly flying towards his wrist to stop his movements. ony's eyes snapped towards connies, giving him and stern look that made a shiver run down his spine. "you know better than t'be doin that, handsome. move or ima cuff you." he slowly moved his hand away, balling them into tight fists before ony decided it was a good time to add a second finger.

spit traveling from ony's mouth down to connie's light brown hole, giving him more lubricant to move his fingers deeper. he dug into connie slowly, giving his boyfriend the time he needs to adjust. "how it feel pretty boy?" connies eyes rolled to the back of his skull, back arching as he moaned at the stretch. "hmm? talk t'me baby...can i fuck you now?" ony was always soft with connie when it came to prepping him. knowing that it is not an easy process and it could be painful if not done correctly. "y-yea daddy go head."

he smiled at the name, knowing that it was only used when his boyfriend was feeling especially vulnerable. "good boy" ony got up to grab a bottle of lube before rubbing it all over his dick, applying some to connies tight hole as well for safe measures. he watched his face closely as he sunk into him inch by inch. light brown hands gripping onto his shoulders as connie moaned from the stretch. "shhittt...fuck fuck fuck." ony started at a slow pace, stroking him deeply while leaving small kisses on the tears that fell from his eyes.

"i know bae. i hear you, but you been bad, remember?" "w-wait da lemme...auughh shi-i-ittt." his pace quickened and before connie knew it he was being pounded into the mattress. all eight inches of ony's dick being shoved in and out of his tight hole. he wrapped his hand around connies neck, other hand wrapping around his dick before jerking him quickly as he fed him hard strokes. "when i tell you t'do sum...move your fuckin hand...you gon listen. aint that right handsome?" connies wrists were now trapped by ony's big hand, arms bound over his head as he continued to take the vigorous strokes from his boyfriend.

"y-YES...i’ll listen daddy furreal." connie’s hips bucked into ony’s hand as he squeezed his dick tighter, continuing to stroke his aching red tip. connie was on the brink of his orgasm, lip tucked behind his teeth as he threw his head back in the sheets. ony felt him twitching in his hand, light sheen of sweat making his light brown chest glisten. as soon as he felt connie getting too close he let him go, pulling out as he whined for him not to stop. "wait m'right ther-" "ion care connie. turn over and put your ass up." he quickly turned around, laying his palms flat on the sheets without complaint in hopes that he'd be rewarded with at least one orgasm.

ony wasted no time thrusting back into him fully, dark brown hand shoving his inked back down as connies arms bent next to his head. "y'know how i like it baby. keep that ass in the air for me while daddy makes you feel good." his brutal pounding made tears fall from connies pretty brown eyes, wetting the sheets directly below his face along with his spit. ony kept his hand on the back of connie's pretty inked neck, pushing his face deeper into to cushion as he spoke lowly from behind him. "ion like punishing you handsome. supposed t'be my good boy so ion have t'be mean."

connies words were muffled before ony pulled him up by his neck, wrapping his hand around the front of his throat as he pulled his lover back towards his chest. "m-m'sorry daddy. ima listen t'you furreal..shit..ima d-do whatever you say" a smirk crept onto his lips at his boyfriends words, other hand sliding to the front of his body and caressing his stomach before jerking his pretty dick quickly. "anything i want?" connie nodded his head instantly as he moaned from the added pleasure. ony's pace quickened, hips slamming so hard that the loud, wet slaps could be heard from all over the house.

ony felt his orgasm approaching so he slowed his thrusts. idea popping up in his head to really teach connie his lesson. "stroke yourself pretty boy. want you t'do it real slow until daddy says you can speed up, understand." he was giving him another chance at following orders and connie hated it. but instead of defying him and getting fucked up even more, he slide ony's hand off his dick before replacing it. stroking himself slowly as his boyfriend matched his pace inside of him.

long dick kissing the deepest parts of him as hot wet tears flowed down his cheeks. "uhh huh. nice and slow" ony watched connie over his shoulder as he stroked himself at a steady pace. singing praises to connie as he obeyed the command he struggled to comply with last time. "such a good boy f'me. just a little longer and ill let you cum baby." his dark brown hand grabbed the bottom of connies face, turning him towards him before giving him a sloppy kiss. spit dribbling down the sides of both of their mouths, leaving connie breathless as he continued his slow pace with his hand. "open up handsome"

pink lips instantly parting as ony's spit slid from his tongue to connie's. "and swallow allat shit." on instinct the spit disappeared down his throat before he opened his mouth to show him that it was truly gone. "mhm good boy. you wanna cum?" moans and begs flew from connies mouth in an instant, the need for release clouding his brain as he fucked himself back on ony's dick slowly. "p-please" ony's hand replaced connies smaller one. quickly stroking him as began snapping his hips into his ass with vigor.

"gon head pretty boy. make a mess f'me" light brown eyes rolled to the back of his skull as connie's hot ropes of cum shot all over the sheets. “ooouuu fuckkk.” the last of it eventually slidding down his shaft and all over ony's hand before he felt his lover pull out of him. jerking himself as he came all over his back. "next time i tell you to do sum you better listen. or youll be right back here, understand me?"

"o-okay pa i hear you."

ony ran connie a hot bath. changing the sheets and making him some tea before having his lover come out and get dressed. "drink this and rest for the night" night? a gasp escaped from connies lips as he noticed that it was already dark outside. "y'hear me?" ony's voice snapped him out of his thoughts before he replied. "huh? yea ill rest pa."

~the next morning~

connie woke up noticing ony wasn't in bed with him. he made his way downstairs to be met with a beautiful sight before him. shirtless chest on full display as his lover drank orange juice straight from the bottle. "man that is so trifling" connie chuckled as his boyfriend jumped in surprise. moving the bottle from his lips before giving him a smirk. "i be spitting in your mouth no problem and you worried about my mouth being on the bottle?"

a blush crept on connies face, shifting his gaze in embarrassment. "that's different" "yea its worse." ony cut him off before walking past him to reclaim his seat in the living room. "suge on her way home right now to grab some shit. she gon stay over there for another night." connie nodded his head as he slowly sat down next to his boyfriend, wincing as he felt the cushion touch his ass. "fuck" ony chuckled before scooting over closer to his pouting boyfriend. "come" he patted his lap for connie to lay his head over.

connie quickly took the invitation, lying his head on his lover's lap and putting his feet on the couch to ease the pressure on his sore lower half. "good morninggggg!!" you squealed as you busted through the door, giving connie a quizzical look before smirking to yourself. "oh he fucked your shit upppp" you giggled as connie rolled his eyes at your teasing. "yea and you next if you don't shut that shit up. leave my big baby alone" you smiled lovingly at the two of them, choosing not to piss ony off before you end up like your other boyfriend. ass hurting and body worn the hell out. you grabbed what you needed before heading out the door. "love y'all! ill be home tomorrowww!!!" with that you closed the door, leaving the two of them alone again.

ony turned on the tv, putting on connie's favorite show as he played with his short hair. "if it still hurts later i can kiss it better for you pretty boy. y'know im real good wit my tongue" connies eyes widened at his boyfriends lewd words, making his stomach tingle at the thought. ony didn't even look away from the tv as he shamelessly spoke to him. he was so nasty. "maybe" connie mumbled, his lover finally looked down at him, dark brown eyes meeting his lighter ones befofe giving him a smile. "i love you" "love you more pa"

#onyankopon x black reader #aot onyankopon #onyankopon x reader #aot x black reader #aot #onyankopon x black!reader #aot smut #aot connie #connie springer #aot connie x black reader #aot connie x black!reader #aot onyankopon x connie #onyankopon x connie #aot connie x onyankopon #commit x onyankopon

[i-drop-level-one-loot]

*NSFW* The Wishing Hole (Yandere x GN!Reader)

Warning!! This is not a romance, read at your own risk CW: LONG, Dead Dove, abuse, murder, trauma, manipulation, masturbation, mutilation, unhealthy relationships, obsession

"Have you heard about the hole?"

Part I

"It's right over here!" Miranda theater-whispered to her friends as she led them through the black woods. Their flashlights bobbed in the darkness, the only light visible to the trio of twelve year olds as they trekked through the thicket. (Reader) gripped onto their envelope tightly, fearful of leaving sweat marks on it.

They had been staying the night at Brian's house when Miranda brought up the hole. A local urban legend by that point, the story of a hole that granted wishes. Brian had chastised Miranda for believing a story so stupid, but still followed her and (Reader) when they snuck out to grant their wishes.

"How do you know where it is?" He nervously hissed.

"Abby's sister Rebecca has a friend who found it. Over here." Miranda spoke as though it should have been obvious why she knew where it was.

(Reader) could do nothing but hope. They hoped hard, over and over again, wrinkling the papers in their fist as the yellow light led them to their future. All they could do was beg the universe to grant their wish. For the hole to be real.

The trees thinned and opened, revealing a small clearing with a very deep hole dug out of the earth. It was a normal looking hole, but in the dark of a moonless night to a group of children, it was ominous.

Their muddy boots all stopped a good foot away from the edge. The ground didn't look stable.

After taking a shaky breath, Miranda threw her envelope into the hole, squeezing her eyes shut as she focused all her energy on the wish written inside the letter she tossed. Brian thought about arguing, calling out his friends for littering, but instead copied Miranda, throwing his wish in as well. (Reader) felt adrenaline shoot to their finger tips as the anxiety tried to rip through their veins and escape their skin. Their packet was thicker than either of their friends', and fell harder as they chucked it in with all their strength.

The only future (Reader) wanted was nearly impossible. It would take divine intervention to get that happiness. "What did you wish for?" Miranda asked Brian behind (Reader).

"I want to know what I want to do."

"That's it?"

"What'd you wish for?"

"A hot boyfriend, who's gonna love me, and marry me."

"Well, when you're trapped in a marriage with three kids, I'll be doing what I love every day."

Miranda groaned loudly, refusing to get into another argument with her best friend. She instead looked at (Reader) who was still focusing on the hole. "What did you wish for, (Reader)?"

Their eyes seemed to be seeing something the other two couldn't see. Large pupils fixated on nothing, still filled with enough anxiety to cripple an adult.

"Someone who loves me.."

"Ugh, not you too.." Brian's voice melted into the background, almost unintelligible in the dense air. The contents of the wish filled (Reader's) head to the point that nothing else could be heard.

• 15 years later •

Another failed date.

Dark rings permanently decorated the underneath of (Reader's) tired eyes. The perpetually single adult slid down against the wall, too exhausted to continue standing. There was nothing particularly wrong with the guy, but he just wasn't "the one" for (Reader). He was boring and awkward, rambling about his job and future plans, bragging about his hypothetical future fortune. Nothing he did was bad enough for (Reader) to guiltlessly label him a douche, but nothing about him was their type.

They pulled out their phone, looking at the dark haired man on their wallpaper for a second too long before opening up their messages with their date. (Reader) typed up a quick message to thank Rich for the date, but that they didn't see it going any further.

The phone was tossed to the side as (Reader) struggled to stand, grabbing a beer from their fridge as the phone began chiming from the linoleum. Texts rapidly coming in were ignored by (Reader) as they cracked open their first drink for the night.

His unread messages echoed through (Reader's) shoebox apartment.

The weary adult wondered how their therapist would react next week at their appointment. It wasn't realistic for an adult to fixate on a wish they had made as a child, but just like all those years ago, (Reader) knew deep in their bones that there was no happiness for them if they couldn't have that wish come true. Rich was attractive, in an average sort of way, with straight brown hair cut a little too short for the shape of his brow. He had nice lips, (Reader) thought, but couldn't imagine kissing them.

The beer tasted like lightly bitter water. Not a promising sign; it tasted like they would need something stronger. On the way to the living room (Reader) noticed their bedroom door had some dirt on the white paint, like someone had pushed it open with filthy hands.

(Reader) felt an anxious jolt to their system. A familiar pain they hadn't felt in a long time. They pushed open the door, timidly entering their own room like a stranger nervous to be caught. But the room was empty.

"So, how'd your date with Rich go?" Adam asked hopefully. The same trio of friends since primary school sat in their local diner. It was a monthly ritual, gathering for brunch to force themselves to keep in touch. They tried to hold the meeting every week, but with work scheduling it was impossible. Adam sat with his husband, Jon, across from Brian and (Reader). Everyone had changed so much as they got older, but that was to be expected. No one can stay a child forever.

(Reader) sighed before sipping on their milkshake. Adam knew exactly what that meant, and groaned, just as dramatically as when he was a child. His hair may be shorter, but some things stayed consistent.

"What was wrong with this guy?"

"Nothing!" (Reader) replied defensively. "He just... wasn't my type."

Brian pushed up his glasses. "Maybe you should lower your standards."

"Brian!"

"-I mean, it's good to have standards, obviously, but people are real people, not characters in a book. No one is going to match your description of a perfect partner, because people aren't perfect, ya know?"

(Reader) stole a glance at their phone, admiring the black haired man behind the time. "You can say that, because your wish already came true. Both of yours."

Both Brian and Adam looked ashamed and a little uncomfortable, avoiding eye contact and fixating on their meals. Jon almost went cross-eyed trying to understand what (Reader) was implying.

(Reader) stood, tossing a couple bills onto the table. "I have to go, I'll talk to you guys later."

"Okay, have a good day! Text me when you get home." Adam said warmly, hugging his dear friend tightly while trying to shape his face into a happier expression.

"I will. Bye."

Brian gave up a small side hug, grimacing.

Jon waited until (Reader) was out of sight before asking "Were they talking about that wish you guys made as kids?"

The bespectacled young man rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Yes."

"I know what Adam wished for, but what did you and (Reader) wish for?" When he mentioned Adam's wish, Adam rolled his eyes playfully and they nudged each other lightly. Their whole relationship was practically diabetic for Brian, who still after all these years didn't get the appeal in romance.

Brian adjusted his glasses again, clearing his throat. "I wanted to know what to do with my life." And he had found that calling. The summer before high school he discovered a YouTube channel centered around ornithology and sent him on a strange spiral of bird mania. His friends and family thought it was a temporary fixation that he would lose interest in after a year or so, but his newfound fascination guided him all the way through college, landing him in an animal husbandry profession taking care of cranes at (what Brian considered to be) a humane zoo. "(Reader) wished for someone to love them."

"Well, I believe there's someone for everyone. It takes some people longer to find 'the one' than it does for others, and (Reader) seems like a great person, so I'm sure they'll meet someone that fits their childhood ideal."

Although Jon meant well with his words he could see the discomfort on his husband's and Brian's faces, their eyes either focused on their drink or plate.

They never read (Reader's) wish.

But over the years the two friends had begun to piece together a picture of the kind of man (Reader) wanted.

It was a complete breach of trust, looking into a friend's past, going full internet stalker mode to investigate into the secrets (Reader) wouldn't divulge. And what they found...

Was a lot.

They didn't know how to open the conversation with their third musketeer, since the facts and speculations were all obtained without (Reader's) knowledge or permission, but if Brian and Adam were correct in their understanding of what (Reader's) wish was, they genuinely wanted to help (Reader).

They also knew where (Reader) was going. But even that was impossible to confess.

Because at that moment, (Reader) was in their car for their monthly four hour visit with the greatest man (Reader) had ever known. It was unfortunate scheduling, but (Reader) couldn't compromise the day for either party. Keeping in contact with their friends was important for their mental health (according to their therapist) but this meeting was more important to (Reader) than practically anything else in their life.

Metal fencing and high beige walls appeared through the trees like a fairy tale castle. Instead of an evil dragon guarding the entrance, however, there were armed guards. Still every bit of evil in (Reader's) eyes.

"Welcome back, Mx. (Reader)." The usual security officer greeted grimly. Before he could ask for identification, (Reader) already had it out. Although they had met many times throughout the past decade, it was still a formality required by law. The two filled out the necessary paperwork while only offering tight smiles. He opened the gate for (Reader) to drive in and park in the visitor's lot. (Reader) always felt the cameras on them whenever they entered this "castle".

Officers emptied (Reader's) pockets and scanned their body for metal. There would be no physical connection at all, but they still needed to take precautions.

(Reader) was led through the lifeless grey halls towards visitation. Each step made their heart race and fostered the smile on their lips. Approaching the room with squeaky broken stools and bulletproof glass relaxed their faux grin for a genuine tranquility. There were no other visitors at the time.

The stool creaked under (Reader) as they gently eased into the old thing, staring at the window. Shortly after they sat down, the man from their phone's wallpaper, now with more silver hair than black, shuffled in on the other side, smiling softly as he sat across from (Reader). They both grabbed the phones.

"Hi Dad."

His dark eyes with pupils so large that without direct light made them look black had deeply etched wrinkles decorating them that folded deeper as he smiled. When Donavon McElroy was arrested, the news outlets focused on his eyes like some kind of Kubrick film, fixating on how you could just see the evil in some people. It felt as though the only person in the entire country who could see how loving Donavon's eyes were was (Reader).

"Hey kiddo. I've missed you."

"I missed you too." There were only four hours of visitation allowed per month. "Have you been getting my letters?"

Greasy ringlets of hair tumbled to the side as he cocked his head. "They're still the highlight of each week." Donavon didn't blink often. Even though the lights always hurt his eyes, no matter how dim they were, he seemed like a mannequin, refusing to blink and miss a second of his precious child's face. "How have you been since our last visit? I know you said in your letters that you're still going to therapy, which is good, very good.. how's that going for you?"

(Reader) felt their smile dip a little. "Well, it's going. I don't really like my therapist, but I know it's just because I don't like what she has to say. Even if I change doctors, they'll still say the same things."

Donavon nodded understandingly. It was like that at first for him as well, receiving psychiatric treatment while in prison. "I didn't like being told that my line of thinking was.. wrong. I knew that logically my thinking was, of course, obviously wrong, but it didn't feel wrong, so having a.. professional tell me that was upsetting."

"But it's important that you continue with it. And I'm very proud of you for continuing with it."

(Reader) laughed. It was a sharp scoff of a laugh, but not spiteful. It filled their chest with hot lava to hear someone praise them for doing what they've been doing since they were ten years old. Because it was difficult. Even if (Reader) continuously told themselves that this was the bare minimum. It was still difficult.

"She has me out in the dating world." (Reader) slumped a little, only slightly enough that no one but Donavon could tell the change in their posture. "Which is.. not fun."

"It can be fun. Does that carnival still come? There used to be a traveling carnival, a pop up fair, that would set up in a parking lot of a small store in our home town, really cheap. That could be a fun first date. Tiny ferris wheel and gravitron. Elephant ears." The two adults smiled widely thinking about it, but neither of them were picturing it as a date. His smile melted when he realized this. "I wish I could have taken you there."

(Reader) imagined a different life, one where they were in his care instead of their mother's, eating pastries the size of their head and getting sick on possibly dangerous attractions in a small parking lot. Their mother never took them, but they knew which pop up fair he was talking about, riding past it on the bus many times in their life. "That sounds like it would have been fun.."

".. but like I said, dating can be fun. As long as your being safe." (Reader's) dad's smile bounced back. "What have you done so far that hasn't been fun?"

"Well, I went out for dinner. Guy named Rich. He was, uh, decent. Talked a lot. Mostly about his job, and goals."

"Sounds career focused, that's good."

"Eh.." They shrugged, eyes drifting.

"What was wrong with him?"

(Reader) sighed. "Nothing. He was.. competent. Seemed like a regular guy. He just.. wasn't my type."

Guilt began to crawl through the folds of Donavon's brain like bugs infesting his conscious. He knew it was all his fault. Everything. But if he said that out loud, (Reader) would deny it, argue and fight it. "Well, there are plenty of fish in the sea."

"There's also plenty of trash."

Donavon pointed a finger at his kid warningly. "There's also sunken treasure. Don't give up hope."

"I don't need someone to be happy.."

"That's true.. but something tells me that when you weren't actively dating around, you weren't being content with the single life, and that's why your therapist is having you go out there. That.. maybe you were still waiting around for something that you shouldn't have, instead of living life to the fullest while alone."

The two became uncomfortably silent. This happened nearly every month. "I just want someone who loves me."

Donavon swore he could cry at that moment. "I'm sorry for-"

"Don't apologize." (Reader) cut him off. "Don't apologize for being a great dad."

"I wasn't. I wasn't a great dad. I'm-"

"-don't-"

"-a monster, (Reader). Kiddo, please, just listen to me. I'm sorry for the things I've done. The way I went about.. I wasn't in my right mind.. what I put you through was not okay. It was not, and will never be okay." He leaned forward, wishing to break through the glass dividing them and hug his kid. "I'm so sorry."

(Reader) softly responded "You're the only person who ever loved me."

"And you deserve better than that."

'No', (Reader) thought, 'there is no better than that.'

"Let's change the subject, please." (Reader) closed their eyes, forcing away the tears. "We never have enough time, and I don't want to spend the entire day focusing on sad shit."

Donavon took a shaky breath. "Okay, kiddo.." he mulled over for a second what to talk about before cracking a smile, one wide enough to show off his missing canine. "Remember Eddy?"

"Your old bunk mate?"

"Yep."

"What about him?"

"He got stabbed."

The sentence was so short and sudden that it shocked (Reader) into snorting, bringing back their genuine smile. "What? When? What happened?"

From the door an older guard smiled sadly, away from view. Donavon was liked by nearly everyone, both by the guards and the other prisoners. It was always a shame, getting to know someone who was supposed to be an evil bastard, and learning that they were just a great man who needed help. Plenty of the older guards understood that (Reader) would forever look at them with disgust and mildly veiled hatred. Because Donavon was (Reader's) hero, and the guards were just wardens unjustly holding him captive.

Their conversation continued without pause, filling the empty room with sounds of parental love and warmth. The guard at the door loved being there whenever it was time for (Reader's) visit with their dad, because it really was an incredibly beautiful and emotional scene every time he was present, but he also hated being the one on duty whenever (Reader) came, because he had to be the villain to say "Time's up" when their four hours were over.

"Mx. (Reader). Donavon."

(Reader's) eyes drooped, darkening under the shadow of their eyelashes. "Already?"

"Unfortunately."

The guard had been there so long, he remembered when (Reader) was a child, and would cry and scream whenever it was time to leave, begging him to let their daddy out.

Donavon smiled comfortingly. "Thank you for visiting me, kiddo."

"Of course."

"Maybe in another decade they'll let me have physical contact visitation." Donavon chuckled, only half serious with his hopeful statement. "I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too, Dad. I love you."

"I love you too. Don't forget to write."

"I never do."

They both stood up, hanging up their phones painfully. It was the worst time of the day. His chains shook around his wrists as he waved goodbye. He never hurt a single guard in his time incarcerated, but it was a formality, a requirement, due to the nature of his crime. It didn't seem to matter how good his behavior was. Even though the guards trusted him, according to the law Donovan was still to be treated as a monster.

After being guided back out of the room, through the halls, and out to the parking lot, (Reader) finally felt like they could breathe. The air that was stolen when the guard ended their visit with their dad was greedily sucked up outside the stifling building. They finally looked at their silent phone, seeing a dozen messages from Rich. Or, who's number (Reader) assumed was Rich, since they had deleted his contact as soon as they woke up that morning.

Most of the texts were pleas for a second date, or an explanation for what he did wrong. Some of them were insults.

(Reader) sighed, deleting the conversation and blocking his number before getting into their car, allowing tears to silently fall down their warm cheeks. All that they wished for was for someone to love them, and no one would ever love them like their dad did.

The drive back was just as miserable as it was every month.

And just like every month, the tears didn't stop until (Reader) pulled up to their apartment. It was a long day, where the good moments weren't long enough, and (Reader) was ready for another beer. It wasn't Sunday, but it was their Sunday, which meant that they couldn't stay up drinking all night.

But it felt as though they had just popped open their can when someone started pounding on their door, angrily and frantically. (Reader) cursed not being able to afford to live in an apartment that had a controlled door to the building, living in a cheap one that had the stairs on the outside of the building. Which meant that there were no security measures to prevent just anyone from coming straight to (Reader's) unit.

They set the alcohol to the side and made their way to the door. The banging only stopped when the person on the other side heard (Reader) unlocking the deadbolt. A slightly sweaty man with brown hair too short to be messy stood impatiently.

"Rich?"

The slightly younger man shrugged sharply, jutting his head to the side with an attitude as if to say 'No shit, who else?'

"Are you going to let me in?" He asked impatiently.

"Uh, no?" (Reader) furrowed their brow. "How'd you find where I live?" They were too confused to even be mad or scared.

"It wasn't difficult; literally everything is online." Rich responded as though (Reader) was a fucking idiot for even asking. The disrespect was shocking, a severe shift from how he acted during their date. He shifted abruptly as though he was going to charge (Reader), so they tightened their muscles, holding the door closer to their side, which earned an aggravated huff.

"What are you doing here, Rich?"

"Well, you owe me an explanation after you ghosted me after our date the other day." His tone made it sound so obvious.

(Reader) scoffed, almost amused. "No I fucking don't."

"I was the perfect gentleman on our date considering the circumstances, you and I had a good time, but then you ghosted me? And I just want to know why." The emphasis on the 'considering the circumstances' included a wave, motioning to (Reader's) body. (Reader) didn't know if he was insinuating that their body was a problem, or if it was their gender expression, or if he just had high fashion expectations that (Reader) didn't live up to, but the little hand movement finally ticked them off.

"Okay, you're done." (Reader) tried to close the door, but Rich was stronger than he looked, and effortlessly pushed them back into their apartment and entered. (Reader) didn't fall, only stumbled, wobbling to regain balance as Rich casually closed the door behind him, pacing his hands on his hips.

"So, what did I do wrong?"

"You mean before you broke into my home?"

"I did- don't be fucking dramatic, I did not break in. I just want to know, I just want to know what I did wrong."

(Reader) slowly backed up, mentally picturing the apartment behind them to figure out where their closest form of defense was. "Nothing. It just didn't work out-"

"BULL SHIT."

"-you weren't my type."

Rich stuck out his jaw, clicking his tongue. "That isn't a reason."

"Yes, it is-"

"That isn't a reason to be a fucking dick."

'How far behind me is my knife block?'

Before (Reader) could make a move their front door violently flew open again, slamming loudly into the wall. Both Rich and (Reader) whipped around at the jarring noise.

A man stood in the doorway.

His skin was so caked in dirt and muck that his yellowish skin was almost completely painted over. Long, black hair curled due to the oil, hanging down and sticking to his gaunt face. Between the shaggy locks black eyes glared unblinkingly.

"Who the fuck is that?!" Rich nearly hollered, retreating closer to (Reader) out of fear, unable to tear his eyes away from the modified weapon in the intruder's hand.

Warmth spread throughout (Reader's) entire body; the god of love releasing a cage of butterflies into their body.

"He's here to kill me."

Part 0

Eight year old (Reader) tugged on their oversized long sleeve shirt. It was rubbing against the bruises uncomfortably. Everything about their body felt uncomfortable lately.

Their mother was late again.

Mr. Haley sighed loudly for the umpteenth time, looking at his watch as though it was (Reader's) fault their mother hadn't picked them up yet. It was warm and humid, and the sleeves of (Reader's) shirt were sticking to their arms. Despite the heat, Mr. Haley wouldn't allow (Reader) to wait inside, instead standing at the entrance of the school under a tree. (Reader) was the last child at pickup, aside from the children outside on the field for after school sports.

"Is your mom working late again?"

(Reader) didn't answer, instead watching the man walking into the nearly empty parking lot who seemed to be staring at (Reader) and their teacher. They couldn't tell exactly from how far away he was, but he didn't get any closer, keeping to the entrance, partially hidden behind a sign.

"Do you have anyone else I can call? Grandparents?" His kind voice was strained, exhaustion melting his patience.

The man suddenly ducked away from view, and shortly after (Reader's) frazzled mother sped walked into the lot, storming closer to the building. (Reader) left to meet her half way in an attempt to calm her down, but their teacher followed.

"Good afternoon, Ms. (Name)-"

"(Reader), c'mon." As soon as (Reader's) mother was close enough she immediately spun on her heel to leave again, ignoring the teacher.

"Ms. (Name), this is the third time-"

"I know!" The woman snapped, stopping abruptly, causing (Reader) to bump into her side. "I'm sorry."

"-the third time this month."

"I said I know!" She whined, throwing up her hands. "I couldn't get out of work, it wasn't that long!"

"After school activities are almost over. It's been almost an hour-"

"Don't be a dick, okay, I'm twenty minutes late."

"School ended forty minutes ago."

She crossed her arms. "So not an hour."

"Almost an hour-"

"So not an hour."

Mr. Haley sighed in defeat. He tried again, however, he was interrupted by the woman grabbing (Reader) by the arm and dragging them out of the parking lot. Her nails dug into the scabs on (Reader's) arm.

She spat out curses towards the teacher as she dragged her kid down the road towards the bus stop.

"Fucking asshole- and I told you that I was working late!" She turned her frustrations on (Reader), squeezing their arm painfully before releasing them, making (Reader) lose their balance.

"I'm sorry, Mom.." (Reader) quietly apologized, already shrinking in on themselves, head hunching into their tiny shoulders.

"Jesus, stop flinching like that. You look like I beat you or something.."

It was true, she never hit (Reader).

She just grabbed them.

Grabbed them by the back of the shirt, the front of their collar, the arms, wrists, and all parents smack their kids on the back of their heads, that's not hitting. It wasn't her fault that (Reader) bruised so easily. She didn't even hit them.

The city bus pulled up to the stop.

"Kevin's coming over for date night, so when we get home, make sure to do all your homework in your room. I'll bring you dinner and some snacks, but the adults need some alone time, okay?"

"Okay?"

"Okay!" (Reader) loudly responded, wringing their shirt in frustration.

(Reader) liked their mom when they had popcorn nights, when they made a bowl of popcorn and sat down to watch a rented movie together. But most of the time? (Reader) hated their mother.

They hated the way she dismissed them. (Reader) never seemed to be a priority in the woman's life. It didn't even feel like she hated (Reader). (Reader) was just nothing. They didn't receive hugs when they were scared, didn't get kisses when they were sick. And it wasn't one of those cases where you can't remember a single good memory because you're mad; (Reader) couldn't recall a single time their mother ever said the words 'I love you' to them.

She said it to Kevin though.

When they arrived home, (Reader) immediately went to their room, closing the door and flopping onto their mattress on the floor. They didn't feel like doing their homework, and decided instead on a quick nap. It wasn't like their mother was going to check in on them and see how they were doing anyway.

Maybe their dreams would bring a nice family for them.

CRASH!

A loud smash of glass and something heavy falling onto the thin apartment floor woke (Reader) up. They didn't know how long they were out for, but the sun was still up. (Reader) nervously bolted off the mattress and onto their feet, teetering in the middle of the room.

There was a quiet choking sound that liquefied into a gurgle before silencing.

(Reader's) handle slowly turned and their door was softly opened. A terrified looking man drenched in blood stood in front of (Reader), gazing down at them with inhuman eyes. His eyes were wide, panicked, but glassy, red, and with pupils so enlarged that he reminded (Reader) of the ghost woman from a scary movie their mother had been watching. He tried to brush his black hair out of his eyes, never looking away from (Reader's). It was the most intense staring contest (Reader) had ever been in.

He was timid in his approach, crouching down to his knees as he got closer to (Reader).

"..Hi." His voice was shaky and breathy. The man seemed to be overcome with an emotion that (Reader) didn't recognize. Tears were forming at the corners of his eyes, yet he still didn't blink. He swallowed hard before continuing. "My name is Donavon."

(Reader) was in an odd trance, halfway between petrified and numb. "My name is (Reader)." They didn't know why they answered.

"I know." For the first time since entering, Donavon glanced away from (Reader), searching the room for something. There were no toys in (Reader's) room. "Are you a-" His face broke trying to find the words he needed for his question. "Are you a b-?" A- a-.."

"I'm a kid." (Reader) tugged on their uncomfortable long sleeve shirt.

Donavon smiled so wide that his face looked like it completely split in half. Tears ran down his face shamelessly. The pure joy startled (Reader). "You're a kid." He sniffed back his snot and wiped away some tears, still smiling so hard that his face was turning red and he looked like he was going to laugh. "You're my kid."

He pulled (Reader) into a hug.

It wasn't like the quick hug the school nurse gave them, or the hugs their friends at school gave them; it was desperate.

He squeezed them almost too tightly, his fingers digging painfully into their ribs as he breathed in their hair. But (Reader) didn't cry out or ask him to stop. Tears had begun to fall from their eyes as well.

"I'm so sorry, kiddo. I should have been here. I should have been here." He started rocking (Reader) as he apologized into their scalp. "I didn't know about you, but I do now, and I'm here now."

(Reader) felt him kiss the side of their head quickly before he went back to whispering.

"I didn't know. But I do now. I'm so sorry."

It was too much, and it made (Reader) cry. They sobbed loudly, wailing into his chest as they returned the hug.

"I love you, (Reader). I love you so much. I don't know you yet, but I still love you. I should have been here for you, but I am now. And I am never letting you go. Okay? No one is ever taking you away from me."

Police sirens approached, screaming outside the building. (Reader) felt Donavon quickly reach into his back pocket, but he never let go from their right embrace.

"I never knew your mom. When I saw you with her last year, I - I tried to get into contact, but, but.. No one would listen to me, I had no proof.. I.. got a DNA test.. I -I'm your dad! I'm a father!" He started rambling, trying to explain things to (Reader), but they couldn't understand anything he was saying. And it didn't matter to them. He said he loved them.

(Reader) heard heavy boot steps and an officer loudly announce his presence.

"No one is ever taking you away from me again."

He was still only hugging (Reader) with one arm.

Someone entered the room, and a really loud sound hurt (Reader's) ears.

An officer shot Donovan in the shoulder, causing the knife he was holding to clatter onto the floor. He fell, releasing (Reader). They saw the knife and quickly put two and two together. But something happened in (Reader's) underdeveloped brain. It didn't matter that they had just met him. That man the police just shot was their dad. And he loved them.

"No!" (Reader) tried to launch themselves at Donovan to protect him, but their tiny body was caught by an officer.

"Don't worry, I've got ya!" The man tried to console (Reader), easily subduing their thrashing limbs, but his soothing voice didn't ease the pain in their heart, nor did it dampen the volume of their shrieks.

"DADDY!!"

The cop carried (Reader) out past the bodies of their mother and Kevin. Both were mutilated, lying naked near the couch in a pool of blood and spilt vodka.

Donavon was sentenced to life without parole.

He testified in court that the only thing he regretted was almost hurting his child. (Reader's) mother had taken advantage of him at a party years ago. Donavon had passed out drunk in the master's bedroom and woken up with his pants and underwear around his ankles. He told the court he didn't remember anything that happened, so although he suspected that someone had assaulted him, he had no proof and records showed that the police refused to help him when he went to report it.

It was a one in a million chance that Donavon saw (Reader) and their mother grocery shopping over a year ago, and nearly had a heart attack seeing a little kid who had his father's ears. Ears are just as unique as fingerprints, and to see a little kid with badly cut hair looking like a mixture of his father's baby photos and the woman walking beside them gave Donavon a sense of confidence that was borderline disturbing. He told the jury that he approached the woman with the intent of making polite conversation about how much alike her kiddo looked like his late father, but knew immediately that (Reader) was his, because when their mother looked Donavon in the eyes she recognized him.

"Before I could even say 'Hi', she grabbed (Reader's) arm and said 'Stay away from my child, Donavon.' I didn't even remember her face."

On the witness stand, Donavon admitted to breaking into their home so he could get access to (Reader's) DNA, stealing their hair brush. He also admitted to stalking the family, watching them as (Reader) openly showed signs of abuse. He called CPS multiple times, but nothing ever came of it.

Donavon repeated how time and time again law enforcement failed to help him get custody of his 'alleged' child, and that he had "snapped".

"I told (Reader) that no one would take them away from me again. Please, please I know I was wrong." Donavon pleaded the jury, looking past the lawyers and staring with his horrifying, never ending gaze. "Please don't put me away forever. I can get better, with help! I needed help! But my baby, my kiddo, they deserve better, please don't separate us again!"

Despite going to a decent foster family and receiving regular therapy sessions with child services, (Reader) had learned what true love was. The smiles their foster family gave them felt fake. No one could hug (Reader) tight enough to press their way into (Reader's) heart. Love was tears streaming down from the black coal eyes of a desperate father who just killed his kiddo's abusers. That was heroic. That was good. Just.

(Reader's) foster parents smiled at each other all the time, and said I love you multiple times a day. Then they divorced. Love was (Reader's) daddy, ready to kill (Reader) so they never had to be apart again.

The therapist with child services watched with a broken heart as (Reader) refused her homemade cookies. "Have you made any friends at school?"

(Reader) shrugged. They didn't see much of a point in friends. "There are these two kids I eat lunch with." Two kids who wouldn't leave them alone, no matter how much (Reader) ignored them.

"That's good! What are their names?"

"Miranda and Brian."

"Are they good kids?"

"They're weird. Brian wears glasses that make his eyes look super big, and Miranda wears a fedora."

"Well, I'll let you in on a secret. The weird kids are usually more fun to hang out with than the normal kids!" She winked while smiling, but it didn't phase (Reader).

"When can I see my dad?"

The therapist leaned back, looking up at the ceiling to control her inner turmoil before shutting her eyes. "I'm working on that, but it's very difficult. Mr. McElroy is in a lot of trouble for what he did."

(Reader) looked down at the drawing they had been making of them playing outside with Donavon. "I wish he killed me."

Part II

Warren had run away from home, again.

His left eye was swollen shut, and blood speckled the front of his t-shirt. The ten year old hadn't even done anything yet, but his father had had a bad day at work, and been drinking for a couple of hours by the time Warren was dropped off by the Saturday babysitter.

He ran into the woods, blinded by his tears and the swelling.

Because of the crying and injury to his eye, Warren couldn't see very well, and kept running even when he emerged from the trees into a clearing; running into a very deep hole.

There was a pain as his ankle popped, crashing at the bottom into the mud. Everything hurt, so he allowed himself to scream and cry as loudly as he needed. No one was going to come for him anyway.

And so he stayed in the hole and watched as the sun went down and the world went black. Even though he knew his father wouldn't come looking for him, he still wished he would. He wished someone needed him as badly as he needed them.

There was no moon that night, leaving Warren completely blind after the purple sunset left the sky. With his unusually dilated pupils Warren typically preferred the dark over the sun, but without the moon there wasn't enough light for him to see.

'Maybe, I should just spend the night in here.' The sad thought made him sniffle, threatening to release the floodgates again.

"It's right over here!" A loud whisper followed by feet tripping over branches echoed through the trees. Warren held his breath, suddenly afraid of being discovered. It wasn't logical to be frightened, but he was. There were strangers in the woods, and he was in pain and blind and alone. His heart beat in his chest like a war drum as people drew near.

"How do you know where it is?"

The voices belonged to children, probably around Warren's age, but he didn't recognize any of them. Most of what they said was too quiet to hear, until they arrived at the clearing.

"Over here."

The strangers stopped near the hole, but too far away to see Warren covered in mud at the bottom. Lights were illuminating the air, and Warren figured that they must have had flashlights with them. His eyes finally had enough light to adjust to the pitch black, and he watched a letter flutter into the hole, followed shortly by another letter, gracefully drifting in.

Then a thick envelope was chucked in, hitting Warren in the head, who had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from accidentally making a startled sound.

"What did you wish for?" Someone asked.

With that question, Warren realized where he was.

He grabbed the letter that had hit him, quietly opening it up as two of the strangers above him bickered. In the faint light he saw a lot of words, too many to read before they left, so he quickly scanned the page out of curiosity. His breath hitched when he saw a drawing of himself.

Black eyes and shaggy black hair.

Warren put the papers back in the envelope and stuck it in his pants. Someone approached the edge, and Warren caught a glimpse of hair and eyes. They didn't see him, but he certainly saw them.

"What did you wish for, (Reader)?"

"Someone who loves me.."

And at that moment, Warren believed in the hole that grants wishes.

He had no proof that the child looking down at him was the same child who threw the wish practically into his lap, but he knew that it was. Like fate, or magic.

After the trio left, Warren pulled his sore little body out of the muck, repeating (Reader's) name to himself over and over again as to not forget it. He didn't know how, but he knew that (Reader) was the one who's wish he had stolen. Warren limped home, easily sneaking in past his father passed out on the couch and up the stairs to the bathroom, where he locked the door.

He quickly pulled out the letter, opening it up in the light to read the wish in full.

"I wish someone would love me." Warren read quietly out loud, sounding out each word as his finger followed the sentence.

"He has to be just like my dad. Be - cause my dad is the only person who loves me."

"He has to have black hair and black eyes.."

Warren looked at his dirty face in the mirror, ignoring the purple around his left eye and focusing on his natural features. A proud smile crept onto his lips.

He went back to reading. "And his eyes should be deep.." Warren's own eyes were also deep set, making it look like he had bags under his eyes even after a full night's sleep. His ears started to turn pink. The picture was of the kid he saw at the hole with a tall man with black hair and eyes and a little guy who looked the same. He pointed at each person. "That's (Reader).. that's (Reader's) daddy... And that's.." he looked at himself in the mirror, tearing up with how hard he was smiling.

Someone needed him.

He turned the page over and his smile instantly fell, his blood freezing.

Pictures of bloody bodies covered the pages.

Page after page of dead people with the most intense things Warren had ever read followed the seemingly innocent wish. He hadn't been exposed to video games yet, his father didn't let him watch TV, and Warren ignored the other kids at his school, so he had never known violence outside of the terrible things his father did to him. And the words he read in that envelope were violent.

"True love is keeping me."

"If he loves me, he'll kill me."

"Don't let them take me away again."

"Together forever."

(Reader) was worried about the limitations of the wishing hole, so they felt they had to be very specific about their ideal boy. Which meant that they had to explain what love was. And to explain what love was, meant that they had to explain to the hole what their dad had done to their mother and Kevin.

It scared Warren.

But only for a moment.

He thought about the joy (Reader) would feel when they saw him for the first time, how their eyes would light up with love and adoration. In his mind, they would recognize him instantly, like their drawing come to life. Warren was their wish come true. And, in a way, (Reader) was his.

He slowly went back to his bedroom and hid the letter in his underwear drawer. The wish was like his most prized possession. Knowing that there was someone out there who needed Warren made him, for the first time in a very long time, feel hopeful for the future.

The next few years of Warren's life, however, were not pleasant in the slightest.

An anatomy book flew at Warren's face, connecting with his thin nose. He was now in highschool, and the abuse had only worsened.

"What the fuck is this?!" His father threw another medical book, terrified. In the past he used to throw and break things even though Warren's only crime was existing, but now even Warren could understand his father's disgust.

A rat laid on Warren's table, split open.

"I'm practicing.." Warren smiled, blood dripping from his nostrils.

"I should kick you out of the goddamn house!" The drunk man kicked a wall, leaving a dent in the drywall.

"If you do that, I'll go to the police."

His father's eyes widened. "The fuck you just say, you little psychopath?!"

The man was very nimble for someone so swollen from years of alcohol consumption, closing the distance between himself and his son before Warren had a chance to put up his hands in defense. Large, yellowed fingers grabbed a fistful of Warren's greasy hair and lifted his dangerously underweight body off the ground; high enough where Warren couldn't touch the floor with his toes.

"Think about it. You have no proof for the cops that I killed this rat, but I have all the proof that you hit me." To emphasize his point, Warren didn't wipe away the blood that was now dripping onto the rat carcass.

Black eyes that held no light stared wide and unblinking at the disgusting excuse of a man before Warren. His father looked about the room, which was now covered in articles about some murderer from years ago and medical texts printed off at the local library.

Warren was dropped onto his ass. "Fucking freak." His father mumbled before stumbling out of the room.

It wasn't until Warren heard the drunkard smash though the hall towards the staircase that he finally grabbed some tissue to shove up his nose. It had taken him years and years of hard thinking, but Warren had finally found a way to be (Reader's) perfect husband. It was difficult, but the solution was finally discovered, a way to make (Reader's) wish come true without killing them.

He thought he would probably drop out of school, but that didn't really matter to Warren. The young man already had a part time job, and his future career as a manager for a small corner store was practically set.

Candid shots of (Reader) laid under the box of tissues. While (Reader) had continued growing into an attractive young adult, Warren was stunted. A lack of nutrition gave his unnaturally pale skin a yellow tint, and he was so thin that some of his teeth were becoming loose. But it felt as though he couldn't waste even a second thought on anything that wasn't (Reader).

"I'm sorry, Mr. Whiskers.." Warren apologized quietly to the dead rat. "I didn't mean to kill you. I'll do better next time."

Every time Warren saw (Reader) out and about, he wanted to drag them behind a dumpster and fuck them till they bled. It took incredible restraint to stick to his plan and keep to the shadows.

Their wish, laminated, hung above his bed like a prayer, one that he read and worshipped every night before bed.

Warren's father didn't notice when he stopped going to his classes.

He also didn't notice the muffled screaming from the basement, when Warren evolved his experiments from rats to people.

It wasn't until the smell became unbearable that he finally sobered up enough to go down and investigate.

As he searched the house for the cause of the smell, the aging, dying man briefly wondered when the last time he had been down in basement was. Or, when he last saw his good for nothing son.

The stairs to the lowest level creaked under his shoes, and an anxiety he had never before known trickled up through his bones.

At the bottom of the stairs, a door held back the stench like a leaking flood gate. Opening the squealing door wafted a wave of nausea inducing gas right into the man's face.

"Hey, ew what the- hey freak! You down here?! What's that smell..?" His eyes didn't have time to adjust to the dusty basement light before Warren swung a wooden baseball bat with spikes towards his father's face. One spike went through his skull near his nose and another popped open one of his eyes. But his death was due to the blunt force, cracking his head open as easily as smashing a watermelon. The junkie strapped and gagged to the table silently screamed as their one hope for salvation died in front of them.

"I'm sorry about the interruption." Warren smiled, his eyes still and unwavering. The man who had destroyed his childhood and stolen his happiness laid bleeding out on the floor, and Warren didn't feel a single thing. It was strange, part of him thought that he would feel satisfaction watching his abuser die, but he felt nothing at all. Warren only killed his father because he had interrupted his experiment with the homeless person who looked amazingly like (Reader). The young man held up a belt. "Let's continue."

Warren didn't consider himself to be a murderer. What he was doing to the people he abducted was for love. There was no evil or hatred, and if he looked at it in a certain light, he wasn't really trying to kill them at all.

Moving to the night shift gave Warren more time to stalk (Reader) during the day. Just as he had predicted, Warren became a higher member of management, and even 'owned his own home' now that his father had tragically passed. Everything was progressing perfectly, because his entire existence was a wish come true.

It hurt, hiding in the booth behind (Reader) and their friends, hearing about how they had started dating at the suggestion of their bitch therapist, but Warren decided that it was good for their relationship. It proved to him that even after all this time, (Reader) still loved him and needed him. Every time a date failed to live up to (Reader's) expectations it further fueled Warren's fantasy of how (Reader) would react when he finally revealed himself to them.

The dates also provided Warren ample opportunity to look around their apartment. Like when they went on a date with some whiny loser his age. He wasn't even (Reader's) type. Their home was small and quaint, and taking pictures of it in extreme detail helped Warren learn how to decorate the room (Reader) would be staying in once they finally started dating.

Dating.

The idea of merely "dating" caused a painful strain in Warren's chest, but he knew that it was only logical to date before he proposed. At least for a month or so. Maybe a week.

Well, whenever he did propose, Warren knew (Reader) would accept, because Warren was their wish come true. There was nothing he could do wrong, because his entire existence was due to (Reader's) will.

He didn't even bother cleaning off the dirt when he scuffed up the bedroom door. There was no point, because (Reader) wouldn't ever fear or hate anything he did, even if they didn't know he was the one responsible. Because that was fate.

(Reader's) undergarments rested on top of the dirty clothes basket.

Even that was fate.

Because why would they leave their worn underwear in plain view, if not for him? His hands with dirt crusted nails stroked the garment, imaging that he could still feel the heat of (Reader's) body on them. Warren imagined how happy (Reader) would be to learn what he did with their underwear, in their bed. He imagined their eyes glowing like an angel's as their smile graced his filthy presence.

Because this was (Reader's) wish.

And soon, Warren would finally give them their happily ever after.

Warren had put in for a week of vacation at his work; their shared bedroom was decorated; and his supplies were hidden in a backpack in the dirt behind (Reader's) complex. It was like a fairytale, when the knight came to save the dragon from the prince.

Rich approached (Reader's) front door as Warren dug up his hidden tools. Mud covered his face and gloves, but he didn't mind. In fact, it was like a mask, where only his true love would recognize him. Warren knew that his dream would come true that day, but it was even better than he had hoped for. Prince Rich was there to harass his dragon.

He had hoped it would be this easy, and the universe provided. Fate was always on Warren's side when it came to making (Reader's) wish come true. All those lives lost to Warren's experiments were not wasted.

The annoying voice of Rich was audible from outside the building, but it was difficult to feel anything negative towards to poor bastard. In Warren's mind, it wasn't Rich's fault that he was born to be such a loser; it was fate's design for the man to be sacrificed.

Warren threw open the front door, scaring the shit out of the stronger looking man. "Who the fuck is that?!"

Then, the sands of time were fused into glass by the electricity between Warren and (Reader). Their expression looked relieved, just as Warren had always hoped it would. A smile stretched across the beautiful lips Warren often fantasized about kissing. Their cheeks pulled up in the most honest grin Warren had ever seen.

Tears of joy decorated their bottom lashes like glitter.

"He's here to kill me."

Rich put up his arm as though to protect (Reader) from Warren. Again, Warren felt no anger towards the man and his silly reaction.

The bat used to kill Warren's father restarted time as it aimed for Rich's skull.

(Reader) looked up endearingly at Warren, now sitting on their knees in a pool of Rich's blood. The man before them was everything they had ever dreamt of. His black eyes never left (Reader's), even as he bludgeoned their date to death.

It took all of (Reader's) will power to not shake in their seat. Excitement flowed through their veins so quickly that it sent involuntary quivers through their muscles. Everything that they had ever wanted was finally coming true.

"I've been waiting for you." (Reader) felt their chest tighten as Warren approached.

But then he dropped his bat.

Their smile twitched a little, but (Reader) tried to not let anxiety ruin their happiest moment. The dirty man slid a backpack off and started rifling through it.

"I've been waiting for you too.." A voice that sounded oddly chipper finally responded, echoing from a wide grin that showed off yellowing teeth with a few missing on the bottom row.

(Reader) smiled harder. "You're going to kill me?" It was phrased like a question, but it was more of a plea.

"No."

"What?"

(Reader's) smile cracked in half. The adrenaline in their system turned deadly.

Warren's smile didn't fade.

"But, you have to." (Reader) began to panic. This had to be the man they wished to life. He had to be there to kill them. It was fate. He had to! "Aren't you here for me?"

"Of course I am."

"Then you have to kill me! If you love me, you have to-!"

Warren dropped his bag, revealing a hacksaw. He held it relaxed in one hand, and held a belt in the other. "Do you know how selfish you are, (Reader)?"

(Reader's) mind went numb with confusion.

"I've loved you for so long, and now that I finally have you, you think I'm going to kill you?"

"I'm not going to let anyone have you."

"Not even death."

The End

The two story house was full of trash bags. Every room in the building was full of clutter and filth, except the master bedroom.

Warren came home from a long shift, excited to have his precious spouse in his arms.

None of the guards at the prison would listen to Donavon when he tried to convince them all that something was wrong. A child suddenly not visiting their murderer of a parent in prison was not reason to go to the police and open a missing person's case. Even the officers that liked Donavon couldn't do anything.

The bedroom decorated to (Reader's) taste was unlocked by Warren as he finally climbed through all the shit. He entered their shared home with a warm expression of pure love on his face.

"(Reader), I'm home!"

In the middle of the room watching television was a wheelchair bound (Reader). Their arms and legs amputated, sitting helplessly in a soiled diaper. A drugged up, lopsided smiled sleepily tugged the corners of their mouth up.

"Welcome home, baby.."

A/N: Sorry it took so long, happy to start writing again ❤️

#yandere #yandere x reader #dead dove do not eat #not a romance #cw death #cw dead animal #cw blo0d #cw trauma #thank you for waiting so patiently #i know it isn't my usual #dark #cw abuse #abduction #yandere stalker #cw rap3 #male yandere #yandere oc

[digital-domain]

hypothetically…

A fucked up mahito drabble (is there any other kind?)

Word Count: 1300

Synopsis: after you witness him killing for the first time, mahito reassures you in a way that makes you feel much, much worse.

“If I was gonna kill you…it wouldn’t be like that. It would be much more personal.”

Content Tags: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. DARK CONTENT. noncon. description of gore/dead body, blood, dacryphillia, hypothetical description of reader being murdered during sex (does not actually happen), fear kink, reader is scared out of her damn mind, biting (accompanied by more blood!), mahito implies that he would be down to fuck a corpse

When you see him kill for the first time, you break down into tears. You’re not sure what pushes you over the edge: the explosion of flesh and blood that spatters the floor of the sewer as you peer around the corner, or the gleeful smile that spreads wide across his face as he looks down at the remains of his work. When you follow his gaze, you can see chunks of skin, bone, sinew - the limbs are still intact, their tattered edges dripping with fresh blood, but the entire torso is blown to bits. You heard the screams moments ago…now, you regret following them.

It takes him a minute to notice you standing there. You know that you should take the opportunity to run back to the place where he left you, to pretend that you didn’t see, but your sheer horror pins you in place. When he does see you, he rushes to your side, and smushes your face between his hands to kiss you. His palms are wet - you don’t want to think about why. “Aww. You came to watch! How sweet.” When he notices your expression, he cocks his head. “There’s nothin’ to cry about, cutie. I’m just having fun.”

You sniff, and do your best to wipe your tears away. “Most people wouldn’t call that fun.”

“Not a person, sweetheart,” he reminds you. He hasn’t stopped smiling for a second, and his grin broadens as he stares down at your face. “You’ve got fear in your eyes…it’s lovely. And so strong that I can smell it on you, too.” He inhales deeply, and his tongue darts over his lips. “You really that scared?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah?” His eyes stretch unnaturally wide, glowing in the dim light. “Why?”

Your hands shake, a black haze encroaching on the corners of your vision. “I don’t know…”

“That’s a lie!” He jabs a finger between your eyes, and pouts. “I don’t like it when you lie to me. You know that.”

There’s a good reason for you to keep your thoughts to yourself. He’ll find them entertaining…and that’s never a good thing. But if he already knows that you’re not being honest, it’s safer to tell him now. Before he decides that he needs to force the truth out of you. “I’m scared because…if you did that to them…” You shudder, and choke back a sob. “How do I know you won’t do it to me?”

“Ohhh.” He laughs, and slings his arm around your waist, kissing you gently on the top of your head. “Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

You know better than to feel completely relieved. But for the moment, you think you’re safe - until he opens his mouth again.

“If I was gonna kill you…” he muses. “It wouldn’t be like that. It would be much more personal.”

Your heart drops into your stomach. You feel weak at the knees - he follows you as you sink to the ground and takes a seat against the wall, spreading his legs and dragging you between them, pressing your back against his chest. He wraps his arms tightly around your waist, and rests his head on your shoulder. “You’re such a pretty, pretty thing…” he murmurs. “You deserve a very special death.” His tongue slides up your neck, breath hot and dank against your bare skin. “I like you alive, for now. But hypothetically…if I did decide to kill you…” He squeezes you, hard, forcing the air from your lungs. “Yeah. I know exactly what I’d do.”

You stiffen in his arms, every one of your senses painfully sharp. Almost as sharp as the fingernails digging into your sides.

“I’d fuck you before I did it,” he declares, his voice bristling with excitement. “I’d put you on your back so I could see your face. I’d put my hand around your neck, and at the moment you came…” He pauses. “Hmm. Would you prefer me to strangle you, or slit your throat?”

Fuck. You knew he was deranged…but this is worse than anything he’s said to you before. Magnitudes worse. An unintelligible whimper is the only response you can manage.

“If you don’t have a preference, I think I’d prefer slicing you open. I like blood.” He grabs your jaw, wrenches your face towards him, stares intently into your fear-stricken eyes. “Not too much blood, though. I’d be gentle with you. Much gentler than I was with him.”

You follow the line of his hand to the mutilated corpse lying just feet away. You can smell it, the stink of blood and guts and death worming its way into your throat, churning the bile in the depths of your stomach.

“I’d be so sweet…I’d only rip you as much as I had to.” He turns you around and pulls you close, smiling as a fresh wave of tears streams down your face. “So pretty,” he hums. “I’d want you to still be pretty when you died, so I’d be very careful.” You try to hide your face, but his hand latches onto your jaw, freezing you in place as he kisses you roughly on the lips. His other hand plunges between your legs, and clamps down on your inner thigh. “Don’t worry,” he assures you. “I’m not gonna do it now. Maybe not ever.”

Maybe. He’s so casual about it - about holding your life in his hands.

Without warning, he shoves you onto your back, wriggling on top of you and trapping you against the floor before you can push him away. He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand, and sinks his teeth into your neck, only pulling back once he breaks your skin - after watching your blood trickle out for a few seconds, he darts forward and laps it up, sticking out his tongue to show you the red stain before he kisses you again, leaving a rancid, metallic taste in your mouth.

He guides your hand under his body, pressing it between his legs. He’s hard. As desperately as you try to escape, he won’t let go of your wrist - he makes you touch him, grinding shamelessly against your unwilling hand.

His face hovers over yours, so close that you’re compelled to cross your eyes. “I learned something interesting the other day,” he whispers. “Can I tell it to you?”

He wants you to say yes - but you can’t bring yourself to speak. It’s all you can do to nod your head. You can feel your pulse thudding desperately in your ears, and in your palm.

“I learned,” he says, “that bodies stay nice and warm for at least ten minutes after they die. Especially on the inside.” He giggles. “I guess it takes a long time for all those squishy guts to dry out.”

You squirm instinctively, repulsed by the image that flashes through your head.

“You know what that means, right?”

“No…”

He grins terribly, and presses his lips to you ear. “It means,” he whispers, “that even if I did kill you…even after you went limp in my arms…I’d still have a little more time.”

Your mouth falls open, emitting a gasp that only makes him press harder into your hand.

“Shhh.” He presses his nose into your shoulder, his cheek rubbing against the fresh wound still leaking blood down your neck. “I told you…I’m not gonna do it today.” He raises his face as you thrash beneath him, watching your eyelids flicker, your face contorted with fear. “If I did…I wouldn’t get to hear all the pretty sounds you’re about to make.”

#dead dove do not eat #tw dark content #tw noncon #jjk x reader #mahito x you #mahito x reader #mahito #jjk mahito

[avoxrising]

The Feral One • Chapter 7

Finnick x Y/N

Series Masterlist Link

Trying to balance good writing with getting out chapters quickly so bare with me!

Content warnings - violence and death, cursing

“It’s a clock!” Katniss exclaims. “Wiress, you’re a genius!”

Katniss explains to the group how the arena works, making you realize that you running into the tribute during the lightning was just a coincidence, and the lightning didn’t always mean danger.

The group decides to go to the cornucopia to survey the arena and test their theory. You would like to grab a weapon but you don’t know if that’s allowed. Katniss already confiscated the arrow she shot you with so all you have is a weak arm and an injured arm.

Finnick walks between you and Peeta, with Katniss behind him. You really need to earn her trust back if you’re going to stay with the group, although, you don’t know how much she trusted you to begin with.

Katniss and Peeta warily eye you as you look through the weapons, trying to find a knife or two. Too many large weapons will just slow you down. You’d rather just have a few knives on you.

“She’s fine,” you hear Finnick tell the pair. “It’s safer for us that she is armed in case we get attacked. She’s already told me she doesn’t want to kill you so I doubt she’ll throw any knives your way. She knows the difference between doing damage in a fight and killing. Just give her space and don’t act so on edge around her. She’s doing her best.”

Katniss lowers her bow but doesn’t make any move to distance herself from you. It seems like the guarding followed you from the capital to the arena.

The group sits down as Peeta draws a map of the arena. Wiress goes down to the water to clean off some wire Beetee got that you assume is for his big smart plan.

“Did you see anything where you went?” Finnick asks you. You shake your head and just point at the lightning Peeta drew on the map.

“Just lightning?” he confirms and you nod your head. Looking at the map, you’re glad you only ended up with lightning. The rest of the jungle looks terrifying.

The group begins chatting about birds in mines when you hear a sudden gasp. You all turn to see Gloss slitting Wiress’ throat. If the capital wanted you to act feral, they were about to get a show.

It happened so fast. Katniss shot Gloss before Johanna threw an axe into Cashmere, killing her instantly. You noticed Brutus and Enobaria going for Finnick and Katniss but you were too far away to stop the knife Enobaria threw from sinking into Finnick thigh. She’s dead.

You charge at her, screaming like a wild animal. She seems ready for your attack, however, and positions herself for your oncoming blow. You collide with her, sending both of you to the ground.

There’s no time to reach for the blade tucked into your belt. You claw at her face, drawing blood, as she attempts to push you off her. She’s successful in rolling the two of you over, putting herself on top. You go to grab for a knife when her teeth sink into your wrist, shooting pain through your whole body. It’s a shock she didn’t bite your whole hand off.

That’s when the cornucopia starts spinning. Enobaria leaps off of you and tries her best to escape with Brutus while the rest of the group is caught off guard by the movement. You clutch onto the rocks with your good arm but you can feel yourself slipping.

Katniss falls off the same time you do, sending both of you into the water. Even with your bad arm, you’re still a better swimmer, so when the water calms you’re able to orient yourself.

You spot Katniss struggling to find the surface a few yards away from you, so you dive back under and swim to her. Bracing yourself for human contact, you grab her arm and start propelling her to the surface. It takes her a second to realize you’re helping, especially with the amount of blood you’re releasing into the water, but she swims with you till you reach air again.

Peeta helps her out of the water, checking to make sure she’s ok. You do your best to pull yourself up but you’re in too much pain. Finnick takes notice and grabs onto you, yanking you onto the rocks.

He doesn’t even have to say what you’re thinking. The bite looks bad. It’s hard to tell if Enobaria punctured the vein in your wrist but you think she did due to the amount it’s bleeding.

“Johanna,” Finnick calls. “Do we have any bandages left?”

“Nope,” she shouts. “The only ones we had went to Volts.”

“Shit,” he mutters, trying to figure out what to do. He uses your knife to cut the arm off your wetsuit, apologizing that he had to cut yours as his was destroyed by the fog. He wraps the fabric tightly around your wrist, trying to stop the bleeding.

“This should work until we can get some sponsors to send us something better,” he states. You shake your head at him. Sponsors wouldn’t send you anything. You were on your own.

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#hunger games #hunger games fic #finnick odair #the hunger games #finnick odair x reader #finnick x reader #finnick x you #finnick odair angst #finnick #thg finnick #finnick fluff #catching fire #the feral one