#i need a suburbs tag ….. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

miss-oranje-disco-dancer · 4 months ago

Text

then send me a son

pairing: joel miller x reader

cws/tags: so much angst (w/ happy ending! i swear), discussion of suicide attempt (the canon one), suicidal ideations, losing a child, losing a parent, survivors guilt, discussions of abortion, unplanned pregnancy, p in v, oral sex, virginity loss (but it's not that big of deal/not a kink), both dealing w grief, ellie is dead, this is set in jackson post tlou pt I

summary: joel is put on suicide watch after he returns to jackson w/o ellie and reader becomes his 'caregiver' of sorts. lowkey enemies to lovers but also not bc it's kinda one-sided 'hatred'

a/n: author is pro-choice! and also understands the complexities of mental health that reader and joel do not at times (just wanted to make it clear that i understand... from personal experience... what depression is like as well as suicidal ideation).

title is from the song 'the suburbs' by arcade fire, but listen to the entirety of the suburbs (album) and funeral (album) if you want to understand my mindframe while writing this

the last sentence is a quote and i've reblogged it before but i'll find the image and post it/reblog it again

wc: 9.4k

masterlist | ko-fi | taglist

Joel is just surprised Tommy has the gall to ask, “Where’s Ellie?” when he arrives in Jackson alone.

In this world, when two people leave and only one comes back, you don’t ask because you already know what happened. You wait for that person to tell you about a miracle, and when they don’t, you know for sure.

“Heaven, if you believe in that sort of thing,” is Joel’s response.

But Joel doesn’t believe in Heaven or Hell, or anything other than ashes and dirt.

“I don’t know what to say,” Tommy says because he’d already said ‘I’m sorry’ when Sarah died, and that didn’t bring her back.

It takes a hefty amount of booze to get Joel to tell the story.

“I just hope she died for something. Then, at least, I’ll know I’m being selfish.”

I didn’t get that with Sarah, he thinks. She didn’t die for a ‘noble cause’. He doubts Ellie did either.

“You’re being put on watch,” Maria tells him the next morning – when he’s sober and asking what his duties are now that he’s back.

Life goes on, which means work goes on, so what’s my job? As long as it’s not burning bodies, I’ll be okay.

“Watch? Like I’m watching, or I’m being watched.”

“Being watched.”

He asks why, though he doesn’t need to. Tommy knows why he’s got that scar on his forehead.

“Fucking authoritarian bullshit,” he mutters, half into his pillow. “Thought you were a communist.”

“I am. And this has nothing to do with that.”

“I bet Tommy put you up to it anyway.”

“He didn’t ‘put me up to anything’.”

“But he told you, didn’t he?”

“He told me a long time ago.”

“Figures. You always knew I was a coward.”

“You say stuff like that, and then act like you don’t need help.”

“I didn’t say I don’t need help. I said I don’t want it.”

She’s silent, letting him continue. “Now let me grieve in peace, will you?”

She hums something akin to agreement, but asks for something that sounds like protest to him. “Where’s your gun?”

“Which one?”

“All of ‘em.”

He tells her because he doesn’t want Tommy or anyone else searching through all his bullshit because that’s what happens if he doesn’t give ‘em up.

“Want my kitchen knives too?” he says, almost wryly.

She takes most of them, but leaves the more blunt ones out of sympathy. He can have butter on his toast. Unless she takes the toaster so he can’t take it with him in the bathtub.

She leaves the toaster, and then, leaves him alone.

Quite frankly, he’s too old to kill himself. Sure, people do it at his age, but he’s so goddamn tired. Moreover, he knows he could get someone else to do it pretty easily. Maybe he could be a martyr. He could save someone from a clicker or a soldier. He could save someone’s life for once. But would that be enough to save his soul? To make it to Heaven and see Ellie and Sarah again?

Maybe, he would, if God really does love people the way some say he does. But if Joel was God, he’d deny himself entry.

He stays in bed for the rest of the day. Aside from the two times he eats. And once in the middle of the night to take a piss because he may be depressed, but the last of his dignity is motivation enough not to wet the bed.

He doesn’t shower or change his clothes. Not like he’s wearing a shirt anyway, just boxers ‘cause it’s too hot outside and he doesn’t want to get up and turn on the fan. Sleep doesn’t come easy, but it comes. It comes because it has to, reluctant as it is.

He wakes up to the voice of an unfamiliar woman. Quieter than Ellie or Sarah, less stern than Maria or Tess. Not like he was expecting to hear from three out of four of those women, not outside of his dreams.

You’ve always cared about people, saving lives and all that. But you’re no good with a gun, so Tommy finds a better job than patrol for you.

“You’re going to be watching my brother, Joel.”

“Like, spying on him?”

“No, like making sure he doesn’t kill himself.”

A suicidal man is nothing new, especially in this world, but Tommy’s bluntness about it is. He acts as if it’s a normal job. Like the ones in office buildings that sound wonderful even though the people who tell you about them assure you it was barely better than life is now. This new watchmen position is the same as patrol, in a way. Terrifying in the gravity it holds. You have to keep someone alive.

You can shoot deer, you can run quickly, you can hide well. You can survive on your own. But, at age 10, your mom bled out as you sat by her side. You were too weak to carry her, to dig a grave and bury her. Your survival feels unearned, but you’re no good with guns. You’d miss if you tried to do it. That’s a rare thought anyway, and surely not one you plan to ever speak aloud. They’d put you on watch too, which sounds suffocating, in all honesty.

You don’t know Joel. You’ve heard his name in passing, but you arrived in Jackson during the period of time he was gone. He was going to take some girl to some hospital for something or other.

“What about that girl?” you ask. “Is she not taking care of him?”

“She’s not around anymore.”

“Oh,” you say.

He just nods. The ‘why’ of the whole arrangement makes sense, but you’re still unclear on the ‘how’. Am I just supposed to stay in his house 24/7? Is he allowed to shower on his own? Do I have to cook or do laundry?

“Just check in on him. He’s not the most… personable, but don’t take anything he says to heart.”

Just check in on him. It sounds simpler than it will be, you know that much. Even keeping a plant alive takes more than ‘checking in on it’.

You arrive at his house around 10 AM. You assume he’ll be awake, but when you look around his living room and kitchen, you can’t find him. Oh God, you think. What if he’s…

He’s asleep in bed. You’re pretty sure. He’s lying there and there’s no evidence that anything’s wrong, but when you say his name from the doorway, he doesn’t move. So, you walk closer to him, just to make sure he’s breathing.

“Joel,” you say softly – because your other option is reaching out to touch him, and you feel that’s a little too personal, especially when he’s not wearing a shirt.

“Who the Hell are you and how did you get into my house?” he says.

“Tommy sent me.”

“Oh, so they’re making you watch me?”

“Yeah.”

You’re glad he knows about the arrangement. Maybe he’ll give you some direction on what to do with him.

“Must hate you if they stuck you with me.”

You can’t tell if he’s being ironic, but you hope so. Still, you don’t know how to respond. You decide on a simple, “I’ll let you get some sleep. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

Though you’re alone in the room, you sit with perfect posture on Joel’s couch, looking around at the decor – or lack thereof – looking for clues about who this man is.

You think about making him breakfast, but you’d have to raid his cabinets to do so, and you’re terrified to make any missteps when it comes to Joel. You don’t think he’ll kill himself over burnt toast, but there is a persistent need lodged inside your brain to make him like you. It’s a little selfish when you should be focused on just keeping him alive, but maybe if he likes you, he’ll feel better, maybe you’ll feel better too. That’s still nothing but the ever-lingering hope in your heart. But it’s something.

He comes downstairs eventually, in a t-shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms.

“Good morning,” you say.

“No, it ain’t,” he says, heading in the direction of the kitchen.

“Do you want me to help you with anything? Breakfast or coffee?”

“I can make my own damn coffee, kid.”

And he does. The first shred of kindness you get from him is an offer to pour you a cup.

“I’m alright, but thank you.”

He sits down in a chair across from you and sips his coffee as you watch him awkwardly.

“Are you really gonna do that all day?”

“Do what?”

“Sit there and stare at me.”

“I don’t know what else to do.”

“You could leave, for starters.”

“I’ll get in trouble.”

“What? You afraid Tommy’ll get upset with you?”

“A little.”

“He’s a softie. I wouldn’t worry too much.”

You are worried. Sure, you want Tommy to be happy with you, but moreover, you don’t want to leave Joel alone lest something happen to him. You might not know the guy very well, but you’d hate to see someone take their own life.

“Can I just stay here? I promise I’ll leave you alone.”

He shrugs, and you take it as a yes.

He does not need a caregiver or a watchman. He does not need you, but you look like a kicked puppy and there’s no way he’ll force you to leave. Another young girl he’ll reluctantly let stick by his side. It’s almost cruel of Tommy to send someone like you. Someone young and full of life. Someone he has a hard time pushing away.

He should’ve sent Joel a crotchety old bitch or a drill sergeant. Maybe Tommy thinks he’s doing Joel a favor by giving him a nice girl, polite and eager to please. It’s a good thing your chipper attitude irritates him. It’s the first item on the very small list of qualities that Joel dislikes.

At first, he insists on making his own food. You’re still a guest, even if he’s reluctant to have you as one. It doesn’t matter where he lives, he’ll always have been raised in Texas. He’ll always hear his mother calling him out on his lack of manners. His hospitality is force of habit.

Plus, if he lets you do anything for him, he’ll owe you something – at least in his mind. And he doesn’t want to owe anyone anything. He doesn’t want to give or get or build any kind of rapport with you whatsoever, especially since you seem to take all attention as progress, despite the fact that Joel is harsh with you most of the time.

The whole ordeal makes him feel like more of a failure than he did before. He couldn’t save Ellie, or Sarah for that matter, and now he’s being forced into his own retirement or held hostage depending on how you look at it, so he can’t even get the satisfaction that productivity brings.

He also finds himself pretty fucking bored without work. He became so used to being in constant battle, even in his sleep. One wrong move and he was dead. The worst injury he’s gotten in the past few weeks was a paper cut.

Reading was never his biggest hobby, but it’s not bad when you find the right book. Often, you’ll sit across the room from him and read a book of your own, and the silence as he relaxes into the couch is quite peaceful for a change.

No amount of peace and quiet can cure his boredom, though. It makes him antsy, and you notice. You notice a lot when your job is just staring at him, it seems.

“I found a book of crossword puzzles,” you announce.

“Congratulations,” Joel says.

“I thought since you were bored, I’d give them to you, and maybe you could do them…”

By the look on your face, he can guess that you’re regretting your words. Lest he make you cry, he accepts the book.

“Plus, it looks kind of old so I don’t know if I’d know how to do it myself,” you add.

He knows you don’t mean it as an insult, but it sounds like one, and it makes him laugh. The list of qualities Joel likes about you is already long — and buried deep in his subconscious — but he’ll have to add the fact that you can make him laugh.

“Are you calling me old?”

“Not in a bad way. You’re just older than I am.”

He flips through the book and finds that about 80% of them are done.

“Somebody did most of these already.”

“I’m sorry… maybe I could erase that person’s answers and then you could do them?”

“I think I’d still be able to tell.”

You hang your head in defeat.

“Gimme a pencil and I’ll try the ones that aren’t done yet.”

You look through his junk drawer, find a pencil, and hand it to him. He doesn’t expect you to sit on the couch next to him.

“I know you’re supposed to watch me, but you don’t have to watch that closely.”

You move away slightly, no longer looking over his shoulder.

“I was just curious about the answers.”

“I was kidding around,” he says (though, it’s only a half-truth). “Come back here.”

It takes him about a week to finish the book.

“Had to go back and fix some of the others,” he says. “The person who originally filled ‘em out was an idiot.”

“That’s not very nice. Maybe it was a kid.”

“Kid had great handwriting, then.”

You pause, hesitating for a reason he can’t pinpoint.

“What? You want me to say sorry for calling that guy an idiot. ‘Cause I will if it matters that much to you.”

“No, no, fuck that guy, he was an idiot,” you say, clearly taking after him.

“Language, Missy,” he says, jokingly scolding you.

“Sorry. I should stop swearing.”

“It’s okay. You probably picked it up from me anyway.”

“Maybe,” you agree. You’re fidgeting, holding something behind your back, he notices.

“Whatcha got there?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, really,” you say, holding it out to him. “I just figured since you finished the crossword book, I should get you more.”

He only did the crosswords for you. He never really cared for them anyway. He just wanted to make you happy — he’d rather have you content than pissy or whiny. The only thing worse than your constant insistence on getting his approval would be if you just sat there and cried all day.

He’d tried to give the book back to you, but you couldn’t do ‘em on your own since you were lacking in 90s pop culture knowledge. So, he did them, with you watching over his shoulder the whole time.

He’s about to admit this to you and hand the new one back over to you when he looks at the pages – white paper, stapled together, all drawn up in pen.

“Did you make these?” he asks, in awe of both your ability to draw perfectly straight lines, and moreover, how much you must care if you’re willing to go to these lengths. Kiss-ass behavior, he tells himself.

You nod, and he gets the sudden urge to hug you, but opts for a thank you with a smile he can’t repress.

“You didn’t have to do all this, but it’s very sweet of you.”

He considers taking back the ‘very sweet’ comment when he finds that 3 down is four letters with the prompt “grumpy old man”. JOEL fits perfectly in the blank spaces.

You go on walks, read endless books, and Joel finally lets you start taking on some of the housework. It should be nice, but you get the feeling he’s not all that happy about this situation. Not that he tells you it outright. He doesn’t tell you much at all. And you’ve tried. It’s not like you’re asking hard-hitting questions.

“How old are you?”

“56.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Blue.”

He doesn’t even bother to ask the same question back to you. Sometimes, he doesn’t even look up at you when you speak to him. You know it’s the depression of losing someone close to you, you know what that feels like – the problem is, you don’t know how to fix it. You only know how to hide it.

It’s quite simple, in theory. All you have to do is give him the desire to get out of bed every day. But you don’t even know what he likes. All you know is that your presence is not high on his list of favorite things. You try and try until you swear his shitty attitude is rubbing off on you.

Tommy checks in with you periodically, asking you how things are going with Joel, and this would be the perfect opportunity for you to get out of this position, which Joel would probably love, but to spite him, you tell Tommy it’s going well.

And it is, in a way – Joel is not actively mean to you. He doesn’t insult you or argue with you, he just mostly ignores you. So, you figure if you ignore him, maybe he’ll miss your attention. Stupid teenage bullshit mindset, acting like you have a crush on him, playing some sort of push and pull game that he’s not even privy to.

But that’s not like you. That brooding behavior is all Joel, so it lasts no more than a day or so until you go back to trying, and accept the fact that he’s just an asshole. Doesn’t mean you have to be one.

You never expected to win him over with the crossword puzzles but you see the look in his eyes when you give him the homemade ones, and you know there’s something in there besides all that pain. You know that look, can’t put a name to it, all you know is that it’s a good sign, one you had yet to see from Joel.

Joel wouldn’t have thought he’d get tired of hearing someone ask, “can I do anything for you?”, constantly begging to dote on him, to care for him. The last time someone did this for him was on Father’s Day, which is an ancient holiday now, almost mythical.

But it’s been weeks of the same old shit. It has nothing to do with you. In fact, you’re probably the best ‘caregiver’ he could’ve gotten stuck with. Thing is, though, he doesn’t want a caregiver, and he’s tired of said caregiver bombarding him. It’s enough to just have her watching him like a hawk, but yapping in his ear is another thing. Because he enjoys the quiet (and because the way you ask him questions reminds him of Ellie.)

It’s a joke, a stupid joke. It’s his patience wearing thin.

“Can I get you anything?” you ask.

“Sure. A beer, maybe. And a fuckin’ blowjob,” he mutters. Yeah, that’d be the dream but it’s a joke, bordering on a jab at you.

“I don’t think we have any beer,” you say. You both know damn well there’s no alcohol in the house.

“I know.”

“And, as for the other thing- is that something that you’d want… me to do?”

“Hey,” his tone softens. “Sweetheart, it was a joke. I was messing with you.”

“Okay, so you don’t want that, correct?”

“It was a joke. I’m sorry I even said it.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you say, sheepishly. “It’s your house, your rules, right?”

The concept of free speech in his house was one he’d brought up regarding ‘swear words’— It’s his house so he’s allowed to say ‘fuck’, ‘shit’, ‘bitch’, and every other word he could come up with, and he came up with some deep cuts just to make you laugh. Admittedly, it’s a nice sound.

“Yeah.” He thinks for a moment. “I just think that these sorts of topics aren’t appropriate for someone…”

“You know I’m an adult, right, Joel?”

“Yes, I know, but you’re still young and you seem a little innocent. I don’t want to put those types of thoughts in your head.”

“I know what a blowjob is, and I know what sex is. I just haven’t found the right person yet. That doesn’t mean I’ve never thought about it or whatever.”

You rarely snap at him, so he knows that word — innocent — must’ve been more offensive than he’d meant it. Maybe you’re not innocent. Maybe you’re just kind and a hell of a lot younger than him. Maybe it just seems like you should be.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just saying that I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“But do you want it?” You punctuate every word with a newfound annoyance.

“It’s not about that.”

“Yes it is.” You’re quite incredulous for someone who has been presented with the idea only a moment ago.

“Fine. Yes, in theory, if we were just two people who know each other, then, sure, if you offered, I’d say yes.”

“I offered.”

The way he calls you ‘sweetheart’ feels more like an insult than a term of endearment. You’d rather be ‘kid’ or nothing at all, anything less patronizing. It’s worse when he calls you innocent. You’re not innocent, you’re just nice — something that Joel is not. You’re painfully nice. You’ve heard it makes people like you. You’re still waiting on the results, though.

But, if he’d ordered you to suck him off, you’d have kneed him in the balls, and he would’ve thought twice about calling you ‘sweetheart’. The thing is, he doesn’t. Instead, he backs away from the opportunity, tells you it was a joke.

But you see two things behind his eyes: one, he wants this. He might not want to want this, but he does. More importantly, you see his genuine concern for your well-being override this desire and you realize you feel safer around him than you do around most men. That’s one of the reasons that you do give him ‘a fuckin’ blowjob’. The other being that, sometimes, before you go to bed, you can’t sleep, and a certain man comes to mind as your fingers slip beneath the waistband of your panties.

When you reiterate that you offered, you exchange a long stare wherein you try to reach into each other’s souls and sort this shit out but when you both realize you can’t, Joel says, “Okay.”

And you say, “Okay.”

A new kind of tension bubbles to the surface as Joel sits down on the couch and you kneel before him.

You fiddle with his belt, eventually managing to get it undone, but Joel does the rest of the work it takes to get his pants down to his ankles, boxers too.

You’d imagined he’d be big, but that’s how fantasies work. Every man’s dick is big in your lewd daydreams, but it’s like you manifested it with Joel. You begin to feel like you’re in over your head, and though you aren’t innocent, you aren’t experienced enough to take him. But who are you to back down from a challenge?

Joel can see hesitation wash over your face for the first time. You pause, study the scene like you’re trying to decide your approach, and then you take his cock in your hand, looking up at him like you’re asking for the green light.

He gives you the go-ahead with the only piece of advice he thinks you’ll need. “Just don’t bite, and you’ll do fine.”

He probably should’ve mentioned another thing: don’t take too much at once or you’ll choke. His head lolls back and his eyes fall closed the moment your lips meet the tip of it. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t want you to feel intimidated by his presence while you’re exploring, so to speak. He lets out a low groan of approval to let you know he’s still with you.

But he’s fading into a beautiful oblivion until he hears you gag, feels you sputter and it shocks him out of that blissful feeling. His eyes snap open and he cradles the back of your head.

“Easy, easy,” he says. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

You pull away briefly and catch your breath.

“That’s good,” he says. “Breathe, baby.”

He can see you looking for instructions, so he takes your hand and helps you get a firm grip on his cock, sliding your hand up and down, and finally letting you do it on your own.

“Doin’ good, baby,” he says. “You gotta give your mouth a break sometimes.”

You’ve never gotten anything close to praise from Joel before. It’d warm your heart like nothing else if it weren’t so goddamn sexy in this context.

You nod, wipe the spit from your chin, and give your mouth a brief break, but you can’t hold yourself back forever. Soon, your lips are back on his cock, kissing from the base to the tip, flicking your tongue over the head, seeing what reactions you can get from him.

When you get into the rhythm of hand and mouth in tandem, you barely register him telling you that he’s gonna come.

You imagine it’s an acquired taste but it’s not awful. You can swallow it. So, you do, and you look up at him with a smile.

He looks like he’s woken up from a dream and he’s still getting his bearings straight, but he’s quick to stand up and take your hand.

“Where are we going?”

“To my bed.”

You’d follow him anywhere but bed does sound good to you right now. It sounds like an adventure. You don’t go into his bedroom unless absolutely necessary. You’d think he was hiding something horrible in there if you didn’t have a mutual feeling regarding your own bedroom.

“Are we going to have sex?” you ask.

“No,” he says.

“Then, what are we going to do?”

“You,” he begins. “Are going to lie back and relax.”

He coaxes you to lie down, and he doesn’t have to try hard.

“I,” he continues. “Am going to make you feel good.”

You’re fairly certain about what he means, so there’s nothing left for you to do but let him do the work. It’s just another part of the job you’ll have to learn from experience.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says.

You nod.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Let’s get you out of these clothes,” he says, playing with the hem of your t-shirt.

“Wait-” you say, sitting up, and he withdraws. “Can we kiss… first?”

He looks surprised for a moment, and you worry you’ve fucked up.

“I just feel like we should do that,” you say, much quieter.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess that makes sense.”

His hand cups your cheek and he looks you in the eyes like he’s trying to find answers somewhere in there.

“Has anyone ever kissed you before?”

“Not really, not the way I want you to kiss me.”

“Feels a bit rude of me to have put my dick in your mouth before you’d even been kissed.”

Still, he leans in and kisses you, but it’s soft, gentle. It’s not a peck on the lips, though, it’s more. It gradually gains momentum and passion. Eventually, he slips his tongue in your mouth and you take it in stride.

“You’re very good at this,” he says. “If I didn’t know any better, I wouldn’t think this was your first time.”

“Is that a compliment?” you ask, doubting Joel is capable of such things.

He ignores your question, and sighs. You know it’s not directed at you because you’re fairly sure he’s not listening.

“I know I said I was gonna do some things with you, but I don’t wanna take things too fast, okay?”

“Are you saying you’re just going to kiss me?”

“I think that’d be the right thing to do.”

“That’s not fair,” you whine.

You wish you could sound sexy, or whatever, but you probably come off like a bratty child.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s not fair. You said you’d make me feel good. I thought you were gonna return the favor.”

“I was.”

“Then, why are you backing out?”

You’re shocked that he’s the pussy — pun-intended — in this scenario.

“I thought it might be too much for you.”

You grab his hand and slip it under the flimsy fabric of your shorts.

His eyes go wide.

Fucking hell, you’re wet, is the only thought on Joel’s mind. It makes sense. He’d be offended, maybe even worried if you were dry as a desert down there, but he’s barely touched you. Either you really enjoyed kissing him or you actually liked sucking him off too.

He gently presses the pads of his fingers against the wet spot on your panties.

“You’re right, baby. It’s only fair if I help you out.”

He’s able to get your shorts and your panties down in one swift pull. You look impressed by the action. Just you wait, he thinks. He’s not an expert by any means, but it’s not too hard to learn if you pay attention — and sex is one of the only times Joel does listen — it’s also not a skill you lose over time. It’s muscle memory, or maybe it’s innate.

His thumb rubs your clit lazily as he watches your face scrunch up in pleasure, your eyes fill with need. When the first finger slips inside you, he hears a breathy sigh come from above — it sounds like relief though he knows you haven’t come yet.

He’s never had a woman have such a strong reaction to his lips on her clit. It almost startles him at first. You’re frantic from the moment his lips meet your skin, crying out for him like you’re scared he’ll stop.

“Hey,” he says, “I’m right here. Don’t have to get so worked up. I’m gonna take care of you.”

He can’t say another word because his lips are occupied, so he relies on his hands, his soothing touch, to tell you that everything is alright. He gets the urge to tell you how good you are for him, how good you taste, how pretty you are like this, but he knows it’d be cruel to let up now. He’s callous often, sometimes harsh, but rarely cruel.

His instinct tells him to drag this out, to make your thighs shake, to have tears running down your cheeks, to tease you. To be the asshole that he tends to be when you’re around (and when you’re not). This is a version of Joel you might come to like.

He’s lived long enough to be well-practiced in this field of life. Doesn’t matter if he’s particularly romantic or even sociable, it’s just happened enough times over the course of fifty plus years for him to know the ins and outs. He can get you there quickly and lead you through it slowly.

He’s so used to you saying his name in a tone he considers pestering that he’s begun to hate the word itself. But when it’s drawn out and desperate like this, it sounds wonderful.

You’re at his mercy, he thinks. Which means he’s in control. And, as much as he’d hate to admit it, control does not mean he can kill you, control means he can care for you.

When you come down from your high, Joel is looking up at you from between your thighs with messy hair and kiss-dark lips. His smile looks like one of pride. Your cheeks heat up, only half-remembering what just happened. You could describe the event simply in a cause and effect relationship — he went down on you, so you came. You know what an orgasm feels like, but that was something beyond anything you’d ever experienced before. You fear an addiction may be coming on.

Your voice comes out shaky, which only makes your first words after a long silence sound stupider. “Thank you.”

He looks confused, and it takes him a moment to respond. “My pleasure,” he says, and you swear it might be when you see a semi through his sweatpants.

You’d offer more ‘help’ but you truly don’t think you can manage it. You can feel your body pulling you towards sleep. Your eyes have barely opened and they want to close again.

Joel notices because how could he not, you’re completely naked in every sense of the word.

“Get some rest,” he says before standing up.

He’s leaving.

“Where are you going?” you ask, instinctively.

“Downstairs.”

You do not want to say it. The fear of rejection is too strong, but so is the sudden urge to cry. Holding back tears is a strength of yours, though, so Joel never sees them. Somehow, after doing one of the most adult things, you feel like a baby in the wake of it. You are supposed to be taking care of him, and you are failing.

“What?” is his response to your refusal to meet his eyes.

“I just assumed you were going to stay. That’s all.”

“I can. If that’s what you need me to do.”

You don’t say anything. He climbs into bed anyway after picking up your underwear and handing it to you.

He doesn’t hold you but he doesn’t leave either. What he does do is kiss you on the forehead when he thinks you’re already asleep. It’s a compromise between your fear and your desire.

It isn’t as weird as one might think it would be — acting as if you’ve never done anything remotely sexual with one another. It’s easier because you don’t have to go back to being friends. You never really were. It was always awkward. What’s new? Only your knowledge that at least some of your feelings are mutual. Only the fact that you think about having sex with him every time he’s in front of you. It’s really just out of curiosity sometimes. What would he be like in bed? Does he want it too? How would you even broach the subject?

Sometimes, it’s not just curiosity. Those days are harder to navigate. You have to pretend like every little touch — most of them accidental — fuels the fire. It’s not the sensation itself. It’s just the acute awareness of his body, how close it is to yours, how easily you could reach out and touch him, that enters your mind.

“You’re staring.” Joel says from the other side of the couch.

“Sorry. I zoned out.”

“Got something’ on your mind?”

“Not really.”

“C’mon, what is it?”

“Why do you suddenly care about my thoughts?” About me.

“You think I didn’t care about you before? You’ve been in my house everyday for months now.”

“So?”

“And, I haven’t tried to kick you out yet.”

“You’re not allowed to kick me out. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Okay. How ‘bout this: I’m down here sitting with you because I know you don’t like to be alone.”

“So you pity me?”

“No, if I pitied you, I’d have told Tommy to give you a new job.”

“Okay, so, you expect me to believe you care but you refuse to talk to me half the time.”

“I’m not much of a talker. But, now that I’m trying to talk to you, you’re shutting me out.”

“I’m not— It’s just not a big deal. I don’t even remember what I was thinking about anyway.”

“Bullshit.”

“What?”

“I said, that’s bullshit.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll talk.”

You take a deep breath before speaking, one long enough that he gestures for you to go on.

“I was just thinking about what it would be like if we had sex.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, since we, you know, we did that stuff… it’s not like it’s a totally crazy thought.”

“‘That stuff’? Be more specific, honey.”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“I do, but you can’t be thinking about having sex with me when you can’t even use big girl words when you’re talking about it.”

“It doesn’t even matter.” Your face is burning. It so, totally, does matter. “I was just curious.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Mm-hmm. Go on thinking, I’ll get back to reading.”

“Wait, what? You just made me tell you that to make me embarrassed? You’re not even gonna—”

“What? Gonna fuck you?”

The word slips out of his mouth so easily.

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“Well, I’m not.”

Truth is: he’s been thinking about you every day since. He only caught you staring because he was doing the same. He tries to restrain himself because it feels like the right thing to do.

But he still, he acquiesces and takes you upstairs to his bedroom.

He lays you down on the bed and undresses you slowly like you’re a gift and he doesn’t want to tear the paper. He places your clothes atop the dresser, but leaves his strewn across the floor.

Wonder fills your eyes as he reveals his naked body. Hesitation and awe wrapped up in one.

“Wow,” you say, breaking the silence, “it’s, um, you know— do you think it’ll fit?”

It’s not the first time he’s heard that. It no longer brings him that bashful pride that it did when he was younger. It’s just a fact. A nuisance sometimes.

“Not if we don’t get you ready first.”

“Do you need to get ready first too?”

He looks down at his cock, rock-hard and eager.

“No, baby, just looking at you is enough to get me ready.”

A thought crosses his mind — one he thought he’d left in his teenage years — what if he comes too quickly?

He lies back on the bed next to you and reaches for you, waits for you to let him maneuver you.

“Come here,” he says.

You sit up and face him, slowly inch towards his arms that beckon you.

You’re fairly sure you know what he wants you to do. Sit on his face. But god, something about it seems awkward in the amount of control you simultaneously give up and are given in turn.

“You trust me, right?” he asks.

“Of course.”

An answer you wouldn’t have ever thought you’d give back when you first met.

“Then, come sit on my face.”

You swing your leg over him and steady yourself above his face.

He grips your thighs to guide you. You grip the headboard to save yourself from passing out the moment Joel’s mouth meets your skin.

Joel wouldn’t be the man you’d have thought would have such a talented tongue based on how little he uses it. You can’t blame him for not talking right now. Your moans echo off his bedroom walls and permeate the balmy summer air. The windows are closed and the curtains shield your naked bodies from the neighbors but even if you’d left them open, you wouldn’t have the sense to care.

You’re an incoherent mess of moans and half-words, trembling thighs and sweat. Your orgasm comes on strong, and if your eyes weren’t screwed shut, maybe you’d see the gates of heaven.

It’s been a while since he’s done this. Tess never liked it like this and the last woman before her was one from another lifetime, pre-outbreak, an inconceivable world despite having once called it home.

He’s not really thinking about that, though, in this moment, all Joel can think of is you. Your skin, your sweat, your heat, and the pretty noises you make. At one point, he swears he hears his name though your thighs are covering his ears. And he doesn’t mind it one bit.

“I’m gonna pass out,” he hears from above him.

“No, you’re not. I’ve got you,” he tries to say, though surely his words are muffled.

“Don’t let me go.”

He doesn’t. He carefully helps you lie back on the bed. When he meets your gaze, he swears he’s never seen adoration like that in anyone’s eyes before. At least, not in a long time.

It terrifies him, but in spite of his hesitation, he holds you close.

A blanket of peaceful silence settles over your bare bodies.

You speak quietly, trying not to awaken Joel’s senses. The ones that pull him away from you. The moment feels like glass in your hands.

“Are we going to have sex?”

“Hm?”

“We were going to, right? You were getting me ready for it.”

“I thought I wore you out.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean I want to stop.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’d tell you if you were.”

He hesitates.

“I’ll be good. I promise.”

Those are the words that awaken his arousal. In an instant, you find his body looming above yours. He kisses you until your lips are red and puffy. He doesn’t break your gaze as he positions his cock at your entrance. Your green light is your needy hips begging him to fuck you.

He starts slow, even the head is a stretch. You scrunch up your face and hold back the urge to squirm.

“It’s gonna be a little uncomfortable at first, baby, and that’s why we’re gonna take it slow.”

Slow is an understatement. It takes ages for him to give you another inch — or maybe you’re just antsy. This one makes you whimper, makes you clamp down around him.

“It’s okay, baby. You’re gonna be fine.”

Joel’s voice is tender and sweet, and it gives you enough hope to ask for something you think he’d usually deny you.

“Can you hold my hand?”

He interlocks his fingers with yours. It feels oddly natural. He doubts he’s heard someone ask to hold his hand since— not now, he’ll go soft if he thinks about her. He’ll close in on himself and you need him — in more ways than one.

He continues slowly as he promised he would until he hears your moans of pleasure and your pleas for more, more, more. More is a little bit faster, a little bit harder, as deep as you can take it, and most importantly, his thumb tracing circles on your clit.

You squeeze his hand with yours as your inner walls clamp down around him.

“Just let it happen. It’s okay. I’m right here.”

When you come, he does too — the most blissful mistake he’s ever made.

Curses fly out of his mouth through his orgasm, stopping briefly as he catches his breath, and resuming when he pulls out and watches as his come drips out of you.

“Fuck. Shit. Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you insist. “I liked it.”

“I’m glad you liked it.” Because I fucking loved it. “But, it’s dangerous. We’ve gotta be more careful.”

In the future — it’s implied. Another time is nothing when the lines have all been crossed and when the other side brings him a warmth the hot summer never could.

You have more power over him than the sun.

It becomes a routine — briefly — and you are more careful. You discreetly buy condoms, but when your next period doesn’t come, you fear it might be too late.

You don’t tell Joel, not at first. Sometimes, they’re irregular, and you don’t want to give the man a heart attack. But then a week passes, another week passes, and eventually you have to — especially when you’re beginning to feel a bit nauseous and have no other explanation for it. It’s better to say something before he asks.

“Joel,” you say, “I haven’t gotten my period yet.”

A look of horror crosses his face before he asks, “How late is it?”

You take a breath before admitting, “A few weeks.”

“How many?”

“Almost three.”

“Fuck.” He sighs in preemptive defeat. “Have you taken a test?”

“No, I thought it would come so I didn’t want to overreact.”

“We’re going to go get one.”

He stands up immediately and turns towards the door.

“Wait,” you say, stopping him in his tracks.

“I should probably get it. It’ll look less suspicious.”

No, it won’t. Those who suspect something is up with you, will have their suspicions, and those who don’t, won’t think to pay attention.

They recommend taking multiple because false negatives are common.

The first one is a clear positive, so clear you think it might be a false positive, so you wait to freak out until you see two lines come up on the second test.

Joel is silent, even when you hand him the test.

But, so are you, because what more is there to say? The tests say it all.

“I’ll do whatever you need me to,” he says, and you’re surprised until he clarifies.

“I doubt they’ll make you pay for the pill or the procedure — however they do it, but I’ll take care of you while you’re recovering. I’ll be there through it all. Promise.”

The pill or the procedure. The abortion that he expects you to have. Truth be told, you hadn’t really thought about what you’d do until now. It’s probably the right decision. Do you really want to bring a baby into this world? Can you even take care of one?

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll make an appointment.”

You save your tears for Maria. She approaches you in the clinic. You’d be delighted to see her at any other moment.

“Making an appointment?” she asks.

“Yeah, just a checkup,” you lie.

The woman at the counter clarifies with you. “Just a checkup? Is that what you’d prefer?”

You turn back and forth between her and Maria.

“Um, no,” you say, “keep it as is.”

Maria raises an eyebrow and there is nowhere left to hide. You might be able to outrun her, but she knows where you live and isn’t afraid to confront you at your doorstep.

She saves you some of your dignity when she whispers, “How about a chat at my place? I have some tea that helps with nausea.”

The tea is persuasive but you’d have to go anyway. You don’t speak on the walk to Maria’s. She brews the tea and you sit across from each other in the kitchen before she finally speaks.

“What’s the appointment for?” she asks. “And I’m not here to judge you, I just want the truth.”

You’re not my mom, you could say, but she’s the closest thing you’ve had to one since your own passed.

“An abortion,” you say quietly, looking down at the table, at your hands around the mug.

“Okay,” she says, gently. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

You try to reply but all the comes out is a sob.

Eventually, she pries the truth out of you. You explain what happened when you told Joel the news.

“So, he made the decision, and then told you he’d be there for you if he did what you wanted?”

“I guess. But, I think it might be the right choice. I mean, it'd be hard to raise a child in this world…” You cut yourself off when you look at her bump. She’s gonna be a mom, a good mom. And, stupidly, you’re jealous.

Even though it’s not there yet, you swear you can see a high chair in your periphery. You could be holding a warm bottle instead of a hot mug of tea. Maria could be feeding her child his first bite of baby food next to you.

“Let me ask you something, and I want you to really think about it, and be honest with me.”

You nod and wait for her question.

“If Joel had said he’d support you no matter what, even if you wanted to keep the child, if he said he’d step up as a father, would you have made the appointment?”

“I don’t know.” Oh, but you do. Maria waits for you to come to a conclusion, for you to spit it out.

“I like the idea of having a kid. I love kids, and I sometimes think about what it would be like being a mom, but I know that I can’t be one. Not right now.”

If there is one thing Joel can’t be, it’s a father. Not again. He’s too old, too grouchy, too cynical. He’s not the man he used to be. He was never good at it anyway. He couldn’t save his own kid. He’s already a failed father — once, if not, twice.

You’d be a great mother, and that’s the greatest tragedy. He’s failed you already. He’s not good at the kinder things of life. He shouldn’t have indulged in you, in the love you gave him when he cannot give it back. There are a lot of things Joel can’t quite get right — being a lover, a father, a good man.

Every night since the outbreak began, he’s watched Sarah bleed out in his arms. Sometimes he sees Tess, Sam and Henry, Bill, even Tommy which feels like an augury. Ellie is there almost every night, losing consciousness. Only sometimes is she in that hospital bed, often, she’s lying in the show, with blue lips and almost no pulse. Now, you’ve begun to enter his subconscious. You’re always too far out of reach, screaming his name until he’s shot dead, and the last thing he hears is you shriek as you watch him die in front of you.

Another person is another tragedy once they have the misfortune of coming into his life. There cannot be another person, especially not a child.

You should be back by now, he thinks as he splashes water on his face for the umpteenth time, hoping it’ll wash away all the mistakes he’s made.

He can tell it’s Maria by the way her knuckles rap on his front door. He can tell she’s pissed too.

When he opens the door, he sees you in standing behind her, like you’re afraid of him.

“Unless you want to have this discussion on your doorstep, I suggest you let me — us — inside.”

He does, reluctantly.

“Joel Miller, when do you plan on becoming a man?”

“What?”

“You just told her to make an appointment, didn’t even give her a chance to think about it? You managed to run away from your problems while you’re on house arrest. Impressive.”

“I thought that was what we both wanted,” he says, looking past her, to you.

“I guess, maybe,” you shrug.

The one thing he’s grateful for is Maria’s suggestion that you talk privately.

You sit further from him than usual, you refuse to meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask what you wanted. I thought I was making the right choice.”

“It’s okay. I don’t even know what I want.”

But the tears suggest otherwise.

“Do you want to keep the baby?”

“Maybe, but I can’t. It’s not a good idea.”

“That’s what I think, but Maria’s right, it’s your choice.”

“But I don’t know how to make that choice.”

“You’ve got a good heart. Follow it.”

You spend a lot of time thinking, remembering, and trying to convince yourself that there is no part of you that wants to be a mother. But, in your bedside drawer, there is a handful of photos — all from before the outbreak. You see your mom as a child on a swing set, and as a teen blowing out candles on her birthday. Her mom is in that one too, sitting next to her, smiling. You wish more than anything to have pictures of you and your mom.

You think about the little girl who pretended a ratty old stuffed bear was her baby. You can hear your mom telling you that you’re doing a good job, how you’ll be good at this one day. Your bedtime stories were never about fairy princesses, but about your family, the ones you didn’t get to meet.

“I wish I could have that,” you’d say.

“One day, you might be able to — the world is scary right now, but that doesn’t mean it’s gonna be like this forever,” she’d insist.

In retrospect, you wonder if she really believed that, if she really believed that teddy bear would one day be a baby that you’d be the one carrying, and she’d be the proud grandmother.

“I told her I wanted to be a mom like her,” you explain to Joel, and he understands.

You know about Ellie, but not about Sarah. Joel never brings either of them up to you. Until now. It’s a fair trade, he tells himself. Photos for photos, info for info. But it’s more than that.

“Hold on for one minute, I’m gonna go get something, and I’ll be right back.”

It’ll only take him a second to grab the pictures, but he’ll need a moment to compose himself.

“This is Sarah,” he says, pointing to the little girl in the photo. “My daughter.”

You’re silent for a moment, gazing at the photo, at a younger Joel you’ve never met.

You’re the first person not to tell him that you’re sorry for his loss, and he is relieved not to hear the empty sympathies once more.

“What was she like?” you ask.

It’s hard to explain, and for that reason, he talks for at least a half hour about Sarah. All her likes and dislikes, all his favorite moments from the day she was born until the day she died. He tells the story of that too.

When you try to tell him that he sounds like he was a good dad, he has to explain why he wasn’t.

“I couldn’t save her,” he says.

“I couldn’t save her either,” you say, pointing to your mother in one of the photos.

“You were just a child,” he says. “It’s not your fault.”

“And, you were just a man,” you say. “It’s not your fault.”

“A grown man.”

“Doing the best that you could.”

And you’re right. He did try his best. He stops arguing not because he’ll ever concede but because the weight of the present falls upon him all at once as he meets your eyes and remembers why you’re here.

He can’t have Sarah back, he can’t have Ellie back, but you’re right in front of him — and he loves you. It’s too late to turn back and kick you out on your first day, it’s too late to never speak to you, it’s too late to not love you.

It’s not too late to fail you like he’s failed everyone else. It’s not too late to do the opposite either.

You tell him your decision, and wait for his disagreement, for him to dissuade you. But, he doesn’t.

“Okay,” he says.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to try my best.”

You cancel the appointment and make the final decision, but it doesn’t feel real until Joel finishes building the crib in the spare bedroom. The most unexpected part is how excited you feel even when you’re nauseous, even when your feet are bloated, even when your back is killing you.

You’re also terrified, particularly when you hear Maria’s account of her labor and delivery. For someone describing how painful it was, she seems oddly unfazed, happy even. She’s too focused on her baby boy, and you get it — he is pretty cute.

When the day comes, you find that you’ve underestimated the pain entirely. The wounds you’ve gotten in combat are nothing compared to this. Every hour that goes by feels like a full day for you. Every time the doctor checks your dilation it’s still not yet time.

Until it is. And everything becomes a million times more chaotic. You swear the only thing keeping you sane is Joel’s hand in yours. (You have to apologize later for squeezing it so tightly.)

Finally, the telltale cry comes, and it feels like you’ve run a marathon by how exhausted you are and by how proud you are of yourself for doing it. This will go down as the greatest feat of your life and you are more than satisfied with that fact.

The doctor announces that it’s a boy and though he said he’d be fine with either gender, Joel’s smile is wider than you’ve ever seen it. You’re smiling almost as big. It hurts your cheek muscles but you can’t stop, especially when they hand you your baby boy. Though he doesn’t know how to speak, his hand wrapped around your finger tells you that it’s going to be okay.

There is so much pain in this world, but not in this room.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel x reader #tlou fanfiction

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very-merry-birthday · 13 days ago

Text

Pride

Lust Gluttony Envy Sloth Greed Pride Wrath Love

Summary: Dean knows just how to make you feel good, but this life can't last forever.

Warnings: Smut, praise kink, Deans an idiot in this part- even I'm annoyed at him and I wrote it.

[Asked to tag: @bitchykittenconnoisseur | @fertilise-me | @mysterialee | @impala67rollingthroughtown // Just reply/message for a tag!]

Sam kicked his brothers foot, hard, waking you both up from your slumber as he looked down at you.

"You two get a good night then?"

You blinked heavily, adjusting to the light. Sam stood at the end of the bed, takeaway coffee in hand, shaking his head at you both.

You looked down at yourself, thankful you'd managed to put on some clothes the night before, even if they had been Dean's. He wasn't fairing much better, lying only in a pair of boxers, not that Sam hadn't seen it all before. You could barely remember getting into bed after the shower, the end of your night an exhausted blur.

Dean wiped his eyes with the palm of his hand, trying to will himself awake as he looked over at his brother, "Damn, Sammy, I completely forgot to call- did you get your own room?"

Sam swallowed hard, looking over at you nervously, "Let's just say, that realtor felt real bad after she thought my wife left me for another man."

Dean laughed out loud, admiration for his brother beaming on his face. You chuckled, smiling up at him with approval.

"Not all bad, then?" You murmured, still feeling bad for the position you'd put him in yesterday.

"Not bad at all-" he stopped himself, trying to look stern, "but no repeats of that today. You two better know exactly what you're doing this time."

Dean put out a mock salute, only half listening.

"I'm being serious, we were lucky yesterday was nothing, but that means we've only got two more houses left. This open house is supposed to start in half an hour and you two aren't even awake!"

"It's an open house dude, that means we can turn up whenever!" Dean relaxed back into the bed, pulling you back close to him and kissing along your shoulder.

"Not if we want to check it out before anyone else turns up it doesn't, come on you two, up!" He kicked his brothers foot again.

You shifted away from Dean, wiggling your eyebrows at him, "He's bossier than you!"

Dean's face went flush, almost feeling embarrassed at how firm he'd been last night, before remembering the image of you coming undone on his cock. He pulled himself back together, trying to keep his face flat.

Sam rolled his eyes at you both, "You've got ten minutes, and then you better be out!" He chuckled lightly at his own tone, then spun on his heel and left again as you and Dean finally dragged yourself out of the bed.

Dean looked down at you, dressed in his clothes, and sucked in a sharp breath, the sight of you sending his mind spinning. He leant down in front of you, pulling the bottom of your shirt up so he could get a better look at the bruising on your hips. It wasn't bad, but it was definitely noticeable, a slight purple tint against your skin.

He kissed either side of your body, his lips pressed gently against you, and then looked back up at you, "You hurtin'?"

"I can barely feel them, Dean, it's okay." You hooked your finger under his chin, pulling him back up to face you, "Nothing I didn't beg for."

He grinned back at you, comfortable that you were okay, "Good girl."

You bit your lip, your legs going weak at the nickname, trying to keep yourself calm.

His eyes washed over you, your obvious aroused state, "Jesus, sweetheart, you get off on praise more than any girl I know!"

"I do not!" You pouted out your bottom lip, "You just sound good when you say that!"

He shook his head with a smile, finally breaking away his gaze to rifle through his bag, "Right, this is a massive house out in the suburbs, so we need to look the part, rich husband, gorgeous wife," he pulled out a shirt and tie from his bag, half crumpled, trying to shake it smooth, "we gotta look like we've got the dream life-"

You had been looking through your own bag, pulling out a short sundress you'd had stuffed in the bottom, the same dress you'd worn to that church all those months ago. As you held it up to yourself, looking in the mirror, he stopped talking, eyeing you carefully.

"You brought a dress like that on a hunt?"

"You never know when it'll be handy! And don't act like you don't love seeing my legs."

He swallowed hard, "Darlin' if your legs are out this whole thing is gonna fall apart, you expect me to look at anything else?"

You pushed his chest playfully, "Get dressed, Sam's waiting."

He did as you said, pulling his clothes on while watching you the whole time. You pulled his shirt off over your head, no effort to conceal yourself, as he fumbled with his own buttons, blinking hard to keep himself together. You pulled the dress back over, slipping his boxers off from underneath it and rifling through your bag for a new pair of underwear.

His hand reached out to your arm, stopping your movements, "Keep 'em off?"

"Dean I-"

"For me?" He cocked his eyebrow, dragging his eyes over your body.

"Fine!" You pushed your stuff back into your bag as you felt him press his body against yours, his face pushing into the crook of your neck.

"Look at you, following instructions so well."

You instantly regretted your decision, feeling arousal flooding you, pressing your legs together lightly. You spun around, adjusting the loose tie he'd only just put on, and rolled your eyes as you slipped away from him again, heading towards the door.

Only moments later was he following you out, both of you making your way towards the Impala that Sam was now leaning against. He let you slide into the passenger side as he made his way into the back.

As soon as Dean began to drive he planted his hand on your thigh, his thumb rubbing against your bare skin. You looked cautiously out of the corner of you eye, worried he was going to repeat his antics from yesterday, but instead he just kept it still, the implication enough to send you giddy. You liked this, liked the soft, homely feeling of Dean- his fingers burned into your skin, like they belonged.

"Okay. Open house." Sam spoke up, snapping you both back to reality, "You two are acting as a married couple, new to the area, you really want to know about the home. You need to go hard on searching the house while I go hard on this realtor-"

"Bet you will." Dean cut him off under his breath.

Sam rolled his eyes, not even bothering to respond to his comment, "You need to check every room for even one thing that looks out of place, alright? You both know what you're doing? No repeats of yesterday?"

You turned back to face him and nodded as Dean looked up at him in the mirror.

By the time you arrived at the house Dean had already created an entire imaginary persona in his head. He tried to present himself as easy going, someone who'd bring coffee and donuts into the office, someone who wouldn't ever forget his anniversary. Of course he didn't mention this to either of you, but he knew it could only make the ruse more believable.

He ran around to your side as soon as he'd pulled up, opening the door up for you, trying to be a gentleman. You looked up at him confused as he held it open, climbing out with a baffled smile.

"Just thought I'd open the door for my gorgeous wife."

Both of you instantly felt your chests tightening. You didn't say a word to each other, trying to keep your faces normal, but you couldn't get past the feeling. Dean coughed hard, the word wife had rolled out so easily, and sure he may have been joking, but he couldn't deny how much he enjoyed saying it. But it felt sickly sweet in his ears, like a lie he couldn't wait to believe.

Your heart began to pound in your ears, you didn't know if you could get through the whole morning with that word on his lips. You tried to not let it show, giving him a faltering smile as you lightly pushed his shoulder, of course he was just going with the plan! Sam followed you both out, none the wiser, trying to keep his mind on the day ahead.

"Okay you two," he looked at you both, "you know what you're doing?"

Dean looked down at you, thumbing the hem of your dress, dangerously close to lifting it and revealing your secret, "Course we do, stop worrying Sammy! Look at her, she always listens so well. Such a good girl!"

Sam didn't seem to notice the phrase, or just didn't care, as he made his way ahead of you both, you and Dean hanging back until he was turning the corner to the house.

You looked up at Dean, all the blood rushing to your face, "I don't know what point you're trying to prove but you've gotta stop."

You knew exactly his point, in fact you knew it the second you'd argued you weren't into him praising you. You'd regretted it instantly, knowing he wasn't going to let it lie.

"No point, sweetheart." He pushed his hand between your legs, drawing small circles on your inner thigh, "just want everyone to know how good you are."

You managed to break yourself away from him as he let out a small chuckle at your flustered state. He wrapped an arm over your shoulder, relaxed, and made his way towards the house, leaning his head down only slightly to kiss the top of yours.

You both walked in, his arm moving down to your the small of your back as you leant into him, trying to emanate the image of a married couple. You made eye contact with Sam, who gave you a small nod from the other side of the room, before turning away again, trying not to pay either of you any attention.

The realtor walked up to you both, holding a clipboard tight to her chest, as she welcomed you both in.

"Can I get your names for the list, please."

Dean spoke up without hesitation, "Names Doug," he tightened his grip on your waist, pulling you in closer, "and this is my stunning wife, Sharona."

Okay. Fake names. That made it easier. You weren't yourself anymore, Dean wasn't Dean. You weren't actually married. You were Doug and Sharona, newly weds, rich husband, trophy wife, easy.

You lent into him, smiling at the realtor, your own hand resting on his chest. You hadn't ever seen Dean in a shirt and tie before, and you had to admit it was a look that worked for him. Of course, you wouldn't change his usual dirt clad flannels and leather jacket any day, but for now, this was nice.

The realtor smiled at you both, "Well, make yourselves at home! This is a gorgeous property, only just put on the market-"

You stopped listening as Dean's hand fell back down to the hem of your dress again, running his fingers against it. Your breath hitched in your throat, trying to keep yourself calm.

"-so if you have any questions, please just come and find me!" She smiled at you, walking back away again where you saw Sam trying to catch her eye.

You looked up at Dean, taking his hand in your own to stop him from playing with your dress, pulling him away from the entrance.

"You've got to focus, Dean."

"I am focused!"

You led him around the corner towards the first room, a large kitchen, sparkling and modern. You began to rifle through the draws as Dean just stared at your legs, "I mean focus on the house!"

He broke away from you, looking through draws himself, pulling out a salt shaker from the cabinet with a cocked eyebrow as he looked back at you, "I am focused on the house! I can focus on you and on the case at the same time you know."

As quickly as you entered the kitchen you exited, working your way through every room on the ground floor, all while trying to keep an eye out for anyone else. Sam seemed to be doing a good job of keeping the realtor busy, no distractions in sight.

Dean tangled himself back into you as you made your way back to the entrance, walking past his brother lost deep in conversation. Dean shot him a small wink as he walked past, knotting his fingers into the side of your dress, trying to keep himself looking respectable. Once you made it to the stairs you both unwrapped yourselves again, making your way towards the rooms.

You entered the first one, a large walk in closet, and rifled your way through carefully. Dean had lost all sense of care now, keeping his eyes trained on you the whole time as you bent down to look under a chest of drawers.

"Now that's just not fair, sweetheart." He murmured, wrapped his hands around your hips.

You straighted yourself back up, trying not to care about how close he was to you, "Come on, we said we'd focus, for Sam."

"Oh and you always do what you're told, do you?" He kissed your neck lightly, trying to rile you up. It was working.

You smoothed your hand over the creases of his shirt, his chest solid under you, trying to keep yourself together. "Yes, I do actually."

You half walked, half pulled him towards the next room, his love-sick body still pressed against you, trying to kiss your neck. "Always?"

You made your way into the large bathroom, the bright lights shining down on the glistening surfaces. You had to admit, this beat the motel by a mile. You began to open up the cabinets, trying to find anything out of place, "Yes, always, Dean."

He pressed the door closed gently, turning the lock until he heard the click, eyes still on you. You looked back up at him, a grin spread across his face, as you felt arousal flooding you again. You kept your face flat, trying to present apathy.

"Well why don't you hop up on the countertop there for me, sweetheart?"

"Dean-" you whined, his expression was making this difficult.

"I thought you always did what you were told? Why don't you be a good girl and listen to me, darlin'?"

You bit your lip, contemplating. Looking at him stood in front of you, his shirt only extenuating his strong shoulders, loose tie looking like he'd just got home from a long day at the office, it felt so normal. So domestic, so safe.

You rolled your eyes, face finally breaking, "Okay. But we've gotta be quick."

He stepped towards you, wrapping his arms around you as he leant down to kiss you, his whole face filling with warmth, a chuckle rolling off of him and into your lips. He lifted you carefully up onto the sink countertop, pressing his whole body against yours as you wrapped a leg around him to pull him closer.

He broke apart from you for only a moment, looking down at your body below him, "This fuckin' dress."

Then he was kissing you again, heavy kisses, savouring every second your lips were against his, your taste, the heat from your face, your bodies entangled.

He sank down in front of you quickly, his hands on your thighs, breaking your legs apart so he could dive in. He pressed his face against your sensitive entrance, nestling himself against you, his tongue immediately diving into your folds, lapping at you as you leant your head back, shutting your eyes to focus on the sensation.

He found your clit quickly, his tongue circling it carefully as he listened to your breathing quicken above him. He groaned out, the vibrations flowing through you, your hand reaching out to comb through his hair.

He broke away, replacing his tongue with his thumb as he continued to tease your clit, looking up at you with a grin, "Fuck. You're soaked, darlin'."

You didn't respond, keeping your eyes shut, your mind only engaging with his movements.

"That all for me? All coz I keep telling you what a good girl you are?"

Your moan echoed into the room as he pushed his tongue back against you again. You could tell he enjoyed this, enjoyed having your legs wrapped over his shoulders, your body bucking against him, every gasp escaping your lips a sign he knew just where to touch you.

He pushed his finger into you and your hips began to grind against it instinctively, desperate and needy for him. With rhythmic thrusting he began to move his fingers, watching you unravel as his tongue continued to dance over your clit.

You tugged at his hair lightly, pulling him closer to you, your whole body tensing up with him between your legs. You could feel your orgasm begin to rise, your core tightening with every movement.

"Dean-"

He sped up the movements of his fingers, breaking his mouth away from you to hungrily kiss along your thigh, "That's it darlin', feel so fuckin' incredible, such a good girl for me-"

Your breath strained, your whole body afire at his words, your grip on his hair tightening as he groaned against your skin.

"Dean, please-"

"That feel good, darlin'?"

"Need you- please-"

He slowed his hands, kissing your thigh lightly, "What do you want, use your words, that's a good girl."

"Your cock, Dean, fuck-"

He gave you a sly grin, pulling his fingers out and sucking on them instinctively as he stood up. He unbuckled his belt, pulling out his already hard cock, and pumping it slightly in his hand as he looked down at you.

He pushed himself into you quickly, your head rolling back as he thrust his hips, keeping you on the edge of your orgasm, your body pulsating around him. You leant forward again, your foreheads colliding together, both of you panting as you bucked against each other, sharing one anothers breath.

He looked deep into your eyes, warmth spread over his face. He pressed his lips against yours, gently, hesitantly, your tight breaths slowing for a moment as you let your lips brush against one another.

And then he increased his speed, his hips thrusting harder as he pushed into you, filling you completely. You rolled your head back again, feeling the coil in your core tighten to breaking point. He looked down at you, cupping your cheek gently as he continued to pound into you.

"That's it, taking me so well, come for me, baby."

You let the sensation overwhelm you as you moaned out into the echoing room, your body convulsing under him, gripping onto his arms for stability. He continued to push into you as you came, watching as you unwound below him, your whole body tensing up and then releasing.

Moments later he pulled out, unable to stop his body reacting to the image, his cum spilling out onto your leg. His face fell against yours again, lips interlocking, both of you breathing deep as you tried to pull yourself back together, the heat from each others faces only prolonging the process.

He eventually let himself break away, his forehead covered in a thin sheen of sweat, the shirt and tie suddenly feeling claustrophobic against him. He reached over to the towels hanging nearby, pulling one off and handing it to you as he stuffed his cock back into his pants, rebuckling his belt. You wiped his cum off of your leg before hopping back off the counter and smoothing out the bottom of your dress.

He took another look at you standing in front of him, your short dress, blush tinted face, and felt his chest tighten again. He'd hoped it was just the tension, the need for sex, the need for you. But there was something else tugging at him, a feeling deeper he couldn't escape.

You hung the towel back up on the side, pulling yourself back together as you helped him to straighten out his tie again. "Yeah, lovely property, nice bathroom, should we put in an offer?"

He laughed at your joke, beaming down at you with a smile. He wanted to think of something witty, something to make you laugh back, but could only form a goofy grin.

You opened the bathroom door back up, thankful to find it empty on the other side, no Sam disappointedly tapping his foot like you'd been worried about, and continued your search of the house.

Dean trailed behind you, watching you walking ahead of him into the large bedroom.

"You're kidding right, they have a bed that big and we just did it in their bathroom!?" You shook your head, looking back at him.

"Can't have sex in another man's bed, that's just weird."

"Oh but we can do it on their sink?"

He rolled his eyes at you, looking through their belongings as he began to come to the conclusion that this was once again a very normal house. Part of him was thankful, glad he had another day with you tomorrow, another chance at pretending to be your husband. Maybe this time he could use his actual name.

But part of him also felt sick, the realisation that once this case was done, you'd be off again, back home, back to your life, back to-

"Did you say something last night?" You didn't take your eyes off your searching as you questioned him.

"I said a lot last night, sweetheart, you'll have to narrow it down."

You rolled your eyes, "I mean after the shower, when we were in bed, did you say something?"

His memories flooded back to him, the feeling he'd had, watching you as you drifted off to sleep, his shirt draped over you. That feeling of heartache he'd buried all morning, "I- I don't know-"

"Must've imagined it." You made your way out the door, walking towards the next room.

You were in it first, Dean following behind you. You began looking through before he'd even made it in. Dean, however, stopped in his tracks the moment he stepped in, realizing too slowly that this was a child's room, the small bed in the corner, a mobile hanging from the ceiling, and you, standing so perfectly in the middle of it, like you belonged, like you were his wife, like he couldn't ever picture you being anything else.

He stumbled his way towards the tiny bed, sitting down on the end of it to stop his legs giving way. He let himself speak again, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "Do you want this? This life? House in the suburbs, husband by your side, white picket fence life?"

"Maybe, yeah, one day." You smiled over at him, not noticing the state he was in, "When I find the right person to do it with."

He swallowed hard as two realizations fell over him, both of which he'd known for a very long time but had refused to think about until this very moment.

The first, was that he truly, without a question in his heart, loved you. It wasn't want, wasn't need, it was love. He loved everything about you, your courage, your wits, your kindness. He loved the way you smiled at him in the morning, a glimmer of sleep still in your eye. He loved how you nestled into his neck whenever he hugged you. He loved how you'd laugh at his jokes, even when they weren't funny, and how you were one of the only people who'd seen every vulnerability he had. He loved you with everything inside him and he couldn't deny it to himself anymore.

The second, which hit him like a ton of bricks only a moment later, was that he could never tell you that. Never tell you any of it. Because he cared about you, more than you could ever know, and it was for that reason that he'd never admit his feelings. You deserved more than him, more than what he had. You deserved the life, the house, the dream man. You deserved everything, everything he could never give you.

He tensed his jaw, speaking before he'd even thought about the words, "We need to stop."

"What?" You chuckled, half listening as you continued to look through the draws.

"This." He stood up, "Us. We need to stop what we've been doing."

You slowed your movements, turning to look at him as he continued.

"This is getting too much, we've both been treating this like it's something more than it is. Looking at it like something's gonna happen here, when it's not. We've gotta stop before we do something that we both regret."

You started to walk towards him, "Dean, I don't regret-"

He kept his face firm, "Sweetheart-"

"Don't call me sweetheart." You cut him off, feeling anger rising inside you at his tone. You felt used, and dirty, the imprint of him still on your body, still inside you. "What are you talking about?"

"You don't belong with me- with us. You belong back home, doing your own thing. Not in our life, not following us around every time we call." He'd meant the words to be kind, to be freeing, swallowing his pride and letting you go, instead they only came out as firm, harsh.

You reached up to your necklace instinctively, fiddling with the star pendant between your thumb and finger, "You're being cruel."

"I'm being honest."

You felt your face going white, your body rejecting every part of the situation in front of you, ready to fight it, adrenaline pumping through you. "Be very careful about what you say here, Winchester."

"Sweetheart-"

"Don't call me sweetheart." You swallowed hard.

"Y/N, I- You shouldn't be here."

"Tell me to go and I go, Dean."

"I don't want you to go-"

"Then tell me to stay."

He fumbled with his tie, looking down at his feet.

You felt tears prickling at the back of your eyes, heat on the back of your neck, every part of you telling you to run. You swallowed hard, trying to keep some sense of dignity despite the situation.

His voice, a million miles away, "This was a mistake."

You were out the room before you'd even realized, your legs moving free of your thoughts as you barreled through the house, out the front door, trying to breathe as slowly as you could, the air suffocating you.

You finally let yourself cry.

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pastelchad · 2 years ago

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Hello yes I am a full time college student starting TOMORROW I am so fucking scared

#after 5 years of part time i got spoiled #and now i truly am a student bc i blinked and i now have $3500 in debt #yet my credit score went up somehow so now i am Enabled #it just crept up so fast #the funny part is that since my program is only a year ppl are acting like its soooo easy but like this is a lot of information #itd probably be better for me if it were 2 years. my long term memory tends to be better than my short term #but im really really really hoping by this time next year ive escaped the suburbs. i need out i fucking hate it here #vent in tags #personal

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maskedbyghost · 26 days ago

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In Sickness, In Health, In Surveillance (4)

Synopsis: To spy on a dangerous neighbor, you and Simon have to pretend you’re married, even though you’re constantly at each other’s throats. The longer you fake it, the harder it gets to keep your distance.

Tags/CW: slow burn, fake marriage, undercover mission, forced proximity, invasion of privacy, mild violence, explicit sexual content

Masterlist

Friday evening creeps up quicker than either of you wants it to. The whole day has been dragging slowly, the way days in the suburbs do when you’re used to missions that make your heart beat too fast and end with a gun or a hospital visit or both.

The house is clean enough. The fake fridge calendar has just enough scribbled appointments to make it look lived in. And Michelle’s message has been sitting on the burner phone since noon,

dinner invite at seven, can’t wait to see you both again!

You’re leaning against the kitchen counter, stirring your cup of tea and staring out the back window, even though nothing is interesting out there except that same white fence and the neighbor’s lawn that still hasn’t grown back properly.

Simon’s at the sink, rinsing something off, and he doesn’t look over when he says, “So we’re going to dinner.”

You roll your eyes. “Was that ever in question?”

“No,” he says, shaking his hands off and grabbing a towel, “but let’s just go over and not do anything stupid.”

You snort. “Define stupid.”

He finally glances at you, slow and already annoyed. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“I’m just saying,” you mutter, pushing away from the counter and stepping into the middle of the kitchen, “it wouldn’t hurt to take a quick look around. Bathroom cabinet, maybe an office if there’s one. I’m not talking about setting off alarms, just keeping my eyes open.”

“No,” he says flatly. “Not yet.”

You raise a brow. “You scared?”

“Cautious,” he corrects, tossing the towel onto the counter. “There’s a difference between reckless and smart, and I’m not about to blow this whole thing over your need to snoop through someone’s sock drawer.”

You cross your arms. “So what, we’re just gonna sit there, smile, nod, eat lasagna and play house while Delaney keeps hiding whatever the hell he’s hiding?”

“For now,” he says, and the way he says it makes your jaw twitch. “That’s the assignment. Blend in, be normal, married, and boring as hell. And don’t raise suspicion.”

You exhale sharply. “We’re already in. We’ve got access. If we don’t start pushing now, we’ll miss the window.”

Simon steps closer, still calm, still in that annoying controlled tone that only makes you want to argue more. “If you start pushing now, you’re gonna get the window slammed in your face. You think he’s not watching us? You think Michelle hasn’t been reporting back everything we say?”

“She likes me,” you mutter.

“She likes the version of you that bakes and waves back and pretends not to hate her taste in flowers,” he says. “You go digging around their house and it’s over. He’ll vanish again.”

You grit your teeth, your arms crossed tighter. “So we do nothing.”

“We do this smart,” he says. “We watch, build trust, and when the time’s right, then we move. Not before.”

You stare at him for a long second, because you know he’s not wrong, but the burn in your chest says you still hate it. Sitting on your hands, playing polite. You’re good at smiling, but you’re better at getting answers, and you can feel them just on the edge of reach.

He sighs, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “You wanna get in that house? Then don’t act suspicious tonight. Don’t push, just play the part.”

You lean back against the fridge, arms still crossed. “Fine.”

There’s a pause.

“You gonna wear something normal?” he asks.

You narrow your eyes. “What, you mean like a dress?”

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t hurt. We’re supposed to be boring.”

You grin without smiling. “I’ll borrow one of Michelle’s aprons.”

Simon snorts under his breath and turns away to grab his mug.

You glance at the clock. Two hours until dinner. Two hours to remind yourself not to punch your charming fake neighbor in the teeth. Two hours to try and look like someone you’ve never been, standing next to a man who’s pretending to be your husband.

You push away from the fridge and head for the bedroom without another word, already planning your outfit and calculating the route through the hallway in case an opportunity does present itself.

You’ll play nice for now.

But you’re not walking into that house blind.

You weren’t trying to make a thing of it. It was just a dress. One that had been folded into the bottom of your bag because you figured you might need it for something like this, something neighborly, where looking decent enough would mean fewer questions.

So you put it on. It fit better than you remembered, snug around the waist and soft at the shoulders, and you swiped a bit of mascara on, maybe some color on your cheeks, just enough to stop looking like you’d been arguing with Simon for two days straight.

You didn’t do anything to your hair except run your fingers through it, and you didn’t wear perfume, and you told yourself it was only a dress and not some sort of statement. It was just the assignment. Just showing up, playing the role, not raising suspicions.

Still, when you stepped out of the bedroom and walked down the hallway, pulling at the sleeve a little because suddenly it felt too bare, you were already bracing yourself. Not for anything in particular. Just for whatever Simon would say, or wouldn’t say. You weren’t expecting anything.

He was standing near the window, already dressed and ready. Button-down shirt rolled to the elbows, dark slacks, clean shoes, and that watch he always wore. He wasn’t facing you when you came in, but he heard your steps, so he turned just a bit to look.

And then he didn’t say anything.

He just looked at you.

Really looked.

Not the usual half-annoyed glance he always gave you when you walked into a room or started talking too fast or said something he didn’t agree with. Not the blank look he gave strangers. It was something that made you feel suddenly too warm at the collar and too aware of the way the room had gone quiet.

You shifted a little, waiting for him to speak, but he didn’t, not right away.

So you cleared your throat and raised an eyebrow. “What? Is something wrong with it?”

That snapped him out of it. He shook his head, slowly, still looking at you. “No. It’s just—” His mouth pressed into a line for a second, then relaxed. “You look really nice.”

It wasn’t sarcastic, nor a joke. He said it so plainly that it threw you completely off. Not because of the words themselves, but because they were so... normal, as if he didn’t even mean to say them out loud and had already moved past them in his head.

You looked down for a second, just to get your face under control. “Right. Thanks.”

You moved to grab the keys off the hook near the door, suddenly unsure of what to do with your hands, trying to focus on anything instead of the fact that Simon Riley had just said you looked nice, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

When you glanced back at him, he was still watching you, but this time it was different. There was something thoughtful in the way his eyes lingered on your face, and it made you feel strange.

“You ready to go?” you asked, voice steadier than you expected it to be.

He nodded, grabbing the keys from you. “Yeah. Let’s just get through this without burning down the Delaneys’ house.”

You rolled your eyes. “No promises. If there’s a chance to sneak into an office or check a drawer, I’m taking it.”

He turned his head as you opened the door, that familiar scowl starting to settle across his features. “You said you’d be careful.”

“I am careful,” you said, stepping out onto the porch. “You’re just uptight.”

He followed you out, locking the door behind him. “And you’re reckless.”

“Which is why we make such a great couple,” you muttered, walking a little ahead now, trying to hide the stupid way your heart was still going faster than it should have been.

Behind you, he caught up with longer strides, staying close but not saying anything else. He didn’t touch you, didn’t make another comment about the dress or the way your voice had gone a bit breathy back there, and you were grateful for that, because you weren’t sure what you would’ve said if he did.

You just kept walking together, shoulder to shoulder, toward the neighbor’s house, already slipping back into the rhythm of the lie. But this time, it felt a little harder to separate it all, what was fake, what was real, what was creeping in under your skin without permission.

And the worst part was, you weren’t even sure you wanted to push it back out.

The Delaneys’ backyard looked exactly the way you expected it to. String lights stretched out over the patio in neat little rows, warm and yellow and soft, casting everything in that golden-hour glow even though the sun was already gone. There were two tables set up near the fence, one stacked with food, the other with plates, napkins, and forks.

A few neighbors were scattered across the space, drinks in hand, chatting in those overly friendly tones. There was music, too, something low, so it didn’t interrupt conversation.

You followed Simon down the short path along the side of the house, trying not to look like you were analyzing every single person in the yard, even though that’s exactly what you were doing. You could already see Michelle near the grill, laughing with someone you didn’t recognize, and Mark was a few feet away, beer in hand, talking to an older couple who looked like they’d lived in the neighborhood forever.

Simon reached the edge of the patio first, paused long enough for you to catch up, then leaned toward you just a bit and muttered under his breath, “Just be normal.”

You glanced up at him. “You’re saying that to me?”

He didn’t answer, just gave you a look before stepping forward, raising his hand slightly in a vague wave as Michelle spotted you.

“There you are!” she said, beaming, already weaving through the small crowd toward you. She had on a sundress with a sunflower print and those same ridiculous sandals from the garden the other day, and she smelled like something sweet. “We were starting to think you weren’t coming.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you said with a polite smile, stepping in to return the quick hug she offered.

Simon nodded beside you. “Thanks for having us.”

“Oh please,” Michelle waved him off, already linking her arm loosely through yours and tugging you toward the drink table. “We’ve been looking forward to this all week. It’s been so long since we had new faces on the block who weren’t, you know, weird.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Weird how?”

She grinned. “We had a couple move in two summers ago who never spoke to anyone and apparently lived with six cats. No one ever actually saw the cats, but we all knew they were in there. The place reeked. Anyway, they moved out after three months. Left a mattress on the lawn.”

You blinked. “That’s... tragic.”

Michelle handed you a plastic cup with something fizzy and pink. “You two are a breath of fresh air in comparison.”

You took a small sip, more out of politeness than anything, and tried not to look over your shoulder at Simon, who had already gotten roped into a conversation with Mark.

You stayed with Michelle for another couple of minutes, nodding along to her enthusiastic updates about who grew the best tomatoes last summer and how the Johnsons were trying to sell their car again for double what it was worth, and then she pulled you back over toward the patio, gesturing for you to rejoin your husband.

Mark turned toward you as you approached, tall and easygoing, his smile the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So you’re the couple that’s been making the street look better,” he said, offering his hand.

You shook it, firm and polite. “Thanks for inviting us.”

“Michelle insisted,” he said, glancing over at her with a smile that felt a little too smooth. “But I’m glad she did. Always nice to get a feel for who’s living next door.”

Simon let his hand brush against yours briefly before stepping half a step closer, like it wasn’t a big deal, and he wasn’t subtly closing the distance between you and Mark without making it obvious. You didn’t comment on it.

Mark looked between the two of you, the smile still in place. “So what brought you here? Big city too loud for you?”

You shrugged. “Something like that. We were just ready for a change. We figured this was a good spot to start something new.”

Mark nodded slowly. “It’s quiet, mostly. Michelle makes sure it stays that way.”

Michelle rolled her eyes. “I just keep people from letting their kids scream at seven a.m.”

“Public service,” you said, smiling into your cup.

Someone called Michelle’s name from across the yard, and she excused herself with a little wave, already halfway into the crowd again.

Mark stayed, taking a slow sip of his beer. “You both seem like you’ve been together a while.”

You glanced at Simon briefly, saw the way his jaw shifted slightly, like he wasn’t sure how to respond, so you jumped in first.

“Met a few years back. It wasn’t exactly smooth at first, but it stuck.”

Mark raised an eyebrow, amused. “One of those rocky starts?”

Simon let out a short breath. “Bit of that. Bit of stubbornness on both ends.”

“Fair enough,” Mark said, raising his glass slightly before turning to rejoin the other couple he’d been talking to earlier. “Well, enjoy the party. Try the potato salad. It’s not terrible this year.”

When he walked off, you finally let out a slow breath and turned to Simon. “What the hell was that?”

He shook his head, already scanning the yard again. “He’s watching. Definitely the type who smiles while he’s sizing you up.”

You nodded, shifting a little closer so no one would overhear. “Michelle’s friendly but not stupid. We have to be careful.”

“We’re doing fine,” Simon said, low and calm.

“You didn’t say much.”

“I didn’t need to. You were doing enough for both of us.”

You almost elbowed him, but someone walked by with a tray of tiny desserts, and you forced a polite smile instead.

“Let’s just survive the night,” you muttered, already dreading the second round of conversations you’d have to endure. “We’ll talk about it when we’re home.”

Simon’s eyes lingered on you for a second longer, something passing between you before he finally nodded. “Yeah. Later.”

And just like that, you were back in character, smiling, sipping, nodding. Playing the part. Keeping up the story, while trying not to fall too far into it.

An hour later, the drinks were flowing, the music had softened into some kind of chill background noise, and most of the neighbors had gathered in loose little circles, swapping boring stories and pretending they weren’t already thinking about when it’d be acceptable to leave.

You’d been nursing the same drink for an hour, half-listening to some guy talk about his job, and Simon was a few feet away, arms crossed loosely, saying very little, which fit him just fine.

Michelle had vanished inside a while ago, probably refilling something, and Mark was busy laughing loudly at whatever story someone was pretending to tell.

You gave it another few minutes, let your gaze drift casually toward the house, and then made the call.

“Back in a sec,” you said softly to no one in particular, your eyes already tracking the back door.

You didn’t wait for Simon to follow. You didn’t look over your shoulder. Just slipped inside with a quick wave at Michelle, who was in the kitchen pouring wine and humming to herself, and said, “Bathroom,” as you passed, pointing vaguely down the hall.

“Second door on the left,” she called out, cheerfully.

You nodded, smiled, and then walked right past it.

The hallway creaked under your steps, a little too loud in the quiet of the house. You paused at the end, cracked open one door and found a closet, cracked the next and found what you were looking for.

The office.

It was too neat. The type that made you immediately suspicious. Books lined the shelves, spines all facing out, too perfect, honestly. The desk was spotless except for a lamp, a closed laptop, a small leather notebook, and a tray with two pens and one very out-of-place flash drive.

You stepped inside, shut the door quietly behind you, and crossed the room, scanning everything with fast, trained eyes. You didn’t know what you were looking for exactly, but you’d know it when you saw it.

You slid the notebook open first, filled with notes on shipments, numbers, scribbles, nothing concrete, but it wasn’t nothing either.

You flipped another page.

Behind you, the door clicked open.

Your entire body tensed before you even turned, because you already knew who it was.

Simon stepped inside and shut the door again, not loudly, but not gently either. His jaw was tight, shoulders rigid, eyes locked on you in that hard, disappointed way that made your stomach twist.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he hissed, voice low, moving toward you fast enough that you backed off the desk instinctively.

“Looking,” you snapped. “We’re not here to sip wine and play nice forever—”

“You’re trying to get caught.”

You stepped around him, hands still slightly raised like you weren’t done yet. “No, I’m trying to do something useful before this whole thing turns into another month of waiting for him to fuck up.”

“This isn’t the plan.”

You turned on him. “Plans change.”

He exhaled hard, jaw clenching again. “You think I don’t want to know what’s going on in this house? You think I haven’t wanted to tear this place apart since the second we walked in?”

“Then why the hell aren’t you helping?” you bit out.

“Because I want us to last longer than a fucking week in this op,” he snapped, stepping in closer now. “Because this is how people disappear. You poke around too early, he gets wind of it, we’re done.”

You didn’t move.

You just stared at him, chest rising and falling, adrenaline making your skin hot.

“I don’t care,” you said, not even trying to lie.

“Well, I do,” he fired back. “So you’re gonna leave. Right now.”

You didn’t answer.

You just stood there, heat crawling up your neck, hands clenched, and everything in you screaming to keep going, keep pushing, because you were so damn sure you were close to something.

“Now,” Simon repeated, voice low.

And for a second, you couldn’t tell if you wanted to hit him or not.

Simon’s eyes were still locked on yours, his chest rising slowly, and for a second, you thought maybe he’d walk away, maybe he’d grab your arm and drag you out, maybe this would end with a whispered warning and a slammed door.

But then you heard it.

Footsteps.

Heavy footsteps are getting closer to you. The hallway floor creaked, sending a cold jolt straight through your veins.

You barely had time to twist your head toward the sound before Simon was moving towards you, without hesitation. One hand shot up, gripping your jaw with a possessive strength that made your breath hitch. The other slammed against your waist, yanking you hard enough that your back slammed against the edge of the desk.

And then his lips were on yours.

Not soft, nor hesitant, but hard and sharp, like he was trying to shove every insult, every grudge, every wordless argument you’d ever thrown at each other into this single kiss.

You staggered under the force of it, your hands flying up to press against his chest, steadying yourself as your heart pounded so loudly you were sure it echoed off the walls.

Your first screaming instinct was to shove him away, to put as much distance between you as possible. But your body betrayed you, leaving you frozen, caught in the storm of something dark and complicated and dangerous.

His hand stayed firm on your jaw, tilting your face like he knew exactly how to navigate the chaos, as if this wasn’t the first time.

And then—

The door creaked.

You flinched, breath catching.

Simon didn’t.

The kiss slowed, softened just enough to look like something real, something that could be mistaken for affection. His lips pulled away just enough to barely brush yours as the footsteps stopped right behind you.

“Oh,” Mark said, voice clipped and way too casual. “Didn’t realize this room was… occupied.”

Simon turned his head slightly, still too close, still keeping you half-sat on the desk like he had every right to be there. “Sorry,” he said, calm and breathless, his hand slipping from your face to your back, both of you trying to collect yourselves. “She said she wanted to sneak away for a minute. I didn’t think anyone’d be in here.”

You blinked hard, heart still racing, your lips still tingling, but you found your voice just enough to add, “We didn’t mean to intrude. Really.”

Mark smiled, but his eyes were sharp. “This is my office.”

“Right,” Simon said, nodding, stepping back just enough to help you off the desk without making it weird. “Won’t happen again.”

Mark didn’t answer at first. He just stared for a second longer, then gave a short, polite chuckle that didn’t sound all that amused. “No harm done,” he said finally. “But I’ll have to ask you to leave the room. Don’t want anything… getting knocked over.”

“Of course,” you said quickly, smoothing your dress with hands that were still shaking just a little.

Simon gave a tight nod. “Sorry about that.”

You both slipped past him, back into the hallway, and you didn’t even dare breathe until the office door clicked shut behind you.

You were halfway to the patio again before either of you spoke.

“Think he bought it?” you asked under your breath, not looking at Simon.

“No,” he said, voice low. “He didn’t.”

You glanced over at him finally and caught the edge of it, the stiffness in his jaw, the way his hand twitched once at his side before he shoved it into his pocket, the way he scanned the backyard with too much focus.

You both stepped outside again, just in time to catch Mark rejoining Michelle by the grill, his mouth tight.

“He’s suspicious,” you muttered, sticking close to Simon as you weaved through the other guests.

“I know,” he said. “And now we’ve got a bigger problem.”

You looked up at him, lips still slightly parted, mind still spinning. “Which is?”

He glanced at you, just once, jaw tense. “Don’t think I’ll kiss you again without a damn good reason.”

You didn’t have time to reply.

Michelle waved you over, her smile bright, and just like that, the moment was over.

But your heart was still pounding.

And Simon didn’t look any calmer than you.

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb @havoc973 @jajouska @fruitymoonbeams-blog @cece2608 @starryylies @silmarilniky @venavanup @lostintransist @m00nl1gh4 @fertilise-me @blush-haze @sigynxlokiwifelover @dollfwn @ravenduskabyss @soltwent @saik-k @skzthinker @strawberrygato @shaldaar @n-ae-vis @karagd13-blog

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x female oc #simon riley imagine #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost x you

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wordsofwhimsy · 2 months ago

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─✧ 𝒞𝓁𝒶𝒾𝓂 𝒐𝒓 𝑹𝒐𝒕 ✧═

Pairing: Retro!Mark Grayson x fReader

Warnings: None

Tags: Slow burn

Word Count: 2,007

Synopsis: You were the glossed-up, diamond-dripping queen of his empire—the only thing he ever treated gently in a world he tore to shreds. But lately? You’ve been feeling more like an afterthought than royalty. So after two many fights, you finally do what no one else in the multiverse dares: You leave.

You don’t slam the door.

You don’t scream.

You just roll your tiny suitcase across the marble floor like it’s a runway and you’re doing a final walkout in six-inch heels and Chanel gloss. And he—he—is standing there in the doorway like the apocalypse showed up early.

“Where the hell are you going?”

You adjust your sunglasses. Indoors. “Out.”

His jaw clenches. That stupid perfect jaw, carved like it was meant to be clenched. The goggles are still on his face even though he’s home now, but you can feel his eyes boring into you like lasers through your mini skirt.

“Out,” he repeats, voice low. Dangerous. “You’re not serious.”

You scoop your Pomeranian into one arm, brush a fleck of lint off your jacket. “Baby, I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” he says, low and cold, like the threat isn’t in his words but buried under them. “What are you even mad about?”

You pivot halfway, just enough to flash him a smile so sweet it curdles.

“Oh, I don’t know—maybe the fact that I haven’t seen you in eight days? Maybe the part where I had to Google whether you were dead or dismembered because you’re too busy playing Mortal Kombat with alternate versions of yourself to answer a damn text?”

He flinches. Just barely. But you catch it. And it gives you just enough juice to keep going.

“Or maybe,” you hum, adjusting your grip on your suitcase handle, “it’s the fact that the only person who touches me lately is my nail tech.”

His jaw tightens so hard it pops.

You step into the elevator like it’s a throne room. Gaze straight ahead. Not giving him the dignity of one last look. Not until—

“Stop.”

His voice hits you like a gunshot.

You turn, slowly.

He’s halfway to you. Gloved hands clenched at his sides, goggles still hiding everything but the rage. That seething, helpless, desperate fury that only ever comes out when you remind him you’re not his possession.

“You leave,” he says through his teeth, “and I’ll find you. Doesn’t matter where you go. Doesn’t matter who you’re with. You think someone else can give you what I can?”

You shrug. Innocent. Airy. Theatrical.

“I mean… maybe not the private jet,” you say, twirling a strand of hair around your finger. “But, like, I don’t need that. I could be happy with something simple.”

He laughs. Short, bitter, and sharp. The goggles tilt as he shakes his head.

“Oh, sure. Something simple.” His tone is mocking at this point. “Like what? A two-bedroom condo in the suburbs? Sunday Target runs with some guy named Brad who drives a hybrid and calls you ‘babe’ while he loads organic groceries into the back of his Prius?”

Your smile widens. “Sounds kinda cute.”

His hands curl into fists.

You press on, basking in it now. “Maybe I’ll get a desk job. Something stable. Quiet. We’ll get a golden retriever. Host wine nights. I’ll get really into throw pillows.”

He steps forward. One slow, heavy footfall that makes the elevator creak.

“You. Wouldn’t. Last. A week.”

You giggle, like he’s complimented you. “You think I’m too high maintenance?”

“I think you’re full of shit,” he snaps. “You wake up in silk sheets. You don’t even own a microwave. You once cried because a hotel didn’t have truffle fries on the room service menu.”

“That was an emotionally vulnerable day,” you sniff, wounded. “And I missed lunch.”

He’s pacing now. Eyes blazing behind the goggles. Voice rising just enough to make the little dog in your arm tuck its ears.

“You don’t want ‘normal.’ You want worship. You want someone to carry your bags and buy you diamonds and treat you like a goddamn princess every minute of the day.”

You tilt your head, batting your lashes. “And yet here I am—unloved, underfucked, and walking out the door.”

The elevator shudders when he slams a hand against the wall.

You don’t flinch.

Because you know him. You built this man. And you’re the only thing in this universe he’d never lay a hand on—except to hold.

His voice is lower now. Hoarse.

“Tell me what you want.”

You meet his gaze, your own voice suddenly smaller. But not weak.

“Just you,” you whisper. “All of you. Not this half-assed, war-hungry ghost version that flies in and out like I’m some layover between battles.”

And that’s when you see it. The crack. Right behind the lenses. In his posture. In his chest. Like someone just took a crowbar to the armor and he didn’t even try to stop it.

His shoulders drop, just slightly. A breath punches out of him, and you can see it all now—the fear. The confusion. The twisted little knot of boyhood grief and grown man rage all tangled up behind those stupid silver goggles.

You’d feel bad for him, maybe. If it weren’t always you left holding the pieces.

“If you want me,” you say, soft but sure, “then act like it.”

You wait. He doesn’t move. So you nod. Just once. Like you’re sealing something off inside yourself.

Then you step back, gripping the handle of your suitcase before rolling it over the threshold of that elevator like it’s the closing shot of a music video.

“You’re not really going,” he says.

You pause. Turn just enough for him to see your beautiful lips curve upward—quiet, worn, and finally tired.

“I wasn’t really staying.”

The elevator doors begin to slide shut.

He lunges again—but it’s too late.

Too slow. It had to be intentional, didn’t?

The last thing you see is his silhouette.

Tall. Still. Lost.

The last thing he sees is you.

Gloss poppin’. Heels sharp. Gone.

—

TWO WEEKS LATER…

The walls are beige. The countertops? Granite. There’s a bowl of decorative lemons on the table and a man named Kevin humming while he washes wine glasses.

You’re in hell.

You sip from your oversized glass of “locally sourced” white wine and stare out the patio window of Kevin’s perfectly normal condo. It’s got a view of the community pool and a sad little grill he’s “meaning to use more often.” There’s an HOA newsletter on the fridge.

You’ve made a huge mistake.

Kevin walks up behind you, wraps his arms around your waist like he’s done it a million times (it’s been four days), and nuzzles into your hair.

“You know,” he murmurs, “I’ve been thinking... maybe we could hit that couples’ painting class I told you about. You said you like art, right?”

You smile. The kind that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“That sounds… sweet.”

Kill me, you think.

And outside? Just out of view? Hovering mid-air in a hoodie and not even a shirt?

Mark is watching. More wrecked than ever.

He’s been watching.

Every date.

Every dinner.

Every saccharine little handhold.

At first, he figured you'd come running back. Wait it out. Miss the lifestyle. Miss him.

But now?

You're wearing sundresses. Laughing at jokes. Acting like some housewife version of the woman he built a goddamn empire around.

It was driving him insane.

And tonight, you see him.

It’s subtle—a flicker of movement past the glass, a shadow too fast to be a bird. And you know. You feel it.

He’s here.

You straighten.

Fix your gloss.

And turn around like a woman with a mission.

“Kev, babe?”

He perks up immediately. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

You straddle his lap with the type of pointed purpose that would be obvious to anyone but him. Slow. Sultry. Ridiculous.

His eyes go wide.

“Thought you said you wanted art,” you purr, cupping his face. “Wanna paint a memory?”

Outside?

Mark’s already punched through the side of the building.

CRASH.

The drywall explodes in a burst of dust and splinters, sending Kevin yelping backwards so fast the recliner tips over. Your Pomeranian screams like a tea kettle from his little bed in the corner.

You stay exactly where you are—legs crossed on the couch, unbothered.

“Oh,” you say casually, blowing gently on your wine. “You found me.”

Mark steps through the wreckage like he owns it. Sweats flapping. Hair tousled. Chest bare and dusted with drywall. He doesn’t look at Kevin. Doesn’t even acknowledge him.

Just stares at you.

“You done playing house?” he says, low.

You raise your glass. “You gonna pick up the tab for the wall?”

He’s at your side in a blink. Not touching—but close enough that the air between you goes electric.

“You think this is funny?”

You sip. “A little.”

Kevin, somehow still alive, makes a sound like he’s trying to find his spine. “Hey—what the hell is your problem, man?! You can’t just—”

Mark turns his head once.

One slow, deliberate look.

Kevin’s mouth snaps shut so fast his teeth click.

“Go take a walk,” Mark says without even looking at him again. “Take your lemons with you.”

Kevin doesn’t argue.

The door shuts behind him a second later, and now it’s just the two of you. Well—three, counting the dog, who is absolutely trembling under a decorative throw pillow.

Mark doesn’t sit. Doesn’t pace. Just stands there like he might self-combust.

“You wanted me here,” he says. “Didn’t you?”

You set your wine down. Smooth your skirt. Meet his eyes. “I wanted you to care.”

“I’ve always cared.”

“Then show it.” Silence hangs for a moment, and you’re looking at him with an expectation to deliver.

He doesn’t disappoint,

“I tore a guy’s face off last week because he used your name like he knew you.”

You smirk. So pretty.

“...hot.”

Mark’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like a threat disguised as one.

“Come home,” he says.

You lean back, slow and deliberate. Cross your legs. Rest an arm on the couch behind you like this was just a casual discussion.

“And what happens if I don’t?”

He takes one step forward. Still not touching. But close enough for you to feel the warmth rolling off his skin.

“Then I stay,” he says. “I’ll sit right here. Watch every night you kiss him like you mean it. Watch every fake little laugh. I’ll rot this whole building if I have to.”

You stare at him, a quiet moment passing before you feel your nostrils flare. You explode.

“NO!” Your hands fling up, all but levitating off the couch as you stomp your heel into the ground.

“NO, no, no, no, NO—what the actual hell, Mark?! That’s not what I wanted!”

His brows knit under the goggles. “You just said—”

“I KNOW WHAT I SAID,” you screech, jumping to your feet and pacing in tiny rage laps. “But you’re supposed to be, like… mister tough guy!!” You whirl around and jab a finger into his bare chest. “CLAIM ME, DAMN IT! I’m not your ex, your coworker, your emotional support idiot—I’m the love of your psychotic little LIFE and you’re over here acting like I’m furniture you’re emotionally attached to!!”

He opens his mouth, but you barrel on before he can get anything out. “I left so you’d get MAD! So you’d come tear the sky apart looking for me! So you’d crash through a window and kiss me like you own me! Not sit in my ugly little rental like a depressed raccoon with boundary issues!”

“I broke the wall—”

“THAT’S BASELINE BEHAVIOR FOR YOU.”

Mark just stares at you. Then, slowly… that deranged little smile starts to stretch. “You wanted me to drag you back by your hair,” he says, low.

You throw your hands up. “YES!! Preferably onto a private jet, but I would’ve settled for a rooftop!”

He takes one step forward.

You step back.

He steps again.

You back up right into the arm of the couch—and stop.

“You really want that?” he murmurs, tilting his head. “You want… the worst of it?”

You swallow. “…Yes.”

Then his hands are on you.

#invincible #invincible fanfic #mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #invincible x reader #mark grayson fanfic #invincible show #variant mark grayson #retro invincible #retro mark #retro mark x reader #retro invincible x reader #variant mark x reader #mark grayson x you #mark grayson x y/n

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geeky-politics-46 · 2 months ago

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John Walker Headcanons

Random thoughts I have about John Walker. I separated them into SFW and NSFW. These may be elaborated on and expanded on later. If there is a specific headcanon you really want a story about, let me know in the comments or an ask. This may also become an entire NSFW Alphabet as I love writing those.

SFW:

Definitely a control freak. Don't touch or move his stuff without asking first unless you want either a lecture or a very pouty annoyed super soldier. Part of this is due to military training. Part of this is just him desperately needing to be in charge. His room is by far the cleanest, and he will randomly start cleaning if he's anxious.

Rigid in his routines almost to a fault. If he's not following a routine, he doesn't know what to do with himself. His entire life has been about military structure. Now, even if he's not a military officer anymore, he still can't bring himself to move out of his established routines.

Very awkward when you first start dating. The last time he successfully wooed anyone was high school. To say he's a little rusty is an understatement. Expect lots of dorky flirting and bad innuendo. May even some frat boy-esque come ons that almost make your skin crawl.

He tries to show off extra in front of you. You can't reach something? All you have to do is ask. Can't open a jar? He's right there with his hand held out. Need help carrying in groceries? He can take them all in one trip. If you come into the gym while he's in there, he will stop what he's doing to pick up even heavier weights in hopes that you notice.

Has a bit of a dumb blonde streak to him. May actually be really intelligent but will say the absolute dumbest things sometimes. Things that leave the rest of the team staring and speechless. Prime example being his “we're running out of space?” comment at the end of Thunderbolts.

100% gets jealous of your celebrity crushes. He knows it's stupid and that you having crushes is completely normal, but he can't help it. He wants to be your number 1 all the time. He needs to be your number 1, your first choice. Even if it's some married A lister you would never meet in a thousand years. He can't stand the thought of you being with someone else. Of you picking someone over him just like so many others in his life have.

The Georgja boy southern drawl comes out when he's turned on or feeling frisky. The whole team has learned this against their will, and all it takes is an “ain't” or a “darlin'” and they are shooing you behind closed doors before things progress. It's created a bit of a Pavlovian response in you whenever you hear it.

At first, he doesn't want to be left alone with his son when he gets visitation. Somehow, the team is surprisingly good with kids and helps get him comfortable. Bob watches SpongeBob or other cartoons with his son. Yelena brings out the guinea pigs to play with. Alexei is the king of storytime and also trying to help make up for some of his own fatherly shortcomings. Ava gravitates towards the arts and crafts, especially crayons and watercolor. Bucky teaches him games he used to play as a kid. He may also start reading the kid on The Hobbit. After a while, John can do it by himself and feels more confident as a dad, but by that point, everyone is a part of the family.

He really wants more kids once he's learned he's not totally shit at being a dad. He grew up with the idea of the white picket fence and 2.5 kids in the suburbs or even a farm in the country somewhere. That's still what he wants, even if it didn't come as easily as he was promised. He desperately wants a happy family. You renewed his hope that maybe someday he could have it. This correlates directly into NSFW headcanon #9 - breeding kink.

Even though he received a dishonorable discharge and was stripped of his rank and benefits, he still has his Army dress uniform hanging in his closet and his fatigues along with his tags, medals, and other mementos in a box under his bed. Even his West Point diploma is in there. They were a part of who he was, and he still isn't quite sure of who he is if he isn't a soldier. He looks through the box a lot, especially when he's feeling down.

The only thing he leaves out in the open all the time as a reminder of that life is the photo of him and Lemar that Mrs. Hoskins gave him. He also still talks to Lemar when he's feeling depressed or just wishes he was there. He doesn't know if Lemar can hear him, but he hopes he can. He was raised in the church, and even if he's not sure he believes it anymore, he likes to think Lemar is watching over him. Still by his side even from heaven.

He hates it when he cries. It makes him feel weak. He tries to stuff down all his feelings, and this has manifested in the man we see in Thunderbolts. He tends to stew in his own emotions, and you have to call him out and confront him on it. Otherwise, he will not address it. It helps to remind him that that behavior is what got him there in the first place and that if he wants to grow as a person, he has to change. You will constantly be reminding him that failing at something isn't necessarily the end of the world and that crying or admitting his feelings is not failing.

NSFW:

His body count is low. I'm talking low end of single digits. Yes, he was married and has a kid, but he also married his high school sweetheart. If they both weren't virgins when they got together, he had probably only been with one or two other women. If he's been with anyone since, and I firmly believe that's a very strong if, it was a one night stand or two.

I firmly believe he probably hasn't had sex with anyone since the divorce. He probably avoided it for a while in hopes that he could win Olivia back, and he really only wanted her. After he realized it was really over, the depression took most of the desire he had left for sex. People also tended to avoid him like the plague after the flag smashers thing. So it's not like he had women lining up for the newly single dime store Captain America.

Because of his relative inexperience, you may end up having to teach him stuff in the bedroom. Especially if you are into anything kinky. I feel like him and Olivia were probably pretty vanilla when it came to sex. He will also get really flustered when you try to talk about sex with him. He's pretty game to try whatever you want. Just don't make him talk about it.

We've all collectively decided that he has a massive praise kink. Not just in the bedroom but in all areas of his life. This is not a new thing by any means, but he never really thought of it as a kink until you called it that. Tell him how good he fucks you and he'll start purring. Tell him he's such a good boy and worthy of it and his brain will completely melt.

Once you uncork the bottle, he will be pretty insatiable. He's been backed up for a while and has a lot of energy to expend on amorous activities. Thanks to the super soldier serum, he's also going multiple rounds every time. You will be sore after sex the first handful of times simply because he's so energetic.

I think there is a distinct possibility he's accidentally bruised your cervix when he forgot about his enhanced strength and speed in the heat of the moment. He didn't exactly have a ton of sexual experience after the serum. Especially not with someone new. He was horrified and a little proud of himself all the same time.

He loves you talking dirty to him and will encourage you to keep talking. Talking about sex can get him a little flustered in normal circumstances, but if you start talking dirty, he's immediately ready to blow. He still can't really believe all the filthy things that come out of your mouth, but he hangs on every fucking word. After a while he'll even start talking dirty in return.

Sucker for fancy lingerie, but he prefers you in just one of his shirts. He loves seeing you all wrapped up like a present in satin and lace, anything sheer he has a particular soft spot for, but seeing you fresh out of the shower bare legs in one of his old t-shirts makes him practically feral. He discovered this even before you got together when your mission bag went AWOL and you had to borrow his shirt. He swore he was so hard he nearly passed out from lack of blood to his brain that whole mission.

Once the thought is in his head, his breeding kink will go from 0-100 at light speed. Olivia was pregnant while he was in the midst of a depression, so he kicks himself for not letting himself enjoy it. Especially once you start showing his hand is constantly on your belly. Talking to you the entire time you're in bed about how sexy you are all swollen with him and how he's gonna be such a good daddy for you. Before you have the baby he's already talking about looking forward to knocking you up again. Although he may worry too much about hurting you during penetrative sex in your last trimester, he's happy to help satiate you with his fingers or tongue.

He is a bit of a pillow princess when he's feeling depressed. Normally, he likes being the one in charge and doesn't mind doing most of the work. When he's down, he just wants you to ride him and talk sweet filthy nothings to him. His praise kink is turned up a notch even higher than normal, too. Tell him how good he feels. Tell him how big his cock is. Tell him that you couldn't want anyone else the way you want him. Just let him lie there and enjoy it.

He's not a big fan of PDAs, but practically suction cups himself to you behind closed doors or no one else is around. When he discovers cockwarming, he wants it every time you are alone. Practically begging you to just let him put in. Promising he'll behave and let you finish your book when you know in reality he'll start humping you after maybe 5 minutes.

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

You caught him watching porn and jerking off once, and he found it incredibly hot. He was a little humiliated but loved the way you teased him about how desperate he was and that he was a naughty boy for not asking first. How you would have helped him and maybe you should touch yourself too. He came in less than 2 minutes after you started teasing. He wants it to happen again but isn't sure how to bring it up. He is genuinely unsure if it was the humiliation or the thought of mutual masturbation that got him off so quickly.

There will probably be a part 2 to this once I think about it more.

John Walker taglist: @sareim123122

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millermouth · 7 months ago

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Summary: Being raised by a survivalist father meant learning two things: endure at all costs, and trust no one. And you lived by those rules, even after he was gone, surviving alone in a world that never gave second chances. But enduring becomes far more complicated when a familiar face returns, burdened with a fierce young girl and a mission that was never meant to include you. When you're forced from the only home you’ve ever known, survival is no longer just about the next meal or the next breath—it’s about who you become when there’s no way back. You’ve spent years believing your father’s lessons—that needing people is a sign of weakness. But as the miles stretch on, as survival becomes more than just a fight for the next day, one truth becomes harder to ignore—you can’t live by your father’s rule of trusting no one anymore.

And one man makes following that rule damn near impossible.

Themes: Joel miller x reader slow burn romance, post-outbreak, grief, healing, angst & longing.

Warnings: canon-type violence, death, depictions of grief and trauma, age gap romance, suicide (referenced, not graphic), intimacy and eventual smut. 18+ only MDNI, but I can't control what you do so discretion is advised.

Other: reader is afab, long hair (enough to grab, put up in a ponytail) may be mentioned. no other physical characteristics. graphics do not reflect character description, only used for vibes. Follows Season 1 of The Last of Us. Blend of show and game canon. Picture Joel as you prefer, but I will be mentioning Pedro Pascal's brown eyes. No use of Y/N. In the beginning of the story, time hops are not canon.

Prologue

Before: 5 Years Old

Before: 10 Years Old

Before: 15 Years Old

Before: 18 Years Old

Before: 20 Years Old

Before: 23 Years Old

Now: 25 Years Old

Chapter 1: Joel and Ellie

Chapter 2: Escape

Chapter 3: The Envelope

Chapter 4: Fungus Ain't That Smart

Chapter 5: Kansas City

Chapter 6: The Climb

Chapter 7: Turret

Chapter 8: Strangers

Chapter 9: Spotlight

Chapter 10: Into the Water

Chapter 11: The Suburbs

Chapter 12: Fight and Flight

Chapter 13: Breaking Point

Chapter 14: One Month Later

Chapter 15: Jackson

Chapter 16: Thresholds

Chapter 17: Thinking of You

Chapter 18: Betrayal

Chapter 19: On the Road Again

Chapter 20: The Basement

Chapter 21: David

Chapter 22: Capture

Chapter 23: Blood and Fire

Chapter 24: What Comes After

Chapter 25: Waterways

Chapter 26: What Was Lost and What Was Taken

Epilogue

Ever After

Four Years Later

more coming soon

Hey, you beautiful, amazing people.

I don’t even know where to start, but thank you. Seriously. From the bottom of my heart: to everyone who read, liked, reblogged, screamed in the tags, sent me messages, or just silently followed along—you made this story so much more than I ever imagined.

Every comment, every reaction, every little freak-out over a scene made my day (and honestly fueled me to keep going). The way you connected with this story, these characters—it means everything. Writing this was one thing, but experiencing it with all of you? That was the best part.

So, to everyone who stuck with me, whether from the beginning or just recently—thank you for being here. Thank you for caring. Thank you for making this so special.

I love you all. Truly.

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marcuspikegf · 2 days ago

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joel miller x single mom! reader

𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐝, 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞

wordcount 2.7k | requests are open | about me + masterlist | harry castillo x singlemom!reader here if anyone is interested....

reblogs and comments are appreciated!!! comment if you want to be tagged! send me asks about this! asks/ideas/anything! inbox is always open :) everyone who reblogs i love you so VERY much

summary: sometimes, living with the grief of sarah and her mother's death haunts him. and one aimless drive leads to meeting a single mother who ran away with her six month old baby. no outbreak au. warnings: like one MENTION of breastfeeding. because...baby... but no actual scenes of it. mentions, but no actual direct scenes of spousal abuse (from reader's husband. NOT joel...joel is a sweetheart.) mentions of death and grief. apart from that? so much fluff. tooth rotting, dentist calling fluff. oldman joel swandiving in love. age gap? joel is 40/50 and reader is 25/30? afab reader. reader's husband is an abusive asshole. authors note: it's 2am....so i'm not just in the baby fever trenches, i've become a lieutenant in the baby fever trench. idk what to tell you i’m actually possessed, hiding behind my hands etc. i think i just want a baby and a big strong man to save me. i don’t know what to tell you. i give up i’m not strong enough to resist baby fever. i am also not american, i actually do not know anything about america. tbf. reader could be read as an immigrant who is new to the country, if you wish, because that's how it is in my mind. again this is a new style of writing...no capitals just vibes. this might have a continuation...idk pls tell me if this is bad so we can just scrap it. this is so self indulgent.... reblogs and likes and comments and follows are actually just love. joel as we ALL know is a girldad, and deserves a second chance at being a father and a parent again. i've just been yapping to my poor friends about this, and one of them was like "i was having these exact thoughts did i bluetooth them to you" LMAO. i was writing the harry castillo x single mom fic and then this idea jumped into my head, i am a slave to my whims. reader loves her daughter so very very very much. why do i only post in random hours of the night...idk i actually need to sleep more. goodnight readerss

the sun is low in the sky at this time of day, when the orange mixes with the purple of the night. evenings like these are when the loss of sarah and tess haunt his memories, the crash site photos burnt into the back of his eyelids. so he sits in his truck, and drives. aimlessly. he’s too old to wish for better days, the life he had built torn away from his hands. this is the after, and he doesn’t want to think about what is in the after. he drives on the highway at an easy speed, watching the leafy suburbs turn into sand and farm, acres of corn, bales of hay. everything is rougher in small towns, and everyone knows everyone. that’s why he had to leave, couldn’t stand the pity in people’s eyes when they spoke to him. that’s why he moved closer to austin

the contracting company has done well for itself, he wishes he could tell tess that. tell her that they finally made it out, and moved into a cushy house in the suburbs, him and tommy having done well for themselves.

there isn’t a tess to tell, nor is there a sarah. the house is too big for one man to live in it alone.

at least tommy has maria to go back to, and there’s something hollow in the pit of his stomach that reminds him that he must have done something truly terrible in his past life, to have him live this one instead. sickeningly lonely, with the sound of the birds to keep company.

a car sits at the edge of the road. a light blue and unassuming, like it’s just been parked off and left there. it catches his eye, pulling him out of his thoughts. a hint of a pink bow, through the windows.

he pulls over to the side, concerned, the car doesn’t look like it’s in good shape either, a mirror’s busted and a light broken. he turns off the engine, and steps out of the truck, keyring around his finger as he scans the surrounding area. it’s still evening, still quiet, and still a lonely stretch of road.

“excuse me..?” he calls out, voice as polite as he can manage it to be. rough from being choked up, but still kind. he hears a hesitant step from the other side of the car, and then hushed murmuring in another language. the door closes gently, and he hears shoes on the gravel, and his eyes turn to you.

he’s never seen eyes as enchanting as yours, caught in the amber sunlight, worried as they keep flicking back to whatever is inside the backseat of the car, and him. he wears a t-shirt, green and worn, with flannel over it. cargo trousers that hold tools and his phone, that pull down his pockets. he can see your eyes narrow, and search him, before they turn wide as a doe, and then back to the backseat.

“excuse me, ma’am.” he will never not be polite, the southern manners baked into him, and he knows he must look a sight right now, but the road is forlorn, and your car does not seem to be working.

his words make your eyes harden, and you raise a finger to your lips. he must be louder than he thinks he is, “sorry about that ma’am.” he adds, quietly. but whatever damage he was going to do, is done.

a wail from the backseat, and you hastily open the door, unbuckle something, and pick up a baby from the back seat, rocking it against your body as you shush it gently. you smooth its head with gentle hands, making circles on the back of the little bodysuit with yellow ducks printed on it.

he presumes that’s what you were looking at when your eyes kept moving to the backseat. a pink bow in your hair, that you gently place in the mop of curly black hair of your child, a baby girl.

the baby, the girl, quietens down after a few minutes, and she curls up into your arms, pressing against the skin of your neck and chest, exposed by the dress you wear. it’s long, past your ankles, a square cut, with a cute strawberry print. its only then he realises how much shorter you are, he towers over you. your hair pulled back into a low bun, barely any wrinkles marring your face.

you’re younger than him.

obviously, he almost wants to hit himself on the head for coming to that conclusion so late. and somehow your eyes carry something indescribable, something too heavy for someone like you to carry.

the baby squirms in your arms, “you are fine my dear, i love you my dear.” you whisper sweet nothings into her hair, but he doesn’t know who it calms more.

it’s rude to just keep staring, but he does anyway, he hasn’t seen someone as soft as this since…

you turn your head to babble at your daughter, and there is a purple bruise on your jaw. and his stomach drops to a pit. who could have done that to you?

“ma’am?” he tries again, and takes a step closer. you flinch back from him, arms wrapping around your daughter protectively. your eyes are as wide as a deer caught in headlights.

he raises his hands in surrender, no fists, nothing in his hands. just palms facing the sun, and a comforting smile on his face.

you swallow thickly, wobbly on your legs with the adrenaline that is crashing, “my car, it. i think it’s leaking petrol.” you don’t mention the broken mirror or headlights, and he has a feeling it’s the same person who’s given you that bruise.

he nods once, and then crouches at where the spill of petrol is, the smell of gasoline is obvious as it crouches closer. the tyres look worn with use, a thought flashes through his head, the gasoline cannot be good for the baby.

strange how worry grips his throat.

“you can’t drive this, darlin’” he drawls, driving this around could lead to the whole car bursting into flames, killing everyone inside.

he has only known you for ten minutes, and the worry is gripping his throat like a vice.

“i need to.” you say, so determined in your words. you need to drive this car, keep driving. he can see that you are running.

“i can drive you to the closest town, get a towing service and a mechanic to look at that.” he wipes his hands on the corduroy of his cargos.

your baby snuffles in your arms, and your breath hitches. the child you carry in your arms is your world, and the way you look down at her. his heartbeat stutters.

“i can’t…” you say, gently. like the gentleness is forced, like it has been beaten into you, “i don’t have a lot of money. i’m sorry.”

the gentleness warms his heart anyway, and he comes a little closer. this time you do not flinch back so hard.

“ ‘s okay.” he says, with a small smile on his face, like he’s trying to be gentle too. he has not been gentle in years. cruel and isolated from the world, he has grown older and not kinder.

but you, you make him wish to be kind.

“wouldn’t want to see your baby sit on the side of the road at night.” he adds, and the mention of your child must have worked, because you start walking towards your broken car.

you open the door with a heavy click, and place your daughter into the child seat. you take the seat out with the handle, and she reaches out to you with her tiny hands, joel gets to see her face for the first time.

jesus, she can’t be older than a year. maybe even younger. she’s tiny, a life, and has your nose.

you heave the seat with a huff, and you look thin. like you haven’t eaten well in days. your hands shake holding the heavy carseat, and suddenly he is there, placing a hand over yours as you grip the handle.

“ma’am, look.” he says, all polite again. hopefully the crack in his voice doesn’t give away the fear he’s feeling, the fear that you will drop the seat in your exhaustion, “i got it.”

he takes the handle from you, even if your hands grip it. his hands are so much bigger than yours, and so so much bigger than your daughters as her attention focuses on him. she babbles nonsense as he starts his walk towards the truck, and you hurry behind him.

“can you secure the seat in your backseat?” you ask, and he just gives you a hum in agreement.

you follow him to his truck, your baby in his hands, under the orange light of the summer evening.

he keeps turning back, to see if you follow. foolish of him, of course you’ll follow your own damn baby to the ends of the earth and back. your eyes are always on him, constantly watching in the short distance to his truck.

he opens the door, and you start clearing away the junk in the back seat to make space for the car seat. he can see your eyebrows raise as you see all the tools.

“i’m a contractor.” he mentions, and you frown at him. perhaps english is not your first language. “i build things.” he makes a hammer motion with his hand, and your daughter seemingly loves it. she claps her hands and giggles, and the giggle sounds so much like sarah that his heart might just shatter into a thousand pieces.

“oh, i see.” is all you say, and continue moving the tools from the backseat to the floor, a safe distance away from your daughter.

you are quiet.

he takes a sharp breath in.

you buckle your daughter’s seat into the truck, and then look at her for a long while. he recognises the look, it’s one of love, so much love that

it hurts.

his heart hurts with the pain, but he doesn’t know if it hurts at the jagged edge of the memories, or of the fear of something else bubbling up in his chest.

suddenly, you unclip your daughter from her seat, and hold her in your arms.

“can i sit at the front with her?” you ask, softly, “i was driving for a while before i…”

“of course.” he says, before he even processes what he said.

you smile at him, your first real smile. the smile that was directed at your daughter a few times now turned onto him. it makes his insides goo, and his heart thud in his chest faster. he didn’t even know his heart could reach speeds like that anymore.

sitting into the truck is easy, it feels like something that you three have done before. even if this is the first time you are in his truck. the scent of pine freshener wafts through the air, and he turns the ac on to blow against your daughter’s face.

her eyes brighten up with the cool wind, and she’s content with playing with the vents, opening them and closing them. you on the other hand, hold her tightly on your lap. but you look exhausted, dark circles under your beautiful eyes. ashen skin, exhaustion in every line of your face.

his eyes linger on the bruise on your jaw, before they turn back to the road. your daughter plays with the buttons of the ac, wind is blowing onto his feet, and then suddenly not.

“look outside bubba.” you say, delicately, turning her towards the window. the sky is darkening, a beautiful purple, with the moon large and white against the sky.

your voice is so sweet, it reminds him of tess, of memories buried deep under years.

“see the moon bubba?” you continue, stroking her hair as she rests her head on your chest again, “can you say moooooon?”

“ ‘ooon.” she mumbles, sleepily, face smushing against your chest.

you smile down at her, “yes bubba, moon.”

“she not speak yet?” his drawl is so gravely, so deep that it almost scares you in the silent.

“no, not yet.” you answer, politely, and then have the need to add, “but she’s very smart.”

“i can tell.” he nods, eyes on the road again. if tess was here, twenty years ago, holding sarah like that…he would have said “smart like your mama.”

but this is not tess. this is a strange lady sitting in his truck. and this is not sarah, this is the lady’s daughter sitting on her lap.

“never got your name.” he says, idle conversation.

“i never gave it.” your voice is quiet.

“ ‘m joel, joel miller.” he offers an olive branch, “millers construction? you might have heard of it? i run it with my brother tommy.”

“(y/n).”

you take it.

“and precious there?” he adds, and you laugh, a gentle thing.

“her father wanted to call her his mothers name.” you say, sullenly, and then kiss her head, “but i…i didn’t want that. her father is not…a very good man.”

you lick your lips, “her name is violet, right bubba? violet’s like your mommy’s favourite colour."

a blank slate, a completely blank slate, full of kindness and nose kisses and where did you run from?

the phone rings, and his brother’s contact photo lights up his phone. it rings, startling your daughter, but he quickly opens it and puts it on speakerphone.

“hey tommy.”

“hey joel!” his brother’s voice is tinny in the phone, “i was just wonderi’ where you were, did you get back home safe after the job?”

“yeah, no ‘m fine, i promise.”

your eyes flick between him and the contact photo. you mouth “tommy?” and he nods affirmative.

“okay well, i’m just checking up on you man. i want to know you’re safe.”

“yes tommy.” he says it like he doesn’t mean it in the slightest, and then a “goodbye.” with more feeling.

the flashing lights of the town sparkle in the distance, and in these idle words, a town is probably there.

“no mechanic would be open at this hour.” a cough, as he tilts his head out to the night.

you frown, and and your daughter curls her hand around your finger.

she needs to feed, and you need to eat. if not for yourself, then at least for her.

it’s as if he can tell, see something in your expression bounce. “hey, i can get us coffee, maybe some pancakes?”

and then, a little bit more kindly, “i’m in the suburbs of austin, it’s another fifteen minutes away… i can get you a motel there?”

“i don’t…” you trail off, throat bobbing. “i don’t…”

the money, you don’t have the money.

“it’s fine.”

“it’s really not.” but your daughter is fussing and she’ll cry if she’s hungry. you don’t want your daughter to go hungry all night.

his heart breaks at your daughter’s cries, and he parks the car at a stop, large hands gentle over your shoulders. so much bigger than yours, so much warmer than yours.

he knows how it looks, a strange man, bigger than you, offering help. but nothing is ever free, and you don’t know what will happen to you or your daughter.

it’s desperation, he can see it written all over your face, in the tears in your own eyes that make them glossy. you grab his fingers with your hand, and tighten it.

“i’m trusting you.” perhaps those are not the three words every man dreams of, but you with your bambi eyes, it’s as if you hand him the keys of your heart.

he squeezes your hand back, “thank you.” he doesn’t know what you’re running from. but at that moment, looking at you with your daughter in your arms, he wishes to take those keys, and keep them somewhere safe in his heart.

your daughter sighs happily, and turns to him with her big eyes. she gives him a smile, “ ‘ooon!” pointing at him.

“that’s not the moon bubba, that’s mr miller.” you correct her.

“joel.” he corrects you.

“joel then.” you nod, and then boop your daughter on her nose.

“ ‘ooooon!” she repeats, and when you laugh at her single word, he laughs too. he is not too old, that his life is over. not yet anyway.

thank you so much for reading!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1 any comments on this are very much appreciated! my requests and inbox and everything is so open please talk to me about this fic, or any of my other fics!! ok i am going to BED NOW. the 4 hours of sleep last night rlly are catching up to me....

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crowsofdarkness · 3 months ago

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The Void: One

-gif not mine. credit to owners-

Pairings: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x BlackWidow!Enhanced!Reader

Content Warnings: violence, language, blood, angst, and 18+ smut.

Summary: Hydra used her as a weapon, then, becoming one of the original widows, Zima was ready to live the rest of her days in hiding. When someone from her Red Room past comes looking to cash in on a favor, she has no choice but to strap up to face this new enemy threatening New York. Even if one of the people asking for her help was the one who trained her in Hydra, the one whom she swore she would kill the next time she saw him. The Winter Soldier. The only problem? Bucky doesn't remember her.

Authors Note: this series will take place during Thunderbolts*, so I don't think it will be a long series. It is a reader insert, but "Zima" is the name she went by in the Red Room and Hydra due to her white hair. according to Google Translate, Zima means winter. tags are open!

Tags: @lisiliely @muchwita @tellybearryyyy @fries11 @multifandomgirl2018

The Void Masterlist

Bucky let out a long sigh while pinching his eyes shut, the background chatter nearly grating on his ears. This was supposed to be a quick pick up and then he could bring this group of people back home so he could use them against Val in her trial. The jet was set to land in about five minutes but part of him feared he wouldn’t make it that long with all the chattering. Not to mention, his phone conversation with Mel and what Yelena had just finished telling him, Bucky’s mind was heavy with a new plan.

“Alright, so explain this plan again,” Bucky said after freeing everyone.

“Val has plans on using Bob as a new weapon. You didn’t see what we did, Bucky,” Yelena said with a voice thick of regret. “We need to stop Val and save Bob.”

It was evident that she felt this need to protect Bob which is why Bucky ended up agreeing to this. Out of everyone in this new group, he only knew Walker and even then he was a bit hesitant to work with him. But he couldn’t simply walk away from this. Unfortunately for all of them, they were a group of rejects compared to the other heroes that had been attempting to save the world since The Avengers went their separate ways. At the thought of Steve, Bucky’s heart sank knowing that he would never see nor talk to his best friend again.

It had been nearly five years since Steve left him and it was something Bucky was still dealing with. Yes, he had Sam but with him busy being the new Captain America, Bucky always found himself alone. He’d go home to his nice house in the quiet suburbs, stay in an empty house, and try not to let the past memories drag him down to the darkness.

Bucky was so tired of being alone. So fucking tired of walking into an empty house with no one to talk with about his day. The cold bed and even colder atmosphere often reminded him of when Hydra would keep him frozen for long periods of time. Bucky wouldn’t admit this to anyone, let alone the Thunderbolts, but he was exhausted from pretending to be okay when the past began haunting him whenever he slept.

For a long time, the nightmares of what he did in Hydra stopped. Until recently. About a month ago, they started up again only this time it wasn't what he did but more so, who he was with during that. Never once did he see a face, the only thing he saw was a shadow figure with white hair and piercing eyes. Every time he dreamed of this figure, their name would be on the tip of his tongue only never getting the chance to utter it because he woke up right before. There was this feeling of familiarity filling his heart whenever he awoke from one of those nightmares but whenever he tried to remember who this figure was, it was as if the memories locked themselves up into a vault.

“How sure are you that we can stop Val and this Sentry?” Bucky asked with his hands low on hips, forcing himself not to think more of his lonely life at home.

“Bob,” Yelena corrected.

He rolled his eyes with a sigh. “Bob.”

“He’s strong,” Ava said, everyone agreeing with her. “It’s going to be hard for all of us. If I’m being honest, I don’t think we’ll be able to do it with the five of us.”

“What do you mean? This is a team of super soldiers,” Walker said with a smug smile.

Ava rolled her eyes. “Oh don’t flatter yourself.”

As those two bickered with each other, Alexi couldn’t stop hiding his grin while he stared at everyone in this makeshift team. Yelena on the other hand, wore a frown so deep Bucky was afraid it would etch into her skin. She was pacing the length of the abandoned gas station garage while running a hand through her hair.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky questioned.

“We need someone else, someone that can help us to save Bob,” she held up a finger, not stopping her pacing.

“Do you know anyone? Maybe an old Avenger or something?” Walker asked, joining the conversation after bickering with Ava.

Yelena shook her head. “No, not an old Avenger. But someone else.”

Everyone waited for her to say who but Yelena kept pacing while muttering something under her breath.

“The thing is, I haven’t spoken to her in years, not since I was in the Red Room. She was the only one of the widows that were enhanced which made her useful in certain situations. Not only that, she was the original widow. Dreykov brought her in after her old organization threw her out.”

Something inside of Bucky fluttered but he quickly pushed down the unknown feeling as Alexi and Yelena shared a look, making Bucky shift on his feet.

“What is it? What was her old organization?”

Alexi ran a hand over his beard with a long sigh. “Maybe you should sit down, Bucky.”

“Who was her old organization?” He asked again, this time staring directly at Yelena.

“Hydra,” she answered with zero hesitation.

Bucky’s body went rigid as his vibranium arm began to burn at where the old, matted scars were on his shoulder. Granted some of his memories during his time in Hydra were still a jumbled mess inside of his head, he couldn’t ever recall someone else being held there with him so it had to have been on another Hydra base. One he wasn’t held at.

Everyone fell silent for a moment before Alexi broke the silence. “Yelena, we’d be wasting time chasing a ghost. Zima has not been seen in over ten years, not since Dreykov died.”

Zima.

Bucky flinched at hearing the name, flash images of the shadow figure with white hair appeared in his line of vision, nearly knocking him on his ass. He held out a hand against the wall to his left to steady himself. He’d never heard of this name before so why did it feel like someone had been repeatedly stabbing his brain over and over again? With clenched teeth, Bucky rubbed his temples hoping that would ease away the growing headache. But the burning didn’t go away, it only got stronger the more they talked about Zima.

“What’s to say this Zima chick will even help us?” Walker raised a good point, placing his shield over his back.

“She owes me a favor,” Yelena shrugged as if she already knew this Zima would agree.

When the burning finally subsided for a moment, Bucky slowly opened his eyes. “Do you even know where to find her?”

“According to another widow, they saw her in a market square three weeks ago. Seems like she traded being a serial assassin for being a gardener.”

Just then, their attention had been pulled to the large jet that landed right in the middle of the desert about twenty feet away from their hideout. Bucky chewed on the inside of his cheek, debating on if this plan was a good idea. Even though he didn’t know who this Zima was, there was a pestering voice in his head telling him not to do it.

“Do we even have time for a side quest?” Walker asked.

“We have to make time if we want to stop Val and save Bob,” Yelena said as if we didn’t really have a choice.

Opening the garage door, Bucky and the others gathered all of their things before walking towards the jet.

“Back to D.C, Congressmen Barnes?” The pilot asked as he opened the ramp of the jet, allowing them inside.

Bucky glanced over to Yelena who simply patted the pilot's chest. “Change of plans. We’re headed to Greece.”

READER A.K.A ZIMA

On a remote part of Gavdos island, south of Crete, Greece.

I hummed a soft tune to myself as I worked tirelessly in my garden, the setting sun burning against my bare shoulders. My skin and clothes were covered in dirt and sweat. Thankfully I’d tied my long white hair back in a tight braid so it stayed out of my face, albeit a few strands had fallen free due to my constant work all day. The idea of washing away today’s filth and then sitting in front of the fireplace with my kindle brought a smile to my tired face.

It’s the same thing I’ve done almost every day since I moved here about two years ago. Work on my small cottage style home on this hidden part of the island then reward myself with a good book. Every so often, I would venture out to the town whether it be to buy groceries or get a cup of coffee. But given where I came from and who I was, I opted not to be seen in public unless absolutely necessary.

I’d been in hiding for the last ten years, moving every two so I wasn’t in the same place for long. I had a very heavy past, I hurt and killed many due to Dreykov’s orders, so I was sure someone would want revenge. Not to mention I’d run from Hydra before my time in the Red Room but with Dreykov, I’d been protected. When he died, that wasn’t the case anymore so I knew I needed to hide. I knew Hydra fell years ago but I couldn’t be too sure.

By now, I would have moved to a different country to start a new life but as time went on here, I found myself building a life and a home. Something I hadn’t done in previous places.

Rising from my garden, my old bones popped back into place as I stretched my tired limbs. Staring off into the distance, I could see the waves of the ocean lapping up against the beach that was just below the cliffs edge at my property. I was the only one living on this part of the island which while it did make for some lonely times, it was a peaceful solace.

“Maybe I’ll go for a swim tomorrow,” I told myself before dusting my dirty hands on my grey overalls and began packing up all of my gardening tools.

As I stepped out of my shed, something in the air felt off causing me to stiffen, the tips of my fingers burnings. Electricity charged then sparked to life creating lightning at my fingertips as I whirled around on my heels, coming face to face with someone I hadn’t seen in a very long time.

“Well, good to know those still work.”

I blinked with parted lips, trying to gather if the person in front of me was actually here.

“Yelena?” I asked, still unsure.

The blonde, with much shorter hair since I saw her last, smiled brightly at me. “Long time no see, Zima. How are things?”

I shrugged, still letting the lightning charge my finger tips. “Can’t complain.”

“Oh, I love fresh bread!”

Snapping my head to the right, I glared at the person who stalked out of my house with a mouthful of fresh bread, the red leather suit three sizes too small for him.

“The Red Guardian,” I clicked my tongue. “I didn’t realize this was a Red Room reunion. 10 years goes by so fast, huh?”

Alexi sat down on one of the chairs on the front porch while Yelena took a tentative step closer towards me. She looked like she’d been through absolute hell and the exhaustion weighed heavy on her shoulders.

“We need your help,” she said.

The lightning charged even more now in my finger tips, crackling into the air. “Why the fuck would I help you?”

“You owe me a favor and you were always good at returning those favors,” she stated matter of factly.

I cursed, knowing exactly what she was talking about. Back when we were in the Red Room together, Yelena helped me with something I refused to talk about even to this day. I told her if she ever needed my help, I’d be there no questions asked.

I just didn’t think it would take her ten years to cash in on that favor. I thought she’d forgotten by now, given everything that happened with Natasha. Even though I’d been in hiding, I still kept up to date with current events like her sister dying and the snap. Thankfully, I’d been one who survived the snap.

Letting out a breath, I curtly nodded, ready to agree but halted for a moment. “You said we. As in you and Alexi?”

“No,” Alexi chuckled, wiping the crumbs off his lap. “We as in the Thunderbolts.”

I raised a brow, looking back at Yelena, who was trying her hardest not to hide her face behind her hands.

"The Thunderbolts?” I questioned.

All of a sudden, the lightning at my fingertips seemed to have intensified when an all too familiar presence loomed behind me. I knew this presence anywhere. I’d spent countless nights with this presence during my time in Hydra. My powers were created in order to bring this presence his deepest pain. This presence was the sole reason why I ran from Hydra.

Turning swiftly on my heels, I locked eyes with the familiar pair of blue ones that belonged to The Winter Soldier.

“Hi,” he gave me a small smile. “I’m Bucky-.”

Before he could finish his sentence, I shot him with a large strip of lightning, it bouncing off of his vibranium arm and lighting up the now dark skies.

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