#x-com apocalypse

[secretgamergirl]

Consider cloning one of these games...

So the other day someone was showing me the trailer to some neat new indie game they were getting into, and my immediate thought was "that does look pretty nice but FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHING! INDIE DEVS, PLAY A SECOND GAME ALREADY!"

Presumably you've already guessed this, but it was a nice little handcrafted thing that was very plainly inspired primarily by Super Metroid. Even had those bubble-looking platforms. I'd say what it was specifically, but I already forgot the name, because, you know, I've kinda seen a few games do this before.

It's not like Super Metroid isn't one of my favorite games of all time, obviously. I'm one of the shockingly few people who played it when it was new and totally fell in love then. And it's also not like there aren't several games made in its image that I also love. It's just that there's way too damn many of them out there for anyone to play, and while I'd never be one to tell someone not to make the thing they want to make due to market saturation or whatever, I kinda feel like we're doing a huge disservice to our collective creativity and appreciation of classic games to all be so hyper-focused on putting our own spins on this one particular game, especially when it kinda knocked things out of the park back when this wasn't a genre it was just this one super cool game with, among other things, a compelling structure to it.

Like, I do love that Super Metroid became A game that's served as a focal point for indie devs to try and recreate. Back when it was first released it actually sold kinda terribly by Nintendo's standards, and didn't really have anything else out there trying to iterate on the concept until we eventually got the Castlevania series going that route, and Cave Story. But at this point, yeah, Super Metroid has been all canonized and studied to death and if you're the sort of person who cares about this sort of thing in the slightest you know all about how it ticks and the appeal and what other ways the basic premise can be pulled in. So it's well past time for people to take another game that's super great and fairly unique and use that as a jumping off point to make some new things. So I'm just going to ramble here a little about some real gems that nobody's ever really gotten around to trying to replicate.

Punch-Out!!

I want to say we're all familiar with Punch-Out!! but... are we? It's a famously difficult game, so odds are good you've seen speedruns or other challenge runs, but you really have to play it for yourself to see what's so interesting about it. A big part of the initial appeal of course was having these really expressive screen-filling characters, which isn't something we're lacking now. It's also real twitchy, basically unplayable towards the end if you're dealing with any sort of input lag at all, which isn't super unique these days, but structurally, the way it's coded, there's all this weird artificial drama to it.

Like, on the surface, it's a pretty straightforward thing. Enemies have tells for their attacks, you dodge those, you hit them in the resulting openings. But there's also the round based structure, knock-downs, and one-off gimmick mechanics in the mix. Officially, we're playing by the rules of boxing where the outcome of a match is decided by either knocking someone down and them not getting back up, knocking them down three times in a round, or running out of time and having to go to some judge's decision. But that's not REALLY how it works.

There's no random chance of someone going down and staying down. You've got HP meters, you take one down, your opponent falls over, waits until late in the count and gets up, forcing you to drain that HP down three times before the round ends, and if yours bottoms out, you get to mash buttons to stand up and have your other two chances. But then there's times you CAN take someone down, not only keeping them down for a KO win, but even getting there without your opponent bottoming out on HP first. The most famous example, I believe of both of these, being Bald Bull's charge. The big dramatic make or break where he just keeps using this special move which isn't terribly hard to dodge, but deadly if it connects, and dodging doesn't really help as he won't stop until the round ends, and then might spend the whole second round doing nothing but. You need to take that risk, and get that frame perfect stomach strike just before he connects to dramatically KO him and snatch victory from the jaws of defeat... or you can do this:

I was actually looking for an example of the all or nothing strike when I found this. If you don't face the charge in round 1, he gets into it sooner in round 2 to force the matter, but if you're still not confident enough to go for it there, turns out you can just drop him early into round 3 and have him stay down... and the only real consistent rule any of this follows is drama. Heck looking at the opening screen here, this person knows tricks for getting a KO on at least the first 10 opponents. Most of them I've always just taken the TKOs on myself. Point is though, the mechanics really run on drama. AI scripts change up if you move onto new rounds. Knock-downs turn into knock outs if and only if it fits a certain narrative. This sort of thing is super fascinating to me. Makes me want to look through the game's code line by line. And the only thing I can think of in any other game that even comes close is, of all things, the Ace Attorney series, with those scenery chewing meltdowns, and scattered scenes that "break the rules" with instant failure penalties or no-win situations where you're then suddenly saved by a friendly NPC's dramatic appearance.

I wouldn't suggest anyone literally try to make a Punch-Out!! clone. There's no real reason to stick to the boxing framework. I'd definitely advise against copying all the broad stereotypes. But there's a real unique soul to the drama-driven mechanics breaking stated rules I'd love to see people really digging into to gain a deep understanding of it and apply that to original games.

Yume Kojo: Doki Doki Panic

I'm not just being pretentious and refusing to say Super Mario Bros. 2. When it was Mario-ized, there were two huge changes- A run button the original FDS game didn't have, and the fundamental structural change of just having you finish levels with whatever character you like (or use warp zones to skip them entirely). In the original game, in order to see the proper ending, you had to play each and every level with each and every character with no run button. And that's neat, actually.

See, just as an example, there's a bit of a skip early on in both versons of the game, where you can avoid taking a door through some whole area by just leaping across a big waterfall. In Super Mario Bros. 2 anyone can do this, just needing a running start, but in the original release, there are no running starts. Either you can jump that gap by way of good airtime, or you can't. Depends which character you play as. Everyone has different stats, so being forced through the same full set of levels, there's a few little things like this where you have to alter your strategy to reflect the character you're running with at the time. That's cool. The whole mechanic of lifting things and throwing them, or riding on enemies' heads, or stacking blocks to reach higher areas or block fireballs, this is also just cool (and another thing SMB2 tweaked actually, play both and see for yourself).

I have seen literally one indie game that riffed on this idea, Curse of the Crescent Isle.

Umihara Kawase

If you've played it, you know. If you haven't, please just watch this speedrun:

Nothing has physics quite like this game. Nothing really has the same weird mildly distressing dream sort of tone to it either, or weird as hell branching level structure, or the weird system where the game has a time limit, but rather than giving a game over just makes it end after your current level. Other games have played with grappling hooks, but nothing I've ever seen has made me feel like this here is what they were going for.

Altered Beast

You know, I don't even particularly LIKE Altered Beast. I always thought it was a bit too short, a bit too simple, and still somehow it felt like you were just killing time until getting the power-ups that kinda make you invincible for the rest of the level.

There's... something here though. Somewhere with these bodies getting so bulky and beefy with no change to their heads and the voice samples and the sense of spectacle to it all, and yeah the dramatic gameplay shifts with the power-ups. I don't quite know what the secret sauce is, but if you find it, bottle it up, and slather it over something less shallow, you might really have something there.

Ecco the Dolphin

There is such a weird mix in the whole series of new age hippie save the whales vibes and genuinely disquieting horror just kinda seamlessly blended together. So much of it is the sound design, but the claustrophobia, the weird sense of speed, the constant pressure of drowning or suddenly being in the face of some huge nasty thing that'll basically one-shot you. The... unspoken but pronounced notion that this is set in a world where all of humanity died and are totally unremembered. There's a hell of a lot you could do with any of this, and the only game I can think of that comes close to hitting the same notes is Subnautica. Actually for that matter...

Subnautica

I don't want to get into what's so great about Subnautica here, because the most common sentiment I hear from people who have played it is they wish there was some way they could play Subnautica for the first time, again. Just... yeah. If you haven't already, play through it all completely blind, and if you can think of how to recapture all of that, do it, and put it in my hands without a word.

X-Com Apocalypse

So... X-Com is a truly amazing game that to this day feels like a unique enough beast it also wouldn't be bad to try and learn from, but there's actually a good number of attempts at clones already, none quite seem willing to get into the same levels of complexity, and there's the whole remade Firaxis series with a simpler take that a lot of games are using as a template. But Apocalypse? The original third game? That tried to do a lot of new and different stuff. I don't know how much of it didn't work vs. how much is secretly amazing if you internalize how it works vs. what's sort of half-baked per se, but there's some real ambition with mixing the original's tactical intricacies and destructible terrain and such (which somehow works even better with the realtime mode this one has), with this living breathing city. You aren't intercepting UFOs on a featureless world map. You've got a whole separate combat engine on a persistent map where stray shots can damage roads and cause long-term problems because the supplies you order get shipped via trucks that travel on those roads. Tons of factions you ideally want support from but can go attack and rob if they feel like lost causes. A tech tree with really dramatic progress and early discoveries that are either double-edges swords or genuinely just terrible things to try to use.

And then the endgame is really neat because instead of just one big final mission, you flip the whole script, and suddenly you're invading an alien city, picking targets to wreak havoc on and ultimately destroy, one by one. Incidentally this also did headcrabs before Half-Life so... I feel like it should be better known just for historical context.

Shadow of the Colossus

I know this is kind of a big technical ask, but why the hell were we not FLOODED with a whole generation of grandiose setpiece-y boss rush games after this first dropped? Perhaps more than anything else on here, someone really needs to get onto scratching this specific itch again, immediately.

I could totally keep going, but more importantly I'm sure you had some game that really left a mark on you that's been largely forgotten since, which I don't even know about, and you should really, if you're up to it, try and teach the world about it and how great it was by blending the old with something new of your own.

Just... draw from wider pools of inspiration, people.

#game design #inspiration #indie games #lost gems #punch out!! #doki doki panic #ecco the dolphin #subnautica #shadow of the colossus #altered beast #umihara kawase #x-com apocalypse #when I say 'play a second game' don't you dare just go play Dark Souls too #Youtube

[mendelpalace]

"Laura Palmer's Theme (Instrumental)" by Angelo Badalamenti - Twin Peaks vs "Dawn Over Barrier Walls" by Richard Wells (?) - X-COM Apocalypse

#X-COM Apocalypse #Twin Peaks #Music #Video Games #VGM #Television #David Lynch #Angelo Badalamenti #Richard Wells #Video #Youtube

[mysteamgrids]

X-COM: Apocalypse

#steam #steamgrid #X-COM: Apocalypse

[beardedjoel]

butt dial | a pretty little wife mini chapter

joel x f!reader

series masterlist | main masterlist | ao3 | ✨kofi ✨

summary: 2.3k words; you're home alone while joel is out with his brother. he butt dials you, and you hear some very interesting things. warnings: 18+ MDNI, no apocalypse au, pre-established sub/dom relationship/dynamic, dirty talk, pet names for reader, joel says some dirty ass shit about pretty wife, allusions to smut at the end a/n: just a short little ditty inspired by this ask - you're an absolute saint for putting this idea in my head it had me kicking and giggling my feet to think about and write. enjoy!!!

You sigh, leaning back on the couch and curling up a bit more. The blanket draped over you has fallen, so you tug it up a bit and snuggle your arms underneath the plush fabric. It still carries a lingering scent of Joel and you happily breathe it in as you train your eyes on the screen. You’ve put on a mushy romance film, the type Joel doesn’t typically jump at watching with you. It’s not that he won’t, because one look from your desperate eyes will have him rolling his and turning the movie you’ve requested on, anyways. But a man has his limits, and he’s said no more than one of that genre every few months.

Joel is out tonight with Tommy, grabbing drinks to fulfill their monthly tradition. They often have a beer at yours and Joel’s place, or go out for just one after work, maybe, but once a month they have a full-on night out. You encourage it, wanting Joel to stay close with his brother. You never had such a close relationship with your family like he does with his brother, and you know their tough upbringing drew them together. 

You also don’t mind having the house to yourself for the evening, you think with a wry smile, basking in the quiet comfort and being able to pick whatever form of entertainment without your well meaning husband griping about it. You’ve got on one of the newest rom-coms you’d noticed on Netflix the other day, and have a lazy smile as you watch, feeling fully content. You’d made a hearty batch of fried rice for dinner, leaving a plate made up in case Joel came home drunk and starving (he always did). 

A sudden trilling tone interrupts your daze, and you pause the movie and sit up to see your phone lit up and ringing. Joel’s name flashes on the screen, along with a photo of the two of you together, taken on a sunny day when you went hiking. It makes you smile briefly before worry settles in, wondering why he’s calling right now. It makes your stomach sink a bit, hoping he’s not gotten into trouble, or worse, hurt. You scramble to answer, your fingers fumbling with the buttons until you pull it to your ear, your breath hitching as you try to swallow and get the words out.

“H-hello?” you say quickly into the receiver, clutching it close to your ear. You hear a staticky sound, loud and grating as the call finally comes in. You yank it back from your ear, your brows knitting together in confusion. The sounds become a little clearer as you listen closer, and you can hear the buzz of multiple, overlapping conversations and music. You breathe out in relief as you realize Joel is okay, and nearly laugh at how worked up you got in the first place. Your mind just goes to that terrified place, wondering how the hell you’d ever live if something happened to him.

You almost hang up, smiling with the burst of relief when you catch the tail end of something Joel is saying. You know this was an accidental butt dial, and you really should hang up, but after your scare, you want to hear your husbands safe, comforting voice… just for a second. Just  a second, and then you’ll hang up, give him his privacy. 

You press the phone close to your ear, trying to make it out. You hear the distinct sound of both of the boys’ laughter, Joel and Tommy, and you can tell just from that noise that they’re well into their drinking for the night. It’s a lighthearted, deep laugh, one that he doesn’t do very often. It makes you smile and you sigh a little, putting your chin in your hand.

“-and then I fell right down, right there on the damn street… Theresa was pissed, lemme tell you…” you hear Tommy’s voice slurring out, a little distant but still clear enough to make out. Joel howls with laughter and you can picture him, trying not to choke on his sip of beer, clapping Tommy on the shoulder.

“Fuckinhellbrother,” Joel slurs, like it’s one full word.

“I know, I know. Your missus is lucky she ain’t out with us right now,” Tommy replies.

“She’d sure as hell be laughin’ at our asses, if ‘m honest.”

Your eyes widen at the mention of you. You feel a twinge of guilt press on you but you can’t find it in yourself to hang up just yet. You just want to hear a little bit more… you think devilishly to yourself.

“What’s she up to tonight? Probably sittin’ at home missin’ you,” Tommy teases his brother.

Joel chuckles. “Guarantee she loves it, probably got one of her sappy little movies on. Silly fuckin’ girl...” You smile at how well he knows you and press the phone a little closer.

“C’mon, know you watch ‘em with her, too,” Tommy slurs a bit.

“Can’t say no to a face like that… and a mouth like that…” Joel says boldly. You feel your eyes go wide and you hold back a gasp. You feel your cheeks starting to burn a little to hear the way Joel’s being so open with his brother, the implication behind his words heavy with innuendo.

“Chriiiiist, here wegoagain,” Tommy says quickly, slurring. You furrow your brow, picking up on the fact that Tommy has heard Joel talking like this before, like it’s completely normal for them. You start to feel a pleasant little swirl deep in your gut at the fact that Joel brags about those particular abilities of yours.

You think you hear them both chuckle a little bit. “Know I can’t help m’self Tommy. Fuckin’ body of an angel, mouth of a fuckin’ devil, lord. Could go on about it f’days.”

Tommy seems quiet for a moment, just listening. “You always brag too much, brother. ‘Sides, she says nothin’ but sweet things and you know it. Nicest little gal around.”

“Who said anything about the things she’s saying?” Joel quips back. 

“Fuckin’ hell. Yeah, I get it, your wife gives good head, yeah?” Tommy snips, but it sounds more playful than angry to you. 

You can picture your husband, face flushed from the alcohol and hair a little messy, leaning forward and grinning in that devilish way. “Suckin cocks’s not the only thing she’s good at. Practically everything, really, but lord does that woman know how to do just what I want. She’s a real good listener, my girl.” Your thighs clench together and you feel your breathing hitch. Just Joel basically calling you a good girl from afar has you feeling like an animal in heat all of a sudden. You throw the blanket off as you feel your body starting to warm up and a soft smile comes to your face. 

You hear silence from Tommy’s end, maybe too stunned to speak, clearly giving Joel permission to keep going.

“Y’know the best part? I got her listenin’ so good, she’ll do just about anythin’. Let me fuck her whenver I needta, you get me?”

“Christ Jesus, Joel, whatever the hell was in this fuckin’ beer got you too open tonight…”

“Can’t a man brag about his wife without gettin’ hounded? Jus’ wanted to share a lil love for my sweet gal.”

“Alright, alright, but shut the hell up now,” Tommy says with a howl of laughter, and the phone goes a little quieter, assuming Joel adjusted in his seat. 

“Jealous, jealous…” Joel taunts. 

“Shut. It. Or we’re gonna have a real bar fight on our hands here,” Tommy threatens teasingly. Their words continue to jumble a bit, and you can tell they’re both reaching close to their limit on beer and liquor for the evening. 

“Oh, fine,” Joel finally says, vowing to get off the topic. 

You feel a surge of pride that you witnessed something so special, so pure, despite the filthy things he was saying about the two of you. It just felt like pure love and adoration, even when you weren’t in the room to hear it. It makes your heart skip a little bit to know that Joel talks so highly of you even when he isn’t around you, going so far as to brag about such intimate things with his brother. You know it was lewd, but it made you feel that warm feeling you get whenever Joel shows you off in any way.

Lost deep in thought, you’ve already started to tune out their next batch of teasing and laughter as they move on to a new topic, so you decide to hang up the phone and let them get on with their night. 

You feel a lingering pride to be Joel’s wife sticking with you as you when you go back to watching the movie. Your heart feels so light and free right now, and you find yourself yearning for him to come home just so you can unload some of this love onto him as it bubbles up inside of you. 

Another hour and a half later, you hear keys jingling outside the door before the lock clicks and the front door swings open clumsily. Joel spots you instantly, curled up on the couch with a wide smile as soon as your eyes flick over to him. You sit up and stretch a little, taking in the full, broad form of him fumbling about as he walks in.

“Oh, hello there,” he says in a low, goofy voice. He stumbles in a little, a goofy smile on his face as he tries to take off his shoes. 

“Feelin’ good, handsome?” you tease him, trying not to laugh at how absolutely adorable your husband is when he’s a little drunk.

“Better ‘n good, now. Home with my pretty girl…” he coos. You stand up, bounding over to him and wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling yourself close as quickly as you can. 

“Oh,” he puffs out as you practically slam into his chest. One hand immediately wraps around your waist, drawing you closer, the heat of his hand burning through your thin tee shirt, and the other splays across the back of your head, pulling you in for a long, deep kiss. You moan quietly, a little desperate mewl climbing its way out of your throat as his lips devour you. You can taste his evening - beers and liquor and… a cigar? You should chastise him for that one, you think, but you know Tommy can be a bad influence so you let it slide in lieu of some more kisses from him. You deepen it and slide your tongue into his mouth, and he happily returns it, tongues skimming each other for a few moments before you pull back, gently biting his bottom lip on the way.

“Hell, what’d a guy do to deserve a kiss like that, hm?” Joel muses, a little tipsy sounding. His hand comes around your head to stroke your cheek, thumb lingering as he traces down the soft skin there.

“Just wanted to show you all the things I’m good at, since that’s what you said, right?” you tease him, knowing he likely won’t even be able to piece in together in his current state.

Joel’s face scrunches up a bit, his brows drawing together as he tries to wrack his hazy brain for any clue of what you’re referring to.

“Not just good for ‘suckin’ cock’?” you say, your voice low, a furtive little whisper right near his ear. You peel back a bit to see his eyes widen a little, more confused than ever.

“Wh-”

“Butt dial, darling,” you tell him, pecking his cheek.

Joel laughs, a nervous yet comfortable laugh, able to read you well enough to know you aren’t upset about what he said, just amused. His laugh turns to a low chuckle, a little mischievous glint in his eye. His hand slides down from the small of your back to you ass, giving it a gentle, swift pat.

 “And aren’t you a naughty girl for listenin’ in on my private conversation, hm?” he teases, bringing his lips within an inch of yours.

“Couldn’t help myself, had to hear what my husband really thinks of me.” You move your lips the slightest bit, brushing against his in a soft touch. “Good thing it’s not anything I didn’t already know…” You pull back suddenly, giving him a wink and putting a little space between the two of you.

“In that kind of mood tonight, are we, doll? Little bit bratty?” Joel asks with raised brows. “Gonna have to make you prove to me everything I told Tommy is true then, aren’t I?” Joel’s eyes go hungrier, a deep, feral need growing in his core and showing up right in his dark irises.

You shrug and turn to walk away, but Joel grabs onto your wrist, spinning you back against him. “Nuh uh, not so fast. You’re comin’ with me, darlin’” he spits out. In a split second his arms are on either side of your waist, hoisting you up and then tossing you over his shoulder so that your head is hanging down his back.

“H-hey!” You giggle, swinging your feet to try and get down, knowing it’s no use, and if you’re honest with yourself, you don’t want to escape, of course. Not from a hold this good.

Joel’s hand reaches up and smacks your ass hard as he carries you towards the stairs. “Now let’s go and you can tell me all about everything you heard me sayin’ tonight.”

You smile wide, feeling your mind and body already buzzing for your husband and all the things he seemed to have in store for you. It was going to be a fun night, indeed.

plw taglist: @aphterthoughtt @bbyanarchist @amy172 @hazzaismyreligion @ohheypedrito @msmorningstaarr @kamcrazy123 @madhere @paleidiot @saverockandroll54 @daddy-din

#LOVED THIS SO MUCHHH #fucking sexy little cuties #fic: pretty little wife #joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fanfiction

[upon-a-starry-night]

Love Favors The Misfortunate

Natasha Romanoff x Gender-Neutral Reader

Natasha Masterlist Main Masterlist

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Minor Violence

Summary: Misfortune always seems to follow you no matter what you do. But where there’s trouble, Nat often follows, maybe love was on your side after all?

Disclaimer: This was part of a writing exercise I did so it’s kind of silly and unedited but enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~

Somehow you always managed to wind up in the worst situations that Earth could possibly experience. You wondered if you were just cursed or something considering last week you were present for not one but two bank robberies. 

Maybe that was just the life of a delivery driver?

You hoped the lady behind the bank counters Caesar salad tasted better after death threats and salty tears of desperation.

This time, however, in the middle of checking the GPS during a stoplight, the sound of screams alerts you to the number of people ditching their cars and running past your motorcycle in fear.

Looking up you see the giant rip in Earth's atmosphere, monster-looking creatures spilling out of the hole. 

Oh, Good.

You immediately kick your motorcycle into gear, walking the bike through the crowds of people until you can manage to make a U-turn and speed off, weaving your way through the panic.

You spare a few glances into your mirrors as more flying monsters spill out of the sky and it's during one of these glances that you fail to notice the giant alien who has just landed in the street a few feet ahead of you. By the time you notice him you only have enough time to attempt a full stop which results in your bike sliding from under you and skidding across the pavement. Ouch.

Much to your luck, however, the bike collides directly with the monster and sends it straight into its own spear. A weird purple liquid oozing slowly from underneath the unconscious body. 

You frown, it was going to cost a pretty penny to get your bike fixed if it was even salvageable and now you definitely weren’t getting paid for the hamburger and fries that were probably still warm in your delivery bag.

Maybe you could see if french fries taste better after near-death and motorcycle debt.

Wincing, you feel your arms already bruising and your jeans have ripped through to your thigh, you're not bleeding as much as you probably should be from that slide but it still hurts like hell. Thank god you were wearing all your safety equipment.

A hand is extended out to you and you graciously take it, looking up to meet eyes with the prettiest redhead you’ve ever seen. She’s giving you an impressed smile and you feel like you could melt right then and there. Although that might also be from the burning pain in your leg. 

You probably need to find a hospital. Or maybe you were dead and this was an angel.

You always figured they’d look like the horrendous abomination of eyes and wings that they were described as, not as pretty redheads with striking green eyes but you weren’t complaining.

“That was a good move” There are still people running past you screaming but it feels like time stops when she speaks to you. 

“Yep. that was definitely something I did on purpose” Drumming your fingers on your thighs you watch her chuckle and give you a look that tells you she knows you did not, in fact, do that on purpose.

You glance between your bike and the woman in front of you, screaming civilians making the moment almost comical. You felt like you were in some kind of rom-com apocalypse.

Despite it being the last thing you should probably do, you extend your hand out to her and tell her your name. She gives you a very amused look and you shrug your shoulders as if to say ‘Why not? We’re here aren’t we?’ 

She chuckles again as she takes your hand, introducing herself.

Natasha. Derived from the Russian name Anastasia, which means resurrection. Maybe she was an angel. Damn.

Natasha nods her head in the direction of the crowd and smirks “Shouldn’t you be joining them?” You shrug. “Unless you know more moves like that?” She gestures toward your beat-up bike and you shake your head

“No. Unfortunately, I haven't mastered the art of more than one motorcycle trick yet” Not that you could get that thing to start back up again after that anyway.

She shakes her head with a laugh, glancing over her shoulder at the mess the city is becoming before turning back to you. “ Well I guess until you learn you should probably get running”

You nod, a little dejected, your calmness in relativity to the situation was likely the result of a concussion but you weren’t worried. Unless Nat was not real, in that case, you should be worried. Very Worried.

“Will we meet again?” it’s cliche and you immediately feel like a protagonist in a Disney movie but it’s a genuine question.

She smirks and looks around at the city again, gesturing to the absolute clusterfuck that New York had become “For your sake, I hope we don't” 

You know she doesn’t mean anything bad by it and it’s your turn to smirk when you say “Knowing my luck, we will” You hope she finds herself near a few banks in the upcoming months…

She smiles at you and nods her head in the direction of the crowd and you understand what she’s trying to tell you. With one final wave and a small “good luck” you run in the direction of your fellow New Yorkers, occasionally glancing back to see her running in the direction of the main battle.

You didn't know who she was but Damn did you want to. 

~~~

The next time you find yourself in a particularly unfavorable situation is not for months later. Minus that one time you witnessed two old ladies get mugged and that time you almost got hit by an ice-cream truck. But you got free ice cream from the second one so you weren't counting it.

You’d taken up a job in a small pizza place to pay for your bike repairs. It didn’t pay much but you didn’t have that many options after New York got attacked by aliens and half the businesses were destroyed or temporarily shut down. This is one of the few places still open which means on Friday nights you were busy as hell.

It was not a Friday night. It was a Tuesday afternoon and your coworker who was supposed to be on shift with you called out sick which meant you were manning the shop by yourself. Your stupid coworker was probably just off cheating on his girlfriend again but you didn’t care because the shop was empty which meant you could play games on your phone without his judgmental stare.

You’re struggling through level 5 of Candy Crush when the sound of breaking glass comes from the front of the shop and you sigh. You would be surprised but it was New York, more specifically it was your life in New York.

What you are surprised by, however, is the sight of familiar red hair covered in glass in the entryway, and you really want to rub your eyes with the squeaking sound effect like in the cartoons but the amount of microfibers that just got released into the air would suggest not doing that.

“Well well well” You realize you sound more like a supervillain than you intended and you freeze when she stands and sharply turns in your direction, gun pointed directly at you. You throw your hands up in surrender immediately. Goddamn supervillain catchphrases always making pretty girls turn their guns on you.

When she seems to recognize you she relaxes only for a man to jump through the already broken glass window and tackle her to the ground again. You want to help but considering you still haven't learned any more motorcycle tricks(or any tricks in general) you figure you would probably be useless.

You watch helplessly as she disarms and renders the guy unconscious in a matter of seconds and then stands and dusts herself off. The guy on the ground looks like some old-timey variation of Hitler and you're pretty glad she knocked him unconscious before he could even notice you. 

You focus back on Nat who's looking at you like a wounded animal that could run away at any moment and It’s then that you realize that most people are not quite used to these kinds of situations. Clearly, you weren’t like most people. You point to the body in a trenchcoat on the ground as you crinkle your nose

“Are you taking that guy with you when you leave?” She huffs out a laugh and you feel yourself smile at successfully getting her to laugh again.

You, one.

Hitlerman, zero.

At least you were winning one game. Stupid Candy Crush.

She looks around the shabby pizza place and then zones in on your nametag, only them seeming to realize you worked there. She tilts her head, nodding to your flimsy little name pinned to your T-shirt. 

“Why are you working here? Where’s the bike?” You sigh, you knew the question was coming but it’s still a sore subject for you. You internally punch a wall but on the outside, you frown just a little. It’s the saddest expression Nat’s seen on your face so far.

“She’s in the shop. Repairs are taking longer than I thought and now I’m forced to conform to my least favorite type of work just to get her back” Nat gives an understanding nod and then cringes a little, walking towards you until she’s right in front of you. She places a hand on your head and you inhale sharply.

A small frown forms on Nat’s face “You’re bleeding” 

The feeling of her hand on your face confirms that she’s not an angel or a figment of your imagination and you don’t realize you’ve voiced that thought out loud until you hear Nat barking out a laugh.

“I’m flattered but, well-” She glances up, then behind her, then back towards you “I wouldn’t be so sure just yet” She smirks and removes her hand just as a ceiling panel falls from the roof. Dust flies into the air and you cover your face to avoid getting more shit in your eyes.

When the room finally settles Natasha is nowhere in sight but there’s a Captain America band-aid on the serving counter and you feel a small smile across your face. What a dramatic exit. Now who was the supervillain?

You take great notice of the fact that Hitlerman is also gone and you wonder how the fuck she managed to do that. But more importantly, you hoped this wasn’t coming out of your paycheck.

~~~

You can’t emphasize enough to most people how much you’re not even trying to be in the situations you get caught in. In fact, the one time you stayed home for a week you ended up catching the Flu. How the hell do you catch the flu from staying home? After that, you just accepted that you were a magnet for misfortune and there was nothing you could do about it.

Although, after meeting Nat you found yourself a little excited anytime something misfortunate happened and that was probably psychotic and you should definitely check yourself into a psych ward but you’d probably end up choking on a crayon and getting deemed a risk to those around you so what was the use?

Still, of all the robberies you’d been a witness to you’d never been a part of a hostage situation. Until now. Stupid Banks! 

Usually, you’d assume that the police would handle a situation like this and you’d be stuck in this bank for hours until someone grew a dick and negotiated something but this time circumstances were a little different. To start, the guy who was currently robbing the bank was holding some type of gun that was the equivalent of real-life freeze tag. 

Anyone who got zapped by the oddly blue glowing gun was frozen in place, which led you to problem number two. 

The police had shown up nearly half an hour ago and someone must not have briefed them on this wacko holding you hostage because the second one of them snuck in the back door with a gun he was frozen in place looking like the idiot that he probably was. 

You would attempt to grab his gun but you didn’t feel like doing that shit. Who were you to risk your life and try to be a hero for some money that this poor fellow probably needed considering New York's rent cost.

Maybe if the stupid fucker hadn’t frozen the one lady who knew the code to the very comically large bank safe he wouldn’t be stuck making stupid negotiations and holding people hostage.

Instead, you settled against a wall near a bunch of crying civilians and attempted once again to beat level 10 of Candy Crush. You give up after ten minutes and delete the app. Really you were just trying to kill the time until you-know-who showed up.

She and her band of merry men had grown a reputation for taking care of situations that the regular authorities couldn’t and that’s why you weren’t the least bit surprised when the room began to fill with a cloudy white smoke.

Others began panicking, fearing that it was some sort of poisonous gas and you rolled your eyes. This was not poisonous gas, you’d seen poisonous gas and this was not it. 

This was a very dramatic entrance formulated by your absolute favorite redhead. God, you felt like you were in a spy movie. Any second now you’d see a faint figure slowly descending from the ceiling in all black with a gas mask on and spy music would start playing.

Any second now.

Aaaaaany second now- 

A scream from beside you makes you jolt and you find the sobbing woman next to you with a hand over her mouth. A gruff-looking man is telling her to keep quiet and your eyes widen for a second as you think ‘Oh shit. Double robbery.’ But from behind the gruff-looking man walks a familiar figure and she pats him on the shoulder as she passes him. 

You squint your eyes, what an oddly metal-looking shoulder. Perhaps you were hallucinating. Stress and all that.

By this point, enough white smoke has filled the room that the bank robber is wildly swinging around in fear as he squints to see. He’s probably more on edge after that woman's scream as well. Yeeeeah more of a horror movie than a spy movie now. 

The reason you can see everyone so well is due to your superior eyesight and definitely not the science lab goggles that you had in your bag for no suspicious reasons. Hey, you had to be prepared for literally anything considering your luck.

Nat’s wearing some kind of night vision-looking goggles and a mask and when she passes you you poke her leg. She jumps a little, glaring at you until she seems to recognize you despite your flawless Lab Scientist disguise and her eyes widen. Her eyes seem to scream ‘What are you doing here’ but you feel it’s too obvious of a question to bother answering. 

Instead, you give her the biggest smile you can muster and a friendly wave, mouthing “Hiiii Nat!” 

She rolls her eyes but you can see the smile she’s hiding under her mask and you mentally fist pump. Three for three.

You point to the man wielding the gun and mouth to her “Go! Team go!” 

She shakes her head, exasperated by your lack of fear and self-preservation but holds her finger up to her mouth telling you to be silent as she turns to sneak up on the man. 

Your body does so love disobeying orders though, so it chooses that moment to sneeze, which has the man pointing the gun in your direction (not that he can see as his eyes are practically watering now) and Nat turns to you with a glare.

You raise your hands up in surrender and in an attempt to help, you throw the nearest object on the floor across the room. Oh, that was your phone- well, okay. Either way, it helps, the man swings back in that direction, blasting his gun in the air and Nat takes the moment to attack him from behind. 

She disarms him easily, taking him to the ground and placing him in handcuffs. She inspects the device carefully, flipping a switch and aiming it at the closest frozen person. With a bolt of light, they unfreeze and gasp for breath. Good, at least the idiot had created some sort of Ctrl-Shift Undo button.

You're part of the first few escorted out of the building considering you weren’t frozen or in hysterics and the paramedics look at you a little funny but wrap a shock blanket around your shoulders.

Yes, shock. That's what you were experiencing. Normal people things. You twist back and forth and watch the shock blanket sway as you wait for Nat to be done with her serious business. God, serious business was boring and took forever.

When she finally emerges from the building she ignores the press and police that come up to talk to her and heads straight for you. Ha! Eat shit losers.

She doesn’t bother with formalities, why would she? It's you. Instead, she hands you a small black box as she takes in the shock blanket you’ve tied around your neck to look like a cape.

“Here’s your phone” You take the object from her hands and inspect it.

Oh wow, No cracks, that's great. Wait- “This is not my phone” You turn it over and inspect the Stark logo on the back of it. Yeeeeah definitely not yours.

“No, it’s not” She doesn't bother lying to you at least, and you hum in acknowledgment. Well, you weren’t one to pass up a free upgrade. You pocket the phone and stick your hands in your front pockets, flashing her a smile

“So… you come around here often?” She rolls her eyes at your stupid attempt at a joke. Or flirting. Either one works.

“How do you keep ending up in these situations?”

It’s your turn to smirk “Maybe it’s just an excuse to see you?” 

She gives you a look that says ‘It better not be’ and you just shrug, your shock blanket falling to the ground. Fucker. Making you look uncool. You refuse to bend down and pick it up. Recovery blankets were for losers anyway.

Still, she smiles at you anyway and crosses her arms “I’m beginning to think the only way to keep you safe is to keep you with me”

Your heart leaps but you pretend to be nonchalant. You're only blushing because of shock or whatever. Play it cool “That doesn’t sound like a bad idea” A stupid smile forces its way onto your face despite your best attempts to repress it and Nat laughs at your stubbornness.

“But first I think we’ve got to teach you some self-defense” She nods her head indicating for you to follow her and you both begin walking in step to an unmarked black car. 

Kidnapper car.

Cameras are flashing around you and you think about how cool you’ll look with Lab goggles atop your head and white smoke in your hair on the news tomorrow morning. The media was going to love you.

Turning to Nat on your way to the car, you have a question that’s been itching at you that you feel the need to ask 

“Do you think your sugar daddy can help me fix my bike?”

She punches you in the arm.

A/n: This was initially a writing exercise to write the silliest short story I could think of, but I thought it was cute so I decided to post it~ Starry

#marvel #fanfiction #fanfic #marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction #fluff #women of marvel #fluff fic #natasha romanoff #mcu fluff #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha x reader #natasha x you #black widow #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha marvel #natasha romanoff oneshot #natasha x y/n #natasha romanoff x gender neutral reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff imagine #upon a starry night writes

[callofdudes]

Zombie Ghost x Reader

Look at how adorable he is 🥰

Summary: After getting bitten by a zombie during the last outbreak, you and the team are clinging on to any hope you have of bringing back your friend.

Cw: Angst, death, gore.

A/n: I really do apologize for lack of updating as I've recently been quite a lot busier and mentally this feels like a brick load.

The zombie apocalypse. Unknown in origin and spreading around the globe in immeasurable numbers. Claiming half the popular by storm and turning them into spawn of the sucking, drooling, blood lusting bodies that dragged themselves across the earth. 141 was no stranger to dangerous tasks but while locked behind the safe haven of thick barbwire fences and giant floodlights on base to keep away from the spread, they were also charged with taking it down.

The daunting thought. Two of you sent out each week to kill as many as you could in a few days time while keeping regular in check hours with the others was grueling...

Ghost stopped abruptly along the treeline, forcing you to also stop, looking around at the chilly autumn landscape. You were lucky it was autumn, easier to see through the trees, the crunching of dried leaves and immediately give away to position. If only it didn't work for both parties.

You held your gun stiffly, unable to fight the urge to look back behind you several times. The air reeked of death and the smell was ungodly. You were close.

Ghost stepped forward again, shifting his crosshairs over toward the lake in the distance. Known to avoid water but not above sticking around it like fools. You both approached, surely this was your target end.

The whole thought made your spine tingle, and not in a good way. "Ghost- do you have a visual?" You whisper, turning again behind you just to be sure it is still barren.

"Negative." He replied, shifting his gun as he approached the end of the hill, staring down into the valley. A dead end.

He looked around before lowering his weapon. "Nothing."

"But there was a sighting around here." You look down at the lake where the water didn't stir and then around at the thick trees.

"I know, but I'm not-"

There was a crack, a branch above from a nearby tree giving way, it's limbs tearing like string as the weight came crashing down. Simon cursed as the branch hit him, sending him to the ground before feeling those cold dead hands grab onto his throat.

"Simon!!" You pointed your gun, watching the two struggle while trying to get a clear shot.

Ghost grunted, the zombie snarled at him, saliva flicking onto his face. Those milky, glazed eyes and the smell of the rotting flesh from its corpse. It leaned down, it's blunt teeth attempting to sink into him but Ghost managed to thrust it back.

You shot a bullet through its spine, hearing it screech and spill up blood from its mouth, animalistic hunger seeping in and it sunk its mouth into Ghost's forearm, biting and tearing into the flesh.

Ghost tries to get away and kick it off, managing to send it sprawling and losing its tight grip on him. And watching you put more than a fair share of bullets into it.

He panted, his arm throbbing. He winced under his breath, pulling up his sleeve and seeing the deep mark and the flesh torn from his skin from the separation. The way his veins were already bulging and searing black from the point of contact. Almost instantaneous...

"Were you hurt??" You move back over to him.

Ghost yanks down his sleeve

"No. I'm fine."

"Ghost-" You reach out for his arm and he tries to push you away, only aiding you in getting him with both hands, pulling his sleeve up to see the bite.

"Shit...." Your worst fear. You couldn't imagine yourself getting bitten, but one of your friends. Your lieutenant.

"We need to get you back home, fuck, how much time do we have??" You turned on your radio, comming in to Price for evac and a medical team.

Ghost watched you, feeling a sharp pain fill his head. He blinked, trying to ward it off, the whites of his eyes already invading his pupils and glazing over his irises. The venom spreading through his body and claiming him.

You looked at him, seeing him watching you and trying to hang on. "It'll be ok Simon." You said it more for yourself it felt. He gave a simple nod, sitting down against the tree nearby to try and stabilize himself.

The wait until evac and medical came was intense. You tried to keep Simon talking but it was clear his mind wasn't right. Half here half somewhere else, zoning in and out.

A new form of hunger already coiling in his stomach and taking over like a hand slashing through his intestines. Opening gashes and letting fluids pour out and burn the inside of him. That's what the hunger felt like. The wanting. The need.

To feast and sink his blunt teeth into the warm flesh of a body and tear it right from the screaming corpse.

He held his head, tapping his foot violently fast against the ground, trying to distract himself.

You watched him worriedly, looking back as medical came rushing over from where the helicopter had landed some hundred feet away.

"He needs help! Right now, he needs help!" You yell as they approach, one of the soldiers taking you aside while the other two stand Simon up.

"He's been bitten you need to help him!"

Ghost staggered, looking at you as the medical officers walked him back to the helicopter and helped him inside.

Your heart was racing. Would this be a goodbye?? What would happen?? Could they save him?? So many questions so little time.

You were loaded into a separate air unit while medical attended to Ghost.

Back on base they didn't let you see him either. Every minute wasted was a possibility to save Ghost and you knew that. But you couldn't help and see how Ghost struggled. His pale fists clenching, his once blue veins deep black, tinting the color of his skin.

How he struggled and fought the restraints of the medical bed before you were ushered in a different direction to go see your team.

It was quiet entering the living area, seeing Price sat there in his favorite chair, the rocker completely still while Johnny and Gaz occupied the couch, fidgety.

Gaz was the first to react, getting up and rushing to you. "Oh thank goodness. You had us worried mate- are you ok?" He inspected you, worry in his eyes until you squeezed his hand.

"I'm ok Gaz, I'm ok."

"So it's true then?? The report??" Johnny asked, still glued to the couch.

"About Ghost? Yes... he was bitten."

The reality all of you knew and yet weren't entirely willing to accept. You'd never managed to save anyone from the claws of the virus no matter how many small doses of formulas and stimulus syringes were produced all too quickly for them to properly work.

And if they did work, the constant need to be injecting it to keep the virus away from completely devouring the brain and the immune system was taxing.

You didn't sleep that night. Trying to imagine what Simon was feeling. Tossing and turning through every hour, thinking of Ghost. Your friend.

Maybe if you had helped faster? If you had shot faster or kicked the stupid thing instead of standing there like an idiot. All the what ifs drowned you and your worries for Ghost.

The next morning you were planning to stop by Simon's hospital bed to check on him and see if he was doing any better.

Before you could though, you were abruptly interrupted in the hallway by Johnny.

"Y/n, you have to come down to the containment room... it's not good."

"Containment...?" Your heart pounded. "Come on, let's go." You and Johnny rush down the hallway out past the medical rooms to a different room. One you had installed after the outbreaks to help keep any spawn in base contained.

Rushing into the room the containment unit was already surrounded by Gaz and Price.

You heard that snarl, the heavy breathing. Light footsteps that stalked the tank within.

"How is he??" You push in between them, seeing the unit. Simon... Simon was inside. But he didn't look like Simon. Not anymore.

The skin around his face was dark and bloodied, teeth bared and his eyes milky and cloudy.

He snarled when he saw you, he smelled you. Pounding on the unit and lashing out. His fists pounded on it, staring at you like a snack. Something he could eat whole. Swallow in one meal.

He mimicked those disgusting sounds of the horrors that roamed the wastes outside the base.

He slammed his body into the tank. Snarling and yelling as he threw himself, clawing and pounding on the windows.

"Simon stop!" You called, stepping back as he thrust himself at the window, slamming his fists into it.

Blood flicking over the glass and splattering with each hit.

"Simon you're hurting yourself!!" You cried, seeing Simon in a frenzy. Was this Simon?? This wasn't Simon. This wasn't your friend.

But you didn't know what you would do without Simon. You couldn't go on without him and right now he doesn't look like he is wants to be friends with you.

Simon was in so much pain. His stomach twisted and squelched inside his rotting body. It was so numb and yet he felt pain in every layer of flesh that was torn from his body.

He couldn't control when he bit that doctor, he couldn't control when he'd smashed the monitor and snapped his neck. He was hungry. He was so fucking hungry.

And now you were here, and that angry appetite only grew. He nearly salivated, he could smell your warm skin. He could see the fear and the hope in your eyes, but his hunger was in control. It's all he knew.

You continued to watch him throw himself at the tank, trying to calm him down, to get him to stop. To see any resemblance between your friend still in there. If there was anything.

"Simon please I need you to stop, stop Simon, please." You moved closer to the tank, placing your hand on it to try and calm him.

A moment of silence went by before he lunged again, screaming as his blunt, exposed teeth gnashed at the window where your palm was, making you jump back.

Price places his hand on your shoulder, watching Simon continue to try to get out. To fight the horrible hunger inside him.

"I'm sorry soldier..."

You quivered, seeing Simon like this broke you. Rushing from the room and back under your covers to cry. Simon, your best friend...

Why hadn't you just been faster. If you hadn't been so dumb and seen where that stupid zombie was perched this would have never happened. It felt like your fault. It was your fault.

Every day you went to see Simon, and every day it just felt worse. His anger slowly started to calm and you even took the occasional chance to try and feed him through one of the tubes attached to the tank.

Simon would eat it, but would watch you. Sometimes you knew he was looking at you because he wanted to eat you and others you weren't sure. It was a numb look. Blank. A look you all too often couldn't read.

You'd sit with him when he had stopped acting crazy. He would sit on the tank floor staring or would walk around, licking the tube into the tank to get any reminisce of the slop you had to feed him to help his hunger.

You would talk to him even if nothing was said back. It was like you were talking to a brick wall all over again.

It was your fault.

You did this to him.

He's hurting. He's in pain.

He's your best friend.

Hoard after hoard the team kept fighting, but you couldn't do this without Simon. You couldn't. And you couldn't fight knowing Simon was back on base locked up, going stir crazy and trying to get out. Fed anything from leftover meals if he was lucky...

It was another dark night. Sitting in your room while looking at one of the photos you had taken of Simon. One of the only photos you had where you caught his eyes in the light, seeing the glint and the faint sparkle that would travel back and forth. The corners of his eyes creasing from his hidden smile.

You left your bed, tucking your blanket around your shoulders with the photo in hand. You wandered down past the medical room and to the containment unit.

Flicking on the dimmer lights you saw Simon sitting at the back of his tank, eyes immediately on you when you enter.

"Hey buddy..." you whisper, coming over to the tank.

Simon snarls lowly, staring at you and slowly standing when you placed your hand on the tank. "I'm sorry Simon... I'm truly sorry..."

He huffed through his nose, coming over to the tank. He didn't bang on it, he didn't attempt to jump. He watched you. In the quietness, his glazed over eyes showing no signs of the person you once knew.

But then, for a moment, something happened. His hand came up, touching the glass over your palm from the other side. Seeming content.

You looked in at him, making your final decision. "I can't go on without you Simon. I just don't think I can watch you be kept in here. Not when I know they'll kill you soon."

Simon continues to silently watch you. You move away from the tank and over to the console in the corner, granting access to the security latch on the unit.

You both heard the hiss and the click. Simon's eyes watching you with that hollow, hungry desire. He pressed his hand to the glass, watching it move and shift open, letting him out into the air.

He smelled of death and rotting flesh. Sounds gurgled up in his throat, and he lunged at you. You gasp, your natural instinct to fight until his nails sunk into your shoulders.

You looked up at him as he sunk his teeth into your cheek, making you cry as he bit down and tore through the flesh and tendon, liquid squelching and blood splattering across the walls.

Tears swelled in your eyes as he chewed down your flesh and gnashed his teeth into the side of your face, pulling and tearing the tissue away from the bone and devouring you.

You cried, the pain making you fight and struggle against him as you went down to the ground. He straddled you, moving down your body, nails tearing at your collar bones and down your chest, completely tearing open your clothes and drawing blood from every inch of your skin.

That animalistic hunger inside him fed off the warm delicious taste of your skin.

"Simon-" You cried, knowing your fate was sealed. He continued to tear into your body. Snarling and hissing as blood spilled. He tore into your chest, making you scream as he broke through your ribcage and made for your heart, ripping it right out of your chest.

You choked, clawing for a last reminisce of life. Trying to cling on, to do anything. Your mind went blank and you succumb to the torture. Simon continues to eat, his hunger having been fed little by little by the slop from that tube.

The taste of your warm skin as it traveled down his raw throat was unlike anything he knew. It only grew that hunger inside him, his eyes glazing over and clouding thicker as the damage became beyond irreversible.

Pulling apart inch by inch of you and biting in to it, leaving you a bloody mess.

Blood marred all down his chin, making his face look black from the thickness of the blood. His hands covered and his nails dripping.

He could smell more of it. He snarled, getting up and slipping through the open door and down the hallway.

Growling and snarling as he went, stopping by the first door where he smelled a mix of human flesh with gunpowder and spice.

His stomach twisted in excitement as he pushes the door in, seeing the peaceful form that lay there. He moved, jumping on the bed and tearing into his once friend in his sleep.

The terrified screams of panic and pain as he tried to fight Simon off, grabbing his journal and trying hit him in the head in a desperate attempt to fight.

Simon twisted his head away, tearing into his throat and ripping his vocal chords out with the chunk of flesh, blood splattering everywhere.

Two down. Two to go.

Yes, this is immediately what I thought of when I first saw him so... yeah. It's unedited and I wrote it between taking naps so apologies if the gorification be lacking.

#simon ghost riley #call of duty #john soap mactavish #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #captain john price #zombie au #cod apocalypse au #platonic ghost x reader #not really either which way i suppose #angst #simons got your nose 🤭 #simon riley #simon riley x reader #call of duty zombies

[inkspiredwriting]

Love, Hate, and the Hargreeves

Five Hargreeves x Fem!reader

Warnings: none

Five Hargreeves had always been known for his sharp mind and sharper tongue. Y/N, his girlfriend, was no different. Their relationship was a fiery mix of love and playful antagonism, a dynamic that often left the rest of the Hargreeves family in stitches. Today was no exception.

The siblings had gathered in the living room of the Umbrella Academy, the air filled with the scent of popcorn and the sound of laughter. Klaus had found an old box of family videos and insisted on a movie night, much to everyone’s amusement.

Y/N and Five sat on the couch, bickering over which movie to watch.

“I’m telling you, Five, ‘The Princess Bride’ is a classic!” Y/N argued, holding the DVD case up for emphasis.

“And I’m telling you, Y/N, if I have to hear ‘As you wish’ one more time, I might throw myself into a time vortex,” Five retorted, rolling his eyes.

Diego snickered from his spot on the floor. “Ah, the sweet sound of true love.”

“Viktor,” Y/N pleaded, turning to him for support. “Back me up here. ‘The Princess Bride’ is timeless, right?”

Viktor smiled, enjoying the show. “It is, but watching you two argue is better entertainment.”

Luther, munching on a handful of popcorn, chimed in. “You know, Five, for a guy who’s been through the apocalypse, you’re surprisingly bad at picking battles.”

Five shot him a glare. “And for a guy who’s part gorilla, you’re surprisingly bad at shutting up.”

Klaus, sprawled out on the other couch, giggled. “Oh, leave them alone, Luther. This is their foreplay.”

Y/N and Five both turned a shade of red, but neither was willing to back down.

“Fine,” Five said, crossing his arms. “We’ll watch ‘The Princess Bride’. But if I start quoting it sarcastically, you have only yourself to blame.”

Y/N grinned triumphantly. “Deal. And for the record, if you don’t cry when Inigo Montoya gets his revenge, you’re heartless.”

Five smirked. “Oh, don’t worry. My heart’s in perfect working order. Unlike some people’s taste in movies.”

As the opening credits rolled, the siblings settled in, occasionally glancing at Five and Y/N, who were now sitting unusually close, sharing a bowl of popcorn. The movie played on, and true to his word, Five couldn’t resist a few sarcastic comments.

“‘My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.’ Classic line,” Five deadpanned. “Really hits you in the feels.”

Y/N nudged him playfully. “Shut up and watch, smartass.”

Halfway through the movie, during the iconic fire swamp scene, Klaus leaned over to Diego, whispering loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Do you think they’re actually fighting, or is this some weird foreplay we don’t understand?”

Diego chuckled. “Given how they are, it’s probably both.”

Y/N threw a piece of popcorn at Klaus. “We can hear you, you know!”

Klaus caught it and popped it into his mouth. “Just saying, you two have the sexual tension of a rom-com.”

Five rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide a smirk. “And you have the brain of a goldfish, but we still keep you around.”

Laughter erupted, and even Y/N couldn’t help but join in. The teasing was relentless, but it was also filled with affection. The Hargreeves were a dysfunctional family, but they were a family nonetheless.

As the movie reached its climax, Five found himself genuinely engrossed. He glanced at Y/N, who was watching with a look of pure joy on her face. Despite their constant bickering, he loved seeing her happy.

The final scene played out, and as the credits rolled, Viktor turned to them, grinning. “So, how was it, Five? Are you a ‘Princess Bride’ fan now?”

Five shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “It wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”

Y/N beamed. “I’ll take that as a win.”

Klaus jumped up, stretching dramatically. “Well, this was fun. Let’s do it again sometime. Preferably with more popcorn and less bickering.”

Diego smirked. “Less bickering? With these two? Not a chance.”

Five stood, pulling Y/N up with him. “Come on, Y/N. Let’s leave these amateurs to their popcorn.”

Y/N laughed, following him out of the room. “As you wish.”

The siblings burst into laughter again, and Five couldn’t help but smile. Their love/hate relationship might be a source of endless teasing, but it was also what made them, well, them.

As they walked down the hallway, Y/N slipped her hand into Five’s. “Thanks for watching the movie with me, Five.”

He squeezed her hand, his usual sarcasm softened by genuine affection. “Anytime, Y/N. Just don’t expect me to quote it back to you.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” she teased.

And with that, they continued down the hall, ready for whatever adventures and arguments lay ahead, knowing that as long as they had each other—and the Hargreeves’ relentless teasing—they could handle anything.

#five hargreeves x reader #five hargreeves imagines #number five imagine #number five x reader #five hargreeves x you #the umbrella academy #number five #number five one shot

[thelastofhyde]

ii. santorini.

pairing. tourguide!joel miller x fem!reader. series synopsis. on the brink of undergoing a life-altering change, you runaway from your problems in the only way any sane person can: embarking on a mediterranean cruise. there you meet joel miller, a grumpy, private tour-guide, who just so happens to be tasked with touring you through each stop on your cruise. from greek goddesses to roman ruins, you have ten days to avoid your fate. maybe a frowning, southern, sex-on-legs of a man is just what the doctor ordered. chapter summary. tensions are high as you and joel spend your first day together exploring the popular island of santorini. back on the boat, joel gets a glimpse at more than he bargained for. series warnings. no use of y/n, set in 2015, no apocalypse au, cruise!au, rom-com, enemies-ish to lovers, tour-guide!joel, unspecified age gap, depictions/discussions of grief, angst, fluff, a whole load of smut, a lot of cheesy stereotypical romance tropes bc i just wanna see joel not suffer ( too much ) <3 chapter warnings. mild smut ( female masturbation, mentions of oral sex + piv sex ), bickering, alcohol, mild angst, so much cheese it'll turn you lactose intolerant!! btw joel hates santorini and he makes that known, but none of his opinions reflect my own ( please don't be mean to me over things characters say <33 ) word count. 7.9k hyde’s input. the majority of this chapter was written with a mixture of medicine flowing through my veins, it's a miracle it's even intelligible. apologies for the wait, the holidays and health issues got in the way <3 as always, i hope you enjoy, comments an dreblogs are always appreciated !! previous chapter - next chapter - series masterlist

It is a known fact that your name and late rarely exist within the same sentence.

The mere thought of being late fills you with a sickness you cannot cure. The extremes you’ll go to avoid it know no bounds. From arriving four hours before a flight, to waiting in your car a whole hour before entering a lecture hall, adulthood is a phase in which you’d sworn to repair the damage of a childhood worth of not arriving late.

Late to school, late to birthday parties, late to dentist appointments.

It wasn’t that you were a particularly difficult child, running rampant around the house as your mother tried to dress you, or your father tried to feed you. Quite the contrary, really. Often, it was little-you who chased around after them, and who waited by the door, school bag in hand, tapping your foot with every second that ticked by on the clock. You were too young and hadn’t the ability nor the empathy to understand that your parents were held up with sorting through things directly influenced by your existence, like cleaning up the messes you left at the breakfast table, or fixing the doorknob you and your sister broke in an intense game of hide and seek.

Nowadays, you can count on one hand the times you’ve been late.

First, you were late to your own surprise birthday party, but that was down to you getting stuck an extra hour at work. It was out of your control.

Then, there’d been your graduation ceremony. Your father missed an exit and ended up taking you on a mystery tour of the city, trying to find the next turn that led to your campus. Again, out of your control.

The third time is the one you remember panicking over the most, knee bouncing uncontrollably with nerves as you sat squeezed between two strangers on a plane. Your sister, barely halfway through her third trimester, had gone into labour, and where were you? Stumbling around drunk on a private beach in Cancún, mumbling along to the lyrics of some early 2000s classic you forget the name of. Your niece, all 4 and a half pounds of her, had decided now was her time to shine and there was nothing, not even the 4 weeks she had yet to grow in utero, that was going to stop her. By the time you arrived, mascara smudged eyes and with the stench of tequila still on your skin, she was laying peacefully in her incubator, the tiniest little fingers clenched into fists and a name tag around her wrist. This too was out of your control.

But the fourth time you’re late, as you stride urgently across the wooden decking of the ship, weaving in and out of lounge chairs and polo-neck wearing crew members, it’s completely within your control.

Yet, it’s not entirely your fault.

An alarm that never went off. A game of hide-and-seek with your purse. An unfortunate slip on bathroom tiles adding another bruise to your knees. An elevator that refused to travel faster than the speed of a snail. It’s as though Lady Luck had set out in favour of being against you, doing her utmost to ensure you arrive exactly seven minutes past your deadline. His deadline.

Best be on the deck by 7 am, darlin’, or I’m dockin’ without ya.

Your head whips from one side to another, eyes finding a familiar figure amongst the few passengers meeting their own private guides. It’s the same man from yesterday, out on the balcony, the memory of him cheering his champagne and shooting a tipsy smile your way replaying. Only now he’s clad in plaid, with a frown etched into his forehead as he stares at his watch. There’s another man, hanging off his arm, fusing with the collar of his shirt.

“She’s late,” you overhear him say, voice firm and leaking with annoyance.

“Maybe she just slept in!” The man next to him is cheerier, tired eyes full of optimism, even as he turns his head and stifles a yawn. “Give her a few minutes.”

“What kind of shitty tour guide sleeps in?” Balcony-Man huffs, and you can’t help but think of your niece and her pouty face whenever she fails to get her own way. “Does she think I’d not rather be asleep too? Lazy c-”

“See? This is why I told you to eat that damn croissant before we left.” The taller of them seems to snap, rolling his eyes. “Brighten up, Bill, or so help me God you’ll be leaving this boat a divorcee.”

Trying to tune their voices out, as the guilt of prying crawls its way into your bones, your gaze points down at your feet. The very same heels you’d worn last night, pretty as they may leave you, have you cursing at the Sun and the Moon. If you’d have just worn your sneakers, maybe you could have ran up the stairs instead of taking the snail-evator.

Joel, tour guide, Signore Miller’s voice- though your imagination can’t quite reach his level of arrogance- rears its irritating head through your mind, recalling his words from last night. Wear somethin’ a little more… practical. That had been enough to awaken that stubborn mule inside of you, hell-bent on proving him wrong.

But now, late, and with him nowhere in sight, your heels seem to have had the opposite effect. They’ve proved him right.

Which leaves you here, moping so pathetically you’re incapable of appreciating the shine of a rising sun over the horizon of aqua blue water.

Five minutes, you decide. That’s how long you’ll allow yourself to dwell in self-pity. Then, you’ll trek your way over to the Excelsior lounge, hit up the breakfast buffet, and await the general disembarking time.

Who knows, maybe you’ll get a call to say there’s a miraculous spot opened up on one of the tour groups.

If not, you’ll be fine! You’ve travelled alone before, you’ve got an all-inclusive data plan on your phone and you’re pretty well-acquainted with the less-than-accommodating features of Google Maps. You don’t need help, or a tour guide, much less one as blood-boiling, skin-prickling, irritating as Joel Mil-

“Wasn’t sure how ya like your coffee, but you look like a milk, two sugars kind of girl to me.”

Speak of the Devil and he shall appear. Or, in this case, think of him.

Turning a little too fast, you stumble a step or two back, and, sure enough, there he is. A tight fitting, dark grey t-shirt stretched over the swell of his biceps, a pair of washed-out denims, and two well-worn running shoes, one on each foot. Trailing up the swell of his tanned neck, you count the freckles up to his eyes, and find there’s bags under them. The growth of hair on his face is just as unkempt as yesterday, yet already it seems to have grown longer, making the litter of greys stand out more. The hair that sits atop his head is damp, and the strands that have managed to dry are being messed around by the morning air. He’s still got that ever-present frown stamped into his forehead, yet his mouth doesn’t seem to curl into a snarl as he calls your name.

You must stare a moment or two past his comfort level, for he clears his throat and nods down at his hand. Two to-go cups, the smallest streams of steam floating out the hole in each lid.

He’s extending one out- the one in his right hand- towards you. “If you’d rather black, you can take min-”

“No!” You snap back into your own body, all too quickly and all too volatile. Clear your throat, and then try again, this time with a little less of that im being held at gunpoint shake in your voice. “No… Thank you. It’s fine- Milk is fine.”

It’s more than fine.

In fact, he’s gotten it spot on. Down to the number of sugars you take.

But, still stubborn, you yearn to not give him the satisfaction of being right so early in the day, and instead settle for accepting the coffee out his hand. You welcome the golden warmth eagerly, eyes unable to resist slipping shut as you take your first sip. When they reopen, you find Joel watching you, intently. Purposefully, as though you’re something to be studied.

Clearing your throat, you glance to the side and spot Balcony-Man and his partner greeting an apologetic woman.

“Thanks for the, uh,” his stare is intimidating your nerves, setting you on edge of something you’re all to eager to jump off. “Coffee. Yeah. You didn’t have to… I mean, I actually thought you’d, you know, uh-”

“You thought I left without ya.” He states. All you can do is nod. “I could’ve. I did warn you not to be late.”

“You did.”

“I also told you to wear somethin’ other than them heels.”

“I know.”

“Yet here you are, late and in heels. You’re not very good at following orders.” He exhales something akin to a chuckle, as devoid of humour as it may be, and you swear he’s suddenly closer than you remember, knuckles brushing against your own as he bumps his paper cup against yours. “Just what am I gonna do with ya, huh?”

For a moment, you swear your heart has leaped from your chest and up to your throat, threatening to choke you with the beat of it. There’s no sense you can make of it, this reaction he rouses, a heat you can’t control creeping down your loins as you drag in a whiff of some manly cologne, the kind you’d usually turn your nose up at for being too overbearing. Yet, on him, it’s not. On him it’s just right, like he was born with pine soaked skin, and a tobacco stained kiss, and-

Before you can think of pulling in another breath, Joel’s stepped back, allowing a cool breeze to pass between you and get a hold of your senses.

“C’mon, we’re slotted in for the first tender that leaves for shore.”

“Oh my God.”

You’re half certain Joel’s growing sick of hearing those three words roll off your tongue. He’s likely felt this way since it first left your mouth, feet struggling to safely step out onto the dock as your mind became enchanted by the picturesque view in front of you. Only the burn of his hand meeting your lower back, nudging you ahead to make space for himself and the other passengers to step off the tender boat, was capable of dragging you back into your own body, the wanderlust that had gripped your soul yearning to be free to explore every building that sits carved into rock, every water-taxi that flows idly on cristaline water, every step that winds up and up and up the island’s cliff where, at the top, civilisation seems to lie.

The port you’ve docked on is rather small, with naught more than two docking strips and a walkway of shops and confection stands, with boats that find no space along the docking strips tying themselves to any safety they may find over the expanse of the walkway. It is no wonder the cruise floats safely out in deeper waters, alongside several other cruise lines, with no space for such large vessels. And, yet, the port is alive with something. The ground seems to pulse, like a beat of a heart, and the air, as fresh as the grass after heavy rainfall, almost dances its way down your lungs. Voices swim all around you, tourists scrambling past each other, fighting in a race towards something you’ve yet to identify.

“So this is Gialos, also known as the Old Port of Fira.” Somewhere, behind you perhaps, Joel’s voice pipes up, a speech so rehearsed and robotic, a part of your wonders how many times he’s recited it, how many people he’s recited it to. The other part of you, however, is much too fixated on the stairs ahead to pay him true attention, eyes following as two men and several donkeys descend. “That, up there, is Fira, the capital of Santorini. We’re going to need to take a cable- Are you even listening to me?”

“Yes!” You’re quick to react, a defensive rise in your voice. He meets it with a deadpan look and the crossing of his arms over his chest, which quickly becomes something you wish he wouldn’t do as you watch the tight fabric of his shirt stretch itself thin over the bulge of his arms. “No. Sorry, I’m just… Wow.”

You hope he appreciates the restraint you show towards repeating those three dreaded words again.

“You have all day to stare,” his words trip over his own irritated scoff, and you bite back a question of why he’s a guide if he seems to hate it so much, fearful he’s too honest to not tell you a truth that may hurt your fragile feelings. A truth where it is not so much his job he dislikes, but rather, your presence and all that it brings. “Right now, we need to move. Don’t wanna spend all day waitin’ in line now, do ya?”

This need for speed that hooks the other tourists seems to filter over into your guide, who’s forcing you forward, that heat of his palm now hovering inches away from your lower back. It’s enough to lead you where he pleases. As a pair, you weave in and out small clusters of people, till the space between you both and the large gathering crowd slowly diminishes. It is there where his once telepathic leading fails, with Joel turning left towards it as you stray right, over to the ascending pathway of stairs.

“Where are you going?” His tone is offended, almost, as he comes to a halt and watches you fail to do the same, to notice the space between you both and correct it like some puppy who’s been called to heel by its master.

“Where am I going?” The question, at first, is one you mistake as rhetorical. Staring back at him with an equaled confusion, you gesture to the stairway, as though it is the most obvious answer. Because, well, where else could you have been heading? He said so himself, that up there is Fira, the capital of Santorini, and you’ll be damned if you don’t get to see it. “Where are you going?”

“To the cable cars, that’ll take us up the island.”

Above the crowd of people, hanging over doors of small businesses, lay several signs. CABLE CARS - 6€ ! stands out, impossible to miss. Symbols you scarcely recognise sit beneath it, in smaller text, and you assume it’s Greek. In the distance, you spy the movement of the mobile boxes, people being carted up the length of the cliff at a speed that promises them a journey of mere minutes.

“Oh.” So, perhaps his option makes more sense than your own far longer, more tiring one. Still, stubborn as a mule, you double down on your decision to take the scenic route, inching closer towards the first step. Your guide, still in the face, refuses to move, daring eyes willing you to continue. “You want us to take the lazy man’s route? You go ahead, I’ll take the stairs and meet you at the top.”

You press one foot up onto the first step, weary of where you rest the point of your heel.

Glancing a few steps further up, there’s the unmistakable sight of a mound of brown substance, no doubt excreted out of one of the donkeys that walk ahead, tourists mounted on their poor backs.

“I don’t think you understand,” he finally inches closer, if only slightly, hands clenched at his side. “There’s five hundred and eighty-eight steps until you reach the top.”

The number is more daunting than you expect, and you pray he can’t read this on your face. “Only? I’ll be up in no time then!”

You feel more than see the way Joel’s eyes travel down the expanse of you, stuttering almost over the curvature of your chest, the dips at your hips, till they rest at your feet. The question hangs loose between you, unspoken yet evident.

In those heels?

“Listen, Joel,” taking a second, third, and fourth step, you aim for a literal higher ground, staring down below as he continues to drift closer and closer towards the stairway. “If you’re not fit for the task, or the climb’s no good for your knees, you can just say it, there’s no shame. Like I said, I’ll meet you at the top. Promise I won’t even report the fact my private guide abandoned me in favour of his own comfort.”

Defeat has never come easy.

Well, to phrase it better towards the truth, acceptance of defeat has never come easy.

There was always something more to be said, another excuse to be given for any of your shortcomings. When you’d been turned away from the school’s soccer team, you’d told yourself it was because you were a girl- ignoring the fact three girls in your year made the cut. When you’d lost an arduous game of Monopoly, you’d sworn you’d caught your sister sneaking notes out of the banker’s pile into her own. When you’d been beaten, round after round, by your own niece at Mario Kart, you’d stuck your tongue out at her and told her you let her win out of pity.

All that had been before, of course, back when you still roamed school hallways, when your sister sat across from you at the dining table, when your niece still laughed freely, wildly, celebrating her own victories with an over-the-top, uncoordinated dance around the living room.

As changed as things may be, defeat is still your foe.

It is that reason alone that you bite back a complaint.

You’d enjoyed the initial moments of your trek. Maybe it was the salty air in your lungs, or the beautiful views of your surroundings, or the idle grumbling coming from Joel, a few paces behind you, kicking up dirt under his feet with every step he travelled up. Whatever the reason, adrenaline had been flowing, into your heart and through your veins, covering every square inch of your body, a tingling of nerves from the tip of your toes to the top of your spine.

But, by the 10 minute mark, a dull ache forms in your feet. Each step of your heel feels more life threatening than the last, as the stairs grow slippier, dustier, and well-worn the further up you advanced. By stair who-knows-how-may, you take a near fatal tumble backwards, the crunch of crumbling rock threatening to be the last thing you hear. Till he appears behind you, fast as light, huffing out a breath as you smack down against his solid chest.

“Mind your step.” From anyone else, you would mistake it as a sign of care. From Joel, you know better than to think it’s anything beyond a humourless taunt.

You try to keep count of the steps, from then on, an effort to motivate yourself to move faster with each ten-pace you count. By 50, you lose your place and begin counting all over again.

The journey is difficult in other ways, too, with the constant passing of donkeys who obligate you to stand aside and make way for them. And the distant movement of cable cars, firing up and sliding down more times than you can keep track of.

When a particular step proves itself too steep, you can no longer hold back and, finally, a hiss slips out between your clenched teeth as pain shoots up your ankle, the leather of your shoe rubbing even harder into your brittle skin, threatening the promise of a blister yet to fully swell. Pushing the pain down, alongside a complaint, you take another step. Hiss. Then another, hiss. You can fight it no longer, bending at the waist to slip off your heel and examine the irritated skin.

Sure enough, it’s been rubbed raw, broken and spilling a small pool of blood.

Behind you comes an exasperated groan and, before you can straighten yourself to even register what’s happening, Joel barges past you and the figure of him up ahead slowly diminishes the faster he climbs up hill.

“Hey!” You call after him, hobbling to slip your shoe back on, but it’s to no avail.

He’s long gone, growing further and further out of your reach with each passing minute.

Cursing him under your breath, you decide to hell with the no complaints of his preferred regard for his own comfort. He’s abandoned you, injured and hobbling up the steps, all because he has the patience of a toddler who’s been waiting far too long to go potty.

“Wear somethin’ a little more sensible…” You’re bound to seem deranged to any passers by, half hopping up the steps, mumbling to yourself in a mockery of his deep voice “Yeah, right, how bout I shove somethin’ a little more sensible up your ass. Oh, what’s that? There’s no room up there with the massive stick you’re already carryin-”

“A local man warned me bout ya, on my way back down. Said there was some no-good girl casting out bad juju.” You freeze, foot stopped in mid-air. Shifting your gaze up ahead, you find Joel there, skipping a step every so often as he grows closer and closer. At his side, dangling from two fingers, sits a plastic bag. “Told him it ain’t no juju or curses you’re casting, just throwin’ a little tantrum.”

Like a fish out of water, all you can do is stare at him, wide eyes and mouth agape.

Joel pays your silence no mind, almost delighting in it. With a pop and a crack from his knees, he crouches down before you, holding out the palm of his hand.

“C’mon,” he mutters, pointing towards your injured foot. “Lemme see.”

You’re hesitant, at first, but ultimately lift it and let him curl his grip around it, holding you in place as the shoe slips off you. A tut meets your ears as his eyes meet the bloodied mess, and you watch how he contemplates, for a moment or two, before wetting his thumb with his tongue and swiping it over your broken skin.

It stings, like salt in a wound or a bee’s stinger through skin, and you try to flinch back, retract yourself from his hold. But Joel’s strong, resilient, nails biting at the flesh of your ankle to keep you in place. His free hand digs into the plastic bag he’d discarded at his side and pulls out a white box. Fiddling with it for a short period, he manages to open it at last and slips out a bandaid. He rips that open a lot quicker, using his teeth, and slips it over your open wound perfectly, thumb and pointer finger smoothing it around the curve of your heel.

“D’ya see now why I told you to not wear those things?” You feel like a child at his words, reprimanded like you once were for touching your mother’s curling iron. “And why I said we should take the cable car?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you refuse to meet his eyes. But he just won’t let you be, craning his own neck to infiltrate the space you stare off into. There’s a pleased look on his face, smugness pulling at the right corner of his mouth. Alarmingly, you think of how it’s the closest you’ve gotten to seeing him smile.

You continue your pursuit of silence, repeating a mantra of how you don’t care that he’d tried to look out for your comfort, or how he’d then tried to save you the effort of an uphill battle, or how his hand, big and warm and rough at the fingertips, is still holding your foot in place, absentmindedly rubbing your ankle in a circular motion.

“Look at ya, gone all quiet on me,” that corner of his lip curls higher. You register the rustling of the bag, his hand digging back inside it. “Ain’t one for bein’ put in your place, are you?”

Out comes his hand once more, though this time it’s not a box of bandaids. Now, resting firm in his grasp, sits a mixture of navy blue dyed cotton, stitched atop a flat, thick layer of a straw-like material. A slip-on canvas shoe. Joel doesn’t await permission, nor does he even ask for it. He simply takes charge, slipping it onto your foot, mindful as he straightens out the back to lay against your heel.

“Other foot, up.”

Switching feet, you stumble as your weight completely shifts onto your injured side. Your hands, reaching out to stabilise your swaying body, are quickly directed by his own to rest atop his head, curls of brown threading between your fingers. You contemplate asking what products he uses to achieve locks so smooth and shiny, then rethink it as soon as you imagine his reply of a disinterested grunt and a snarky ain’t use anythin’ but dirt water and a splash o’ whiskey.

“How’s it feel?”

Soft, you almost reply, then realise he’s asking about the shoe.

With a wiggle of your toes, you tell him it’s fine, and leave it at that. He doesn’t need to know they’re surprisingly comfortable.

Joel rises with a bit of a struggle, yet refuses the help you offer. Rough hands scoop up your discarded heels, tossing them into the bag, and then he straightens his back, lets out a noise of discomfort, before nodding up ahead.

“C’mon, only got a hundred or so to go. We’ll be up in no time.”

The sun sits high in the sky when you reach the city of Fira.

Crossing over that last step, 588 painted in white across it, you huff out a sigh, exhaustion aching you out of any enjoyment of your victory over the stairway from hell. Before you can even utter a word of your thirst, Joel is already reaching into his bag of wonders, unscrewing the lid off a bottle of water and passing it to you. Grateful, you take a sip, and lament the few drops that spill down your chin.

At least they don’t go to complete waste, cooling your skin ever so slightly.

It’s a shame to see Joel start moving again, moments before you’re even ready to gain back your breath, but you follow after him, nonetheless, mindful to not press your foot too hard down. Through streets he winds, past shopkeepers he walks. Eventually, after a few minutes, you ask him where you’re both heading.

“To catch a coach,” his hand moves quickly, tugging you closer as a bicycle shoots past behind you. Your own find themselves against his chest, and realise it is nothing like his hair. Solid, warm, wide. It’s almost a shame to lower them back down to your side. “Less you think you can walk from here to Oia, too.”

Truth be told, you don’t know where Oia is.

But you do know your walking for the day is over, happy to follow Joel onto the coach. You take the aisle seat, he’s by the window. Across from you both sits a couple, young and giggling into one another’s ears, as though the sounds of their joy is sacred to none but them. A pang of envy thumps your soul, and you quickly turn your face.

Only to find that Joel’s is grey.

Not the hair that lines it but, rather, his whole face, paled and blood-drained. It’s a sickly image, and one that’s quick to get your heart racing.

“Are you okay?” Any thought of keeping your composure becomes mute as you hear your own voice, a treacherous shake to it that gives your panic away. “You look…” There is no word kind enough for you to use to relay the image of him, so you lock your lips.

It takes a few seconds for you to get a reply, as your hand moves up to feel his forehead. It’s sweaty, warm, and you move to pull your hand back when he’s holding it firm in place, eyes slipping shut. “‘S cold. You’re cold,” seems to be his explanation. “I’m fine, it’s just- Carsick.”

“You get carsick, yet you work on a cruise.”

“Not the same. Ship’s big, somethin’ bout the size and my own visibility, ‘s what stops me getting seasick.”

You sit like that the rest of the coach, your hand pressed to his forehead, his eyes slipped shut.

“What’s your favourite stop on the cruise?”

As it turns out, Oia is exactly what you’d pictured Santorini to be.

White washed houses, deep blue domes for rooftops, turquoise waters, all for as far as the eye can see. Joel complains, more than tells you, of the rise in tourism over the years, of how it’s turned the beautiful village into a party-town for idiots abroad, disregarding the clean environment, shamelessly blocking paths to snap a frame-worthy shot, raising prices to the ceiling. When you ask him if he thinks he’s in part to blame, if people like him are to blame- running tours, bringing guests onto the island, earning a wage off the visiting of such a place- he grumbles out something about missing breakfast, needing lunch.

So you find a cafe. Or, more, Joel leads you to one. He greets the doorman, with a wave and a pat on the back, before sauntering his way through to a back terrace, overlooking the whole village, the water perfectly framing it. Stepping out and sitting down, the view robs the very breath out of your lungs.

It’s like sitting inside a postcard.

Joel asks if you like Greek food.

You tell him you’ve never had it.

He orders for you both, a mixture of different plates, and swears he’ll find something you’ll like.

It turns out you’re rather fond of baklava.

“Florence.” Joel’s taken his time to answer, staring at you like a deer caught in headlights. Disbelief more than fear in his eyes, you have to wonder if it’s the first time someone’s thought to ask him, in all his years as a guide. Naturally, this leads you to wondering how many years that is. “It’s a real site. Full of history, a real story to be told.” He tilts a ceramic dish your way, eyes glancing down in an offering. You follow them, and spot olives. Shake your head, no, then smile, thanks. He shrugs, more for me, and pops two into his mouth. “There’s this…” he pauses to chew. “This library.”

“A library?”

“‘S not just a library.” He slips out the olive’s pip and raises another into his mouth. You try not to think about how thick his fingers look, rolling the remaining briny green pebbles around in the pot. “There’s a cinema built inside it. Plays some classic films. I always- or, I try to go whenever we dock.”

It’s hard to picture Joel inside a cinema, something about the setting too busy, too loud to place his scowling face in. Would he be the kind to have a favourite seat, perfectly picked to optimise the sound quality? Does he speak animatedly, excited any time he recognises an actor? Or is he a shusher, the kind to roll his eyes when someone dares to even clear their throat?

A part of you wants to ask him if your tour involves a trip to this library.

Something tells you it’s not a place he likes to share, though. It’s his own little corner, safe to sneak a moment of selfish indulgence amidst a week of catering to another’s needs.

“A cinema inside a library?” A waiter interrupts you, asks if everything’s alright. Joel orders another serving of baklava. “Isn’t that a bit of an oxymoron?”

“Yeah.” For a moment, you think you see a smile creep across his lips. “Suppose it is.”

Another interruption comes in the form of your ringtone, rippling the water in your glass as your phone vibrates upon the table. You’re well aware of how Joel spots the word Mum displayed across your screen. Just like you’re aware he sees how you swipe down on your screen and switch on aeroplane mode.

Before he can ask any questions, or the sudden silence can become too deafening, you throw out another question. “And your least favourite?”

“Least favourite stop?” You nod, affirmative, and he needs no time to reply. “Here.”

“Here?! How come?”

The baklava arrives, as if on cue, and you point down at it, as though it is reason enough to be enamoured with the island. It seems to do little to convince him, his hand reaching out to push the plate closer to you, inviting you to indulge yourself.

“Compared to the other stops, Santorini’s bland.” He says it when your mouth is too occupied to protest, stuffed full with layer after layer of pastry. “Kind of like a diamond, y’know? Real pretty to look at, empties your wallet, and, at the end of the day, ain’t much you can do with it.”

“People propose with diamonds.” You point out, and cough as a flake of pastry hits the back of your throat.

Joel’s already passing you your glass of water before you even think to reach for it.

“People propose with rings. Diamonds are just custom, not a guarantee.”

Sunset arrives with no warning, a hue of fiery orange melting down into the calm waters on the horizon. It’s Joel who makes the call to head back, one glance at his watch enough to tell you the last chance to catch a coach is nigh. It’s only as you go to call for the bill that he tells you it’s covered and you realise his earlier trip to the bathroom had been a ruse to go pay.

The trip back is calmer, quieter, with the coach full of sunkissed and heat exhausted tourists.

Again, you take the aisle seat, and Joel, the window.

Keeping an eye on him is easy, switching your gaze towards the approaching darkness of the night sky calling upon the street lights anytime he meets your eyes. When you notice the increase in breaths and the paling of his skin, you wordlessly unscrew the cap off a bottle and slot it into his hand, inviting him to finish off the last sips of your water.

Skipping out on a trip down memory stairway, you quietly follow him into the cable car and, when you reach the Old Port, you try your best to block out his smug remark of how easy and fast the ride was. A feat which becomes easier as you stumble halfway up the dock and turn back.

Like hours before, as you first stepped off the tender, your mouth falls agape. Only, this time, wider. The view of the island lit up in all its glory is enough to leave you breathless, hands scrambling to fish out your phone, open the camera and-

“You gettin’ on or what?” Joel calls out from behind, and you find him waiting on board one of the tenders, hand held out towards you.

It’s a demand, more than it is an offer, to hurry up. The collective of other passengers are watching the interaction, and a feeling you’ve come to know all too well crawls its way into your veins.

A burden, holding them all up, that’s what you are.

The feeling follows you back, as you slip into a damp seat and watch as the boat carries you further and further from the island, it’s lights twinkling in a way that chokes you up, drains you out, eyes stinging from more than just the salty air. You’ll love it, I swear! The memory plays out in your head, those words gushed at you. Hands squeezing your cheeks, a smile blinding you under its brightness. Just wait till you see it at night, the lights shine over it like stars!

You blink.

A tear pools at the corner of your eye.

“Here, look,” something nudges you. It’s Joel, inching his phone into your view. Through blurred sight, you glance at it. And find yourself, centre frame, lit only by the moon. In the back lies the whole skyline of Santorini, lights reflecting down onto the waters below. “Best view you can get, the whole island in one shot.”

Afraid to hear your own voice, you smile.

He answers by pointing his phone back at you, snapping another photo.

Back on the cruise, the two of you part ways, with Joel telling you to meet him in the same bar, same time as the night before.

Dinner had been part of your plans. With a glance over the listed restaurants on board, the ache in your tired bones asks you to stay in bed and make use of the room service. You listen, order something light, easy. It arrives in under 10 minutes and your hunger is satisfied sitting out on the balcony, watching the dark waves roll past.

Phoning your mother is the next port o'call.

Unlike with your food, that takes longer than 10 minutes. Much longer, and involves you countlessly reassuring her that yes, you’re okay, and no, you don’t need her to fly out and meet you in Naples.

“I’m a big girl,” you even throw in a laugh, hoping it’ll ease the worry lines you can picture splayed over your mother’s face. “I think I can climb up a mountain without my mum’s help.”

“Honey, you know that’s not what why I’m worri-”

“Did you know you can get carsick but, at the same time, not seasick?”

You hang up shortly after, with a promise to try your best to answer when she calls tomorrow, instead of hours later, when she should be fast asleep.

The time on your phone tells you there’s still forty minutes until you need to meet Joel. The image of that grandiose bathtub flashes before your eyes and, in record timing, you’re sinking into scalding waters, a complimentary bath bomb dumped in and granting you the childish gift of bubbles.

You try to relax, at first.

There’s no need to wet your hair, so you indulge yourself. Lay your head back, close your eyes. Feel your muscles loosen with the warmth, ignore the sting of soap in your blistering heel. Your hands struggle to find a resting place, until they meet your thighs. They sit still, for a moment or two, before one slips down, inching into the crease of where your legs meet.

Something stirs in your core, comes alive as you think of how long it’s been since you last felt someone. A few months, it has to be. A fellow graduate, if you remember correctly, that stupid robe still on his shoulders as he let his mouth come down on you.

Your hand is soon on your core, before you really notice, mind on a mission to recall the hazy encounter. When you think of his tongue, messy yet eager, your finger’s already on your clit, pressing against it with a tease of pleasure. When you think of his cock, uncut and thicker than your ex, splitting you open on his bedroom floor, your hips cant up against yourself, chasing friction. When you rewind how soft Joel’s hair had been between your fingers, your free hand grips one of your breasts, fingers pinching at your nipple.

Your eyes snap open.

Joel’s hair.

Joel.

Something you should not be thinking of right now, hand buried between your thighs.

You wait a few seconds, remind yourself of the graduate’s face.

His blue eyes, your fingers roll over your nipple.

His blonde hair, your legs spread wider.

Joel’s solid chest, your fingers dip inside your cunt.

Your breath is shaky, Joel’s annoyed groan echoes.

The shame of it, of thinking of him, is almost as tantalising as touching yourself, fucking your own hole full with as much of your fingers the angle will allow. It’s a one time thing, you justify. You just need to get it out your system. One and done, cum and done. No more of Joel Miller between your thighs, this is the closest he’ll get.

Someone knocks at your door.

You nearly miss it over the sound of your breathing, the pounding of your heart.

“Who is it?” You don’t like how weak you sound, but it’s too late to take it back now.

Another knock.

“Can I come in?”

A hand still between your thighs, orgasm titering on the edge, body fully submerged in lukewarm water. “No!”

“Ain’t safe to leave your door unlocked. Anybody could walk in- Jesus!”

You’ve never screamed louder.

Joel takes up most of the bathroom doorway, same clothes save for the shirt that’s got two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled halfway up his arms. You’re pressed right back into the bathtub, as physically far from him as you can get, knees pressed up to your chest, ankles crossed over.

In Joel’s defence, he’s quick to turn away, presenting you with a view of his back. A hand runs through his hair.

“Why are you in my room?!” You inch even further back, the water suddenly dropping several degrees.

“I asked to come in!”

“And I told you not to!”

“Well obviously I didn’t hear that!”

“Why are you in my room?” You’re back to your first question, eyeing up your towel.

It’s across the room, on the bathroom sink. No way for you to reach it without the risk of him seeing you reflected on something.

“You were late. Came to check if ya tripped on them heels and broke your neck.”

“I,” you’re not sure what time it is with your phone sitting by the bed, charging. That's now five times you've been late in adulthood. “Didn’t realise the time. I can meet you at the bar in ten minutes.”

He nods, and you watch him take a step, then immediately pause. “You know, I’ve heard a few things from passengers…” You may not see his face, but you swear there’s that half-smirk, smug look upon it. It’s practically dripping off his words. “The shower head, fourth setting. Seems to get the job done for most ladies on board.”

Grabbing the closest thing in reach- a bar of soap- you launch it and watch it bounce off his irritatingly wide shoulders. “Get OUT!”

You make it to the Tipsy Byson in 15 minutes.

Dressed more appropriately than the night before, your flared jeans and crop top garner less stares. It’s just as busy, if not busier, yet it’s not hard to spot Joel on a barstool, nursing a glass of something syrupy looking. Behind the bar is Luke, head thrown back at something Joel says.

They’re an interesting pair to observe, you realise as you make your way over. With Luke, so tall, so lanky, so bright-face, his energy warm and inviting, and Joel so- well, Joel.

“There she is,” Luke cheers, a little too loudly, calling attention to you as you slip into the stool next to Joel. “My new favourite customer.”

“Thought I was your favourite,” Joel’s yet to look at you, and it’s a relief. He’s looked at you enough for one day, one week, one lifetime.

“Sorry but she smells better than you, Joel,” the barman winks at you, a cheeky grin on his face. “ Plus, she’s a hell of a lot nicer to look at.”

Joel scoffs, you giggle.

“Not sure about the whole smelling better thing,” your response comes minutes later, after Luke’s already served you a glass of wine and turned away your cash, telling you he’ll put it on Joel’s tab. “But thanks!”

Unprompted and uninvited, Luke bends over the bar and takes an exaggerated sniff. “I don’t know, smell alright to me.”

“Really? I’m not even wearing perfume, I forgot to pack any-.”

“Yeah! Go on Joel, give her a whiff, tell her she smells fine!” There’s resistance on his end, but Luke’s adamant, hand clamped on the back of Joel’s head, shoving him face first into your neck. Joel’s nose brushes against you. You hear him inhale. Exhale. Inhale again, then the urge to cross your thighs begins to nag at you. “Well?”

“Yeah, smells nice- Fine. Ya smell fine.”

“Be still my beating heart! Someone alert the press that Texas said something other than-”

Joel interrupts Luke’s dramatics, scowl on his face. “Don’t you have a job to be doin’?”

Only once the bartender is down the other end of the bar, engrossed in a heated discussion over what beer pulls a better head, does Joel speak again, sipping on his drink. Whiskey.

“So I noticed somethin’, when I was checking your bookin’ info.” You nod, urge him to continue, and take a sip of your own drink. Some country song plays over the speakers and you notice a sudden shake in Joel’s knee, his foot tapping to the beat. “Says there should be two of you in my guide team.”

“Oh,” the lump forming in your throat falls safely back into the pit of your stomach as you take another drink of wine. “Must be a printing error. You know how technology can be, always complicating things.”

“Hmm,” it’s easy to write off the awkward energy between you with the excuse of earlier events, and it’s the first bright-side you find to him walking in on your intimate bath. “Well, you know the drill for tomorrow. 7 am on that deck or I’m-”

“Docking without me, I know.”

You finish your drink first. When Joel orders himself another glass, you smile politely and turn it down. Yawn, then tell him you best head to bed.

Before you can slip out the entry, someone calls your last name. Loud enough to turn more than just your own head.

It’s Joel, approaching you, effortlessly parting crowds through the lively bar as though he is knife and, the people, butter. The loud music seems to ring louder in your ear, impeding you from hearing the words that leave his moving lips.

“What?” You call out, hands clasped over your mouth in an attempt to amplify the volume of your voice.

His response is to step closer, hands holding you in place by the waist as he leans down. A hot breath on your neck, the smell of whiskey on his breath, the soft brush of lips against your ear.

“It’s your turn to bring the coffees.”

series taglist. @auteurdelabre

#joel miller series #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller fic #pedro pascal smut #joel miller fanfic

[a-yellow-van]

Wish You Were Here | Part 3

You and Joel get stuck in a blizzard during patrol. It leads to something unexpected.

Series masterlist

Pairing : Joel Miller x f!reader

Fanfic tags : canon compliant, slow burn, romance, some smut, angst, hurt/comfort, joel and the reader are terrible at feelings, female reader, no use of y/n, reader is in early 30s, past relationships, trauma/PTSD, grief, loss, post-apocalypse, jackson joel, joel is a good parent to ellie, protective joel, major character death, original characters, queer characters, bisexual main character, age difference, canon-typical violence

WC : 8.9 k

Warnings for part 3 : Minors DNI! swearing, drinking, mentions of trauma and PTSD, mild violence, explicit sexual content (masturbation, unprotected sex, p in v sex, rough-ish sex, praise kink, pet names, limited aftercare), more hurt than comfort I'm sorry

Writing this one hurt a lil. But I'm happy with it. So please enjoy.

It’s been half an hour. Thirty minutes of riding side by side in complete silence, interrupted only by the sounds of Old Beardy and Willow’s hooves rhythmically crunching in the snow.  It seems like an eternity. The tension is so intense it’s almost palpable. Your presence, a blur in Joel’s peripheral vision, is putting him on such an edge that, at any given moment now,  he could turn around and gallop back to Jackson, or start saying things he’d better keep to himself, or get you off your horse and take you by the waist and…

No. Nope. Stop it. 

His grip on the reins tightens and he bites his inner cheek until the stab of pain rips his mind off that absurd train of thought. He stares straight ahead at the deserted highway, the stretch of the 191 carved in a broad valley. The landscape is lost in a sea of white, the concrete below  invisible, crashed cars resembling large animals sleeping in a snowy den. Joel’s face is numb from the cold, rugged skin humid, a few wild strands of hair on his forehead pearling with ice. The brim of his insulated cap isn’t enough to shield his eyes from the stinging wind, but still, he stares, almost unblinking. His neck itches with the urge to turn and glance at you; he has been actively fighting it ever since leaving. He has to remain collected, he has to concentrate on the job. That sentence is playing on loop in his head like a mantra, so much so that the words are getting jumbled, barely making sense anymore. 

He doesn’t understand why it’s been so difficult to just move on from what happened. Not one day during those two weeks has passed without his thoughts drifting back to that brief intimacy he shared with you, without wondering what you’re doing, how you’re doing. And he loathes it. Hates being confused, hates not having control, hates that you’re having such an effect on him. So, before he drives himself crazy, he decides to start counting the cars until the both of you reach the first checkpoint on the Hoback route. Joel has calculated about five miles since Jackson, only around three to go until the job gets more active. There are two cars on the right, their shapes stuck together in a permanent collision, and one on the left. Joel can make it. 

Small, repetitive rituals like this always helped him focus; back when he was working construction, a lifetime ago, he’d recite stupid ad jingles to himself, trying to remember as many as he could and associate them with the correct brand. There was a famous one that Sarah used to sing just to annoy him, delighted when it worked without fail every time. He’d be reading the newspaper in the morning, or watching a game, or driving her to school, and she’d pipe up out of nowhere. And then it’d be stuck in Joel’s head for days. Some annoying rap about credit reports. How did it go again? F-R-E-E, that spells free…something something dot com, baby. Sarah’s mischievous giggles, after he begged her to stop, echo around his mind. Less than a year back, it would have sent him down to a dark, sunken place with slippery walls nearly impossible to climb out of. Not anymore, after Ellie. The memory’s still stained with grief, but it doesn’t feel so crushing to carry. He’s accepted it as part of him. Joel tries to recall the rest of the lyrics to that damned song; he thinks Ellie might get a kick out of it. She’s always so eager to learn about even the most meaningless things that existed before the outbreak. 

It does the trick to distract him from you. It works so well, in fact, that he nearly misses the turn to the checkpoint. He pulls on Old Beardy’s reins suddenly, steering him in the right direction. The horse neighs in protest. 

So much for concentrating. 

You’ve certainly noticed the mishap, but you don’t comment on it, much to his relief.  

Get a fucking grip. 

Joel begins down the side path to an abandoned gas station, the tension rising. Maybe, if one of you were to point out the obvious, it would make this whole situation a bit less miserable. But Joel isn’t going to be the one to do it. It would come out all wrong, anyway. 

The place is small, a few pumps decaying under a canopy that’s barely holding on to four crumbling steel rods. The convenience store isn’t in better shape, its windows shattered, the signboard crashed by the entry. You take initiative and move towards the back of the building; Joel takes it as a cue for him to check out the front. The advantage of being an experienced patroller is that you can do your job without much communication; at least there’s that. He jumps off Old Beardy and walks up to the building, unworried but readying his weapon nonetheless. If there were infected around, he’d have spotted them already. Just as he thought, the interior is empty, what’s left of it is covered in a thin film of dirty snow. Just for good measure, he checks the storage and the restrooms in the back. Still nothing. He jogs back to his horse just as you turn a corner, you and Willow coming back into view, calm, unperturbed. 

You don’t wait for him to leave. He scrambles to mount Old Beardy, and you’re already back on the highway. It sustains Joel’s growing irritation; he almost yells out for you to slow down. Sure, ignoring each other is one thing, but being unsafe and disrespecting patrol rules is another. So, as a punishment, Joel spurs Old Beardy into a run and catches up before overtaking you, almost knocking you off Willow. He hears you gasp out in surprise. You try to swerve to the right, but he blocks the move. He wants to make you crack. Because he can’t be the one to do so first. You try the same move, to the left this time, and again, Joel is faster. He takes things a step further and lets out a dry, arrogant scoff. 

That’s it. You’re about to rip into him. But only the whistling of the wind responds; you keep stubbornly quiet. You don’t even give the man a glance when he finally lets you pass and get back on his side, your expression set in stone. 

Damn it. You’re good. 

Joel doesn’t attempt anything else, deciding it’s wasted energy. You both continue on the road, status quo, for another hour. You stop at a few other checkpoints around the highway : an old RV park, a fire station…Warm, sheltered places that would draw in people, or things, at this time of year. But there’s no sign of life anywhere. By this point, Joel would usually have had to take out at least a stray runner. It’s almost unsettling. Like the calm before a storm. That little seed of concern plants itself inside his mind, heightening his senses. You must feel it too, because you guide your horse closer to his, and he notices your right hand leaving the reins to rest on the rifle hanging from your shoulder. 

Sombre clouds are accumulating in the sky, hanging low, menacing. The wind increases as you both reach the highway exit to the small village of Hoback, carrying sharp snowflakes that cut Joel’s exposed cheeks. The path is narrow, flanked by tall conifers that grow denser, their branches drooping down from the weight of the snow. You’re forced to get behind the man, your gaze on his back piercing, nervous, uncomfortable. The both of you still don’t talk, but the atmosphere has shifted, the unspoken conflict momentarily forgotten. 

Joel moves forward cautiously on trot, alert, scanning his surroundings. The first cluster of residences comes into view, simple log cabins settled at the foot of a hill a couple yards away. From the distance, nothing looks out of place. He signals for you to follow him, and you patrol up and down the short street, hastily inspecting the houses on both sides. They’re frozen in a dead silence, immobile, ravaged by years of negligence and harsh elements. Instead of being reassuring, the absence of movement only causes Joel’s foreboding feeling to develop. Something is very off here. The both of you repeat the process through the village, falling into calculated, practised gestures. And, while patrollers have the habit of checking some key places for supplies to bring back to Jackson, this time, your pair instinctively works as fast as possible, not entering a single house. There’s an unwritten agreement to get the hell out of here as soon as you can. 

You’ve cleared out most of the village and, at last, you reach Snake River, the sounds of its turbulent waters mixed with the wind is tumultuous.  There’s a bridge ahead, just large enough for a car. Its wooden structure is unstable, some slats have fallen, the rest are icy and split in places. This next part has to be done on foot; the horses would collapse through the bridge and drown if they even took one step on it. Once you cross the river, you’ll need to walk a couple miles to the outskirts of the village, finishing off the route at an old golf course. The clubhouse is a great lookout to the area; it holds the patrol logbook. Joel halts Old Beardy before the river, and you stop next to him. The animal shakes his head, freeing his mane from the layer of snow. Joel hesitates, not quite ready to leave the protection and speed horseback offers. He’s debating if an acute gut feeling is reason enough to turn back and leave patrol unfinished. 

That short moment of doubt is precious. Because a second later, nature seems to fall completely silent around you. As though a predator is roaming nearby. Sudden, horrible snarls erupt from the woods stretching to your right. The ground trembles beneath fast, uneven footsteps. A lot of them. Too many. Time stops as Joel looks in your eyes for the first time in hours. They’re full of fear. 

And then a runner stumbles onto the trail about three hundred feet behind, twitching, its mangled head snapping in your direction. Followed by another. And another. It jolts the man right into action. 

“COME ON!” He urges you, spurring Old Beardy to a gallop. 

There’s no way to go, but forward. Joel barrels around the bridge and down the slope, reaching the riverbank. You don’t leave his side, thighs clenched around Willow’s flanks, arms straining with the reins. And as your horses hooves hit the ice, the horde has crossed the distance, pouring down the embankment. There’s at least twenty. Some of them fall into the water, the current seizing them immediately. But it’s not enough to stop them. Joel’s heart is hammering out of his chest, his body rocking with the movement as Old Beardy pushes on, fueled by the danger. Joel lets go of the reins, expert fingers grasping his rifle. He swiftly points it at the first runner that lunges at his left, and lodges a bullet in its brain. The next one steps on the corpse, ready to attack. It meets the same fate. The gunshots coming from your side clearly indicate that you’re handling yourself. Before long, Joel has emptied the chamber, not one bullet wasted. 

“RELOADING!” He shouts. 

You cover him, taking out an infected, mere inches before his claws dig into Joel’s ankle. He doesn’t have time to thank you, however, pulling the trigger the second he readies the rifle again. You both maintain the rhythm up for what seems to be hours, the horses snorting through the effort, runners dropping like flies. Joel has lost all sensation; he doesn’t feel his lungs burning or his muscles pulling; the adrenaline has completely taken over. He keeps riding. Shooting. Reloading. And…Yes, there.

Only two of the fuckers left. 

One on your side, one on his. He fires. Perfect shot. He thinks the two of you might make it out unscathed. 

But then, something happens. Your weapon is pointed at your own runner, about to shoot. But you hesitate. Joel watches as the creature strikes. Willow panics. She rears up. And you are thrown to the ground.   

——————————

That runner. 

It looks so much like her. 

Your body hits the riverbank, head bouncing on a rock, wind knocked out of you. A sharp pain erupts in your skull, high-pitched ringing explodes in your ears, stars appear in your vision. In a fraction of a second, the creature is straddling you. You weakly push an elbow against its chest, keeping its jaws from locking around your neck. It twitches, screams, clacks its teeth. 

And you just…accept it. Twenty-one years of surviving, and this is how it ends. 

You close your eyes. 

And you’re back in the forest. That day. You’re running, faster than you’ve ever done in your life, branches grabbing at you, slicing your skin, like they want to prevent your escape. You glance over your shoulder. She’s gaining on you. Her eyes have turned a milky white, her clothes are ripped, her skin bloodied. But she still looks so much like herself. She still sounds like herself. Your baby sister. Her discorded weeps fill you with a gutting terror. You can almost make out the repeated word. Your name. Tears fall down wildly as you dart between trees, your breathing erratic, throat on fire. 

“PLEASE! ANI! STOP!” you howl. But she’s gone. She can’t understand. So she chases, and you run. 

Until your foot catches on a large root, sending you tumbling through the underbrush. Your gun clatters away from you. You lay there, stunned, dirt in your eyes, your nose, your mouth, ankle bent at the wrong angle. 

She pins you to the ground, broken nails digging in the skin of your arms. You flail around, kick at her, trying to free yourself from her impossibly strong grip. 

“STOP IT! ANI! STOP!” you cry out again, voice raspy, hollow, desperate. 

Your right hand pats around blindly for the weapon, your left is pushed against her forehead, forcing her mouth away from your exposed shoulder. Your heart is beating so fast it seems like it’s stopped. Maybe it has. Maybe you’ve died, and this is just a flash of your last moments as you drift into peaceful, eternal rest. Or maybe it’s a horrible nightmare, and you’re about to wake up, a hand laced in your sister’s soft hair, light snores escaping her lips. She always looks so innocent when she sleeps, like all worries have washed off her, like she’s been sent back to a happy childhood in her dreams. 

Your fingers brush against cold metal. You close them around the handle. 

Bang. 

The shot echoes, in the past and in the present. 

You’re still alive. 

The runner’s corpse slumps down against you, coating you with gore, a foul smell making you gag. You’re paralyzed, trembling, chest rising and falling erratically, gasping for air. You look up at the angry grey skies, the snow plummeting down, catching in your eyelashes. Everything stands still for an instant. 

It all comes rushing back as the dead infected is ripped off your chest, discarded to the side like a rag doll. You sense a presence crouching down next to you, and Joel obscures your view. 

He calls out your last name, loud, snapping you back to reality. You focus on his face; it’s flushed, expression tight with stress, eyes darting, searching for yours. 

“Hey! Are you okay?” he yells. 

Joel takes you by the shoulders and pulls you into a sitting position, the sudden movement making you dizzy. You stare back at him, eyes wide, blinking rapidly, unable to answer. Stunned.

“HEY! Did it bite you?” he continues, shaking you. 

You move your head side to side in response, causing it to throb in pain. You wince, raising a hand to your occiput. Your glove comes back crimson. Joel’s eyes fall to the blood, and he mutters a curse. He reaches into his coat pocket to take out a rag, balling it up and pressing it to the back of your skull. 

“Keep that there for me. Can you do that?” He speaks in a low, steady tone, but there’s an edge to it you pick up on. You nod and execute yourself. Willow comes over and nudges you with her nose; her way of apologising. You pat her with your free hand, reassuring. It was your fault.

Joel runs back to Old Beardy, the poor beast trembling from the fright. He takes something out of his pack’s front pocket and brings it back : a small bottle of rubbing alcohol. He twists the cap off with his teeth and kneels behind you, taking the rag and pouring some of the liquid on it. He rubs it on your wound, eliciting a shriek.

Holy shit that hurts. 

Joel inspects the injury, parting your hair to expose it, the rough fabric of his gloves like sandpaper on your scalp. 

“Cut isn’t deep. But you’re gonna get a mean bump.” Joel explains, applying more pressure. He stops the bleeding, aided by the cold, and wraps the rag around your head, securing it with a tight knot. “We gotta keep moving. Can you stand up?” 

This version of Joel, assertive, protective even, catches you off guard. It’s such a stark contrast from his attitude earlier in the day. It nearly makes you forget how close to death you just came.

“Uh, I-I think so-” you reply, regaining your voice, before attempting to push yourself off the ground and falling back down. Your head spins. 

Joel offers you his hand, which you take to pull yourself up slowly, your whole body protesting. Bile rises up to your oesophagus. You lean over, breathing through your mouth. 

“Shit. I think you have a concussion,” you hear Joel say, from far away.

And, then, as if things couldn’t get any worse, the storm picks up. The snow gets so dense you can barely see five feet in front of you. The man takes the lead, urgently guiding you towards Old Beardy. He helps you mount, taking you by the waist, and you don’t even think to resist. There’s no way you can ride by yourself in this condition. Joel gets on and takes the reins while you hold on to him, chest pressed against his back. He whistles for Willow over the wind. She follows right behind. 

Joel leads his horse out of the riverbank and into the surrounding woods, visibility getting even poorer. You’re blinded by snow, breathing it in, wheezing. You put all trust in Joel’s sense of orientation, praying that somehow, he gets you back onto the road. He presses forward, a hand raised in front of his face to protect it. 

What a stupid fucking way to go out. Lost in a blizzard. With Joel Miller. At least the town would have something to talk about. 

But then, miraculously, the trees begin to thin out; ahead, you can make out the faint outline of a trail. 

He did it. 

You squeeze Joel’s torso tighter, as if to thank him. Old Beardy perseveres, pushing one leg in front of the other. Your head is getting heavier, the concussion pulling you towards a dreamless sleep. 

“Hold on. We’re almost there.” Joel affirms. You’re not sure who it’s destined for : himself, you, or the horses. Maybe all four. But it’s all you need to let go, and you pass out, head slumping on Joel’s shoulder. 

——————————

You wake up to the sound of snow pelting against glass. Your skull feels like it’s being drilled into with a jackhammer. You pry your eyelids open and try to get your bearings, vision foggy, as though you opened your eyes in a chlorine pool. You find that you’ve been laid out on a frayed, deformed couch, springs digging into your back, a quilt smelling of mothballs thrown over you. Your winter attire has been taken off. You push yourself up on your elbows and look around the room. It seems to be the small living area of a cabin; there’s a rustic coffee table where both packs lay next to the bloody rag that acted as your bandage. To your left is a large, frosted-over bay window; the outside is an infinite, oppressing white. Two sets of jackets and ski pants hang from antler-shaped hooks next to the front door, a puddle forming underneath. A stone hearth takes up the wall in front of you, fire crackling inside. And, to your right, a plaid armchair. Joel is sitting in it, leaning forward, forearms resting on his thighs, watching you intently with knitted brows. His expression is hard, severe, unfriendly; he’s back to his normal self. You hold his gaze, your sight slowly getting clearer. 

“Uh. Hey,” you speak hoarsely, throat dry. It makes you cough, which prompts Joel to get up and rummage through your pack to retrieve your canteen. He tosses it to you carelessly, and you fail to catch it. It lands on your lap with a thump. Joel plops back into the armchair, huffing. He is very transparently upset with you. 

Great.

You take a long gulp of water and wipe your mouth with the back of your sleeve, the day replaying in your mind like on a movie theatre screen, pausing on your near-death experience. And you’re baffled, ashamed of your own actions. You can’t believe Joel had to step in and save your sorry ass, like you’re some kind of damsel in distress.  

Fucking rookie mistake. And now you have a goddamn concussion. 

You massage your temples and suppress a groan. “How long was I out?” you ask instead. 

“About an hour.” Joel answers, tone glacial, deprived of any sympathy. 

“Did you try calling Jackson?” You nod over at the small radio sitting on the ground by the window. 

“Couldn’t get a signal,” Joel answers, gruff, as if it’s an obvious fact. 

You roll your eyes. You know he’s right, but still, you stand up despite sore muscles, and go over to the device, cranking it a few times before trying the channel knob. You’re met with static. Joel mumbles something under his breath; it doesn’t sound pleasant, or polite. You put the radio back down and return to the couch, avoiding eye contact with the older man.

You glance at your watch. It’s right after 3PM, and the blizzard hasn’t let up. You’re going to be stuck here a while. You rest your head on the arm of the sofa, staring at the beamed ceiling, lost in reflexion. About how genuinely worried Joel seemed when you got hurt, how he jumped right in to take care of you. It makes you seethe. He tucked you in so you’d stay warm. He even changed your socks; the wet pair is drying by the fireplace. How dare he? You shift on the cushions, stiff, ill at ease. And Joel chooses that moment to break the silence. 

“What the hell was that back there?” He questions, his tone accusatory.

You tense up. The blame you’re putting on yourself is more than enough. He doesn’t need to twist the knife. You ignore him, your jaw clenching. 

“Hey. I’m talkin’ to ya,” he nags. 

It makes your blood boil, and you sit up to glare at him. “Won’t happen again,” you grumble.

“Yeah? You sure about that?” He continues, harsh. 

You take a deep breath. “Look, I-”

He interrupts you. “You don’t freeze up like that. Ever. You understand me?”

“Oh, wow. I had no idea!” You strike back, not missing a beat. “I don’t need a lecture from you, Miller,” You spit out. 

Joel lets out a chilling chuckle. “Oh, you’re welcome, by the way!” He barks, “You know. For keepin’ you alive an’ all.”

You spring to your feet, heat shooting to your head, exacerbating the migraine. “I didn’t ask for your fucking help,” you utter. 

Joel gets up too, towering over you, hands balled up into fists. “Right. Next time I'll just let you get infected. That what you want?” 

“I told you. There won’t be a next time!” You shout, holding yourself back from punching him in the gut, or kneeing him where it would hurt most, or pulling him down to the couch and pushing your lips to his neck and letting him- 

No. Nope. Not again, not here, not now. 

You desperately need some air. You move towards the front door, but Joel strides up to you and blocks the way, arms crossed. 

“You ain’t going anywhere,” he warns. 

“Let. Me. Out.” You command. Your head is so painful you think it might explode. 

Joel chuckles again. “You got a death wish or somethin’? Settle down, girl.” He talks down to you as if you were a child, smug, condescending; but that word makes your heart skip a beat. 

You try to make a pass for the handle, but he grabs your wrist and shoves it backwards effortlessly. You’re seeing red. So you opt for the next best thing; you spin around abruptly and storm off to the other side of the cabin, into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you. 

“Oh yeah. You do that. Real mature.” Joel yells out. 

You hear the creak of the floor under his steps and the rustling of fabric as he sits back down. You take your frustrations out on the shower curtain, displacing thousands of dust particles, before biting down on your hand to muffle a scream. When you’re done, you climb into the bathtub and curl up against the lime-scaled cold porcelain, forehead on your knees. The space is dark, stuffy, suffocating. You wonder how you’ll be able to make it through the storm without ripping Joel’s head off. Or doing something exactly opposed to it. How easily that man is able to just get to you is incomprehensible. Enraging. And, worst of all, despite how reluctant you are to admit it… 

Arousing.  

It must be the concussion dysregulating you completely. But the feeling grows, and you extend both legs to squeeze your thighs together, trying to release the pressure building between them. It’s no use. There’s only one thing that would satisfy it, and he’s right outside the door. Without your control, your right hand moves to the waistband of your jeans, undoes the button and goes down, past the elastic of your underwear…Fingers reach down to your entrance, already slick, and glide back up to the hardened nub, the touch sending a rush of pleasure through your body. You rub clumsy circles around, slow at first, mind filling with Joel, his calloused hand there instead of yours, stretching you out, whispering filthy things in your ear. You increase the speed, biting your lip to keep yourself from moaning, cheeks flushed, the pressure becoming almost unbearable. You push two fingers inside, curling them to stimulate that sensitive spot, bucking into your own palm to deepen the sensation. In a matter of seconds, you’re unravelling, free hand gripping the side of the tub, your walls clamping down on the other, come seeping in the fabric below. Your lips part and you can’t help a low squeal from escaping them. You immediately clap your left hand over your mouth, heart racing. 

Fuck. 

Did he hear?

You take a few deep breaths, trying to calm yourself. The reality of what you just did comes crashing down. It only worked to heighten your desire. And your anger. You button your pants back up and step out of the bathtub, wiping your hand on a scratchy towel you find in the linen closet along with a colony of spiders. 

You’ve been in here for too long. You have to go back out. It would raise suspicion if you didn’t. 

——————————

Joel is oblivious, too busy sulking over the events of the day as he tends to the fire, flames illuminating his face in a flickering glow. 

That was too fucking close. 

The image of you, frozen up under the runner, keeps snaking its way into his thoughts. It infuriates him. How you just gave up, like your life was worthless, like you deserved what came to you. And yet, the sentiment is so familiar it makes his chest ache in a burst of empathy. He can sense the burden in you, the intense trauma you endured. Most people have, in this unforgiving world, but you…There’s something more. It was the look in your eyes when you saw that infected, as if it reminded you of something so vivid it stole you away for an instant. He knows because it’s happened to him. It still does, sometimes, although less frequently. They’re these moments of sheer panic, where he’s choking, the world blurring around him. He has to count things he can see, or touch, or hear…He feels so miserably weak after it’s passed, as if he’s just a small, scared old man. Maybe it reveals his true nature. 

And he’s so angry at you for making him care. Because for some reason, he does. Ever since that night at the tavern. Maybe even before. How scared he got when he thought you might be done for is direct proof of it. 

He can’t afford to have another person to protect. 

A quiet cough brings him back to the present. He peers over his shoulder. You’re standing behind him, seemingly troubled by something; you fiddle with the hem of your sweater, gaze glued to the ground. 

He turns back to the hearth, sighing, and forces out an irritated “You good?” The thing is, he actually is concerned with the answer. 

“Fine.” You reply, your tone not an ounce more affable than his. 

That is as far as the conversation goes. Joel eventually gets tired of rotating the same log with the fire poker, pretending the action is crucial to keep the flames alive. He goes back to the armchair, glancing at you. You’ve reclined on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, mindlessly chewing on a piece of dried meat. He decides to imitate you, because he needs something to do with his hands. So he digs in his bag for the sandwich he’d packed; it’s mushed, tasteless. You both eat in thick, loaded silence. 

The sunlight is starting to decline, and the storm rages on, casting the room in an eerie shadow, the cold seeping in through every tiny crack in the cabin’s foundation. Joel shivers despite himself, shoving both hands under his armpits in an attempt to preserve his body heat. 

A second later, you’re out of your seat. Joel watches as you climb up the spiral staircase that leads to the loft bedroom. You shuffle around the space, partially concealed by the railing, and come stomping back down, carrying a crumpled blanket. You hold it out to him at arm’s length. Joel cocks a brow; the sudden kind gesture leaves him completely confused. You jiggle the blanket under his nose, impatient. He decides to take it, and drapes it around his shoulders, the relief immediate. 

“Uh. Thanks,” he mumbles. 

You give a shrug in response, dismissive, wrapping yourself in the quilt and retreating to the sofa.  

What the hell? 

An hour ago, you were fiercely arguing with him. Now this. The flip-flopping is giving him whiplash. 

Time passes, excruciatingly slow, nor Joel or you daring to say another word. The sun fully sets; the darkness outside is opaque, as if the little cabin is drowning alone in an abyss. There’s no way around it, you’ll both have to spend the night here. Around half past 5PM, Joel can’t stew in the tension anymore, so he goes to check on Old Beardy and Willow, confined to the veranda at the back of the house. They’re cramped, but otherwise fine. Joel risks a short trip to the yard to fill an old, warped bucket with snow for the horses to drink. As he shines the beam of his flashlight around, he notes that the blizzard has weakened slightly. This mess might be over in the morning. Just a few hours. He can last until then. It’s not like he has any other choice. 

He feeds the animals with a pile of straw forgotten in a corner of the veranda, behind some gardening tools. At the start of the outbreak, he couldn’t help but imagine who inhabited the places he used as shelters, what their daily lives looked like, if they were still alive. Sometimes, he’d come across evidence of the contrary. It used to disturb him, he’d feel like an intruder, but he’d quickly grown desensitised. Cordyceps didn’t spare anyone. It made suffering the new normal. It’s useless to dwell on what was or wonder what could have been. So, he doesn’t pay more attention to the objects scattered around the space as Willow eats from his hand. 

Once he comes back inside the cabin, he finds you exploring the kitchenette that’s crammed underneath the loft. You’ve opened the cupboards, revealing stacks of chipped, dusty dishes. You’re going through a drawer, a few utensils clinking inside. You haven’t noticed Joel, too focused on your search for something of value. He observes quietly as you move on to the second drawer, when he decides to make his presence known. He clears his throat before speaking. 

“Don’t bother, I already checked while you were sleepin’.” 

His words only make you search harder, meticulously inspecting the contents of the drawer, bent over, your back turned to him.

Goddamn it. You’re exasperating. 

And yet, his eyes are drawn to a specific part of your anatomy, the curves made obvious by your position, your jeans hugging them so well he could just-

“Or do whatever the fuck you want,” he mutters, the hostility compensating for the sudden surge of lust. 

He plants himself in the armchair, once again, the noises of your continued investigation grating, setting his nerves on fire. After a few minutes, they stop. And you come walking back to the living area with a subtle, conceited smirk on your lips, and a bottle of very nice, before-the-apocalypse whisky clutched in your right hand. 

“Didn’t check well enough, Miller,” you say, failing to hide your satisfaction. 

“Where was it?” He asks, upset at himself for missing the item. 

“Back of the sink cabinet,” you answer smugly. “Quality stuff,” you add, reading the label. You’re absolutely right, but Joel isn’t going to recognise it. 

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky,” he grumbles. You don’t waste time and unseal the bottle before raising it to your mouth. 

“Don’t think that’s smart,” Joel cautions, making you pause mid-air. “Y’know. Concussion,” he continues, his tone more unpleasant than he anticipated. 

You don’t listen to his advice, staring at him tauntingly as you sip. He’s quickly learning that you thrive in defiance. And this audacity you possess, it’s…Attractive. Joel inexplicably likes that you’re provoking him. Your expression remains neutral as you swallow, even when Joel knows for a fact it must sting like hell. You offer the bottle to him. 

It’s been a long time since he’s had liquor that didn’t have an aftertaste of battery acid, and the sight makes him crave a good drink. It’d certainly make the night pass by faster. He knows it’s a terrible idea, considering where getting drunk with you led him last time, but it’s so damn tempting…

He takes the whisky from you. 

——————————

You’ve made a considerable dent in the liquor. It’s dulling the pain in your head, reducing it to a distant ache. You’re sitting cross-legged in front of the hearth, and Joel has joined you on the ground, close enough to pass the bottle back and forth without having to stand up. His back is resting on the bottom panel of the couch, legs spread out casually. The fire, as well as the whisky, is enveloping you in a calming warmth, eating away at your inhibitions; you’ve taken your sweater off as a result, stripped down to a tight thermal shirt. There’s silence again between you and Joel, but this time, it doesn’t make you want to claw out of your own skin. It’s strikingly comfortable. And you find yourself wanting the man to come closer, longing for contact, connection. You haven’t forgotten your little adventure in the bathroom; in fact, the liquor is feeding those feelings,  and they’ve risen to a nearly overwhelming level. 

You take another sip, and, during the exchange, Joel’s fingers graze yours, sending your heart in a frenzy and a burst of flustered heat to your face. You jerk your hand away. 

Idiot. 

You play it off by brushing it through your hair. Joel’s mouth twitches upwards before he drinks. 

“What?” You ask, defensive. 

“Nothin’.” Joel passes the bottle back to you with a faint air of amusement. You decide it’s a good time to stop, and you set it down on the floor. 

“Done already? I was expecting more from ya,” he teases. 

You hate how well it’s efficient in riling you up. “Like you said. Concussion,” you retort, pointing at the site of injury. 

“Hm. So now it's a good enough excuse,” he presses on, narrowing his eyes at you. 

“Yup,” you answer simply. 

“Really? That’s all you got?” His smirk is more assured now. 

You give a drawn-out sigh in response, studying the fire like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. 

“Damn. I was startin’ to like the snark,” he says. It seems like the liquor has taken a toll on the man’s reservations, too. 

“Don’t wanna waste my breath on you,” you reply, unable to resist the banter. 

Joel chuckles. “Ah. There she is.” 

You had forgotten how lovely Joel’s laugh is. How natural it feels to talk to him like this. Funny how booze seems to have that impact on the both of you. And, after a tortuous day of being at each other’s throats, you welcome the change of mood. “Did I just hear you say you like me?” You turn to gaze at him, an eyebrow raised. 

“Nah. Must be your concussion.” He answers, deadpan, unfazed. 

You can’t hold back a smile as you reply. “Hm. Sure, Miller.”

He pauses and appears to consider something, chewing on his bottom lip. “Uh. Joel,” he finally lets out, voice deeper, more serious. “Just- call me Joel.” 

You’re taken aback by that sudden request. 

His first name. It feels informal, intimate even, as though you’ve moved past the status of coworkers, into murky, foreign territory. You know you should refuse. You’ve dropped too many of your principles with this man already. 

“Alright. Joel.” You gulp. “Uh, same goes for you.”

He gives a short nod, and mirrors your sentence, only with your name instead.

It’s significant. This moment. It feels like the two of you have reached a point of no return. Like from here on out, things can’t just go back to the way they were. 

“Man, this isn’t how I was planning to spend the night,” you revert to humour to diffuse the returning tension. 

“Yeah?” Joel follows your lead. “Got somethin’ you’d rather be doin’?”

“Pretty much anything else,” you quip. “I was gonna work on this painting I’m late on.” You’re not sure why you’re opening up about that aspect of your life, but it’s the direction the whisky has picked. It’s futile enough. Still safe. 

“Oh. Right. Painting,” he says. “I knew you did that.”

He does?

“Didn’t you do one of Tommy and Maria?” He continues. “For their wedding?” 

The man truly is full of surprises. And to think you were convinced he was completely indifferent to you, at least before today. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, that was me,” you reply after a few seconds. 

“It’s good work. You managed to make Tommy look half-decent. That’s talent right there,” he jokes. 

“Yeah. Thanks. I tried.” You chuckle, and your stomach flutters at the compliment. You’d shoot those butterflies one by one with a tiny gun if you could. “What about you? What’d you have on the schedule?”

“Hm,” he answers, “not much either. Was gonna ask Ellie to join me for dinner. And get rejected again.” 

“I don’t blame her,” you comment, a teasing grin forming. “What teenager wants to hang out with a grumpy old guy?” 

“Hey. Rude.” Joel feigns offence. “I can be fun,” he adds. 

“Won’t believe it until I see it,” you push further. 

“Okay then. Just you wait.” He glances around the room for inspiration, until he is hit by a stroke of genius. 

“Truth or dare?”

You snort. “Are you twelve?”

“Truth or dare?” Joel repeats, voice raising in pitch. 

You shake your head in disbelief. 

Joel fucking Miller.  

“Fine. Truth,” you capitulate. 

Joel smirks. “Okay. Uh,” he concentrates, “What’s your favourite colour?”

You take a second to process the words that just came out of his mouth. And then burst out laughing. 

“Come on,” Joel protests, a grin brightening his eyes, deepening the wrinkles around them. “What’s wrong with that question?” 

It makes you double down in laughter. You wheeze, trying to catch your breath, and Joel joins in with a few low chuckles. The stoic mask has vanished. Why does he look so sweet? 

“That-that- was the best you could come up with?” you get out between deep inhales. 

Joel doesn’t back down. “You gonna answer it or what?” 

“Okay, okay. Uh-” 

You realise you haven’t thought about that tiny aspect of yourself in about two decades. Cordyceps has had that strange effect of destroying souls, personalities, the little things that used to make one human. By infecting some, and coercing others into survival. You’re not sure which fate is worse. 

“It’s yellow,” you finally reply. Yellow like the sunshine. That was your sister’s nickname. And you were Moonbeam. Opposites who completed each other. And now there’s only one left, lonely, broken.

Joel nods. “Fitting.”

“Hm?”

“Your tattoo.” He gestures at your exposed collarbone, where a sun made up of a multitude of ink dots is etched into your skin. Joel is scarily on point; that was for her, too. 

“Yeah.” You don’t linger on the topic. “Your turn. Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” Joel replies instantly. 

You’re not prepared. “Uh- I dare you to-” Your mind is sluggish, moving in slow-motion as you try to come up with something. “I dare you to sit next to me.” It comes out without your control. 

Shit. 

“Easy,” Joel brags. He pushes himself off the ground with a grunt and takes five steps before settling back down so close that your legs are touching. He doesn’t acknowledge it, eyes on the fire ahead, and neither do you. But it sends a chill up your spine and your thoughts to a dangerous place. You determine you’ve taken a long enough break from the whisky and take a swig of the liquid courage. Joel does too. 

“Your turn,” he reminds you. 

“Truth.” You still have enough wits left to be worried of what he’d make you do as a dare. 

“Takin’ the coward’s way out?” He teases. 

You drink again, ignoring the remark. 

“Alright. Uh, tell me about- your first time,” he says, glancing over at you with a sly smile. 

That’s a huge jump from the innocence of his first question. You shoot him an unimpressed look. “You’re gonna have to be more precise.”

“You know exactly what I mean. Now start talkin’,” he playfully orders. 

You sigh. “I was seventeen. With a friend I had in the QZ. Nothing special to it.” Your teenage years aren’t a period you like to reminisce about; you had to grow up much too fast. 

Joel stays quiet for a moment, and bumps your knee with his, in a movement that could be passed as accidental, or as an attempt at comfort. You’re not certain which is the truth. “D’you love him?” He asks, his tone genuine, devoid of mockery. 

“Her,” you correct. “And…I don’t know. It was years ago. Doesn’t matter.” It’s a lie. You remember it like it was yesterday. And you did.

Joel’s expression is one of surprise, and embarrassment. He turns a shade of red deeper than he was the second before, the temperature having nothing to do with it. “Oh. Uh. I- Sorry, uh, didn’t mean to assume- That’s- Good for you- I-” 

You’re very entertained by his reaction. People usually fall into one of two categories when you tell them; awkward ally or plain bigot. You’re glad it’s the first one. You cut him off before he digs the hole deeper. “It’s fine. Don’t beat yourself up. Your turn.” 

He seems rather grateful for the change of subject. “Uh. Right. Truth,” he replies, regaining his composure. 

You give him a taste of his own medicine. “Same question.” 

Joel is unbothered, and tells the story nonchalantly. “Okay. It was my date at senior prom. Back of my car in the school parking lot.”

It makes you laugh. “Wow. How very original. I gotta know what kinda car it was.” 

“My dad’s busted old Wrangler. I put that car through a lot of shit.” he replies, chuckling. 

“I could have guessed that.” 

For a second, you and Joel look at each other, smiling. He almost appears timid. And for a second, the horrors of the world retreat into the shadows that birthed them. For a second, everything is alright. You could stay here forever. 

——————————

Joel could, too. He wishes time could stop here. Because he’s confident that the night will inevitably end in something he’ll regret. No way around it. It’s taking an enormous effort already to keep himself from reaching over and closing the distance between your lips and his. The booze isn’t helping. You’re not either, with that radiant smile that’s melting his hard shell little by little, and your eyes that keep wandering around his face, his chest, and lower too, though you try to be discreet. He’s doing the same, and he’s certain you’re aware of it. Now, it’s a matter of who will succumb to the temptation first. 

You speak up again. “One last thing, Joel. Did you get the girl?” The question is lighthearted, but the memories it brings back certainly aren’t. 

He sighs. “Yeah. I did.” Sarah’s mother. They’d been high school sweethearts. Young. Dumb. A tale as old as time. “Got married. Had a kid. The whole nine yards. Then she wasn’t ready to be a parent. And, well-” He trails off, the words slipping out, motivated by the liquor. He’d never have confessed such a thing in a different context. Especially not to you. And just like that, he’s ruined the mood. 

Your eyebrows shoot up in shock, before your expression softens, as you realise what must have happened to said child. Pity? Compassion? Joel can’t be sure. “Oh. Uhm. I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know-” 

“‘S’okay. It’s, uh, it’s been a while. And I got Ellie now,” he reassures, slurring the words slightly. 

“What-what was their name?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Sarah,” he answers after a pause. He’s only recently started being able to talk about her out loud without breaking down. He doesn’t know if that still applies when he’s inebriated. And he’s not willing to test it out. He drowns the sentiment in more whisky, before giving you the bottle. 

“Uhm. That’s pretty.” You take a swig and hesitate. “I, uh, I- know what it’s like. To- to lose someone like that,” you say, softly. The pain the words cause you as they escape is evident. Joel believes you.

And then something happens. Your right hand leaves your lap, moves to the side and comes to rest on his. 

His gaze travels from your hand, up to your face. It’s full of doubt, eyes wide, as though you’ve just made a horrible mistake. 

It’s all it takes for the floodgates to open. 

——————————

Joel grabs your forearm and pulls you into his lap. His mouth collapses on yours. You don’t protest, accepting the kiss immediately, gripping his shoulders to steady yourself, knees on both sides of his thighs. 

A rugged hand goes to the small of your back, pressing your chest to his, while the other slides up to the back of your head, carefully tilting it to deepen the kiss. Tongues collide, hungry, eager. He sucks on yours, stifling a moan.  

You’ve been pent up so long you’re soaking already. He breaks away from the kiss to trail his lips across your jaw, before going down your neck, biting and swirling his tongue on your pulse point, not mindful of the mark he’s undoubtedly going to leave. He earns a gasp, your fingers interlocking with his hair, holding him in place. You grind against his growing bulge to try and alleviate the fervent pressure rising at your core. He thrusts his hips up to meet yours, the friction sending sparks of electricity to your hazy mind. A hand wanders to your breast, fingers groping the soft flesh, flicking the nipple raised through your shirt. But you need more. Need him inside of you. Now.

And you tell him so, voice quivering with desire. “Please,” you add in a whimper.

It isn’t long before your clothes are ripped off, his lips refusing to break apart from yours for more than a few seconds. He lays you down right there on the floor, bare, trembling, aching for his touch. He sits back on his heels and admires you for a moment, eyes darkened, intense, reflecting the flames as if they are blazing behind his pupils. You watch, mesmerised, as he undresses in the dim, dancing light of the fire, casting him in an aura that’s almost ominous.  He stands up to take off his underwear, cock springing free and hitting his lower stomach.

The sight makes your mouth water. God, he’s big.

He climbs on top of you, your legs encircling his torso, granting him access to your entrance. And he pushes into you. Hard. You’re so wet his cock slides in without resistance, filling you completely, nearly hitting your cervix, the jab of pain delicious. The act isn’t kind, or tender; and it’s exactly what you want. For him to use you, to ruin you. And he does. He fucks you senseless, each stroke bringing you closer to oblivion, to forgetting who you are. The sounds he’s letting out are outright sinful, grunts laced with dirty sentences that could make you finish on the spot. But you’re holding on. Until he lifts you up by the waist, angling himself to hit that bundle of nerves over and over again, making you cry out in ecstasy, clawing at his back. You’re almost there, your walls pulsate around him, driving him deeper inside. 

“Think you should come for me, darlin’,” he hums into your ear, nibbling on the lobe. 

You obey. 

The orgasm ripples with such force it blinds you. You can’t even scream. You’re gone. Not a person anymore, but a being of pure pleasure. Joel coaxes you through it with a few more thrusts, erratic, uneven, as he reaches his own release. He pulls out of you at the last second, painting your belly with spurts of the thick, warm substance. Your entire body spasms before going limp. 

All the fight has been drained out of you. You’re reduced to a panting, throbbing mess on the floor, arousal pooling out of you, coating your inner thighs. 

“Did so good for me,” Joel praises, hands cupping your face, left thumb rubbing circles on your cheek. “So fuckin’ good,” he repeats.

You stay still, eyes closed, brain shutting down your functions one by one. As you’re about to drift off, you feel strong arms carrying you to the loft, carefully placing you on the bed, cleaning you off with a soft cloth. He climbs in and embraces you, limbs tangled with yours, and you nuzzle your head in the crook of his neck. His fingers gently brush the hair from your face to plant a kiss on your forehead. 

“Sleep tight, darlin’,” he whispers. 

It’s so vulnerable it makes your heart ache. 

Because you know this’ll all be gone tomorrow, along with the alcohol evaporating from your system. 

——————————

You’re right.

The sky is clear by the next morning, harsh sunlight brutally waking you. You’re alone in the bed, shivering, sore, his scent all over your skin. You get dressed, head pounding, filled with excruciating remorse. 

Joel is waiting for you by the front door. Glacial. Austere. Haunting. The person that you went to bed with a few hours ago has been torn to shreds. As though he never even existed. Maybe he was a product of your imagination.

And, once you’re outside, standing side by side on the horses, ready for the return trip, Joel utters a sentence that reverberates in your head all the way to Jackson, its echo deafening as you ride in silence.

“What we did. It meant nothing. Understand?”

You keep the tears in until you’re back home. 

To read on AO3

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel tlou #the last of us #tlou fanfiction #fanfic #pedro pascal #joel miller x female reader #joel miller smut #tlou part 2 #send help #fic: wish you were here

[car0lanny]

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse

EU PEÇO A ATENÇÃO DE TODOS!

Além de extremamente parecidos fisicamente, esses quatro idiotas sacrificiais possuem muitas outras semelhanças! Por este motivo, eu nomeio-os como os "Cavaleiros do Apocalipse". O motivo é claro.

E eu coloco aqui o Kim Roksu, não o Cale Henituse. Pode ser o Roksu com 20 anos ou o de 36 anos, qualquer um antes da transmigração.

Dito isso, se vocês repararem bem, eles também já estão na ordem de idade! Yuder é o mais novo e Dokja o mais velho. "Ah mas o Roksu foi transmigrado com X anos" foda-se, para mim ele é o segundo mais novo dos quatro.

#turning #turning novel #turning by kuyu #yuder aile #lout of the count’s family #trash of the count's family #lcf #tcf #kim roksu #kim rok soo #tsctir #s classes that i raised #the s classes that i raised #han yoojin #my s class hunters #omniscient reader's viewpoint #orv #kim dokja #if you get it you get it #four horsemen of the apocalypse #aka orphan black-haired self-sacrificial mcs

[corazondebeskar-reads]

ain't no rest for the wicked - chapter five

ain't no rest for the wicked series

five: way down below

series masterlist | prev chapter

Tess Servopoulos x f!reader x Joel Miller

words: 4k

summary: After sneaking out of Joel and Tess's apartment, you wake up in an unfamiliar place.

warnings: creator chose not to use warnings, dark-ish Joel and Tess, smuggler!Joel, smuggler!Tess, boston QZ, QZ life, poorly negotiated d/s-style dynamics, poor communication, enthusiastic consent, oral sex (m & f receiving), p in v, threesome, description of violence & wounds, canon-typical violence, canon-typical killing.

Welcome to the end, my friends. I omitted a specific warning due to spoilers. If you need to know before you read, DM me.

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

When you come to, head pounding, it’s on an old dining chair with cheap metal legs and a moth-eaten seat. Your hands have gone to pins and needles from the rope that burns when you try to flex them, bootless feet in a similar predicament. The cloth stuffed in your mouth tastes metallic, though you don’t seem to have bled.

You’re swimming through static. You think you might throw up.

Wherever you are is long abandoned, which doesn’t really help narrow it down. It was maybe a break room, once, with a shattered microwave and the cupboards askew.

A tall, spindly man in a Mets hat leans against the counter. He’s bundled in a jacket while yours is missing.

You take comfort in that it’s the only other piece of clothing you’re missing. You wiggle your toes, trying to coax a modicum of warmth back in them.

Ball Cap snubs his cigarette on the counter and leaves it there. “Nice to see you again,” he says.

You wish it wasn’t to you.

“What, don’t you recognize me?” he says.

You do, though. Of course you do. He was the one Joel beat the shit out of in that alley.

“You sure were a talker before. Aren’t you gonna give me that same offer? Your mouth for your life?”

You squeeze your eyes shut and try to think. Come on. Any time now, brain.

He seems to be alone. Could you take him? Probably not. Is he armed? Yes, definitely. He had struck you over the head with the butt of a gun last night.

At least, you think it was last night.

He stomps over to you and yanks your head back to look at him. “Aren’tcha gonna answer me, you little whore?”

When he sees the gag, he throws back his head and laughs. “Shit, right. Well, no point in this,” he tugs the knot loose and tosses the cloth to the ground. “Nobody’s gonna come help you, no matter how loud you scream. And kinda wanna hear it. Y’see, the boss man didn’t take kindly—”

You manage to hold your tongue, due largely in part to the tackiness of your mouth, but your lip curls a little. Is this guy for real? He’s fucking villain monologuing?

“Hey,” a nasally voice says. “Better not be starting without me.”

The newcomer is tall like Ball Cap, but beefier. He’d be more intimidating if he wasn’t sniffling and wheezing, his nose a constant faucet of mucus that pooled on his upper lip.

He coughs deeply for a minute, fist against his open mouth. The part of your brain that’s actively pretending you aren’t going to die tonight is worried about catching whatever he’s splattering across the room.

“Don’t you want to know what we want with you?” Slimy Mustache says.

“Not really,” you say before you can stop yourself.

You hear the rattle in his lungs as he steps closer. “No, you already know, don’t you?” His hand lifts, a finger stroking down your cheek. You flinch away, squeezing your eyes shut.

Slimy Mustache laughs. “Don’t worry, we’re not going to start the show without your friends.”

Friends? You don’t have—aw, fuck.

“Not my friends,” you say. “I didn’t—they were strangers, too.”

You hear it before you feel it, leaving you blinking in shock for a moment. Life may not have been great in the apocalypse, but no one’s actually hit you before.

Not like this.

Your cheek and eyes sting sharply. Ball Cap certainly hadn’t held back.

“Don’t lie. We’ve seen them coming in and out of your place, you stupid cunt.”

When he hits you this time, it’s less of a rage reaction and more for fun with a closed fist. You’re still reeling when you register the heat first, then the slick, sickening drip of blood from your nose down your lips.

“Knock it off, man,” says Slimy Mustache. “He said we had to wait for them. Ain’t gonna negotiate if she’s dead.”

“They’ll kill you,” you lie, grimacing as it invites the coppery tang into your mouth.

Ball Cap grins with a set of unusually shiny, straight teeth for a thug at the end of the world. “Nah, honey, that’s why we have you.”

You spit blood at his feet. He moves to backhand you, but Mustache tries to stop him, and it knocks him a little off course. His hand is decked out in gaudy rings, and the edge of one snags on your cheek. You gasp, and it turns into a whimper as the pain bleeds through.

“You better hope they show up soon,” Ball Cap snarls at Mustache. “Or there won’t be much left for them to find.”

It’s true, no matter how he means it. You’re not suited for this. You wish you were a secret badass with balls of steel, but you’ve given pretty much all the fight you had.

And you know no one’s coming for you.

When Tess wakes, the sun peeks through the window aggressively, and she has to shield her eyes to see Joel. He’s shaking her shoulder gently to let her know he’s leaving. He’s already bundled in his coat and hat, tugging gloves on. It’s unusual, but he doesn’t look distressed.

She sits up and stretches. “Where ya going?” she says, but she thinks she knows since the bed is empty and the apartment is quiet.

“Just gonna make sure she got home okay,” he says and kisses her. “Musta snuck out sometime in the middle of the night.”

“Yeah, I think I spooked her when I asked her to stay,” Tess admits.

“M’sure she’s fine,” he says, but he isn’t looking at her, and that’s when she realizes she misread him earlier. He is worried.

“I’m comin’,” she says, already on her feet. “You go on, take the long way, and I’ll meet you.”

He nods.

There’s only one lurking outside your apartment, but two in nearby alleys on standby. He takes them out first, silent as the falling snow, which melts as it lands in pools of hot blood.

He lets the third man catch him. There’s a pistol in his face, but he knows he’s not really in danger.

“Where’s the girl?” he growls.

“Don’t worry, we’re just showin’ her some of the same hospitality you showed my brother,” the man tells him.

He seems to think that by pointing a gun at Joel, he has the upper hand.

He doesn’t think that for long. Not when Tess’s knife sinks into his arm and twists, the gun clattering to the ground as he reflexively jerks. Joel picks it up and stuffs it in his waistband as casually as if he had just adjusted his belt. His jaw ticks as his hand wraps around the man’s throat.

“I suggest you listen real close,” Tess says, voice low and thick with danger.

“Tell us where she is,” Joel says before pointedly shifting his gaze to where Tess holds the knife buried, “and maybe you’ll be able to salvage that arm.”

He gives in so quickly he might have been able to, if they had left him alive.

“Think we made a mistake,” Ball Cap drawls. “They aren’t comin’ for this bitch.”

You don’t know how long you’ve been here, but you keep slipping in and out of awareness. Floating through something like a dream, but not enough to escape reality. Worse yet, you keep snapping back to the world, having been close to escape or rescue, a sick hope still brewing in your brain.

“That’s too bad,” Slimy Mustache says with an exaggerated pout. “I wanted them to watch.”

“Guess your pussy wasn’t good enough to save you,” Ball Cap says.

You keep your mouth shut. They’re still pretending they need a reason to hurt you, and you sure as hell aren’t going to give it to them.

They’re right, though. The late afternoon sun is dragging wearily through the clouds.

You don’t blame them. You knew the danger. You didn’t just open your door to let the tornado in; you had sex with the—no, okay, you have to retire this metaphor.

It’s okay. You knew what this was.

And what it wasn’t.

Still, you think. You’re not really keen on dying here and even less keen on what you’re pretty sure will precede it.

“I dunno. I still think we should find out for ourselves,” Slimy Mustache says.

“Not a fuckin’ chance,” someone snarls behind Slimy Mustache, a knife to his throat.

You must be delirious from fear and blood loss because your first thought is that motherfucking Batman is here. You’re at a point where you apparently genuinely believe, if only for a moment, that it’s more likely for Bruce Fucking Wayne to show up than Joel. Except why would Batman be in Boston?

There’s a gun resting against Ball Cap’s head; his namesake knocked to the dusty ground. Tess is on the other end of it. It’s hard to conflate her with anyone else; they never made a girl superhero more badass than Tess. Not that you’d say no to Wonder Woman, but who would?

You close your eyes. You’re not getting tricked by this dream again.

“That’s it, sweetheart, keep ‘em shut, okay?” Tess says.

There’s a lot of rustling fabric and soft, wet sounds muffled by agonized cries.

When hands touch your shoulders, you flinch.

“It’s just me,” she says. “Hold still just one more minute, okay? And don’t look.”

You squeeze your eyes shut tighter as she goes around the back of your chair, her hand never leaving your shoulder. It’s easier to breathe with her touch to anchor you, even through your swollen nose.

With one hand, she flicks open a blade and cuts through enough of the rope that she can tug the rest away. She doesn’t have to come up with a way to free your ankles without letting go, because Joel’s already cutting the knots.

“I gotcha,” he’s murmuring. “We’ve got ya, sunflower. Hey, look at me.”

You do, hesitantly opening your sore eyes. His broad body is blocking everything else, though there’s clear whimpering and groaning behind him. He cups your face in his hands, turning it to look at the cut on your cheek and survey the swelling.

“Don’t,” you mumble. “It’s not pretty.”

He ignores you. “We’re gonna get you home. But first, I need to know—you want me to drag it out or just kill ‘em now?”

You look up at his blank eyes. There’s viscera splattered on his shirt and face. When you crane your neck to look at Tess, still behind you with both hands on your shoulders, she’s soaked in gore.

“Not yours, right?” you say.

“Not a drop,” she promises.

You look back at Joel. “Now, please,” you whisper, even though it makes your stomach turn.

“Get her out of here,” Joel says.

“No,” Tess surprises both of you. “I’ll take care of it. I don’t think she can walk on her own.”

You remember Tess in the kitchen with the chef’s knife and how you thought she looked like an angel when you first met. They both do, now.

“I’ll meet you there,” she says, her tone offering no negotiation.

Joel doesn’t argue, though you think he looks disappointed. Like he wanted the kill.

You’re just barely aware that it should scare you. It doesn’t.

He scoops you up with no problem, as if it doesn’t strain his aging knees.

“I think I can walk,” you say.

He doesn’t dignify you with anything more than a shake of his head.

It’s not a long walk. The setting sun frames him in gold, the blood gone dark and sticky. You’re only a block from the alley you first met them in, which in turn is only two from your apartment. But by the time you get there, you’re asleep against his chest.

He sets you down gently on the bed, meaning to go looking for your first aid kit, but you dig your fingers into his shirt.

“I ain’t leavin’,” he says, gently prying them off. “Just gonna get you cleaned up, okay?”

It’s so hard to open your eyes, but you manage a few seconds to take him in. You nod and let go, but the deep pout is unshakable.

He opens the door to the bathroom and flicks the light on, stepping over the towel threshold and then nearly stomping on who, if he was forced to guess, is Georgie. Both mice scatter immediately, luckily into the wall instead of out into the open apartment.

He shuts the door to prevent an escape and rifles around your cabinet until he produces a mostly empty bottle of rubbing alcohol and some bandages.

You wake again when he sits on the bed at your side, booted feet still on the ground.

“Sit up for me, sunflower,” he murmurs, helping you up as you groan and popping a pillow behind your back. “Look at me.”

He waits until you do and hands you a glass of water. While you sip at it, he gets a better look at your nose.

“It’s not broken,” he says, and you sigh, shoulders slumping. “It’s going to be swollen for a few days, though.”

You flinch back from his touch but try to work through it. “Okay,” you whisper.

He cleans your face, murmuring to you all the while about what he’s doing. You hiss when he wipes the gash on your cheek, tears welling up at the sting.

There’s a familiar knock at the door, but Tess doesn’t wait for anyone to answer; she just slips inside.

“Not gonna need stitches, either,” he says. “You got real lucky.”

“Don’t feel lucky,” you mumble. Your eyes dart to the horseshoe. Both of theirs follow yours, and they exchange a look.

“Think you can take a bath?” she asks.

You shake your head.

“What if I get in there with you?” she offers.

You think about it, biting your lip, and nod.

Joel gets the tub filling while Tess gently peels you from your battered clothes. When he comes out of the bathroom, he’s scrubbed the blood from his skin and has his shirt hanging up to dry.

Your bath isn’t very big, but you make it work, nestled close between her legs. It’s maybe the least sexually charged moment you’ve had with them. Joel kneels on a towel and washes the blood from both of you. None of you speak.

It does help. Having it cleaned from you, having it be them who do it. Joel’s firm hand scrubbing the blood and dirt away, Tess’s steady embrace keeping you grounded.

Joel helps you each out of the bath and dries you off, swatting away your hands when you try to do it yourself. The look in his eyes is still kind of distant, so you stop protesting and let him do what he needs to do.

No one bothers with clothes. There’s no point. While the bath may not have been sexual, whatever is happening now definitely is.

You’re on your back in bed, wet hair splayed out on your pillow. Joel is on your left, and Tess is on your right, and their hands are everywhere. You clutch at them in return with each of yours.

They’re passing you back and forth for kisses, deep, consuming things with teeth and tongue and spit. You understand the “beast with two backs” thing now. Except, how would it work with three backs? Are you some kind of mutated monstrosity squished into a triangle? A pyramid of flesh and sweat and moans?

“Stop thinkin’ so much,” Joel growls against your neck, and you’re inclined to obey when his fingers find your clit. Thoughts aren’t super useful right now, and you’d like to keep most of them at bay anyway.

Even that’s a little too close, and you must tense because Tess nips at your ear and whispers, “Just focus on us, okay? Just us.”

They make it easy to lose yourself in their hands and warm mouths. You genuinely can’t tell who touches you where until you end up with three fingers in Tess’s cunt.

Joel rolls your lower half and yanks your legs where he’d like, leaving you contorted with your top half focused on Tess. He plunges into your pussy while you mouth at her tits. One of her hands cups your head to her breasts, and the other gropes at your own.

Neither of them are being rough with you, but they aren’t treating you like glass, either. You really fucking appreciate it, even if you don’t register it right away. Even while he fucks into you, Joel can’t stop his hands from roaming, smoothing over your hips and thighs and stomach.

They play you like a harp, keeping you trapped between their legs and plucking pretty sounds one after another from your taut body. There are a lot of orgasms all around, and you’re not even trying to keep track. Your head is blissfully empty, each climax wringing your brain like a sponge.

At some point, you push Joel off so you can suck his cock. Tess helps herself to feast from your cunt while you do, and somehow, when you look up, Joel’s buried his face in her as well. The circle shifts and warps but never breaks.

Eventually, they get you on your back again, and after a bit of whining on your end, Tess sits on your face while Joel has your cunt again. He switches between licking and fucking, and you actually pass out a bit this way.

When you wake, it’s to Joel getting out of bed and pulling his clothes back on. He catches sight of the look breaking across your face and shakes his head.

“I’ll be back. Runnin’ over to get her some clean clothes ‘n stuff.”

You settle back down. Tess slides an arm over your waist, and you roll over to snuggle up to her.

The next time you wake up, it’s because of the nightmares. You jerk awake with a cry, and she’s right there, rubbing your back and coaxing you to lie down.

“I know, sunflower. I’m so sorry,” she murmurs as you cry.

“I was so scared,” you whisper in the safety of the night, voice wavering.

“I know, baby. You were so brave, though.”

You don’t feel like you were very brave. You feel like you let the creeps crawl into your skin and ruin everything.

When Joel gets back, you’re still awake.

“Good,” he says. “I didn’t want to have to wake ya, but I need you to eat.”

“M’not hungry,” you say. Tess is up and getting dressed in a soft tee and sweats. She tosses you another set, and you put them on without thinking about your own clothes in the dresser.

“I know,” she says. “But you need to. It’s nothin’ much; just need to get something in ya.”

“I brought something for the pain, but you can’t have it on an empty stomach,” Joel says.

You give in and unscrew the thermos he hands you. It’s chicken noodle soup, and he presses warm bread, wrapped in cloth, into your lap.

Once you’ve satisfied their expectations, Joel drops a round white pill into your hand. “I can only give you one,” he says, laced with raw guilt. “But I got some ibuprofen for ya, too, for later.”

He hands you a glass but pauses. “It’s gonna make you sleep,” he warns.

“Okay,” you say and chase the pill with a swig of water. “I trust you.”

He winces a little, almost imperceptibly.

“I’m going to run out and talk to someone ��bout the mess we made,” Tess says.

Joel scowls. “Can’t it wait ‘till later?”

“You know damn well it can’t,” she hisses like she doesn’t want you to hear.

“I’m sorry,” you say. They both look at you, and you sniffle. “I’m sorry I’m trouble, I’m s—”

“You cut that out right now,” Tess snaps, but her face softens right after, and she comes to sit on the bed beside you. “It ain’t your fault. We should be apologizing to you.”

“Please don’t,” you whisper.

She and Joel exchange a look.

“Alright,” she concedes. She kisses your forehead. “I’ll be back soon. Joel’ll stay with ya, okay?”

You sniffle again but nod.

They share a significant glance when she reaches the door, but say nothing. Joel locks it behind her and slides back under the covers. He tugs you to his chest, and you melt into his warm, broad shelter.

They phase in and out of your apartment all night, but never both at a time. You wake just a little at each changing of the guard, just enough to snuggle into whoever slips in and holds you.

There are murmurs and whispers; you don’t catch most of it. Just huffed breaths, a few sharp snips, and lonely words with no meaning—dawn, you hear once, and for. Or four. Or fore, you suppose, but it'd be strange to be talking about golf. Anyway, there’s no context.

They don’t break through your slumber as anything more than a soft breeze.

When morning comes, you’re alone.

It’s painfully obvious. Your tiny studio is occupied by only yourself and the ghosts. The towel is neatly stuffed against the bathroom door, betraying its vacancy.

There’s a bottle with a handful of painkillers on your kitchen counter next to a glass of water. You can tell there’s a note and something wrapped in cloth. But if you stay here, stay tucked into bed where they left you, you don’t have to see it.

It could say that they’re cleaning up the mess and they’ll be back later. It could be instructions for when to come over next.

But it’s not going to be. You don’t need to read it to know. The truth’s been trickling into your lungs since you woke up. Since last night, really.

You get up anyway, shaky legs on autopilot. You take the pills first, sipping the water, and stare at the paper. It’s bigger than their usual scraps, and neatly folded. Someone’s drawn a little flower on the outside. You wish you knew who.

When the water is gone, and you’re out of excuses, you pick up the paper with a trembling hand.

Rough capitals take up most of the page. “Be good.” You close your eyes, choking down the acid in your throat.

At the bottom is a neater, slanted scrawl. “It’s the iron.” You blink stupidly for a moment and then reach for the cloth.

It’s a flannel Joel brought over last night, clean and soft. When you pick it up, something clatters against the countertop and falls to the ground.

It’s a fucking horseshoe.

You sit, right where you had stood, legs folded and the flannel clutched to your chest with both hands. Your head droops so your nose is buried in the fabric, and you stare at the gift and let the tears burn down your cheeks.

You don’t change out of their clothes for three days.

The note gets tucked between the pages of “An Unsuitable Job for a Woman.”

The horseshoe sits on your table for weeks until you shove it under the bathroom sink. Half of you wants to bury it somewhere, afraid it might actually work.

But it’s just a horseshoe, and they’re just human. They only wanted you to think it would work—that it might protect you.

The flannel lives tangled up in your blankets. The smell of them fades fast.

You don’t return to their apartment. You think about it. Think about haunting it like they haunt yours. Think about banging on it until they tell you why.

But you know why. You saw it in the fear in their eyes that night. You had become something they could lose, and so, they had to. Quick and sharp, like their knives at the throats of those men. How could you blame them? Hadn’t you run away for the same reason?

On your loneliest nights, you think of them. You hope they’re okay. It’s never a guarantee in this world. You like to think they’re wrapped up warm and safe in bed.

On cold, sleepless nights under the starry sky, Joel likes to think the same of you.

Thank you all so much for coming along on this journey.

I hurt my own feelings with this one, y'all. Please feel free to yell/vent/talk with me about this because I am not okay.

*title from "Heaven Knows" by the Pretty Reckless.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tess servopoulos x f!reader #tess servopolous x joel miller #tess servopoulos x reader x joel miller #tess servopoulos x reader #tess servopoulos x you #tess x joel #tess x you x joel #fic: ain't no rest for the wicked

[carlplsrailme]

can you do a carl grimes nsfw alphabet?🤭

𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐥 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝐚𝐥𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐭

Carl Grimes x Fem!Reader

everyone is 18+ <3

A = Aftercare (What They're Like After Sex)

Carl is so sweet. he'd get you water if needed, cuddle you, kiss you, clean you up, just everything ugh he is so adorable <3 he'd just wants to make you feel loved and safe after sex

B = Body Part (Their Body Of Theirs and Their Partner's that they like)

He likes his hands, seeing them pump in and out of your gushy cunt, and having his arms around you, keeping you safe, and making you cum basically.

He loves your eyes, as sappy as this man is he is in love with them, Siren or Doe he is obsessed. (especially when you're focused, like when you're killing walkers)

C = Cum (Anything to Do with Cum; because yum.)

I'd say his favorite place to cum is honestly on your tits (he is nasty nasty) it's hot when it dribbles on your nipples and makes him so fucking hard again

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty Self Explanatory, A Dirty Secret of Theirs)

remember back at the prison? with those flimsy curtains we tried to use as doors? yeah, he peeled them away when you were changing.

E = Experience (How Experience are They? Do They Know What They're Doing?)

he knew absolutely nothing at first. I mean..obviously, it's the apocalypse. but with trial and error, you guys found the perfect pace and perfect angles <3

F = Favorite Positions (This Goes Without Saying)

missionary. like I said he is sappy and loves to hold your hands above your head while he looks at your face when having sex with you

G = Goofy (Are They More Serious In The Moment? Are They Humorous? Etc.)

he is more serious, and emotional out of everything. when its just love making tho he can be more goofy

H = Hair (How Well Groomed Are They? Does The Carpet Match The Drapes? Etc.)

it's not on his mind to shave his pubic hair, I mean why would it? there are a million other things more important than that. but, he does grab scissors and to a trim every so often (don't worry, he's very skilled with his hands)

I = Intimacy (How Are They During the Moment? The Romantic Aspect)

bros a fucking rom-com. he is so sweet and so loving, buuuut when he's stressed it could get a little more freaky, he is just a switch with those things

J = Jack Off (Masturbation Headcanon)

he doesn't jack off so much anymore now that he's with you, but he probably jerked off in the shower thinking about you as his daily routine before he got with you.

K = Kink (One or More of Their Kinks)

your innocent eyes looking up at him when his cock is down your throat (told you he had a thing for your eyes)

loooooves it when you're vocal, he wants to hear just how good he's fucking you

L = Location (Favorite Places to Do the Deed)

shower for sure. gotta live out those fantasies he had when he was fucking his fist now he has the real deal. but on a serious note, it's easier for you to be louder and it's easier to clean up.

M = Motivation (What Gets them Turn on, What Gets Them Going)

everything! he is a teenage boy, after all, bro is 18 and has a girlfriend what do you expect? but the top of his list is when your cleavage pops out, makes him wanna take you right then and there

N = No (Something They Wouldn't do, Turn Offs)

hurting you, or just making you feel bad is not something he'd like

O = Oral (Preferences in Giving and Receiving, Skill, Etc.)

I think as much as he likes receiving, giving you pleasure is so much more rewarding. ( he could be stuck in between your thighs allll day)

P = Pace (Are They Fast and Rough? Slow and Sensual? Etc.)

slow and sensual...unless he's had a rough day....then buckle up.

Q = Quickies (Their Opinion on Quickie, How Often, Etc.)

i think he likes them. the shower for example -easy cleanup and easy wake-up or wind down-

R = Risk (Are They Game to Experiment? Do They Like Taking Risks? Etc.)

if risks mean fucking you in "oh fuck are we gonna get caught?" places, then yes. (such as the kitchen, it's happened so many times, thank goodness you guys haven't gotten caught yet)

S = Stamina (How Many Rounds Can They Go For? How Long Do They Last?)

he can go on forever, 4 rounds if you can keep up, but 2-3 if you're tired.

T = Toys (Do They Own Any Toys? Do They Use Them? On A Partner or Themselves?)

where is he supposed to find toys!?!? but if he finds an unopened, new, clean vibe then I think he'd store it in his bag to ask you about it for later.

U = Unfair (How Much Do They Like To Tease?)

a good amount I think. he likes to tease you in the walls of Alexandria, just cuz for shits and giggles and seeing that pouty look he can kiss off, but outside the walls, he doesn't bother you too much. -doesn't wanna distract you-

V = Volume (How Loud They Are, What Sounds They Make. Etc.)

in bed, low grunt and praises in your ear. in the shower, full-on groaning and moaning as he pounds into you.

W = Wild Card (A Random Headcanon For The Character)

he once fingered you in the living room while someone was in the kitchen across from it, he'd had a blanket over your both, your head was limp on his shoulders as you let out little whimpers in his ear but to anyone else, it looked like you were having trouble waking up. the fear and excitement of getting caught rushing through your veins (tho he'd die if someone found out) was so thrilling as his fingers fucked into your pussy, and when you came he was daring enough to slip his fingers in his mouth to lap on your cream, then rick walked by and he turned his palm so it looked like he was yawning. he still looks back to that as the craziest thing you've guys done.

X = X-ray (Let's See What's Going Under Those Clothes)

6.2 inches. and he has a raging cock. veins all over with a deep red tip that oozes with pre-cum. it looks so fucking sore and all you wanna do is relieve that uncomfortable ache in his cock :(.. he has a nice pair of balls, they're heavy with the need to pump you full of babies and he loves it when you take one into your mouth <3

Y = Yearning (How High Is There Sex Drive?)

pretty high. he can get his fill with one quick rough fuck for a day or two but if it's like a week then you start to notice he can get a little snappy with people and more irritable so once you start to notice that you make sure to give a good sucking that night that has him whimpering and whining <3

Z = Zzz (How Quickly They Fall Asleep Afterwards)

after making sure you're safe and okay, he kinda watches you for a while then knocks out not too long after...making sure to kiss your lips or your nose if you are asleep and mumble 'love you' before drifting off himself <3

an: omggg i loved writing this sm <3 I had kinda a weird day today and writing this made me feel so much better. lmao my writing kinda seems off to me but I just think it's because I'm writing like narration pov in this post, anyway, i hope you guys enjoyed it!! mwah! <3

#twd carl grimes #carl grimes #carl grimes x reader #the walking dead #twd #carl grimes imagine #the walking dead fanfiction #carl grimes fanfic #carl grimes fanfiction #thewalkingdead imagines #carl grimes headcannon #carl grimes smut #thewalkingdead oneshots #thewalkingdead #carl grimes imagines #carl grimes x y/n #carl grimes x you #carl grimes x fem reader #the walking dead imagine #the walking dead imagines #the walking dead fandom #the walking dead x you #the walking dead au #carl grimes angst #carl grimes fluff #twd rp #twd smut #twd carl #twd fanfiction #twd fluff

[pedges]

the one where things are messy

pairing: joel miller x reader (no apocalypse and accidentally on purpose gender neutral)

summary: you leave joel a drunk voicemail.

content: drunk reader. like, drunk. miscommunications, angst, but mostly just a silly little time. reader is joel's neighbor of several years. gratuitous use of the word "fuck." let me know if i've missed anything!

a/n: this is 100% based off friends the tv show. the one where ross finds out. i have not written in a very long time, so i apologize in advance! this is just a nonsensical drabble that ended up being 5k words, so please enjoy <3

The thing is, Joel doesn’t like cats. 

Joel doesn’t hate cats, but he has never expressed any sign of liking cats, at least not enough to warrant the sudden desire to adopt one. With his girlfriend. Who he plans on asking to move in with him. When he tells you, it’s like he just ordered an airstrike to your chest, and you’re thinking maybe you should have slashed his tires before he went to Dallas on business for two weeks and came back with a sweet little thing shacked up in his heart. 

It’s just that when Tommy and you got drunk together a few days after he left, sitting on the couch in Joel’s living room while Tommy played world’s worst babysitter, he had dropped the first of what now seems to be a series of inconvenient bombshells. 

“Don’t get rom-coms, they’re real fuckin’ dumb,” he had been saying, adamantly complaining about your choice of movie. When Harry Met Sally was too cute and too good to receive his vitriol, but the alcohol in your system tore down your usual defense mechanisms. All you could really do was roll your eyes. “Just fuckin’ talk to each other, maybe, maybe this shit wouldn’t take so long.” 

“The hell do you know about communicating, Tommy?” you said, and though you were mostly teasing, you had to bite back a remark about his past relationships never making it past the six month mark. Still, you kept the levity in your voice, the drunken grin on your lips. “Swear, you and Joel think you know everything. Must be an annoying Miller thing.”

“Know more than you,” he said with a scoff, then a hiccup. Taking the last swig of his beer, he set the empty bottle down on the coffee table and looked at you. “Way fuckin’ more than Joel. M’like—the fuck is the word—ret-i-cant. Always watchin’. You wouldn’t get it.” 

“Reticent, and I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.” 

“Bull,” Tommy insisted. “Cause—‘cause I know if Harry and Sally just admitted shit from the getgo—they’da saved so much fuckin’ time.”

You wanted to argue. You want to tell him that was the point of the story, of the insistence for two people who very clearly wanted each other being brought back together each time they tried to stay away from one another. You wanted to tell Tommy that sometimes difficult things were beautiful, and romantic, and heartfelt, and great. But before you could, he was grumbling something as he sank into the couch, something that sounded like, “S’like I kept tellin’ Joel, tired of him tiptoein’ ‘round you.” 

“What?” you said in lieu of everything else running through your quickly sobering mind. 

“Ah, shit.” 

It only took a couple threats of bodily harm for Tommy to tell you that Joel had feelings for you. Keyword: had. He stopped asking about it a while ago, stopped caring when it was obvious Joel “wasn’t goin’ to do a damn thing,” so don’t ask him if he knew more than what he did a few months ago. All of it was quickly followed by pleads to not say shit and that he was sorry he said anything at all. 

You wondered what he would have said if you told him you'd wanted Joel Miller since the moment you laid eyes on him. 

But, you didn’t. And a week and a half later, when Joel came back talking up a storm about an old flame he met up with in Dallas, how fate would have it that she was moving back to Austin—well, needless to say—Tommy’s inability to keep a secret meant nothing now. 

Now, six months later, you’re left to wonder if it hurt Joel this bad when you went on dates, and had partners, and did everything you could to drown out the feelings you had for him. You’d think finding out he had feelings for you—but was now in a relationship with a woman who didn’t playfully (annoyingly) bicker with him, or snort, or make fun—would kill the ones you had for him. But the universe is cruel, and your heart has never really been one to quit. 

Part of you feels bad for thinking it wouldn’t last. Well, not thinking—hoping. But it did, and you realize woefully that you’ve missed your chance with Joel Miller—the man you have spent too many years pining after, too many nights thinking that his brand of affection meant more than he was letting on, and buried too many sorrows in glasses of wine or bottles of beer over. But worst of all, you realize that Tommy was right. 

So, he tells you he wants her to move in with him and Sarah one Saturday evening on his porch. Then he tells you she wants a cat. And you say you’re happy for him. 

“You, uh, don’t think it’s too…soon?” he asks then, like he’s looking to you for a reason to back out. Every fiber of your being is aching to give him one, especially with the way he looks at you with those big browns of his, but the words scratch at your throat hard enough that they don’t make their way out. Instead, you shake your head slowly, forcing a shrug as you sip on the coffee Joel so tenderly prepared for you—the way you like it; he didn’t even have to ask. 

“I think,” you start, though these words aren’t any less sharp than the ones you truly want to say, “if you’re happy, you should do what you want.” 

“You ever picture me with a cat?” Joel snickers. He wears the gentlest smile, enough of one to form those crinkles by his eyes that you love so much. 

“I think you’d look adorable with a cat,” you tell him, and it might be the first true thing you’ve said all night. You picture it, a purring cat curled on his chest, and someone he loves at his side. In your mind, you can’t help but put yourself in that spot. “But,” you continue, “can’t say I’ve ever thought of you actually getting one. You’re more of a…hm. German shepherd guy, maybe even a lizard.” 

Joel laughs—that hearty, full, intoxicating laugh of his. It floods your veins and gives you goosebumps. If the world were to fall to ruins tomorrow, you’d survive on the memory of it alone, you think. 

“Can’t say I disagree with you,” he says then, a leftover grin still curled on his lips, and you want to do anything in your power to keep it there. But then he gets lost in thought, and you watch it soften. It doesn’t disappear completely, but the fact that it’s gone so quickly makes you ache. He speaks again, voice soft as he says, “Guess I just want to make her happy. Lot of things stopped bein’ about me a long time ago, I think.” 

Your heart cinches. Of course he’d say something like that. Of course he’d go and utter words that remind you why you fell in love with him in the first place. And god, that realization hits hard. You are quite, disgustingly in love with Joel. Though it stings, and you’re going to go home and lick your wounds for the hundredth time soon, you get what he means. You stayed silent when he got back from Dallas for the same reason—the smile on his face when he talked about someone he might truly, genuinely like. 

That, and because the someone wasn’t you. 

-

You pull up your britches. 

You have no other choice, you decide, because you’re young, and you’re an adult, and you can get over someone without feeling like you’re going to die. You use your little black book (read: an old Lisa Frank notepad) to call up the fling you had last winter. He’d wanted you, badly, but because there was a night where you thought Joel might’ve kissed you, you never called back. It seems stupid now, looking back. 

But, you thank your lucky stars, or one man’s utter desperation, that he’s still single and he still wants you. He takes you out to a nice restaurant, in a nice suit, and nice shoes. The conversation isn’t even bad, and he’s putting your drinks on his tab. The second one in, you think maybe this could work. 

It’s when you lose count that things go bad. 

“I don’t even think Joel likes cats,” you’re slurring to this poor man, who is desperately scanning the restaurant for a waiter, a check, and a way out of your ramblings about Joel’s love life. You can’t tell if you’re crying or not, though it really feels like you want to. Because one moment you were having a nice time, and the next someone was ordering Joel’s drink—whiskey on the rocks, with a twist—at the table over and you weren’t able to keep him out of your mind from that point on. 

It’s ridiculous, because it’s not Joel’s Drink, it’s A Drink—one that Joel only ever orders, but you could see someone in a worn down green and gray flannel and wonder when Joel Miller became such a trendsetter. Still, nothing can stop you from ordering one yourself, and then another, and then another. It’s like you’re trying to flood your senses with Joel Joel Joel because you know it’ll never be him sitting across from you with the intention of taking you home and maybe kissing you outside your door.

Though, if you weren’t gone by your fourth whiskey, you’d see that your date has lost any and all intentions of that manner. It’s probably not even because you’re drunk, it’s because you’re still wearing Joel’s name on your lips like it’s going out of style. 

“Like—like, I can’t just tell Joel, no, y’know? Or, I don’t think you should get a cat with a woman you had a thing with before you met the mother of your child, and especially shouldn’t have her move in with you after six months. But I want to. Because he’s smarter than this, and I don’t think it’s the right move, especially because of Sarah, and Tommy, ugh, Tommy. Idiot. They’re both idiots. Joel especially, methinks.” 

You don’t know when your date finally flagged down the waiter, or when he dropped you off at home, or when you got inside and picked up your landline. You especially don’t know when you dialed Joel’s number and left him a voicemail when he inevitably didn’t answer. 

All you know is that you mixed your alcohols that night, and you’re probably going to wake up in some version of hell in the morning, but it seems like falling asleep has never been so easy before. 

—

Hell is an understatement. You don’t get sick, but you wish you could throw up your brain, or at least the part of it that still gets headaches like this. It’s with the most gut wrenching revelation that you don’t have any ibuprofen, or any recollection of the night before.  

For the time being, it’s truly the least of your worries. The most of them are getting rid of your life threatening headache. So, after making yourself as presentable as you can, you trudge across the street to Joel’s house—it’s because his house is closer than the drugstore three blocks down. Not because seeing his face would make you feel better anyways. 

“Aren’t you a beauty this afternoon,” Joel laughs when he opens the door, because really, you look like death, and you hadn’t even realized it was past one o’clock. You’re grateful it’s Saturday, and Sarah has soccer practice right now, because she looks up to you, and the last thing you need is for her to see you like this. 

“Shut up,” you grumble, shoving your way past him despite his teasing. He doesn’t mind, and you know he doesn’t. If the smile still on his face is anything to go by. It’s then you realize that yeah, okay, seeing him does make you feel better. Even if it’s just by a fraction. 

“Thought you left your partyin’ days in college,” he continues with his teasing. “Let me guess: you came over here to raid my medicine cabinet.” 

By the time he closes his front door and turns around, you’re already sinking into his plush couch, giving him a look with raised brows that could only mean, You mean you’re going to raid your medicine cabinet, for me. 

“Ah,” he says. Any other moment, your heart would stutter at the ease in which he reads you. Now, your heart is threatening to fail for an entirely different reason. “Got it. Be right back.” 

Joel sticks by his word. He comes back, not just with painkillers, but with water, warmed up coffee, and one of the store-bought muffins you love so much. If you weren’t dying, you’d hug the man. If you weren’t so smart, you’d probably even kiss him. 

“Don’t die on me, alright? Need you around for shenanigans and such,” Joel tells you, leaving you to your devices on his couch. The pain meds go down, and the coffee does wonders from just one sip. You allow yourself to lie on the couch, pillow over your face to block out the harsh light. It seems that as the seconds pass, and by some miracle, you start to feel more and more at ease. Fragments of last night come back slowly, but not enough to piece together the entire puzzle. 

You drank a lot, that much is clear. 

It’s not until you hear a series of beeps from the kitchen, where Joel keeps his landline and answering machine, do the cogs in your brain start cranking a little harder. One voicemail plays over the speaker, something about work that makes Joel sigh and skip it before he can play it all the way through. 

Beeeeep. 

“Heeeeello, Joel. Hi, hello, howdy. It’s me.” 

Joel calls out, “Did you call me last night?” 

You sit up in record time. 

It comes rushing back. 

“I just don’t see why he can’t get something that doesn’t live so long. Like a hamster. Or goldfish. Or a fruit fly. It’s just so—“

“Listen! Listen. I don’t know who Joel or Tommy or Sarah are. You sound—hung up. But if you really want my advice? Get some closure. You clearly have feelings for this guy and you won’t get over him until you do.” 

“Closure! Oh, you’re a genius!” 

“Joel,” you call over the sound of your own drunken voice, dread now filling your body to the fucking brim. But it seems like your body can’t move fast enough. “Joel, hang up, hang it up, hang it up.”

“I just—just wanted to call and tell you I am so happy for you. And your future cat. And I think you should name it Frank. And because I am giving you names, that means I am getting closure—“

You can hear your heartbeat sounding against your eardrums, but feel it falling to the ground as you finally muster up the memory of how to work your legs. But by the time you’re stumbling into the kitchen, you can hear the worst of the voicemail that has Joel’s face drained of any possible readable emotion. You start praying for the ground to swallow you whole and munch your bones. It would be a more peaceful way to go than this. 

“Because you’re over me, I am over you, my sweet Joel. That’s right. I am over you. How’s that for closure?” 

The machine beeps, and then the heaviest silence enters the kitchen. 

Seconds, minutes, maybe even years pass as you stand in the doorway, looking at Joel looking at the answering machine. Then at you. 

“You’re…over me?” he finally says. You swallow the softball that had lodged itself in your throat and almost choke on it. “When, uh, when were you under me?” 

Suddenly, you think the whole life flashing before your eyes thing is true. Because you feel like you’re dying, and all you can think about is every happy moment you’ve had surrounded by Joel. The first time you met, the way Sarah took a liking to you, the unlikely friendship you formed with his brother. You think of all the nights spent on Joel’s porch, sometimes talking, but most times in such a genuinely comfortable silence, where you could do nothing but enjoy each other’s presence. You think of all the fleeting touches, lingering glances, pet names reserved just for you—and how you doubted all the thoughts that they could mean something more. 

You don’t know what hurts more—the fact that, according to Tommy, they did, or that now they didn’t. 

But most of all, you think of how when you were searching for a home several years ago, you didn’t expect to find it in the family of a man named Joel Miller. 

And you didn’t expect to lose it in the worst way possible. 

When you remember where you are, what is happening, and realize that you haven’t actually died, you let out a pathetic little noise. Halfway between a whimper and the words you can’t yet form. 

“What, uh—what did you mean, over me?” Joel finally asks. He’s never been one to beat around the bush, but god, you wish just this time he would. In fact, you wish he’d pretend that this never happened. But you know better. You know there’s no ignoring this. 

“I—“ you barely manage to choke out. Because truly, what do you say? Against your better judgment, you opt for the truth. “I…may or may not have feelings,” you say, and then, “For you. Tommy told me you—you used to feel the same.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.”

“…And you’re over me?” 

You wince. Maybe drunk-you convinced yourself so briefly that saying it would make it true. But by the weight of your heart, and the way it feels like there’s been barbed wire wrapped around it, gripping it tight, you know any answer besides No would be a lie. But because you can’t really bring yourself to say it, not with the way tears threaten to burn your eyes any second now, you instead say, “I don’t know.” 

It seems though, Joel wanted so desperately for you to say yes. By the way he jumps into action, grabbing his keys from the kitchen counter and making a break for it, he wanted you to say Yes, I’m completely over you. But you didn’t, and now he’s leaving you alone in his own house. 

-

You don’t speak for a week. 

You’re not exactly sure who’s avoiding who. You just know you’re wallowing in something that feels akin to lava that refuses to swallow you whole. Inside you there’s this ache, like there’s an empty space where someone should be inside your heart. It feels like three empty spaces, actually, and you had never weighed the consequences of losing Joel before. Part of you wishes you could have just gotten rid of your feelings for him a long time ago. Collecting the evidence now, though, told you there was no easy way to do that. Maybe quitting him cold turkey would have done the trick, or moving to Antarctica. But apparently, when you fell in love with Joel, you fell in love with his entire family, and three people was a hell of a lot harder to give up than one. 

In fact, on day seven, you’re stealthing your way back inside your home after a trip to the grocery store, like you have been all week, when you hear a familiar voice call your name. You turn to see Sarah across the street, standing at the backdoor of Tommy’s truck in her soccer uniform, waving at you with this sad little smile on her face. One that says she doesn’t know what’s going on, just that she hasn’t seen you in a while, and you realize that this is the longest you’ve gone without speaking to her since you first met her. 

You look around like you’re going to get caught committing a crime when you send the most timid wave back. It ends up feeling like a crime anyways when the face you’ve been aching to see comes out of the house, followed by his brother, and he follows Sarah’s line of sight. Meeting his eye is a serrated knife slicing through you, jagged, and harsh, and no clean cuts. 

But what hurts the most is when he opens Sarah’s door and all but forcefully guides her inside the truck, like he’s ushering her away from a bad thing. You think maybe he is. 

You rush inside afterwards and think of ways to never leave your house again. 

Hours later, you’re sitting on your couch watching another ridiculous rom-com, the only comfort you’ve found, with perpetual tears brimming your eyes. Tommy really was fucking right, wasn’t he? Had there been some inkling of communication, you wouldn’t be here. But there wasn’t, and you are, and it sucks—somehow, it seems like this will never not hurt. 

At ten o’clock, there’s a knock at your door. It makes you jump, mostly because this sense of knowing dread fills your body—like you know who it is before you can even open it, because you do. When Joel is standing on the other side, those big brown eyes of his full of something you can’t make out, he asks if he can come in. You aren’t even sure he’d listen if you said no, so you say yes. 

He steps inside, you close the door, and there’s a beat of silence before, “Sarah was askin’ about you all day.” 

You stand at your door, hands together as you toy with your own fingers nervously. Your heart is racing and your mind is reeling, but most of all, there’s this resounding ache echoing throughout your entire body. 

“Sorry,” is all you can really say in return. 

“I didn’t get a cat,” Joel says then. Your heart jolts at the mention. 

“Oh.” You look down at your hands. “Interesting.” 

“No, not interestin’.” When Joel speaks this time, he almost sounds angry. Frustrated, maybe, but he doesn’t sound happy, especially not with you. When you force yourself to look up, he has the face to match—brows furrowed, pout on his lips, gaze firm. “I should have a cat right now. I should have a movin’ truck outside my house, I should be living with my girlfriend—instead I’ve got a daughter askin’ too many questions, a shit talkin’ brother, and I’m standin’ inside your living room angry as all hell right now.” 

“Angry?” you say. He absolutely just said too many words with too many implications, but that’s the one you happen to get caught up on. Mostly because it lights a fire in you. Part of you thinks he has every right to be angry, but the other part feels justified in your own anger. “I’m sorry, why the hell are you angry with me?” 

“Because,” Joel responds quickly, voice harder, louder. He looks as if he didn’t expect you to fight back, but what a dumb presumption to have made. “Because you had no fuckin’ right to tell me you felt something about me.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Joel,” you spit back, voice dripping with sarcasm, but really? You are. 

“No, it’s not fuckin’ fair, and you don’t fuckin’ get it.” Joel steps forward, and for the first time, he does look genuinely angry. But after looking at him for a second longer, you realize it’s not that. He’s hurt. “I was doin’ fine before you came along with that mess. I was doin’ fuckin’ fantastic before I found out about you!” 

“I was doing great before I found out about you!” you shout back even though you weren’t doing great before. Not even close. Still, you want to stay angry, but your voice betrays you. “You think it was easy to find out you used to feel the same way about me? You think it was easy watching you be all happy with someone else, huh?”

“Oh, like I haven’t done it a thousand times, darlin’.” Joel’s words are sharp.

“You never said anything!” Yours are too. 

“There was never a good fuckin’ time,” he says coldly. Your own blood begins to turn icy in your veins as he huffs angrily. 

“And now is?” you respond coolly, before your walls begin to crumble. They had a while ago, actually, but now you’re resorting to kicking the rubble around. “Why did you come over here, Joel? To rub it in my face, tell me that you’re just—just going to get rid of whatever you felt?”

There’s a flash of pain on Joel’s face before he resolves to a glower at you. “I was happy.” He says your name, broken and small. “And I’ve been doin’ it for a helluva long time, sweetheart. I can keep doing it now.” 

Even though it truly does sound like he’s trying to convince himself of his own words, the suffocating pain in your chest is becoming too much to bear. So you point towards your door. “Then go.” 

“Fine,” he spits, stomping towards the exit at your command. 

“Fine!” 

Before you know it, he walks out, your door slams, and he’s gone. 

You finally reach a crossroads. As tears brim your eyes, you realize that this is it, isn’t it? You were an asteroid that missed Joel by a mile, and now you were sentenced to a life drifting aimlessly in space. You missed out on a place to land—this is it. 

Moments pass. You do whatever you can to soak in everything that unraveled before you, and there’s no hope in picking up the pieces. No hope in weaving them back together. Before you can let out a pathetic little sob and stalk off towards your room, you suddenly hear footsteps leading back to your front door. Then there’s a knock at it, soft—quiet. 

As your heart begins to race, you step to open the door, only to find Joel on the other side. As if you could be surprised. It’s safe to say you’ve never seen the man look so dejected, like a dog bringing a bird to your front door. He’s illuminated by your flickering porch light and the glow from the moon, and if you weren’t suffering so, you’d tell him you’d never seen a man look so ethereal. 

Searching his eyes for any semblance of an answer to all the questions you now have doesn’t last long. Because before either of you can say a word, Joel’s hands are cupping your face and he’s kissing you like he’s been underwater for far too long, and you’re fresh fucking air.  

And you let him. 

You let him, because the universe hasn’t offered you any other choice—if it has, you’re not fucking taking it. You let him kiss you, and push you inside, and kick the door closed behind him, because you’ve wanted this for years. You’ve ached for this, yearned for the feeling of Joel’s lips on yours, the warmth of his mouth and tongue—the feeling of his hands on your waist. 

Joel kisses you for as long as either of you can stand it, which is a pretty long time considering the way your hearts are racing and lungs are clawing for air. It’s when the back of your knees are pressed against the arm of your couch, and you’re falling backwards onto it, pulling him down with you, do you both pull back long enough to breathe. Though, it’s mostly huffs, recovering from the sudden fall and shock of the best fucking kiss either of you have ever had in your life. Still, the urge to smile hits you for the first time in over a week. 

You start to speak, whispering, “What about—“ 

“It’s over,” he says quietly into the space between your lips. “It was over the moment I heard that voicemail, I think. But only officially as of this afternoon.” 

Your throat tightens. You look up at him, your eyes still glistening with unshed tears, but that ache in your heart has begun to dull. “So why did you—“

“Scared, mostly,” Joel interrupts you again, because it really isn’t that hard for him to know what you’re asking and why. He brushes stray hair from your face. “Confused. Because I really thought I was over you, sweetness. Took me a week to deal with the fact that I wasn’t. Didn’t even truly figure it out until my feet dragged me over here.”

Your brow furrows, but a sweet smile draws over your lips as you bring your own hand to his face. You caress his cheek, running your hand over his beard. Deep down, you get it. You really do. But you no longer have it in you to ask any questions. Joel is here, and he is kissing you, and even though nothing has been set in stone, you suddenly don’t feel the need to carry the hurt you had anymore. 

“Think I owe Tommy a drink or two,” you joke then, and you both laugh. Joel even snorts. 

“Like hell you do,” he scoffs, “Tommy ain’t do shit besides spill my secrets and cause us grief.” 

“Okay, then we need to send Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal some gift baskets, at least.” 

“What?” Joel laughs, but you pull him down for another kiss that melts your goddamn heart. You’ve had a taste, and you’re never going to get enough. But instead of getting into it completely, you just soak in the moment. Maybe Tommy was right about the whole talkin’ it out thing, but so were you, you realize. 

Sometimes difficult things could end up being beautiful. 

So when you pull back and meet Joel’s eyes once more, you give him the softest little smile. 

“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” you say. “Promise.” 

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#joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller #tlou fanfiction #tlou fanfic #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character #wah wah wah #my fics

[neteyamkink]

Hi! How are you? Could you make headcanons of Neteyam clingy and super loving, like he couldn't let go of the Omaticaya!fem reader for even a second and being super sweet for her please, thats would be so lovely.

Love your account 💕💕💕

YES YES YES I LOVE THIS IDEAAA ALSO THANK YOU SMMMM also i’m sorry for being late to this i have been on a haitus for months LMAO DONT LET THIS FLOP!!

₊˚𖦹 ༘ ೀ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

clingy neteyam head cannons

parings: clingy!neteyam x reader

warnings: fluff, not proof read (i’m lazy)

₊˚𖦹 ༘ ೀ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

clingy!neteyam that refuses to go a moment without being with you

You have to take a bathe? okay he’ll come to the watering hole with you

You have to go hunting? okay he’ll come with you

You have to have a family dinner? He loves his in laws how about he joins?

“baby, i have to pee. get off real quick.” “okay i’ll walk you to the bathroom”

“neteyam, i need to go out to collect some beads for my hair.” “okay let me go get my neck com, i’ll come with.”

He’s ALWAYS touching you

wether it’s holding your hand, the small of your back, holding your pinky, touching knees while sitting next to each other, resting his head on your shoulder

he will NEED to be in physical contact with you

And when he’s not he’s so annoying

He’s whining for you to come closer and pawing at your body to be close to his

And when he has to go out hunting with the other men he makes sure you have on the ear com that he asked his dad to get you

he’ll check in every 10 mins

“Hey baby, you okay?”

“what are you doing?”

“I miss you.”

AND DONT LET HIM FIND OUT YOU MOVED TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE BED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT BC YOU WERE TOO HOT FROM CUDDLING

he’ll just pull you back into him while you’re sleeping

but in the morning he’s SOOOO dramatic

“oh so you don’t love me?”

“no that’s fine just say you didn’t want to cuddle.”

SASSY MEN APOCALYPSE AND THIS MAN IS THE LEADER!!!

he’s also very vocal about needing to touch you at all times

“can you hold my hand?”

“baby come cuddle with me?”

“gimme 3 kisses and then you can go”

okay i’m done i hope u enjoyed.

#avatar #neteyam #neteyam sully #avatar the way of water #neteyam fluff #neteyam smut #clingy!neteyam #atwow neteyam #atwow fanfiction #neteyam fanfiction #neteyam headcannons #jade writes

[girlyraves]

hello! i'm toni, i'm twenty-five and these are just some plots i'm really craving! please either comment or like this post, and i will reach out to you if you want to do something with these plots! <3

01. cyberpunk setting. you're a humanoid android and i'm the idiot who fell in love with you. but you can't feel anything because you're an android or can you? how can you say androids can't feel or think or fall in love just because i was created a lab and you were born does not mean we're entirely different and how could i not fall in love with you? you're a perfect human who is flawed and so so dumb sometimes.

02. vampire x witch. you're a vampire and i'm the idiot witch who created you for my own selfish reasons because i couldn't lose you. i love you too much now you're going through a turmoil and feeling like frankenstein's monster. what have i done?

03. 90 day fiancee inspired. this one is a bit lighter, basically a couple who are long distance and met online (maybe it's been a month maybe it's been five years who knows) want to finally be together, just basically a cute fun plot but maybe there's a bit of culture shock and maybe they're fast-tracking everything because they've only got 90 days.

04. the cutest of meet cutes. you're in the fridge stacking a shelf and i'm grabbing an item in the shelf and you scare me. just overall cute fun vibes maybe it leads somewhere maybe it's a small rom-com moment but ultimately they never take the chance, who knows.

05. apocalypse. i'm stuck in x location, locked in without food or water, i'm starving and haven't eaten in days and just finished the remaining water and the only hope i have is this radio. you're the saviour who answered my call, can you make it in time or will something happen? will i die alone in this room or will you die on your way to save me? or are you just stringing me along and not coming?

#indie rp #indie oc rp #1x1 rp #1x1 #1x1 roleplay #indie roleplay #plots #plot bunny #wanted plots #wanted plot

[maze-mind]

ALL about the tropes I know of. Some might be missing because idk about them.

Let me start. This is all about the tropes I READ, not write. A lot of things I write are things I wouldn't read in my spare time.

The colors stand for categories of tropes, ff types, cliches, and character dynamics.

Sooo..

------

Personal favorite tropes;

HIGH SCHOOL AU

CANON UNIVERSE

SLOW BURN

SWEET FLUFF

HEAVY ANGST

ANGST WITH A HAPPY ENDING

HURT/COMFORT

ROAD TRIP

AFRAID OF STORMS

TAKING CARE OF A SICK PERSON

ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP

ENEMIES TO LOVERS

ENEMIES TO FRIENDS TO LOVERS

ATHLETIC RIVALRY

FRIENDS TO LOVERS

GRUMPY X SWEETHEART

---

Iconic;

FUTURISTIC AU

COLLEGE AU

ROYALTY AU

BODYGUARD AU

APOCALYPSE AU

REUNION AU

KIDS AU (they are the kids)

MEDICAL AU

CRACK

DARK FIC

SLICE OF LIFE

ROM COM

PARTY GAMES

MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH

JEALOUSY

KISSING IN THE RAIN

MEETING THEIR FAMILY

WEDDING

INJURY

HOLIDAY TRIP

UNREQUITED LOVE

ROOMMATES

ACADEMIC RIVALRY

---

Okay;

OFFICE AU

SUPERNATURAL AU

HOGWARTS AU

MYTHOLOGY AU

SECRET AGENTS AU

SOCIAL MEDIA

CRIME STORY

x OC

OUTSIDER'S POV

ACCIDENTAL INTIMACY

MEMORY LOSS

MUTUAL PINING

LOCKER ROOM

IN DENIAL

MISTAKEN FOR A COUPLE

INTERRUPTED INTIMACY

SINGLE PARENT

UPTIGHT x CARELESS

CHILDHOOD BEST FRIENDS

PARTNERS IN CRIME

CONFIDENT x PANICKED

---

If there isn't anything else;

PSYCHOLOGICAL

SOULMATE AU

MAFIA AU

NEIGHBORS AU

COFFEE SHOP AU

HISTORICAL AU

BODY SWAP AU

FLORIST AU

UNRESOLVED SEXUAL TENSION

SHARING A BED

LOVE TRIANGLE

FAMILY DRAMA

PREGNANCY

PRACTICE KISSING

BREAK UP

THEMES OF RELIGION

ACCIDENTAL CONFESSION

STRUGGLING WITH SEXUALITY

FAKE DATING

FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS

SIBLING'S BEST FRIEND

INTRIGUING STRANGERS

EMPLOYEE x CUSTOMER

MODEL x PHOTOGRAPHER

TUTORING

---

Absolutely not;

A/B/O SOCIETY

INCEST/FORBIDDEN AU

DEMON AU

ABDUCTION AU

CHALLENGE/BET

MPREG

CHANGING ROOM

FIRST TIME

ONE NIGHT STAND

TERMINAL ILLNESS

DISABILITY

SECRET ADMIRER

DRUNK LOVE CONFESSION

PLAY FIGHT/TICKLING

TRIPPING/FALLING OVER PERSON

AGE GAP

ARRANGED MARRIAGE

EXES

CHEATING

TEACHER x STUDENT

ISOLATED/STUCK TOGETHER

BEST FRIEND'S SIBLING

BULLY x VICTIM

MUTUAL OBLIVIOUSNESS

SUGAR PARENT x SUGAR BABY

LAB PARTNERS

BUILT ON MISUNDERSTANDINGS

#tropes #trope list #ff #fanfictions #fanfic #fanfic tropes #ranking #s through f #reading #which ones #would i read #color coded #ofc