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peachesofteal · 6 months

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Simple Math / Part Three

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4.3k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ no smut but this fic contains mature themes. Medical inaccuracies, hospitals, medical procedures, medications, nurse!reader. Feelings of fear and anxiety. Flirting. Emotional hurt/comfort. Panic attack. PTSD. Comfort. "You'll be with him?"

“-nna let ‘im die out here-“

“-is too risky without adequate-“

Johnny is drowning in a sea of shattered voices, whispers of words that sound like they might be coming from Gaz, or Price, hushed prayers and promises, jargon he doesn’t understand washing over him from unfamiliar, clinical mouths.

It’s overwhelming. He can hardly get his eyes to open, and when he does, they stay half shut for what feels like hours, even though he knows, logically, it’s mere seconds.

He’s no longer strapped into a backboard, but a bed, and the ceiling is not metal and rivets, but white and canvas, voices competing with the constant sound of beeping.

“Soap.” Price leans into his line of sight, hat gone, exhausted. He’s holding a sat phone, the one they usually carry during missions in one hand, a file folder in another. He looks his age, Johnny thinks, for the first time in his career. Looks like he’s spent eons in combat, like he hasn’t had a full night’s rest in a decade. “John. You’re in the hospital on base.” At the use of his government name, Johnny tries to straighten on instinct. The soft, floating feelings he’s been having for the past who knows how long have faded, and his body is starting to feel like it’s been pumped with gasoline, and then lit on fire. From the inside. “Are you with me, Sergeant?” He tries to vocalize, tries to say yes, or nod, but can hardly get his neck to work, bones and ligaments and everything in him screaming in agony. “They want to take you in a flight for life, get you home to a top hospital. Simon's already agreed, but he- he wants to speak with you.” Price wrenches his fingers open and lifts the clunky satellite phone to his face. “I rang him, on the emergency line, at home. Just… you need to-“ he stops, chest heaving with a desperate breath, an indulgence of emotion that Johnny has never seen. His captain wants to tell him- you need to say goodbye, just in case. But he can’t find the words, and Johnny can’t make it fit in his head, the reality, the stark reminder that he could not be here, in a moment. Or an hour. A day. “Open your eyes, John. Stay awake.”

“Johnny.” The Manchester accent crackles through the receiver. Johnny can almost see him, cell pressed to his face, pacing in the living room. He wonders if he’s got the fireplace lit, if it’s chilly now that it's turning to winter, if there’s been frost on the windows of their little house. If Simon is wearing a pair of sweatpants, if he’s got the television on as he tries to make dinner. “Johnny. Sit rep.” The status check comes through harsh, but the truth is tucked away beneath the grit. Fear. Life altering, heart breaking fear drenches every syllable that spills from his partner.

Pain sizzles through his muscles, across his brain, but he swallows it, shoves it down into a dark hole for another minute.

“Pretty banged up.”

“They’re going to lift you to a hospital,” He thinks he knew that. “and you’re goin’ be alright. I’ll meet you there.”

“Ah love ye, Si.” It’s all he can say. All he can think about. The excruciating agony that is radiating through his body robs him of everything else.

“I love you too. Hang on.” Johnny grinds his jaw, blowing short breaths through his nose to try to control his pain response, and then holds his breath when soft babbles echo through the phone. “It’s Da, Pen. It’s Da. Can you say Da?”

“Da?” Penny mimics her dad, and Johnny wonders if they’re sitting on the couch, Penelope tucked up against Simon’s chest, wispy curls tickling just below his nose as she climbs all over him like a jungle gym.

“Ma wee lamb.” Johnny whispers. “Ah love ye, Pen.” There’s more babbling, half strung together words, more than appropriate for a fourteen-month-old, and Johnny’s temples shine with tears that drip from the corners of his eyes. There’s talking, around him, people bustling back and forth. A hand brushes against skin, sharp pinch squeezing along the inside of his arm.

“Can you say, I love you?” Simon encourages, but Johnny knows it’s a lost cause.

“When she’s old enough to understand, ye tell her Ah loved her, loved her so much. Ye an’ her, is all I ever wished fer.”

“Stop.” Simon breathes. “You’re going to be fine.”

There’s another poke in his arm, someone lighting a fire in his veins, and he loses the battle to his eyes once more.

Your neck grumbles in protest when you try to twist it, working out tight muscle and tendon, rolling it across your shoulders and down, back and forth, over and over again.

You should go home.

You know you should. It’s two hours past seven, you should already be home. Should already be in your flat, showering the workday off and crawling into bed. You could be having a tea, snuggled up in your sweatpants, moving playing on low in the background. Warm, safe. Nearly asleep.

Johnny twitches beside you. His fingers clench in the blankets and then relax, face smoothing out in his dreams. The mask is gone, replaced with the cannula that loops beneath his nose, and the monitor beeps in soothing, reassuring, stable tones. One chime right after another, relaying his vitals to where you sit in Simon’s chair, feet slung over the side, kindle in your lap.

You made a promise.

And even without that promise, for some reason, you couldn’t just leave Johnny here to wake up alone. The idea of him coming to and being confused, or scared, again, made your stomach twist uncomfortably. Even before you promised Simon to stay earlier, you already knew.

You wouldn’t be leaving.

“He’s had a seizure.” Simon’s eyes widen above the mask and then flatten into something harder, something almost distrusting. “Neuro’s done an exam and they’re of the opinion there will be no long-term deficits, but we’ll need to wait until he wakes to be sure. They’re still trying to figure out what caused it, but most likely it's a result from surgery.” He moves to shoulder by you, no doubt trying to beeline back to Johnny’s room, but you hold your hand up with a pause. “I can’t let you go back in there yet.”

“Why not?”

“He’s not awake.”

“I don’t-“

“Simon, this is the ICU. I don’t know who or what strings you pulled to even be allowed to sit with him in there twenty-four seven, but it’s not the norm. You won’t be allowed back in that room until we are sure he is stable.” You don’t tell him that you don’t want him to be there when Johnny wakes in case there are deficits, that you’re trying to save him from the pain, the heartbreak, of seeing things that patient’s loved ones are not meant to see.

He regards you silently, and you fidget under the scrutiny, waiting for him to speak, trying to ignore how your mouth is going dry. This isn’t the first he’s watched you like this, stared at you like he’s trying to pick you apart, and you swallow your grimace until the long moment passes, his voice low, gritty with stress. Exhaustion.

“I’m supposed to go home today for a bit. I… don’t want to leave ‘im.”

“You can still go. He’s sleeping for now, and when he wakes, they’ll have to do some more tests that you won’t be allowed in the room for anyway.” He looks down the hallway towards Johnny’s room, before his eyes find yours, heavy with grief, indecision.

“You’ll be with him?” He can’t hide the hopeful inflection at the end of his question, his need for a light in the dark of this situation.

“I-“ The thought didn’t occur to you, to not be there. You imagined you’d wait until Johnny was cleared by neuro and Simon was allowed back in the room, but the morning has dragged on, and he’s been sleeping peacefully. There’s been no desire to wake him unnecessarily. “Yes. I’ll stay with him. I promise.”

“He go home?” Johnny’s voice, scratchy from sleep and medication and everything else, startles you from a half doze, spine straightening into a rod before you’re leaping to your feet, leaning over his prone figure.

“You’re awake.” You find his good hand, slipping two fingers into his grip. “Can you squeeze my hand?” When he does, tightly, more strength in it than you were expected, you give him an honest, happy smile, and retreat to the end of the bed, flipping up his blanket to poke at the bottom of his feet. “Can you feel that?”

“Aye.”

“And this?”

“Aye.” He huffs at you, impatient. “Did he go home?” You sigh in response, hand on your hip.

“Yes.”

“Finally. Been tellin’ him he had to. The man’s back ‘s not made to sleep sittin’ up.”

“Well, I’m sure he didn’t want to leave. I told him I’d sit with you.” You reach over to press the page button, looking intentionally away from where those bright blue eyes track you, sweet and soft and open, lips slightly parted. “How’s your pain? I’m not on the clock any longer, so I can’t page the neurologist, but they’ll have come and do a few tests.”

“Ye wanted to sit with me, pretty girl?” Your face gets hot, blood pooling beneath your skin, pit of your stomach liquifying into something honeyed and potent that flows through your veins until you swear you can feel the room getting warmer.

“How’s your pain?” you repeat your question, words dumb on your tongue.

“A five.” You raise an eyebrow. “Alright, a seven. And a half.” The days nurse knocks with perfect timing, all hustle and bustle, bright and cheery, and asks Johnny the same questions, keeping up a perfect stream of small talk between you and Johnny until Neuro is standing at the foot of his bed, and you’re excusing yourself.

“Okay, I’m-“

“Dinnae leave.” He protests, voice quiet. Your stomach lurches at the vulnerability there, and you’re quick to reassure him.

“I’m just going to get a tea.” You promise, even though you know he’ll probably be half loopy by the time you’re back, and the dayshift nurse gives you a nod, acknowledgement of his state, an understanding that she’ll be here with him.

Not an hour later, your pocket chimes with a text from the dayshifter as you half sip your tea, letting you know that Johnny’s exam is done, and as you pass her in the hallway, she gives you verbal confirmation of what you were hoping for: his brain function is normal. He’ll have to go for CT later, but she’s just given him another dosage for pain management. You yawn in the middle of her pass-on, and she tells you that she'll keep an eye on him. You can go.

She's not wrong.

You need to go to bed.

You know your presence at your patient's bedside won't be viewed as unprofessional, since others have done it in far less severe situations, but the pendulum your emotions swing on every time you step foot in that room leaves you with a sinking feeling that's starting to crawl across your skin.

You wanted this. You wanted to stay with him.

Simon asked you stay with him.

Yeah, but for how long? He cannot expect you to spend all day here. You have to go to bed. Are you just going to leave him all alone? Are you going to wait for Simon to come back?

The dread spiral is easily answered when you slide open the glass door and lay eyes on the very handsome man from the other night, the younger one from the chair vigil, now sitting beside Johnny, the two of them softly chuckling.

When Johnny spots you, he manages to fire off your name as a half-effort introduction, more than expected considering his slowly slipping state of consciousness.

“I’m Kyle. Soap an’ I work together.” Soap? Who is Soap?

“She doesnae know me b’ Soap, only calls me Johnny.” He explains your confused look, to which Kyle raises an eyebrow.

“Wow. Letting your nurse call you Johnny, eh? Simon better-“

“Ach, stop.” He rolls his eyes, but sleep tugs his lids downward.

“It’s nice to meet you.” You give Johnny and his monitor a once over, catching yourself on his sweet, sleepy gaze, flushed face and lazy smile, before directing your attention back to Kyle. “I told Simon, I’d sit with him for a bit before he got back, but…”

“I’m here in his place.” Kyle explains, motioning to the chair, and you breathe a small sigh of relief. You will get to go home and get some sleep, after all.

There’s a woman with a confused look on her face just outside the elevator. She looks exhausted, skin raw under her eyes, clutching a baby who’s maybe a year, or a bit older, in her arms, glancing up and down the hall before she spots you.

Fuck. You’re still wearing your scrubs.

“Hi.” You smile, and she visibly relaxes, obviously relieved. The baby tucks her face into the woman’s chest like she’s shy, coyly looking at you from corner of her eye. “You look lost.”

“I’m looking for the nurse’s station. My husband was supposed to meet me here but he’s running late and I-“

“It’s all the way down, take the first left, and it will be at the end of that hallway.”

“Oh my god, thank you so much.” She glances at your ID, punctuating her gratitude with your name, and you give her another smile, leaning to extend towards the baby as well.

“So cute.” You tell her, pressing the elevator button with a ding.

“Cute. But she’s a little terror, especially when she’s missing her Da.” She grumbles, and then waves, setting off against the white tile as you laugh to yourself. Pretty much sums kids up. Cute little terrors.

A week passes easily, beds and rooms changing over, room two sixty-eight remaining a constant. Johnny takes his battles on the chin, burn debridement on his side, casting for his wrist, removal of his chest tube, a third surgery.

“He’s a fighter.” Simon tells you one night in the dark after he’s slipped off to sleep. “Always has been. He's strong. Spirited.”

“I can see.” You agree, holding out the extra blanket you’ve pulled from a cabinet. When Simon takes it, his eyes meet yours, something soft shining in them, and you give him a smile in return.

“Thank you.” He murmurs. “For everything.”

A few days later, you’re surprised, and secretly pleased, to find Simon in the café.

He’s standing in front of the counter, paying for what you think might a baked good of some kind, sweet lady behind the register eyeing him up suspiciously as he deposits the note into her hand, and you stay on the outside of the doors, lingering in the hallway, watching.

At least he’s eating something. He’s still wearing the mask, and although it’s not uncommon, especially in a hospital setting, it does give you pause. Does he wear it all the time? Is it just because this is a hospital? He observes the room, steadily taking in all of the people meandering about, some eating, some standing, making their selections, engaging in conversation, and you notice how his hand slides to the back of his neck, distractedly rubbing the hair at his nape before he makes his escape, long legs eating up the distance between him and the door, him and… you.

“Hi.” You squeak when he steps into the hall, turning the corner to find you standing there like a deer in headlights, your water bottle clutched in one hand, phone in the other. His head tilts, eyes narrowed, and you manage to give him a half smile. “Getting something to eat?”

“It’s for Johnny.” He notes. “I ah, had something to eat earlier. When I was home.” Oh, good. Being in the hospital twenty-four seven isn’t healthy for anyone. Not even patients.

“Cool.” Cool? What is this, a pub? You swallow your embarrassing, awkward acknowledgement, breezing past the word like it didn’t happen. “Well, I’m about to badge in, so I’ll see you in a bit?” He nods, eyes still trained on your face, and you beat back the heat that’s spreading through your body like a fever when they drift down to your shoulders, and then to your badge.

“Cute sticker.” He points to where it’s clipped to your top, shiny bunny sticker from a patient’s child still there, holographic print sparkling in the dusk.

“Oh, thanks. Another patient of mine has a little kid. I was hanging out with him for a bit yesterday.”

“Suits you.” His gaze dips downward, glancing over the curve of your hip, plush from the swell of your ass, taut pull of your scrubs all of the sudden feeling too tight, too stretched across your waist, and you scramble to make sense of his comment.

“A bunny?” Your brows raise in disbelief, confusion, but he only nods, head tilted slightly, posture broad. Your brain turns over, frantically trying to think of a response, something clever, but he continues to talk, clearing his throat with a question.

“What do you call a line of rabbits hopping backwards?” Huh?

“What?”

“A receding hare-line.” Wait. What? Is he… joking with you? Your mouth drops into a little o of part surprise, part confusion, before you squint at him in disbelief.

“Oh… my god. That’s…”

“’s not that bad.” His eyes crinkle at the corners, giving you the impression that he might be smiling beneath the mask, making you wonder if you’re hallucinating.

“It’s pretty bad.” You croak, nervous laughter bubbling up in the back of your throat. “Well, I… uh-“ His phone dings, pulling his focus to the screen, and he swipes out something quickly with his thumb.

“I’ll see you up there.” He jerks his head towards the elevator, and you mumble out a mild, flabbergasted reply.

“Alright... yeah.”

Your first break comes up fast. Your morning, everyone’s evening, is busy, with a code, a tricky vent, and a needy, elderly man in two fifty-two. It goes from busy to worse, an argument with the pharmacy heating your blood, spurring anger through your veins and you have to physically bite your tongue to keep from berating the poor tech at the window. Useless. You seethe in your mind all the way back up to your floor, frustration driving you to seek solace, eager to escape the eyes of the hospital, running away from the possibility of being noticed.

But supply closet 2b is occupied, a frazzled resident huffing into a pillow in the back, hyperventilating with tear-stained cheeks.

Without even fully realizing, you find yourself inside two sixty-eight, Simon’s sharp eyes falling upon you with scrutiny. He looks at Johnny’s monitor like something might be amiss, relaxed posture straightening into something tense, structured. There’s a card game in progress on the swivel tray table over Johnny’s lap, the glaring reality of your interruption, and you blanche.

You’re immediately incredibly embarrassed. What are you even doing in here?

“Miss me already?” Johnny coos, beaming, and your throat feels dry. He’s feeling the best he has since he got here, albeit not great, still in awful pain, still staring down the barrel of more surgeries, but the pain medication from earlier is working its way through his system, and you’re happy to see it’s taking the edge off it all for him, allowing him comfort and conversation with his partner.

“My um… usual break spot is occupied?” You don’t know why you phrase it as a question, it just comes naturally. Like you’re seeking permission. Agreement.

“Ye want to sit with us? While ye eat?” Johnny asks, somewhat pointing to your yogurt cup, and you shrug, but Simon motions to the extra chair, the one that now sits on the other side of the bed, across from him. Guess facilities finally brought down that recliner you requested.

“Would… would that be alright?”

Johnny looks to Simon, and Simon nods. Slowly.

Your yogurt goes down easy, light chit chat bouncing around the room, Johnny nodding in and out with drawn out answers to your questions, until a noise startles you from the chair, pushing you onto your feet to peer out the door.

It’s a man, yelling, screaming, from a room down the hall, not from sadness or despair, but rage, and your mind goes haywire when security is paged over the PA system.

Deep breath.

This happens sometimes. Patients, or loved ones, become disruptive. Secrets and lies all come out in the wash in a hospital. Custody agreements, battles, DNRs, last wills and testaments, any of these things are a perfect tinder box. One match, and it all goes up.

A siren blares.

“Code black, code black.” echoes through the hospital, each room on every floor, down every hall.

Johnny startles from his near sleep stupor, eyes alert, the outline of his muscles solid beneath his gown.

Security risk. Lockdown.

You straighten your spine.

Deep breath.

This is your job.

Part of your job is being able to handle things like this. Protect, take care of your patients, and their families. Keep them safe.

The man shouts again, sharp tone of anger snapping through the air and across your frame, forcing your muscles tense.

You slide the door lock into place, pulling the curtain to only allow a small line of sight.

“What’s going on?” Simon stands, turning towards the door, and Johnny pats his hand, like he’s trying to soothe him.

“Oh, uh. It’s… just a lockdown. I don’t know.” You’re vaguely aware of the numb feeling that’s spreading from your chest down into your hand, and the sound of the irate man gets closer. Fuck.

“Ye okay?” Johnny’s voice is gentle, and when you glance over your shoulder to reassure them, you realize they’re both watching you, Simon’s eyes locked onto your now trembling fist, as Johnny regards you softly, with kindness.

“Um. Yeah.” You suck in a quick breath, forcing yourself to steady, gritting your teeth against the frozen, involuntary fear that’s trying to overpower you. You think Simon might be frowning beneath the mask, confusion shading his question.

“Why are you standing at the door?”

“It’s standard operating procedure. If there’s an issue, or a disturbance. If you’re in a patient’s room, if I- I’m in a patient’s room, I’m supposed to act like a… barrier. Just in case.” You keep your eyes fixed out the glass, watching for any sights, listening for any sounds. The door is locked, and glass is thick, and security would be here if anything were to happen, they’re already down the hall, everything is fine. Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep-

“Go sit with Johnny.” Simon's standing just behind you, voice pitched low, sweetened into one of those softer hums, the kind of tone he usually uses with Johnny. Not with you. He’s so close, you can almost feel the heat radiating from his body, and you shake your head with a refusal.

“I have to stay-“ He cuts you off, not even letting you choke out the rest of your quivering protest.

“No. Go sit with Johnny.” He pauses, stepping around to angle his body in front of yours, looking down at you over his shoulder, and you think, for a moment, you see a glimmer of the tenderness there that’s reserved for Johnny. “Please.”

“My wrist hurts.” Johnny calls hopefully to you, mischievous smile and eyes sweet, his good hand outstretched with an open palm. “Need ye to rub it.” Simon nods, serious look quashing any rebuttals you might have, protocol and procedure slipping far from your mind as you let yourself drift to Johnny’s side, settling back into your seat previously abandoned. Johnny offers you his wrist, smile fading when he looks closer at your curled fingers. “Ye’re shaking, pretty girl.”

“Low blood sugar.” You lie. The man in the hallway shouts again, closer, loud and awful, roiling with rage, and you inadvertently tense, jolting minutely in the chair.

“Hey now.” Johnny reaches for you, gentle touch against your skin, warm fingers holding onto yours. You look down to where he tries to give you comfort, where he tries to soothe you, instead of the other way around, as it has been, as it should be, and you get lost in it, the idea of comfort, the feeling of care. It makes your heart stumble in your chest, almost like you can’t breathe, staring off into space, trying to pretend like there isn’t a man screaming down the hall, like you’re not the person you are, buried beneath the insurmountable weight of scars, memories of pain and fear etched into the very tissue of your brain, the backs of your eyelids, every strand of hair.

Ingrained inside of you, forever.

Someone says your name, and you blink back to the face of your patient, who looks to Simon, his expression unreadable until it shifts into tender warmth, re-focused on you. “What is it?”

“I-“ You picture yourself, letting your lips go loose, entrusting your secrets and worst fears to these strangers, these men who you don't even know, who don't know you. “I’m exhausted.” You offer, and shadow flickers across Johnny’s eyes. It’s not a lie, not technically. You’re always exhausted.

“Ye-“

“Code black lifted. Code black lifted. Lockdown complete. Resume normal operation.” The PA system drones, tension between your shoulders draining, and you jump to your feet, palms and fingers smoothing over your scrub top.

“Well, I’ve got to check in at the nurses’ station now. Protocol.” You explain, nearly tripping over yourself on the way to the door. Your heart is still raging inside your chest, beating faster than it should, and you steady your breathing with a mental count. One... two... three... one... “I’ll check in on you later.” You promise over your shoulder, slipping by Simon to disappear down the hallway.

#peaches writes #simple math #ghost x soap x reader #ghoap x reader #ghost x reader x soap #john soap mactavish #simon riley #ghoap #soap x ghost #simon riley x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish #simon ghost riley

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halfghostwriter · 1 year

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Half a year after defeating Pariah Dark, Danny ascends to the throne. A few months after his coronation, he receives many letters from nobles of varying realms, all asking to betroth their children to “Princess Danielle Phantom.”

After a lot of asking around, Danny finds out that, despite the whole “King” title amounting to little more than a boost in power, ownership of Pariah Dark’s old castle, and the loyalty of Fright Knight, the royal titles also come with a lot of influence in Infinite Realm nobility circles. There also hasn’t been anyone in the royal family other than the King since the start of Pariah Dark’s reign, meaning every single noble with an heir of their own was sending Danny letter upon letter asking for his clone’s hand in marriage.

Danny, not wanting to force Ellie to be engaged anyone but also realizing that ignoring all of the requests would make for a lot of angry ghosts who are still mentally in the 14th century, talks out the situation with Ellie, and the two come up with a plan.

Danny announces a tournament for the right to become engaged to the Princess, one that would span across several days. On the first day of the tournament, every suitor would fight in a ring battle-royal-style until only ten of them remained. Then, over the course of several days, each of the ten suitors would face off against Ellie. Whoever manages to defeat her earns the right to be her betrothed.

Of course, Danny doesn’t mention the fact that Ellie’s power is nearly on par with his own, and that she had been training with Fright Knight for about half a year. There was no way anyone would be able to defeat her without her letting them, therefore allowing Ellie to choose her betrothed, whoever and whenever she wanted.

Naturally, all the suitors get their asses handed to them, and the citizens of the Ghost Zone get the show of a lifetime. Of course, none of the nobles are happy, in fact they’re nearly ready to riot when Danny says they can simply try again in the tournament next year.

The tournament takes place, and once again, Ellie wins, much to the excitement of the crowd and the frustration of the nobles. The year after that, they send their children in with hidden weapons, none of which are a match for the Princess. The crowd goes wild, and many ghosts become curious as to who could possibly defeat such a powerful young ghost. She’s far more powerful than those in her age range, and ghosts above a certain age are forbidden from fighting for her hand.

Of course, a few fans realize that the rules never actually specified that the competitors needed to be dead, just within the age range.

So, a few fans of the tournament, eager for a good fight, kidnap the entire Young Justice team and force them to compete in the tournament— without explaining the tournament’s purpose.

#danny phantom #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #dc x dp #danielle phantom #‘no ghost can defeat me!’ ‘theyre no ghost’#by the time everyone finds out what’s going on the first day of the tournament is over #and Danny can’t exactly interfere without risk of a riot #if anyone wants to add onto this please do

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britcision · 1 year

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Okay but listen

The Ghost Zone is vast

Infinite one might say

Almost none of its residents met their new King before he was crowned

So like 99.9% of all the ghosts are very respectful of young King Phantom, he’s done great things, saved us from Pariah, 10/10 would crown

The remaining 0.1% is Danny’s Entire Rogue Gallery

And some of ‘em, some of the less common ones aren’t really sure where they stand now, so they won’t give him a reason to fuck them up

The others? Like Johnny and Ember and Technus and Youngblood and Wulf?

That’s their fucking Babypop

King Babypop if he whines but they’ve known him waaaay too long to give a shit if he’s the king

What I’m saying is the Justice League somehow get to the court of the Ghost King to ask him for something, it’s extremely impressive

The buildings are magnificent, the ghosts are their weird and wonderful selves, and every single one of them speaks of their new liege with wonder and appreciation

They make their way to the throne, he looks young but regal with a blazing blue crown on his head and a council of obviously very powerful beings at his sides

Beside the throne is just a fucking brick shit house in plate-mail with a massive sword ready to cut them down if they breathe wrong to the king

The hall falls to respectful silence when this young king speaks

And then half way through the meeting a fucking rockstar with flaming blue hair leaps in through the window and tackles the king straight outta his chair

This very dignified regal figure they’ve been negotiating with (he’s heard of them, he’s been very accommodating and seems to really want to help) is Under Attack

Is it a coup??? His knight hasn’t even moved, the council just continue on as if nothing’s happening, the king is wrassling like a puppy with another ghost who looks about the same age, both screaming profanity

Before the league can decide to get involved, King Danny gets a foot on Ember’s chest, punts her across the room, screams after her that no one can hear you sing in Soup Jail, and returns to the table

“Any way we can add a music deal to this package?”

Ember takes a seat at the table like nothing happened, she’s clearly not supposed to be part of the proceedings but she’s here now and she’s into it

And about two hours later it fucking happens AGAIN cuz Kitty comes barrelling in through the door and goes for Danny’s throat, once again no one else moves except Ember, who fucking dives right in and screams at Kitty for fucking up her new recording deal

(There’s also shit like “defeat Apokolips, defend the Earth, seal Darkseid in a jam jar or whatever” on the table but Ember only cares about one thing)

#dp x dc #does not matter if your scrungly baby bud grows up to be king #you saw him in metaphorical diapers he’s baby forever #lunch lady shows up sometimes and just force feeds him snacks #especially if clockwork thinks he’s not been taking time to eat #it’s mostly friendly and benevolent but it’s also to keep danny grounded #check he’s not going power mad like pariah #can’t let him think everyone is afraid of him #and it’s danny the best way to do that is wrassle im like a gatir #gator #dp ghost king danny

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gojoloves · 7 months

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✧˖°. on location ✧˖°.

fem!reader x ino takuma 1.6k words kinks and warnings: established relationship, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, light teasing, dirty talk, spit talk, pet names, creampie

it’s not that unusual of a situation to find yourself in: aimlessly wandering around with ino, looking into reports of some lower-grade curses in the abandoned shopping center. it’s not particularly what you’d had in mind for a friday night, but once nanami had made the request, who were you to say no?

not like ino would’ve listened, anyway, even if you had wanted to ignore nanami.

“we’ve been looking for over an hour,” you comment, glancing over to your partner. “you sure this wasn’t some misunderstanding?”

ino tilts his head curiously, your boyfriend reminding you a lot of an overgrown puppy in the moment. he’s always had that charm about him, you think - a bit dim at times but always so endearing and hardworking, curious about the world around him. he hasn’t changed a lot in the years you’ve known him. “i don’t think nanami-san would send us out here if there was a chance it was a misunderstanding,” he mumbles. “maybe we’re just not lookin’ hard enough.”

you laugh quietly, stepping closer to him. “we’ve circled this place three times by now,” you tell him, resting your palms against his chest. “don’t you want to go home, throw on a movie -.” you lean up, pecking his lips gently. “- maybe have some fun?”

ino’s eyes narrow, one eyebrow raising curiously. “fun, huh?” he asks. in spite of the look he’s giving you, you can see the way his eyes seem to sparkle, both from mischief and intrigue.

“lots of fun,” you say with a grin. “we need to get started decorating for halloween, remember?”

with a click of his tongue and a roll of his eyes, he laughs. “you’re such a fuckin’ tease,” he says, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you closer, kissing you once more - a bit more intensely this time, like he really means it. you feel your back press against one of the shopping center’s pillars as his tongue runs across your bottom lip.

your own arms come to rest over his shoulders, caught up in the moment until you feel his hands ghosting underneath the edge of your skirt, coming to rest on your ass. “kuma,” you murmur, tone a clear warning.

“hmm?” he asks, angling his head to press his lips to your neck. “what is it, babe?”

“here?” you ask. “seriously?”

you plan to say more, but the way he pulls at your panties, letting the elastic snap back against your skin, makes you squeal, pushing your hips against his in surprise. then, you can feel him - his half-hard cock pressing against his sweats - and you understand he’s very serious.

“very serious,” he says, and you can feel the smile he’s sporting against your skin. he pulls away to look at you. “this place has been abandoned for ages, and like you said - no curses around. why not?”

the problem with your boyfriend being so charming, so damn lovable is that he rarely hears the word “no” from you. with the boyish grin he’s wearing, you know he won’t be hearing it today, either.

“okay, fine,” you cave, biting your lip briefly before giving him another kiss. “just - quickly, yeah?”

“that’s my girl,” he says with a wink. “turn around for me?”

you do as he asks, turning around and placing your hands flat against the pillar, bent over slightly so that your ass is on display for him as soon as he flips your skirt up. his hand trails down your lower back and over your ass before settling between your thighs, rubbing your clothed core.

“god, i love how easy it is for me to make you wet,” he says. you can hear the pride in his voice, and it only gets you even more excited.

the whine that escapes you isn’t your fault, you tell yourself. “kuma, don’t - don’t say things like that,” you mutter, but it only makes his smirk grow wider.

“i’m right, though, yeah?” he asks, taking another look around before using his free hand to tug his sweats and underwear down his hips, just enough to reveal his dick. he spits into his palm, moving to give himself a few strokes before pulling the damp fabric of your underwear to the side. “don’t even need to get you any more worked up.”

when you feel him tap his length against your pussy, you squirm a little; it only gets worse as he rubs his head up and down your slit, and a moan slips from your lips as it presses against your clit. your nails dig into the column, eager for him to just fuck you already.

“please,” you beg, turning to look at him over your shoulder.

as you do, you feel it - the way he slowly begins to press his length into you, one hand guiding himself, the other arm wrapped around your waist to support you.

“damn, you feel fuckin’ amazing,” he says, letting his head loll back for a moment before looking back to you. “pussy’s so warm and tight.”

you can feel every inch of him as he pulls his hips from yours only to bring them back again, thrusting in and out of you at a pace he knows is your favorite, sure to hit your sweet spot just how you like it. with a moan of his name, your nails drag down the pillar again, leaving scratch marks behind. “f-feels so good,” you whimper. “always makin’ me feel good.”

and he has the nerve to laugh, his chuckle low and breathy as he continues to fuck into you. “that’s my job, pretty girl, huh? gotta keep my girl feelin’ good,” he says, the hand on your hip squeezing your flesh in the most enticing manner.

your breaths grow heavy as you do your best to maintain your hold on the column, and your attentive boyfriend is quick to notice. he pulls out of you briefly, making you whine again, but it doesn’t last long.

“stand up ‘n turn around for me, babe,” he says.

when you do, he quickly presses your back against the pillar, hiking one leg up around his hip before pushing back into your cunt. “oh god,” you cry, resting your forehead against his.

“that better?” he asks. “just hold on to me - i got you.”

you press your lips to his, one hand resting on his cheek as you pull him closer. with every thrust, you feel his pelvic bone brushing against your clit, sending you closer to the edge. when he trails a hand down to add his thumb to the mix, you know you’re in for it.

“k-kuma,” you cry, the tightening in your stomach only growing worse.

“you gonna come for me? gonna cream all over my cock?” he asks with a grunt.

you can only nod as you feel your orgasm wrack your body, head falling against his shoulder as you tremble in his hold. but you’ve barely had time to come down from your own high when you hear his voice shakily say your name.

“close, babe,” he tells you. “where - shit, where do you want it?”

without hesitation, you answer. “inside me,” you insist. “wanna feel you, takuma, please. fill me up.”

your words are unfair, and you know it. you know there’s no faster way to get him to finish than to egg him on with those three little words. unfair, maybe, but so, so sweet-tasting in your mouth.

with one final thrust and a moan that’s music to your ears, he comes inside you, pulling you tighter against him. he kisses you again, hips at a standstill as he reaches up to rest a hand on your cheek. “so good, baby, fuck,” he whispers. his lips move to press kisses to your cheeks, your nose - practically anywhere on your face he can reach. “you okay?”

you give him a smile, nodding eagerly. “felt amazing,” you say softly, matching his tone. “you always make me feel good; you know that.”

he laughs softly, nodding. “maybe. but i still like to hear it,” he says.

the intimate moment is broken by his phone ringing in his pocket. without even pulling out of you, he reaches down to grab the device, answering the call.

the look you give him isn’t enough to make him feel ashamed.

“what’s up?” he says into the phone. you can vaguely hear nanami’s voice on the other end of the line, and you watch ino with a curious expression. “yeah, she and i are there right now. we didn’t see any - yeah, the old shopping center off of nakamichi street.” there’s a pause. “oh. you - you’d meant the one off shichifuku street.”

you have to cover your mouth to stop yourself from laughing.

“got it, nanami-san. we’ll, uh - we’ll head that way now. sorry.”

as soon as he hangs up, your laugh echoes through the building. “i can’t believe you,” you manage to get out between laughs. “seriously?”

the faint hint of pink on his cheeks tells you plenty. “shut up,” he mumbles, but there’s still plenty of affection behind it. he carefully pulls out of you, reaching down to adjust your panties and skirt before pulling his sweats back up.

taking your hand, he begins to lead you towards the building’s exit. “come on, pretty girl. let’s see if we can find a bathroom to get you cleaned up in before we get back to work.”

#ino takuma smut #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jjk imagines #divider by cafekitsune

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tanglepelt · 10 months

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Dc x dp idea 92

I’ve seen prompts with Jack fleeing with a de-aged Danny hiding in Gotham. Here he doesn’t stay with him. He drops Danny and Danielle in the very capable hands of red hood.

Danny reveals himself as phantom to his parents and introduces his mirror sister. Both ready to dip if it went bad. Immediately jack feels so guilty for hunting his kid.

He is ready to welcome them both.

Maddie disagrees. This leads to both Danny and Danielle being seriously injured. Jack barley got them out. There ghost half protecting them lead to them both being turned around 4-5

Jack isn’t a dumb man as he seems. He may have gotten b minuses but that was in advance physics and science courses. So he does research.

Creates two brackets that hide his newly made twins ecto signatures so they can’t be found. He didn’t have enough time to make something that allowed their powers to work with them.

He knows the Giw and His soon to be ex (he hasn’t had the ability to get her to sign the paperwork) are after him. They didn’t see the twins be turned to toddlers.

So he has a plan to take down the Giw and Maddie’s sister wouldn’t be safe for the two. Sam and tucker wouldn’t be safe. Jack has to find a safe place for the twins with a bounty on their thankfully teenage heads.

He does a deep dive. He finds online a supposed crime lord. Enough digging he can tell that guy doesn’t let kids get hurt. The stuff he doesn’t isn’t all bad and well… He can’t trust heros. So he packs up and heads out.

Jack pleads his case to either just Red Hood. Or maybe just shows up in the middle of a mission jason is on with the outlaws for a bit more chaos.

#danny phantom #danny fenton #dp x dc #dc x dp #dp dc crossover #dp x dc crossover #dp x dc prompt #red hood #de aged danny #de aged Danielle #Maddie is not a good parent #jack is smart just not as much as Maddie #but still both probs took the same classes #jack plans to take down the Giw on his own #but getting his twins to saftey is priority #jazz is overseas or something #sam and tucker are trying to distract both groups #Jason is livid #an entire government branch trying to kill two kids #and he can’t go dismantle it #Ellie and Danny are clingy #they cry if Jason leave their sights #batfam think it’s funny #jack explains the braclet and admit it’s not ideal #he doesn’t think his kids powers should be sealed away #but they are too young to protect themselves #the two won’t age up again. the injuries were to bad #if they had been hurt via normal means and not through ecto weapons #well the two wouldn’t be human still #good parent jack Fenton

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ragingbookdragon · 9 months

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It’s subtle things they notice in Price’s demeanor that tell them something’s going on in his personal life. A flash of joy in his eyes at a text here, a private phone conversation outside the building there. It’s only until Ghost makes a note of Price’s new aftershave that the man seemingly fumbles his reply with, “Oh, just wanted to try something new.” Something new, their asses. The man’s been using the same aftershave since he was sixteen. Why change now?

With no tact at all, it’s Soap that breaks the silence in the break room with, “So, who is she, Captain?”

Even Ghost rubs his temples at that, but Price looks shocked. “What?”

“The lass that’s got you tripping over yourself. Going home at five-thirty on the dot. Who is she?”

Price looks like he wants the ground to swallow him whole, an uncharacteristic expression on him and he clears his throat, scratching at the table. “Just a woman I met at a shop the other day.”

“Just a woman?” Gaz retorts with a smile. “C’mon, Price, you changed your aftershave.”

He flushes. “I just wanted a change.”

“After thirty years of using the same wintergreen scent you got from your old man?” Ghost mutters, cocking a brow. “Try again.”

Price’s neck disappears into her shoulders. “She thought it smelled nice when we were shopping one day.”

Soap smirks. “Oh…he’s whipped.”

“I am not!” but his defense betrays him as crimson creeps over his skin.

“How old is she?”

At that, Price falls silent and he looks away. “She’s…a few years younger.”

Soap blinks. “Sugar baby younger or just younger?”

“Dude,” Gaz gripes. “Subtlety much?”

“What? No one else was ripping the Band-Aid.”

“She’s in her late twenties,” Price answers. “Twenty-nine.”

“Damn, she’s almost half your age.”

“I…I know,” Price says, practically deflating. “I keep trying to tell her that there’s someone younger and better for her, but she won’t have any of it.”

Before anyone can even break that silence, Price’s phone rings, Elvis’ Burning Love echoing between them, and he’s just a hair short of Soap’s fast grip to answer. Price is spitting as he jumps for his phone but Soap answers it on speaker.

“Hello! You’ve reached Captain Price’s phone.”

Uh…is Jonathan there?

“Oh, Price is busy at the moment, but I’m one of his guys. I’m Soap.”

Oh! Jonathan talks so much about you! You and Kyle, and Simon! He’s so proud of the three of you.

“See that’s surprising, because he hasn’t told any of us about you, Missus Price.” Soap smirks at Price as the man suddenly goes still.

Oh—I, we—he, oh, we’re not—we’re not married. We’re just...dating.

“I dunno, Missus Price, you got him to change his aftershave after thirty years. I think it’s a sealed deal.”

You think? I wouldn’t mind being married to Jonathan. He’s…everything I’ve ever wanted. He’s amazing. He takes care of me, even though he doesn’t have to. And he’s always telling me that whatever burden I can’t carry, to just give it to him, because he can. He…he’s the love of my life. I’m so proud of the man he is.

Soap’s smirk melts into something soft, much like the Captain in front of them. “Yeah…he’s good like that.”

He is. Look, I was just calling to ask what he wanted for dinner, but I’ll just make his favorite. I know he’ll be happy with it regardless. And, John, will you…will you tell him that I called and that I love him? And that I hope he has a wonderful day?

“Yeah, Missus Price, I’ll tell him the second I see him.”

Thank you, John. And tell the others that they’re welcome to come visit any time. I know I can’t wait to meet all of you in person.

“Neither can we. Have a good day, Missus Price.”

You too, dear.

Soap hands Price back his phone and smiles at him. “So, can we come over for dinner?”

The lot expects Price to rear back and punch him, but he’s still trying to pick himself up from the puddle he melted into. “Yeah…I think that will be okay.”

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kriffingstars · 5 months

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Johnny MacTavish; the other man

pairing: Johnny MacTavish x Price!Reader summary: The MacTavish sisters take things into their own hands, and Johnny gets jealous warnings: verrrrrry slight age gap (I imagine reader to be around 20, Johnny is 26), tiniest bit of angst if you squint a/n: i hope this makes up for the lack of follow up, once again asks are always open. if you want to be added to the tags just let me know :) enjoy my beauties

None of the boys are particularly fond of the more ceremonial side of being in the military. The uniforms are too hot, itchy and Gaz has already complained about the way the trousers are splitting him in half.

The nice aspect of it, is that they get to show their families a small part of what they do, even if it’s a carefully constructed show with lots of procedure.

Price can see you mingling with a few of the other soldier’s families. You’ve always been the most personable of the Price’s, taking your mother’s kindness and magnifying it tenfold.

Currently you’re in deep conversation with two ginger girls, the three of you chatting animatedly. Price feels himself smiling as he watches you, he doesn’t really get to see this side of you very often, all your cousins are much younger, and you rarely bring friends round to the house. He’s told you many times, you’re not just a guest, it’s your home and he expects you to treat it as such.

You know it’s your home, but you also see how your Uncle is with new people, and you like to keep the sanctity of your home just that. A sanctity.

“You know you’d be perfect for my brother, he needs someone with a head on their shoulders,” Maisie mentions, switching their conversation in a complete one-eighty.

“Ah, maybe.”

It’s only awkward for you, Maisie and Amelia have no clue that you were in fact sleeping with said brother, not even three weeks ago, and spent most of the time in between texting him.

“He’d be head over heels for you trust me,” is all that Amelia adds to the conversation. From the twenty-minute conversation you’ve had with the two MacTavish girls, you’d learnt Amelia was the older of the two, and slightly more reserved than the youngest, Maisie.

If you thought Johnny was out-going, he had nothing on his baby sister. All big smiles, loud laughs with the biggest heart.

You can see what Johnny says when he tells you he has his work cut out, being the protective older brother.

Maisie’s energy is infections, and her comments about her brother’s potential affections are quickly forgotten as she moves the conversation onto this new band she’s been listening to. Before you know it she’s added a few of their songs to your playlist and you’ve promised to text her what you think of them.

The shrill sound of a bugle cuts off the conversation between the three of you, noting the start of the ceremony and presentation.

It’s nice to see three of the four men parading in all the finery. Ghost for good reason isn’t there, you figured that his mask is not part of the official uniform. You sigh, thinking how it must be a shame that the man can’t be included in the festivities.

The man in question doesn’t, he’s currently in his sweats enjoying the peace and quiet and reading his book, lounging in the now quiet rec room.

Your Uncle sneaks you a subtle smile across the square when you catch his eye. Your face beaming back at him brings him a joy he’ll never admit to.

He knows you’re not his daughter, but you might as well be. He’s resigned himself to the fact that he’ll never have kids, he’s getting older and no closer to meeting someone to spend his life with.

He doesn’t mind. His time at home is spent catching up with old friends, and enjoying your company. You’ve been confused as his daughter a few times in the village and he hasn’t bothered to correct them as of late. He knows you don’t mind, you go as far as calling him your third parent, yes, it’s mainly in jest, but the sentiment is there.

By the time the service is over, all the family and friends in attendance descend on the square to take photos and congratulate the people they’re here for.

You and the two women in tow, make your way over to the three men, lost in conversation over Gaz’s continuous complaints about just how uncomfortable he is.

“Johnny!” is all the older man hears before the Scotsman is out of his vision, being nearly bowled over by a flaming red head flying at break-neck speed.

Soap’s spinning the girl in a circle as he laughs with her, over something inaudible to him.

This time it’s your turn to congratulate John, as he pulls you into his side, checking that you weren’t too bored and laughing when you say how impressive he was.

A call of your name breaks the quiet conversation the two of you are having, it’s Amelia beckoning you over two where the three MacTavish’s are standing.

“This is Johnny, honestly you two would be great together, I think you would really get along,” Maisie butts in again, wiggling her eyebrows as she mentions the getting along.

Oh the irony of the whole situation. Thank god Uncle John can’t see your face because there’s currently a shit eating grin adorning your face.

Johnny’s spluttering, his sisters take this as him being astounded by the woman that’s in front of him, you know better. His eyes aren’t glued to yours, he’s looking slightly behind you, where no doubt your Uncle is glowering at him.

Usually he’d step in, but he’s heard stories about both of Soap’s sisters and there’s no way he’s facing their wrath. He knows how tormented Soap is by the two of them on the daily, even when he’s in a different country. He doesn’t trust that the two of them would turn their focus towards him for interfering in true love.

“We’re going out for dinner later, you should join us!” is the next thing that’s uttered and you try to make your excuses, how you’re actually already going for dinner with the man stood behind you, bit it’s too late.

Fortunately, or unfortunately (it depends on who you ask), John gets invited along too, which is how you find yourself at dinner in a nice country pub as a five, instead of two.

You’re conveniently sat next to Johnny, whilst his two sisters bombard John with questions, many of which are brushed off with a quick ‘I can’t answer that I’m afraid’ but he makes up with plenty of stories of all the times Soap has done something stupid on base, and a few stories from deployments.

“This is not the kind of dinner I was talking about,” Johnny murmurs to you, when he notices his sisters have his CO distracted.

That earns him a gentle slap to his stomach as he laughs at the incredulous look plastered on your face.

“You look beautiful,” is how he follows up his comment, drinking in the way you look in the dim light of the pub.

“So do you, I mean handsome, I mean not that you aren’t beautiful,” you reply stumbling over your words, because god, the tension is palpable.

His hand finds yours underneath the table, stroking slowly over your knuckles, as he decides to finally save Price from his sisters’ rambling.

You’re surprised at how good he is at keeping his cool, you’re sure your face is radiating so much heat that everyone else at the table can feel it.

You’re also surprised at how much you like the thrill, maybe it’s just because Johnny is holding your hand, or maybe its the fact that you know you’re doing everything your Uncle told you not to.

You take a moment to think about how different things could be if John was supportive of the two of you. Maybe you’d actually be dating the man sat on your left, and you’d be holding his hand above the table, maybe his arm would be slung around the back of your chair as you lean into him. He’d toy with your hair slightly, to keep himself from being too distracted from the conversation he was engaged in.

You’d leave the pub hand-in-hand, stealing kisses from each other, as you walked behind the rest of the guests. They’d all be staying in the house with you all. John would make up the sofa bed for Johnny’s sisters, and you’d fall into bed together, stealing kisses and whispering sweet nothings.

You’re snapped out of your daydream by Amelia asking if you’re currently seeing anyone, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Oh…not really,” is all you can manage, embarrassed to be interrupted from the tangent your mind had taken you on.

“Not really doesn’t mean no! Spill the beans,” Maisie teases, and you realise you’re completely in the shit.

“There’s this one guy I’ve been talking to I guess. He’s not from here, but it could work out.”

You notice the shift in Johnny straight away, you feel the absence of his touch immediately as he drops your hand. Price raises his eyebrow, of course you’ll be grilled when you get home about this mystery man.

“Didn’t know you were seeing anyone,” Johnny mutters, but it’s loud enough for everyone to hear.

You’re quick to use the slight pause to change the subject, bringing up the first time the two of you met, much to his sisters’ glee and his despair. Even John chortles, thinking back to Soap sputtering over the huge mistake the man made upon your first introduction.

“Seriously Johnny?!” squawks Amelia through her tears.

“They even look alike, I figured out they were related as soon as they were stood next to each other, and this is the first time we’ve met!” is the follow up, through more laughter.

Dinner finishes quickly after that, the two men splitting the bill, not allowing any of their companions to even see it.

John bids his goodbye’s to Amelia and Maisie, before telling Soap he’ll see him on base tomorrow, slightly later than usual. Before you can make your way home the two women are pulling you into hugs, before letting you know they’ve set up a group chat for the three of you.

Johnny’s goodbye is short and sharp, gone is the playful man you spent most of the evening with.

It’s only when you’re lying in bed later, rehashing what went wrong that you realise Johnny thinks you were talking about someone else.

I was talking about you, you dolt x

Your phone starts buzzing, and you don’t even need to look to know who’s calling.

“Had me sweating for a minute there, Sweets. Thought I was going to have some random bloke coming for my head.”

You can hear the relief in his voice as he lays the charm on real thick. Between his accent and the things he mumbles down the phone you think your heart might explode.

The crush you have on this man is debilitating, if you can even call it a crush that is. It’s been on and off about two months of talking to each other, and you know that you’re beginning to get in deep with him.

“Sweets, you there?” his voice echos softly through the speaker on your phone, tentative in case you’ve accidentally fallen asleep on the phone. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Yeah, I’m here. Just thinking, sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, what you thinking?2

“Just about us, you…” your voice trails off, you’re tired now, inhibitions slipping a little as your head feels slightly heavier on the pillow.

“Yeah? Anything good?” you can hear the grin he has plastered on his face as he talks.

“It’s all good. I like you, y’know.”

That’s the first time you’ve admitted your feelings for him. You know he knows, and he’s made it very clear he has feelings for you, but hearing you say it has him bouncing off the walls with glee. It’s the best medicine to fix the conflicting thoughts he’d had about the whole thing once you admitted you were seeing someone.

“I do, I like you too. Like really like you.”

The conversation turns soft once again, and before he knows it he’s whispering goodnight to you, as your gentle snores crackle through the receiver, half muffled by the duvet you cocooned yourself in.

Taglist: (please let me know if you’d like to be added, all requests from my taglist will get priority)

@cassiecasluciluce @misshoneypaper @unknownduck0 @iwannabealocalcryptid @darkangel4121 @clear-your-mind-and-dream @mothiing @pepsicolacoochie @samanthamarkle92

#john mactavish x reader #john mactavish headcannon #johnny mctavish x reader #johnny mactavish headcannon #john mctavish x reader #soap mactavish #soap x reader #soap mactavish x price!reader #cod mw soap

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party-hearses · 7 months

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i am a nightmare, you are a miracle // 3

do i get callous, or do i stay tender

series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

pairing: joel x ofc!reader, ex!tommy x ofc!reader (NO USE OF Y/N)

rating: explicit, MDNI 18+

word count: 8k

chapter summary: the boundaries of your new relationship with joel are explored.

chapter warnings/tags: no outbreak AU, soft!joel, age gap, alcohol, language, characters eating food, alfred hitchcock, allusions to verbal/mental abuse (not joel), dry humping (i guess?). let me know if I’m forgetting anything!

a/n: this feels very ‘slice of life’, but it’s important to me, dammit! I love each and every one of you (yes, you!) who read, comment, and reblog. this fic is my baby, and every interaction means the world to me. @nostalxgic beta’d for me, because she’s the best human in the world and I love her to pieces.

comments and reblogs are appreciated! support your creators!

There was, Joel knows, a depth to the things you had shared with him. He just doesn’t know how to piece them together.

You had led him, a proverbial blindfold over his eyes, to the darkest recesses of your psyche. Allowed him to graze those things with his fingers. Not to grasp, never to grasp, but to ghost the ridges of his rough digits against the truths they contained. Visceral and unrefined, flexing without giving, beneath his prodding touch. A reluctant invitation.

He had wanted to claw his way in. He had wanted to rip you apart, to gorge himself on your suffering. To lick your velvet bones and make his home inside your ribcage. Half heaven, half hell.

Instead, he finds himself turning your words over in his head again and again, whiskey a thick smoke on his tongue. The television is still on in the background, the light flickering across the angles of the room, casting everything in jagged shadow.

Frustration curls tight in the pit of his stomach. Understanding feels just out of reach — as if the words you had spoken had been in secret tongues. If only he could decode it.

It will take time, he knows, to learn your language. To speak the complexities, to articulate the syntax. To appreciate the nuances from the inside, wrap his tongue around the letters. It will be an exercise in patience, he is sure, but one that he will commit himself to. He hungers to be fluent in reading and speaking you, to savor the delicate flavors of your dialect.

You, the unknowable creature asleep just down the hallway. That his hands had been on; that had made his cock twitch and ache; that had looked at him with those wet, pleading eyes, desperate to be known.

He rolls the wrist that holds his whiskey glass in a circular motion, eyeing the contents intently.

Asking you to stay in his home was a calculated risk. It had been when he’d first done it, and it remains to be the longer you stay. Tommy’s involvement — even in the capacity of ‘ex boyfriend’ — makes things complicated, and Joel knows that those things will border on volatile once he finds out where you are.

Not if, but when.

And truly, Joel doesn’t know what he’ll do when that happens. He hasn’t thought that far ahead, his vision too clouded with you, you, you.

He had known, since the first time you stood in his kitchen, a case of Shiner in your small hands, that the hot knife of devotion he felt when your eyes met his would eventually destroy him. Inevitability twisting its hands into his gut, whispering in his ear to prepare for his own eventual decimation. Lamb, meet slaughter, it said.

He’d let Tommy beat the shit out of him, he thinks, if it keeps you in his proximity.

The acute awareness of it had caught him off guard. Mutual, useless damage — two unfillable voids recognizing one another from across the room. A collision of fire and the ocean floor.

You, in a little black tank top and jean shorts, the tender flesh of your thigh peeking out just below the hem. Shoulders bare, warmed from the afternoon sunlight, skin aglow. It took strength he didn’t know he possessed to not sink his teeth into you right then and there. Lick up the slender column of your neck. Feast.

Tommy, grinning and oblivious as all fuck to the cosmic shift taking place two feet away from him.

Joel wanting to slug the smugness off his younger brother’s face. He knows Tommy — knows him always as a collector of people, of experiences. Not handling things — beautiful, fragile things — with the care they ought to be handled with. Leapfrogging from one thing to the next, nothing but ruin in his wake.

And oh, how Joel wanted to ruin you — but not in the way he knew Tommy would.

Your words to him tonight make his skin itch with that same recognition. That same inevitability. Asking you to stay meant there was no going back — that you would either let him swallow you whole, or he’d die trying to.

Throwing his head back to drain the glass, he savors the burn of the liquor sliding down his throat before flipping the television off and rising from the couch. Retracing his footsteps past your room, a dull throb settles again between his thighs at the thought of your body pressed against his.

It wouldn’t be difficult, he thinks, to open your door and take. He knows you because he knows himself, and what little restraint he has left is stretched thin.

But he will be patient, because it is you. Because he knows how this ends. Because he wants you to want it, too. To need it like he does. To reveal yourself to him in your own time, fragment by fragment. To recognize the inevitability.

And so he closes the door to his bedroom, himself on the wrong side of it, knowing that that is what a better man would do. And like a better man should, he falls asleep to images of your supple skin rippling beneath him, your mouth open and wanting.

You are unknowable, but you have never been a stranger.

You’re still in your dress when you wake up the next morning.

The hem is bunched up around your waist, your panties on display for the four walls of the empty bedroom. The slippery material clings to you, flesh slick with sweat, in a significantly less flattering way than it did last night.

Everything about you is less flattering than it was last night — the shimmer and sugar of it all worn off in the sweltering light of midmorning.

With a groan, you roll onto your back, the hard edges of your phone cutting into the flesh of your hip beneath you. You can’t bring yourself to look at it, to relive the previous twelve hours of…well, everything. Hands and drinks and tongues and flesh and desire and Joel’s voice.

Something else shifts into focus from behind the hazy veil — Joel carrying you to bed. Half-asleep and just on the other side of drunk, drippingly saturnine and pathetic. The recollection of it makes your chest pinch; the most recent admission into the museum of your naiveté.

You scrub your hand across your eyes, thick black flakes of mascara crumbling off your lashes and landing on your cheeks, chalky streaks of it painted across your knuckles. A strange laugh bubbles up in your throat — you can’t even imagine how wrecked you look.

Sharp hesitancy crests your lungs, tempts you to curl up further into the blazing bedsheets, to avoid. To shrink back into yourself. You raise a hand to your still-swollen lips, delicately pressing your fingertips into their fullness, the memory of Peter’s mouth slotted over yours replaying behind your eyelids.

You wish you had been drunk enough to forget that part of the night — but only that part.

Ava’s fingers interlocked with your own, the holographic sheen of her love wrapping around you, the way all of your pain had spilled out into her waiting hands on the dancefloor. Her magic had dug its tendrils into the soft muscle of your heart, her dreamy voice in your ear an incantation: I have the best feeling about you staying with Joel.

It was those things that you never wanted to forget.

And Joel — Joel. The way he had angled his body towards you, had been so attuned to your words. The consideration in his face as he absorbed them all, brows knitted in concentration. The restless twitch of his fingers.

Him sliding his hands beneath your body, pulling you close to his chest.

Everything had poured out of you so naturally, without any of the apprehension or anxiety you’d come to call companion. The sutures you had sewn years and years ago had been neatly, delicately, untied by Joel’s nimble fingers, in a way that you don’t even think he understood. And it took almost nothing.

Like something magic.

Fire crawls across your already heated skin, not so much a realization but a possibility.

It’s the only reason you get up, and peel your dress off of your sticky body, and let the cold water of the shower chill you. Your lungs open up, the buzzing of your nerves quieting under the stream.

Joel hears the quiet patter of your bare feet on the hardwood before he sees you. The beating of his heart matches the measured pace of your steps, both quickening as the distance between you closes.

He glances sideways, pulse hammering when you finally enter his line of vision. The wet ropes of your hair cling to your neck, dripping down the fabric of your threadbare t-shirt. There’s something so cozy about it, a significant intimacy that comes with knowing you’re just out of the shower.

It’s vulnerable in a way that he’s all too cognizant of.

“Hey.”

Your voice is sweet, if not apprehensive. Testing the waters. You gently pop a hip into the lip of the kitchen counter, next to the full, still-steaming coffee pot. Joel is situated at the stove, pan of something resembling food in front of him, his own mug clutched in his left hand.

“How ya feelin’, champ?” There’s a crooked smile on his face, one that disappears behind the curve of his mug as he brings it to his mouth.

You laugh, a gentle sigh of a laugh — a laugh that invigorates his blood more than the coffee does.

“I’m actually okay. Y’know, considering.” You tip your head to the side, watching as he stirs whatever it is in the pan. A grin tugs at the corners of your mouth, seeing him cook. It’s endearing, being allowed a peek into his life.

The way his cheeks round out tell you that he’s still got the same small smile painted on his face, despite the way it’s hidden.

“Mind if I have some?” You gesture with a flick of your chin to his coffee, clocking the way his face immediately falls, eyes narrowing in your direction.

“Y’already know the answer t’that.”

Gaze darting back to the stove, he’s quick to set his coffee to the side, muttering a curse under his breath as he lowers the flame burning under the pan. You twist your body to grab a mug from the cupboard and fill it with the blazing hot liquid, crossing the kitchen to settle at the table.

The subsequent silence is companionable, and you let the coffee rouse the parts of your brain that haven’t quite caught up with you, yet. You watch the strong muscles of Joel’s back, rippling and pulling under his shirt, as he extends his arm to pull a plate down from a different cupboard.

It’s mesmerizing, the agile way he moves, so it catches you off guard when he slides the plate and a fork in front of you, steam rolling off the scrambled eggs and slices of toast.

You hadn’t even noticed him using the toaster.

“Oh,” you squeak, blinking away the surprise you know is written all over your face. “You shouldn’t h-”

“Wanted to.” It’s kind, but matter-of-fact. A stern statement to dissuade you from arguing back.

As he lowers himself into the chair across from you, tossing his own full plate onto the table, you can’t help but remember his hands on your jaw the last time the two of you had been here together.

Together.

He immediately digs into his food, shoveling it into his mouth and slurping his coffee. You drop your gaze to the plate in front of you, picking up the fork and gingerly shuffling the contents of it around.

Something close to guilt needles at your stomach, and all too suddenly the words are hot on your tongue.

“I lied to you last night.”

Joel doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look up at you — just keeps chewing and swallowing.

“Yeah?” Another bite, more chewing, swallowing again.

“I…I kissed someone. At the club.”

The confession hangs between you, though he remains as taciturn as you’ve ever seen him. It’s only when he draws his mug up to his mouth that he even meets your eyes, subtle amusement dancing in the liquid amber of them.

It’s candy Pop Rocks compared to what would have been Tommy’s dynamite.

Joel hasn’t stilled at all, continuing to drink his coffee and scoop his eggs on top of his toast.

“You…asked if I met anyone. And I lied to you.”

Toast halfway to his mouth, the small pile of eggs perched atop it dangerously close to slipping off, he pauses. His brows pull together in a question that you can’t quite read. An epiphany that you’re not privy to.

Lowering his arm, your eyes follow the eggs as they fall to his plate with a muted plop.

“Y’don’t owe me anythin’, Peach.”

Liar.

“But I-”

He shakes his head, and whatever it was that you wanted to say dies in your throat. “Y’had a reason to not tell me. And that reason belongs to you and you alone.”

You scrunch your brows together, an unfamiliar feeling building in your chest. He watches as it happens, his own chest pulling tight at the recognition of your uncertainty, of the doubt in your eyes. He’s quick to lean over the table, over the momentarily forgotten plates of food, to soothe your skin with a knowing drag of his thumb. The fork in your hand falls, clattering against the ceramic.

“Hey. Soften up, darlin’. Just don’t want you to think y’have t’tell me anythin’ y’don’t want to.” His voice is low, eyes intently searching yours. “Doesn’t mean I don’t understand why you’re tellin’ me.”

There’s something so tender about the way he tells you this, the way he touches you, that you’re sure you’ll spontaneously combust. Nothing has ever belonged to you — and only you — before. Not even your thoughts have ever been your own, the space reserved and velvet-roped for the ghosts of your shortcomings.

And you know that though Joel doesn’t quite grasp the gravity of what he’s saying, the words are bubblegum and champagne to you. Exactly, perfectly right.

“You’re good. It’s okay.” He gently brushes a still-damp tangle of your hair back over your ear, and you wonder if he can feel how hard your heart is pounding. “Y’don’t always have to be so…hard on yourself.”

You’re good.

“Say it, Peach.”

Like he can read your mind. Like he can reach directly inside you, all those ties he’d undone, to extract the most vulnerable parts. Soften them. Shield them. Nurture them.

As though he can taste the desperation surging off your skin.

“I’m good.” Your own voice is so small, you hardly recognize it. The words taste bitter, grapefruit with the sugar dusted off. Unearned.

“You’re good, sweetheart,” he repeats, the rough tips of his fingers sliding along your jaw as he pulls his hand back, dropping it to retrieve his abandoned toast. “Now please eat. It’ll help.”

Hesitantly picking up your fork again, you mirror him — biting and chewing thoughtfully, humming as the toast settles in your stomach. Sipping your coffee. It’s almost easy.

Joel makes it easy.

Every now and again he flicks his eyes up to watch you, to make sure you’re actually eating, silently pleased as the amount on your plate slowly diminishes. He finishes before you do, shoving his plate forward and tipping back in his chair, fingers wrapping around his mug comfortably.

Moving the last bits of egg around the perimeter of your plate, you take the opening as Joel’s shoulders relax against the slatted wood.

“I, um, didn’t think you’d be…like this.”

It catches him off guard, a warm laugh betraying his usual stoicism. The levity of it curls around your limbs, climbs the length of your spine. “Oh yeah? ‘N what’d you think I’d be like?”

Avoidant. Brooding. Grumpy.

“Much less…pleasant?” You crinkle your nose at the word, not satisfied with it. “Or, like, you’re kind of…nice?”

This time he laughs out loud, angling his head back and opening his mouth wide. The sound of it lights you up from the inside, sparkly and hot.

“I mean…oh my god, that’s so stupid. I just mean…like, I think being here…will be good for me.”

You’re babbling now, skirting around the fact that you think being around him will be good for you. But something deep in your stomach tells you that he already knows. That he’s always known.

Dropping his head to his chest, you think you see a light sprinkle of pink break out across his tanned cheeks and nose. He clears his throat, mouth obscured by his coffee mug.

“I’m nice t’you, sweetheart.”

The remainder of the day is spent zeroed in on your work laptop, still at the kitchen table, legs stretched across the chair Joel had occupied that morning.

He had slipped out after breakfast to run errands — a few work related, a few personal — asking if you’d wanted to come. The invitation had made your heart swell, the feeling of being wanted stirring in your veins. It was hard to resist, the promise of more time with him so incredibly alluring, but you’d declined, work hanging over your head like a raincloud.

“It’s Saturday, Peach,” he’d murmured, eyeing you as you’d flipped open the slender screen of the device.

“Good thing I don’t have any plans, then,” you’d replied, clicking the trackpad to open your multiple files — budgets and spreadsheets and invoices stacking one on top of the other — thoughts turning to how much you’d rather be climbing into Joel’s truck beside him.

But he’d backed off, dropping a quick squeeze to your shoulder before leaving.

It’s not until he’d been gone for some time that it strikes you how different the interaction was with Joel than it ever had been with Tommy — no exasperation, no stomping out of the house, no argument. And you can’t compare them, you know, because he’s not Tommy, and he’s not your boyfriend —but it’s stable, sustainable. A quiet admission of knowing what you need. Of some kind of trust passing between the two of you.

A disruptive ringing snaps you back to reality, your fingers still resting on the keyboard of the laptop. The screen has gone black, an indication of the amount of time passed.

With a slight shake of your head, your eyes track to the smaller screen, your sister’s name and picture lit up. Uneasiness rolls through you, as it always does when she calls.

“Hey, Kit.” You drop your head back onto the curved wood of the chair, exhaling shallowly through your nose.

“Have you been avoiding me?”

You can hear the shrieking of children in the background, the clatter of pots and pans and running water.

“Are you doing the dishes?” It’s in your best interest to sidestep the question, her giving you the perfect opportunity to do so.

“I didn’t think you’d actually answer.”

The fingers of your other hand find the bridge of your nose, squeezing gently.

“I’ve been…busy. Work has been a lot.”

Liar sits just below your diaphragm, pendulous and dark.

“And how has living with Joel been?”

You should have known that she’d cut straight to the point. Like she always does.

“It’s fine, Kit. It’s been going really well, actually.” You can’t help but snap, the tranquil feeling of Joel’s confidence in you waning into annoyance at being treated like a child by your sister.

Beyond that, a significant part of you is determined to protect the strange, placid thing between you and Joel, whatever it is. Whatever it isn’t.

Kit sighs, but it’s soft. “I’m just calling to say hey. We haven’t talked in so long.”

“You’re calling to check up on me.”

“Is there something so wrong with that? I’m your sister.”

“Not my mother.”

You regret the words as soon as they pass your lips. You can feel her hurt seeping through the phone, from thousands of miles away. It cuts to your core.

“Kit, I didn’t-”

“You’re right. I’m not your mom. But you could at least be fucking kind to me, because I am all you’ve got.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Kit rarely — if ever — curses, and it hits you like a punch in the stomach.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, tears immediately swimming in your line of vision. “You just, remind me of her so much sometimes, and…and I…”

“Have a lot of unresolved bullshit with her.”

“Yeah.”

She’s never said the words aloud before; it’s a subject the two of you had always avoided into adulthood. The crevasse between you, wide and gaping. Hearing her say it, acknowledge it, feels like sucking fresh air into your lungs after holding your breath underwater for too long.

“Daniel! Stop hitting your sister!” She suddenly calls out, and the moment crashes down at your feet.

“Look, um, I’m working. Let’s talk later this week, okay?” You sniffle, salty tears threatening to spill over. “Love you.”

You click to end the call before she can protest.

Rubbing your hands down your face, you wish you hadn’t even answered. Talking about her is never easy, but talking about her with Kit is something you’d danced around for years.

The phone begins to vibrate again, and you almost swipe to ignore it, assuming it’s Kit angrily calling back. But it’s Joel’s name splashed across the screen, and your heart thrums with familiarity. With relief.

“Hey, darlin’.” He says when you answer, the warm timbre of his voice washing everything else out of your head — Tommy and Kit and work included. “I’m thinkin’ about orderin’ pizza, that sound okay t’you?”

“Please, that sounds great.” And it does. Easy. Low maintenance. Comfortable. Exactly what you need. “But only if we can have beers, too.”

He chuckles, the sound low in his throat. “Read my mind, Peach.”

“You’re in the same exact place you were when I left,” Joel exclaims as he walks through the door, a rack of beer on his hip.

“Money never sleeps,” you reply, closing the laptop with finality and stifling a yawn.

“Maybe not, but you need to.”

“Mmm, pizza and beer first,” you hum, pushing yourself up from the table and joining him at the counter, his hands already tearing at the cardboard.

“Anythin’ excitin’ happen while I was out?” He holds a bottle out to you, fingers grazing yours as you take it. A thrill shoots down your spine, settling between your legs.

You lean back against the sink, drawing in a deep breath before tipping the beer back into your mouth. “Nothing I’d love to revisit at this moment.”

The only thing you’d love in this moment is to bask in Joel’s magic — let it wash over you, head to toe. Erase the terrible things you’d said to Kit. Be good again.

He quirks a brow at you, but doesn’t press. Instead, he holds his phone out in front of him, a pizza app pulled up. You shake your head, pushing it away.

“I will eat literally whatever you order.”

Shrugging, he drops his gaze to the screen, thumb flicking up to scroll through the menu slowly. “Hope y’actually mean that. Might try to order a gross pizza just to call y’on your bluff.”

45 minutes later, you’re both on the couch, beer and pizza in hand, an old movie playing in the background. One of your favorites — a sprawling mansion on the English coast, a haunted marriage, the shadow of a mysterious ex-wife, Rebecca. One of Hitchcock’s best, in your opinion.

Joel is happy to oblige, love a good black ‘n white slipping out of his otherwise full mouth.

As much as you love the film, you’re preoccupied with the way the evening sun casts the room in a golden glow, and how it seems to accentuate Joel’s innate softness. A softness you feel privileged to see, to have lavished on you. You want to drown in it — let his kindness corrupt you, let him untangle you.

Selfish fizzes at your fingertips, creeps up the span of your arms.

You shift your focus to the ropey muscles and tendons of Joel’s neck, gaze climbing up his strong jaw, covered in a smattering of salt and pepper scruff, to the long line of his aquiline nose. He balances his half-empty beer bottle on his knee, fingers wrapped around the neck of it.

And if you’re being perfectly honest with yourself, you don’t want to think about anything else. You don’t want to consider what it all means, yet. You want to just exist, here, with him. Watching the way he watches the movie, the way he gulps his beer down.

Hidden from the rest of the world.

Tucking your legs up underneath your body, you let your head loll on the cushion of the couch. You’d hide forever, if you could.

You stretch your arms above you, a sleepy, dopey grin splayed across your mouth — secure glowing fluorescent at the apex of your thighs. The movem ent draws his attention, as though he’d heard your pulse cry his name.

“Tired?” His voice thick, eyes tracing the soft shape of your arms as they reach skyward.

“Mhm. But I wanna finish the movie.”

A coy, sideways smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, and he leans forward to place his pizza plate on the coffee table.

“C’mere, sweetheart,” he drawls lowly, sloping back to slide his hand across your shoulders and wrap his fingers gently around your bicep to tug you closer. Turning, you meet him with wide eyes, glittering in the dark, your heart a trembling magic eight ball — are you sure this is okay?

And without words, he lets you know that it is. Lets you know that he wants you to.

Guided by his large open palm, you carefully curl into his side, dropping your head to his lap. You pull your legs up to your chest, both hands nestling narrowly under his thigh. His hand hovers over the soft curve of your hip, a barely-there touch that makes you ache.

You draw in a deliberate breath, holding it deep until he finally lets his hand drop to the exposed flesh between the band of your shorts and raised hem of your t-shirt.

A million sparks of light burst over your skin, fireworks exploding across the creamy silk of it. Your eyes flutter closed, hyper-aware of every tense of his fingers. The movie continues to play, but the whole world has fluctuated to both start and end in the exact place that he touches you.

As though there is no before this moment in time, only after.

Inevitable.

His hand slides up the length of your body, over the notches of your ribs, and higher still so that his fingers skim the delicate line of your neck. You can feel him relax further into the cushions of the couch, broad body molding to its shape, and you wonder if he’s concentrating on you as hard as you are on him.

In an answer to your unspoken question, he begins to tenderly stroke the spread of your hair, fanned down your shoulders and pooled in his lap.

“Y’know,” he mumbles, eyes still cast to the television, “we had breakfast and dinner together today.”

“We did,” you agree, a slight simper at your lips.

“‘N the world didn’t end, did it, Peach?” He angles his chin down to look at you at the same time you tilt your head to look up at him. He hasn’t stopped caressing the silky locks of your hair, and when you meet his eyes, he grasps a fistful of it gently. The pleasurepain of it makes your blood hot.

“No,” you whisper, “it didn’t.”

He leans closer by just a fraction, and you can’t help but be entranced by the shape of his mouth as his plush lips form the words that cross them.

“Want it to be like that everyday.”

He’s looking at you like there’s a peephole into your soul — a pinpoint view of the feral thing inside of you, on display for him. He’s looking at you like it excites him.

“Me too, Joel,” you breathe, the possibility a white static between you.

Not a single thing outside of the two of you exists in this moment. He prefers it that way, having you all to himself.

“Like you bein’ here, sweetheart.” There’s not a trace of hesitancy in his voice, but he says it like it’s a secret. “Like you workin’ at my kitchen table, and havin’ pizza and beer, and watchin’ old movies with you. Like wakin’ up knowin’ you’re here.”

He moves to trace the outline of your bottom lip with his thumb, and you’re suddenly looking up at him through half-lidded eyes, breathing stilted.

Closing the distance between you, he noses along the soft cut of your jaw, burying his face in your hair. He wants to drink down the way you gasp when he does; the sound burned into his brain, knowing it will come back to him when he’s stroking himself off later.

The elastic compulsion of his need so prominent, so inescapable, that the next words out of his mouth surprise even him.

“Go to sleep, Peach.” His mouth is on your ear, goosebumps rising in the wake of his breath over your skin. “‘M not goin’ anywhere.”

Taking one last deep breath of you in, he pulls back, resuming running his hand up and down the hills and valleys of your body.

The most that he’ll allow himself.

“I said some fucked up things to Kit today. She called while you were gone.”

The words fall out of your mouth, buried shame and anger spilling out with them. A confession.

Joel hums, hand still roaming, almost absentmindedly. It’s reassuring, a reminder of his words — you’re good.

“Siblings are…hard,” he suggests, emphasizing his point with a quick press of his fingers into your hip. “They get your best ‘n your worst, and don’t have a choice. It’s…safe to put the hard things on ‘em.”

“And bein’ the older one is…is…” he continues, pausing to clear his throat, voice tinged with something you can’t name, “a lot of responsibility. ‘N y’always wanna do right by them, y’know? Protect ‘em. But sometimes y’can’t. Hafta let ‘em figure it out on their own. Fuck up on their own.”

The silence that hangs in the air is charged with unsaid words. Unasked questions. Realities and consequences that neither of you are ready to explore the depths of. Guilt.

“Do you think I’m fucking up?”

“No, sweetheart. But I can’t say the same for other people.”

He squeezes your side again, letting his fingers linger just a touch longer than he had before. Dizziness snakes up your vertebrae, cloudy and disorienting. Desire. Want.

It’s a torrid kind of want, one that burrows under your skin and makes itself known. You think Joel can feel it, too, the way his touch roves over you — can feel it burn ing hot at the intersection of your skin and his.

But your brain pulls your body back, settles it to a low simmer. Reminds you to think instead of act.

And eventually, you fall asleep doing exactly that.

When you wake up later, sleep-drunk and unsure of the time, a too-bright infomercial in place of the movie, Joel is still there, just like he’d promised, head dropped to the flat of the couch, softly snoring. Chest steadily rising and falling, fingers curled into your flesh, firmly clasped just below your ribcage.

You don’t move an inch, afraid to wake him, and fall back asleep to the sound of his breathing.

A week passes. Then two weeks. And before you know it, summer winds into autumn, and the two of you slip into an easy routine — somewhat delicate, somewhat hesitant, but comfortable. And you feel silly, now, considering how naturally effortless it is. As though it could have always been this way.

And truly, that’s the hardest part to navigate. Drawing the line between what is, and what you want it to be.

Neither of you has brought up that night, at least to one another. But after you’ve gone to bed each night, you replay it in your mind, the feeling of his hands on you the image at the forefront of it; his name a whimper on your lips as your own fingers crawl beneath your panties.

Each night, wishing they were his.

It’s far too easy to overthink, second guess, dissect the way Joel’s fingers brush yours as you hand him his coffee, or the way his lips quirk up while he watches you struggle to assemble a bookshelf.

“Peach, please let me help. Promise it’ll be so much faster.”

Your indignant scowl, arms twisted over your chest in defiance. His soft laugh, deft hands picking up where yours had left off, piecing the cheap wood together without a hitch. Sitting back on his haunches, massive fingers tugging at your forearms to untangle them. The sticky warmth in his eyes when you let him.

“See? Coulda just asked me.”

Ensuring a soft landing, in every sense of the word.

The routine you’ve created is grounding, satisfying. Something to focus on aside from your intensely confusing feelings about Joel, something that pushes everything else to the back of your mind. Something to lose yourself in.

It’s not much — no caviar and lingerie and nightcaps, but it’s yours. An ardent, fulfilling thing that makes you feel steady on your feet. That makes the sharp, prodding fingers of your thoughts dissolve into a gleaming mist. Even the edges of the words in your head, the angry curvatures of your mother’s voice, bleed into nothing in the safety net of him.

The magic of it lies in its simplicity: taking turns cooking, laundry on Sundays, greetings with warm smiles even when you have to work late or spend entire evenings parked in front of your laptop. Some evenings he’ll go to the local dive with friends, some nights you’ll bury yourself in a book in your bed. The divine act of surviving.

The foundation of something, being constructed slowly from the ground up. Methodically. Each brick a meaningful gesture, word, moment.

You, being rebuilt from the ground up, at the skilled hands of Joel Miller.

A way back to yourself.

And it’s not like you don’t catch him watching you while you work, or let him drag your legs over his lap while your laptop perches precariously on your thighs on the couch. His hands are on you in some way or another more often than not, and you like it. You want it.

If only it were that easy.

If only it could be so uncomplicated — some semblance of normal.

But it’s not. And you know it never will be. So you take what you can get — reveling in the hours spent watching movies together, the errands run together, the shared jokes and spilled chinese takeout. Your own brand of normal.

And he tells you, often, how much he prefers this kind of normal — the one with you in it.

“You ‘n me, Peach, remember?”

The line a continuous, hazy blur — what is, and what you want it to be.

“Hi babe! It’s been ages since I’ve seen you, so we should go out tonight? Thoughts? No, wait — don’t think about it, we should just driiiink about it! Love you!”

Ava’s chocolate-box trill fills the cabin of your car. Rain drizzles lazily down the windows as you click to replay the voicemail, the familiarity of her elongated words and upward inflection making your heart ache. It’s not the first time she’s invited you out since what you’ve come to refer to as the incident, but it’s the first time you’ve felt genuine remorse at turning her down.

But you will do so without hesitating, the grocery bags in the trunk of your car being the only thing on your agenda for the dreary Friday evening.

Typing out a quick text to Ava (sorry babe! raincheck!), your thumb lingers over the thread just below hers. Clicking it open again, the words on the screen send a languid fire rolling through your veins.

You: I’m cooking tonight

Joel Miller: whatever you want, peach

Whatever you want.

The possibility licks hot at every inch of you.

The kitchen has become your favorite place in the house. The heart of it, the life of it. You’ve memorized every nook and cranny, each knot and split of the woodwork. The contents of all drawers and cabinets, the haphazard organization of it all.

You move around the room fluidly, exuding a sense of belonging that’s not lost on Joel. Body propped against the doorframe, he watches as you pour and stir and salt — as comfortable, as confident, as he’s ever seen you.

A bittersweet conception stirs in him, the edges of it coming into soft-focus. Before it can fully form on the screen of his mind, grow roots in the cavern of his heart, he clears his throat to get your attention.

“Peach.”

“Hmm?” You twist just enough to catch his gaze, clocking the expectant look in his eyes. Immediately laying the spoon in your hand on the counter, you face your entire body to his, matching the open expression.

“Close your eyes.”

You obey without question, squeezing them shut and unfolding your hands in front of you like a prayer. There’s the sound of his feet and a quick hiss as Joel opens and closes the refrigerator, placing something cold and dewy in your open palms. Your fingers automatically close around the curves of it.

A wine bottle.

Dragging your bottom lip with your teeth, the corners of your mouth quirk up. Your lashes flutter open, gaze sweeping over the intricate label — a golden goddess, surrounded by ribbons of different shades of pink and blue, dotted with tiny golden star details. The shiny, beveled type spells out Prophecy just below the image.

“This is my favorite.” There’s awe in your voice. Reverence. It shines in your irises as you look up at Joel, who is posted up against the counter, arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Was on sale.”

He breaks into a smirk, cheeks flushing as your sweet laugh fills the space between the two of you.

“Either way,” you respond, humor bleeding into the edges of your voice, eyes rolling fondly, “mind opening it up while I finish everything else?”

Raising his hand to retrieve the bottle, he’s quick to wrap his fingers around the arches of yours. He tugs once, firmly, pulling both you and the bottle close to his chest.

It rattles the air in your lungs, the tiniest oh fanning the base of his throat. He dips his head to meet your gaze, breath punching warm across the bridge of your nose and cheekbones. It’s dizzying, the closeness.

“How’d you know?”

You’re asking about the wine. There’s two inches of space separating you, and you’re asking about the wine.

He leans down further, the slope of his nose pulling across your cheek to graze the shell of your ear. His breathing is deep, measured, in control.

“You brought’t over for dinner once. Said the same thing — was your favorite. I just remembered, that’s all.” He says it casually, as if discussing the weather. As if knowing your favorite wine is the most natural thing in the world to him. “Wanted to get you somethin’ special.”

Whatever you want, Peach.

Your fingers draw swirls against the bottle, the heat from his leeching overtop of them. His grip tightens, words ringing in your ears. You can smell his shampoo, his cologne, him. The spicy warmth of it is mesmerizing — it infiltrates your senses, knocks you off balance.

The rest of the world feels a million miles away.

“Shit!” you hiss suddenly, wrenching your hands away and spinning to remove the saucepan from the flame. “I don’t want it to scorch.”

Joel hums amusedly, hands scrambling so the bottle doesn’t slip and shatter. You then hear him begin to drag open and slam closed multiple drawers, the clang and clatter of various utensils nearly drowning out the swearing under his breath.

“Where’s the damn—”

“Here.” Using your hand not balancing the saucepan, you stretch to retrieve the corkscrew buried in the drawer closest to you, watching through your lashes as he meets your extended grasp to take it.

His gaze lingers on you a split second, corners of his mouth downturned, brows drawn low. Analyzing. Memorizing. It doesn’t last long, him turning on his heel to retreat to the kitchen table.

Something about the way he does it pulls at you, a tangle that you can’t quite find the end of. It’s kindling to the fire smoldering low in your belly, the one you’re desperate to keep at bay — the one that roars back to life as Joel carefully pours your favorite wine into two plastic solo cups.

You can’t help but watch, the repetitive glug glug glug of the liquid into the cup matching the beat of the nearly-boiling blood in your veins. A sheepish smile overtakes his stoic facade, his eyes meeting yours across the room.

“Don’t have any wine glasses.” He nods to the plastic cups, a gentle laugh at the very edge of his words.

“Wouldn’t want one anyway,” you reply, mirroring the way his cheeks round out in a grin.

You’re just spooning the pasta and sauce onto plates when he materializes at your elbow, making a grab for both dishes.

“Uh! I don’t think so!” You click your tongue against your teeth teasingly, blocking his body with yours. “You go sit. I’ll bring them over.”

“You cooked,” he protests, smooth palm grazing your ribs in another attempt to bypass you.

“So you can clean, if you’re worried about it.” Flashing another brilliant sideways grin at him, you pick up a plate in each hand and nudge him backwards with your hip.

“Yes ma’am.” It’s a capitulation, a willingness to step back and let you lead him.

The notion strikes hot against you, nestles in the aching space between your thighs. It scales your stomach, gains speed in the span of your arms, makes your fingers tremble as you set the plates on the table.

“Cheers,” you mumble, scrabbling to pick up the flimsy cup, tipping it just so in his direction before taking a sizable gulp.

As he parallels your action in bringing the wine to his mouth, you wonder if there will ever be a time when he doesn’t trigger the roiling heat in your veins.

Then again, you think, maybe you want him to stoke that in you — always.

Fingers delicate around the body of your just-refilled red solo, you make your way from the kitchen to the couch, where Joel is slouched back, legs parted. It’s impossible not to drag your eyes across the muscled heft of his thighs, to not linger on the way his jeans stretch to accommodate him. His heavy hands rest on the bulk of them, fingers spread languidly.

While you watch him, he’s watching you. You can tell by the way his digits flex and relax, callused pads pulling patterned lines over denim. Keeping his composure, despite the way the wine ignites him. Despite the way you ignite him.

The lights in the room are low, the comforting drum of fat raindrops on the glass panes of the window constant. Your limbs feel loose, a combination of Joel and the wine. There’s a record on low in the background, but you don’t know who. You’d settled on the cushions while he’d taken the shiny disc out of the dust jacket gently, dropped the needle softly, with the most care you’d ever seen, and let the smooth rhythm of it fill the room.

“You gonna cook like that more often?” It’s casual, airy. As if the walls of the room aren’t closing in on the two of you, pushing you nearer and nearer to him.

Inescapable.

You giggle — you fucking giggle — stepping over him to curl back into your place on the couch.

“If you’ll let me.”

He scoffs, turning his body to face you. “Let you?”

You smile dreamily, looking up at him through your lashes. He’s close enough that you can climb over him, bracket his thighs with yours, take his hands and drag them up the length of your body.

There’s no voice in the back of your head telling you not to, for once. No whispers admonishing you, reminding you that you’re wicked and worthless and unlovable.

So when he repeats himself, asking “let you?” in a thick voice, you do.

Your body moves before your brain has time to react — you throw one leg over his lap, hands grasping for purchase on the back of the couch for balance, situating your thighs on the outside of his. It’s a snug fit, one that opens your hips wide, the stinging stretch of it pushing you forward. You relax your core over his, the zipper of his jeans biting into the ice-cream flesh of your inner thigh.

And when your brain finally does catch up, all you can feel are his big palms cupped around the backs of your thighs, kneading the exposed flesh there. His fingertips barely graze beneath the hems of your sleep shorts, and you’re all too-aware of how close they are to your center.

There’s a satisfied hum on his lips, a knowing growl in his throat. A silent admission of how long he’s waited for you. A confession of a different kind of hunger, a kind with legs and buoyancy.

His eyes burn into yours — no traces of hesitancy, surprise, guilt woven into the golden gleam of them.

Twin masks slipping at the same time. Resolve stretched to snapping, satisfaction within tasting distance as you grind down into him — just once, desperation sliding down your spine.

“You can have whatever you want, Peach.” His voice is low, a wanton whisper that punches somewhere near your throat.

Those words again.

Whatever you want.

You’re looking down at him, his irises shining with earnestness, and you can’t help but raise your hand from the couch to card through his thick waves. But he catches your wrist before you can, bringing it down to the heat of his mouth to press his lips to your open palm without breaking his searing gaze.

You moan. At least, you think you do, though it’s a quiet, broken thing. A whine. A plea.

His thumb swipes back and forth over your wrist, your hand small in his grip. You watch through hooded eyes as he lowers it to the crotch of his jeans, your breath catching in the cavern of your chest as you feel him for the first time.

It’s somewhat surreal — the thickness of his hard cock in your palm, separated only by the material of his pants. Every fantasy you’ve harbored about him unwrapped at the tips of your fingers, his hand pressing yours into him, unforgiving and firm.

His other hand swallows the curve of your thigh, chases up your side to grasp at your hip, dragging your cunt over him. He drops his head back, repeating the action, the ropes of muscle in his neck pulled taut as he bites back a groan.

Your head is swimming — Joel’s heady scent and bruising touch combined with the wine makes everything feel soft-focus and shimmery, like a dream. You cant your hips again, focusing on the way his jaw ticks when you do, lost in watching the way his body responds to yours.

The reality of it sits heavy between the place his skin meets yours — breaths mingling as a cry of finally, finally, finally. It consumes you both in such a way that neither of you hear a key turning in the lock, the door slamming open, or heavy boots in the entryway.

It’s not until he speaks that both you and Joel snap your heads in his direction, chests heaving, hands climbing. Caught.

“Guess it’s true, huh? Y’really are enjoyin’ my sloppy seconds.”

#joel miller #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #the last of us fic #joel miller tlou #tlou fanfiction

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ceilidho · 1 month

Note

OBSESSED with how you wrote soap as a big feral man in country road I WOULD EAT HIM UP I WOULD GNAW ON HIM just that little glimpse has me dead

(If you ever thought of doing spin offs with the other boys I would truly do anything for that. no pressure of course I am content with this absolutely delicious fic 💛💛)

love you forever thank you for your big beautiful brain 🫡

in my head, he and Ghost are reformed outlaws who were done right by Price and decided to stick around. Sometimes Ghost feels extremely uncomfortable wearing a badge and Soap refuses to wear his at all, but they’d do just about anything for Price.

I don’t have a huge amount of lore for Soap in my head, but I imagine he was born in Scotland around the mid 1860s and was orphaned at a young age. Wound up in London somehow by his early teens, where he worked as a chimney sweep and was probably a bit of a pickpocket (he’s been in survival mode since he was born). I think eventually he may have been run out of England altogether and somehow forced to take the long voyage to America.

Even years later, he’s still half feral. He has a comfortable life now and a job and people that care about him, but he hasn’t quite shaken his nasty habit of pinching anything easy enough for him to steal.

#wink wink about stealing something he wants #maybe a band of outlaws holds up a train and when he and Simon come to confront them #he sees a girl shaking in her seat and decides she should come home with him

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lululandd · 4 months

Text

colour me grey; (ii.)

pairing: simon ‘ghost’ riley x f!reader

word count: 5.3k

warnings: soulmates, hella smut, fluff

notes: backed myself into a filth corner so i went ham (also on AO3)

summary: where the fuck has he been all your life?

part i. |

You and Simon had agreed to meet at a fancy cafe in the middle of town to get to know each other a bit more, and you couldn’t help but to dwell in your own thoughts as you made your way towards the place. He had come off a tad pushy during planning, insisting on a specific place at a specific time of day, choosing a cafe you know was famous for being overpriced. While trying to look up the menu online, you saw the time he suggested came up as “least busy” on google, and you don’t think it’s a coincidence that he chose that time, as if he’s trying to avoid a crowd.

Is he famous? Or he’s just embarrassed to be seen with you?

It was then that your thoughts took a sharp turn to his face, and how you’ve never actually seen all of it. The lower half was always hidden under masks; he didn’t even take it off for drinks, he slipped a straw underneath it to sip. You also didn’t fail to notice that you two didn’t even exchange numbers. No face, no number, just a time and place. You wonder if your soulmate is a psycho.

It’s not like you’re completely… in danger. The soulmate bond exists—for better or worse—to prevent soulmates from hurting each other. The shared bond magnifies pain and pleasure the closer one is to the other. So if you hurt your soulmate in close proximity, you would also feel their pain. Some people don’t believe that they occur before the initial reveal of the mark, but you’re not one of them. Because you remember years ago, before knowing who Simon was, your left arm tingled and prickled for hours on end for seemingly no reason, and now after meeting him you know that was when he got his tattoo done. You were sure if he got it done closer to where you lived back then it would’ve stung more. There were other unexplainable pains here and there the years after, but you blame a lot of it to ageing, overall bad sitting habits, your lack of excercise, and clumsiness.

The sight of a large masked man roused you from your thoughts. His head snapped to you as if on instinct before eyeing the place and pointing at an empty table by the corner.

Tosser. What’s wrong with this seat?

He walked to your table when you didn’t move, gently grabbing your elbow to ask if you would reconsider and sit at the table he chose.

“Here seems fine.” You looked up at him.

He closed his eyes for a moment, expression hardening before shifting into something less pleasant. “Please?”

—

He’s internally screaming. You show up at the fancy place that he half-manipulated you to agree to with zero qualms and no objections; you just said yes and now here you are walking into the place with careless abandon in that really cute dress that he’d love to get off your—

Focus.

You didn’t even feel him staring, didn’t even fucking look back when he stood right behind you and gently tugged your hair. You just placed a hand near your scalp to alleviate the feeling as you continue typing on your phone.

Is this really his soulmate? This unaware civilian with zero defence mechanism? Her?

The moment he saw where you sat at the cafe almost made him want to walk out. It was in the middle of the room, where anyone could walk by and slip something into your drinks undetected. The thought of having people on his blind side as he was with his soulmate made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Thankfully—although with rolled eyes and gritted teeth—you agreed to move to his proposed seat.

—

Getting over your initial annoyance by drinking the shit out of your drink, the absence of it made you realise he hasn’t taken a single sip of his.

Did he forget his straw?

You excused yourself for a bit to grab him one. As much as you want to see what his face looks like, ultimately if he doesn’t want to show it then you really shouldn’t force him to. Besides, maybe he’s had a weird day and this could be his breaking point so might as well do something nice for the man. You can feel his eyes on you, and confirm that he’s watching when you walk back with the straw in hand. Waving it at him awarded you with crinkles at the edges of his eyes.

“Cheers, love.” he chirped, taking off his mask as he said so and sipped his drink right off the cup, ignoring your straw entirely.

This bitch.

His face was…. fine. Not horrendously disfigured like you had initially feared, but also nowhere near as handsome as you secretly wanted him to be. You don’t know how to feel about the scarring on his face, it was attractive for sure but also concerning at the same time, and the sight of his skewed nose made you wrinkle yours.

You nervously mentioned the possibility of seeing a doctor and setting his nose back to its proper place.

He laughed at the comment, leaning very close to you at the table, “Why pay a bloody doctor to do it when I can pick a fight with a left handed prick for free?”

That little quip made all the prior agitation you felt towards him dissipate into thin air.

You don’t remember the last time anyone made you laugh that much on a first date. It was the most fun you’ve ever had in a while. The man opens doors, walks on the outside part of the sidewalk, looks both ways for you before holding your hand to cross the street, offers you his jacket even before you realise you were cold.

Where the fuck has he been all your life?

—

To his horror, you invited him back to your place even though you two barely know each other and practically just met. And to his disgust, he said yes. He knew he should say no, refuse, but there’s a pull that he guesses was the soulmate thing talking, so here he is.

He gingerly crossed the threshold of your home, noting the fragile knick-knacks lined up on badly screwed on shelves, the pile of unfolded clothes sitting on an armchair, the strung up plastic bag filled with other plastic bags in the kitchen, and the worst thing he could ever see in someone’s–much less his soulmate’s–house; a decently sized collage of pictures hung up on a wall in the living room.

It was of you, your friends, family, and possible ex-partners judging from the poses and the amount of people in a single photo. You seem to take notice of where his attention lies and sidled up next to him.

“These your friends?” He wanted to confirm, pointing at the large frame. He already has a general idea which ones are which. It’s not like he wanted to hear you ramble and tell you things about yourself excitedly or anything. Definitely not. He doesn't want to see your eyes shine and sparkle as you talk about your family, he’s for sure not waiting for your laughter as he points to a blurred group picture.

It didn’t take fucking long for him to get attached to you. As a matter of fact, it took two missions. Two fucking back to back assignments away for him to miss your presence and laughter and the normalcy of your civilian life. He misses your warmth, the horrible show you put on the telly, and the meals you cook. What he doesn’t miss was the peace and quiet his own flat afforded him, since there’s always weirdly something to do in your place; appliances to be fixed, plants to water and shake, repaints to be done, rodents of unusual sizes to catch, and most important of all, you.

You. How you come to him with your problems, the way you latch onto his arm as you two walk, your assurance and confidence in yourself, the perseverance you exhibit when problems come your way.

It was the first time in his life that he ever felt the need to check his phone on the helo. He’s seen everyone else done it numerous times before. He’s used to Soap obsessively checking his dating apps, Gaz’s blur of fingers on his phone’s keyboard to catch up with his loved ones, and Price putting on earpods underneath the helo’s noise cancelling headsets to listen or watch videos his wife sent him. He sighed with relief when he turned his phone on and got bombarded with messages from you. He watched the notification bar scroll by like the end credits of a movie. They contain either animal videos, long winded messages telling him how your day was, paragraphs of work gossip, memes he could barely grasp, sprinkled here and there with ‘i miss you’s and his favourite: selfies. Now scrolling upwards manually to see the messages more clearly, he heard a crackle on his headset as Soap chimed in next to him.

“Looks like ya got in trouble or some shite, LT.”

“Sod off, Johnny.” He snapped harmlessly. “You wanna see how much trouble I'm in?” He tapped on a notification and showed his screen to his best friend. It was a picture of a white cat sleeping in a bed of flowers, bathed in sunlight.

“Aww fuck that’s cute, is that where you’re goan sleep tonight? outside?” Soap jeered. He fiddled with his gloves a bit before bumping his shoulder, “I’m glad you’re happy, Simon.”

He huffed, “Who the fuck snitched. Who told you I was happy?”

A raspy chuckle escaped him before taking out his own phone. His own phone lights up not a moment later. Soap had sent him a video. It was of a man with the words ‘I miss you🥺’ above him, rolling his eyes and putting on a smug face before the caption changes into ‘Of course you do. It’s me.’

Ignoring the fact that Soap had clearly seen quite a few of your messages sent to him, the video made him chuckle and he forwarded the link to you. He didn’t expect for you to reply immediately; With a gif of a hamster shovelling a whole baby carrot in its mouth no less. He had to turn his screen off and put his phone back in his jacket pocket so Soap wouldn't see that one.

He arrives home to his dusty flat, mindlessly putting his clothes in the machine before running a hot bath. It’s been his routine ever since he was eighteen, and if he may be honest, his favourite. Not that the thought of doing this at your place hasn’t crossed his mind, he’s just reluctant to let you see his bloody clothes, his newly acquired scars, and the state of his mental well-being.

He knows he’s gruff and irritable the first few hours he’s back, and he doesn’t want you to think you had anything to do with it. The thought of your worried and dejected face if he accidentally snaps at you makes his skin crawl. He knows you would understand if he just… explains that he needs space and alone time after work, but he hesitates every time. He tries to take his mind to a happier place and checks his phone again as he waits for the tub to fill; sitting at the edge while opening the encrypted folder full of pics of you two together, and some candids of you. He didn’t even know he was smiling until he put his phone away and saw himself in the mirror.

He ignored his reflection and threw in a bath bomb that Gaz had gifted him for his ‘birthday’. It’s a silly little gag that Soap had pulled on him one day, randomly singing happy birthday to him—since no one knows when his actual birthday is—and poor Gaz didn’t know it wasn’t actually his birthday and got him a gift the next year. Simon relishes in the smell of lemon and tangerine, breathing in actual air that’s not filtered through the musty fabric of his mask, sighing in comfort as he dips, feeling the warm water hit his bare skin. It’s been weeks since he’s able to let his guard down and take his mask off.

You join him in the bath, hair pulled up nice and neat. He smiles at you, the overhead light hits you at just the right angle that it obscures your face, but he knows it’s you, sitting oh so pretty in front of him, laughing about something he didn’t understand and splashes the water in his direction, not stopping even when he asked you to, then lunging at him, holding him under th—

Water sloshes off the rim as he startled awake, coughing water out of his lungs. Scrambling out the tub, he looked back at the now tepid water, the image of you lunging at him burned into his skull.

It was a dream. Thank fuck it was only a dream.

It was then that an awful, icy fear rushed through his veins, stopping him in his tracks. His brain has caught up to the present and inserts you into his nightmares. There’s conflict in his mind, neurons firing as fast as bullets as one thought crashes onto another, whether he should leave you, keep you close to him, maybe he can apply for SFA or—

The F in SFA stands for Family, idiot. You’re not even engaged, Simon. Get a grip.

His exhausted body yearned for bed, for sleep, for him to just be horizontal for sixteen hours straight. He slowly blinks, realising with a delayed start that he had wasted twenty minutes just standing there staring at his bed while his thoughts of you run rampant. He stared harder at the bed and decided he doesn’t want to sleep here, it just wouldn’t feel right. He’s slept better in your shitty creaky queen sized bed than the expensive king size one he’s currently looking at. Packing up necessities, he rolled his luggage out from his dingy apartment and into yours.

—

He showed up at your door with his eyes bloodshot, hoodie askew, and hair damp. You heard him mumble something about going to bed or some shite but you stopped him with a firm hand to his abs.

“Dry your hair first.” You sternly suggested. His size doesn’t intimidate you as much anymore, it’s more his gaze that makes him scary—if any.

Simon placed a hand on his head, mussing his hair about, unintentionally flicking tiny droplets of water on you. He clicked his tongue as he unsubtly wiped his hand on the front of his pants, “Dry enough.”

“Not if you wanna sleep in my bed, it’s not.”

“Fahkin’ wimin...” His accent thickens as he groans and grumbles. He follows up the insult by gently putting his hand in yours.

Despite his protest, he follows you willingly and without further questions towards the bathroom.

The face he makes as you touch his scalp is akin to that of a pitbull. That dopey, always smiling look. His head moves whichever way you pull his hair to, obedient to a fault. Man straight up purred and leaned his head on your shoulder when you scratched the base of his skull.

You grimaced as he dropped into your bed in his outside clothes, but there was no waking him up. Simon fucking Riley started snoring as soon as his head touched your pillow, even went so far as taking one of your stuffed animals as hostage for good measure.

—

Your stuffed animal didn’t make it through the night. He woke up to the sight of it practically flattened in his hold, its whole body a deformed pancake. Instinctively digging his nails into his palms, Simon had to make sure he’s not hallucinating or dreaming. It’s a habit he picked up whenever things got too… happy for him. He looked around the room which is now bathed in sunlight, meaning he had slept for a full—he glanced at the clock by your bed—thirteen hours. He sat up in bed, leaving the toy alone to hopefully recover.

Going on autopilot, he did his morning routine and only when he saw you out and about in his hoodie did he snap out of his stupor.

It was the violet one from the top of his luggage pile, the one he remembers wearing when you first met him under that awning. He smiled at the sight of you looking so perfect in it, couldn’t help but appreciate you and sear the moment into his mind. He’s glad that he gets to meet you, see you in your day-to-day life, and that he gets to feel normal for the briefest moment of his life. He spotted your morning tea sitting on the kitchen counter and headed towards it immediately. He hates the way you take your tea; it’s ridiculously weak, unbearably sweet, and probably seventy percent milk, but he drinks it in one go. Just to annoy you.

And how adorable you are when you’re annoyed. He grins widely as you stare at him in disbelief. He’s convinced that you think he takes his tea exactly as you do from all the times he’s drunk and remakes it for you. Right now you’re storming right at him, groaning his name in protest, your face twisted in exasperation. He opens his arms to receive whatever you deem fit as punishment, so you trudge into him like a bull, planting your face onto his bare chest, taking both of you down onto the sofa, collapsing into a fit of grumbles amidst his giggles.

He touches you delicately and affectionately, as if afraid you would break away and disappear if he touched you any other way. His back had started to hurt from the position he found himself in, so he cradled you in his hold as moved into a better position. Your head had been momentarily dislodged from his chest and onto the sweet junction on his neck.

You were sitting on his lap, breaths calming down to a slow and steady rhythm as you slowly got more comfortable in his arms. Feeling you relax in his embrace puts another smile on his face, bringing solace into his heart like nothing else could. Putting a hand down to your thigh, he absent-mindedly traced circles into your skin, and found himself fervently licking his lips when he felt you shift on his lap.

“Simon…”

He peppers kisses to the top of your head, and you moaned when his fingers slipped under your shirt, brushing against your skin. He stared you down, taking in your flushed face, your inability to look at him, and the way you bite your lip. He breathes in your scent, desperately committing every single detail to memory. His free hand caressed your neck, tilting your head up so you’d look back at him. He slowly kissed a burning path up your neck, trying to find soft spots as he licked and nibbled, stopping just shy of your mouth as his lips hover over yours.

You meet his lips eagerly as he kisses you, a needy, open mouthed kiss. You inched forwards, pressing yourself closer to him; your hands roaming whichever part of him you could as your forearm rests on his shoulders. There was something about hearing your quieted moans that made him burn hotter, made something in his chest loosen. Planting both hands on your waist, he couldn't help but to smirk as you let out a little yelp, breaking the kiss.

“Something wrong, love?”

—

The audacity of this man to be cheeky when he’s the one that started all this.

You unhooked your hands from behind his neck and cupped his jaw as you started to grind down on his erection. He meets your gaze with that same lust reflected in his eyes. You heard the strain in his voice when he said your name, felt his grip tighten on your waist as his darkened gaze flickered from your eyes to your mouth. Unable to help himself, one of his hands moves up to loosely grip your chin before placing a delicate thumb on your bottom lip.

Opening your mouth to start sucking on his digit, the coarseness of his thumb on your tongue spurs you to go even further. You let go of his face to better manoeuvre his hands, letting go of his thumb with a soft wet pop to move onto his index and middle. Simon hummed in appreciation as his other hand slid up your torso to cup your breast. Shivering at the contact, you inadvertently squirm harder against his cock.

His other hand lowered from your chest down to your hips to calm you down and held fast to steady you. He groaned as you fought in his hold, grinding harder on him.

“Easy, love.” he synced his hip movements with yours, pressing his erection closer to your clothed cunt when you didn’t stop.

Your eyes flickered towards his to find him staring intently at your mouth with a heavy lidded gaze. You try not to drool all over him or yourself over his relentless hold on your mouth.

—

Watching your tongue fidget beneath his fingers was intoxicating to him, so was the steady stream of your saliva from your mouth to his wrist. You dipped your head closer to his as he let go, and your mouth was on his again, kissing him more insistently this time. You parted your lips to lap at his, begging him to open his mouth. It was getting harder for him to hold himself back, not while you cup his face with such tenderness and inch further to get as close to him as possible. Simon finally opened his mouth, deepening the kiss as you whined and lapped at his tongue.

A smile spreads across Simon’s face, breaking the kiss only for you to lean forwards and chase after him. Finding out you were an impatient little thing awakened a dark sense of joy inside him. He tastes you, feels all of you, looks at your happy face and willingly gets lost in it. You paw at his pants, eager to slide it off him. Hissing through gritted teeth as cold air meets his burning skin, he yanks your underwear aside and feels a rush of accomplishment wash over him as he discovers that you were already leaking for him. A light brush of his fingertips along your folds had you breathing hoarsely by his ear, and in retaliation came a long upward wet lick on his neck that ends up as a nibble on his earlobe.

Precum generously dribbled down his length, he couldn’t help but to let out an appreciative grunt, shuddering at the feel of your hands pumping his cock. Your pace turns more erratic as he easily slides a finger into you.

You keened his name as he added another, your breaths coming in quick puffs as you latch onto any part of him you could reach with your mouth and started sucking. He was glad he went out shirtless so he didn’t have to bother with taking his clothes off.

Simon involuntarily laughs as he slowly eases his finger out, leaving a string of slick from your wet cunt to his fingers, earning him a particularly hard suck on his chest. He can’t wait to see the colour on it. “On your knees love, on the floor.”

He watched you in muted fascination as you obediently got on your knees without breaking eye contact, giving him kitten licks before fully putting his cock into your mouth, feeling your tongue on the underside of his shaft made the world blur around the edges of his vision into mere colours.

Oh, he won’t last long.

You swirl your tongue, going deeper with each bob of your head, testing your gag reflex. He couldn’t help but to thread his fingers in your hair, guiding you to go slower. His cock twitched dangerously close to cumming as you bat your lashes at him. There was something about you, your mouth, your skin, your smell, and the sight of you fingering yourself that inched him closer and closer to bliss.

“Enough love.” He commanded, his voice tilting dangerously close to a tone he uses in combat, borderline close to yanking your hair as you resisted his order, disobediently dragging your tongue torturously slow on his vein. “Turn around.”

Unmoving, you gave him little licks and kisses with an air of defiance, making him gather all his remaining strength and control to not start manhandling you as he desperately wants to.

—

The soulmate bond pulled you so close to pure pleasure that you decided to drag Simon down with you. His cock felt as if it was made for you, the shape and girth of it made it dangerously easy to pull into your mouth. You wonder how it would feel inside you.

You hear him almost snarl when you lingered instead of listening to his command, his erection painfully hard and angry in the palm of his hand. Batting your wet lashes at him, you slowly turn around to brace yourself at the coffee table.

Hope it doesn’t break.

It held both your weight surprisingly well for an ikea table with thin legs; Simon didn’t hesitate to cage you in as soon as he strips you of his hoodie, feeling his solid front on your bare back as one hand expertly pinching and rolling your nipple, while the other rubs the area where your womb sits. You moan embarrassingly loud at the gesture, no one had ever held you in reverence like this before.

Time moved torturously slow for you, he was now in full control and took his time biting and sucking hickeys onto your neck as he ruts in-between your thighs. You can’t help but whine every time his cockhead catches on your clit, each time giving less friction as both of your sex are covered by a heady mix of his precum and your fluids.

He ruts harder as he holds the lower part of your hips, keeping your legs together, holding you tighter and pulling you back until your ass meets his hip every time he thrusts. His tongue licks a long wet strip at the nape of your neck as his movements halts down to a complete stop and you…wait.

The vision of the living room beats in tandem with your heart, each second that passes feels agonisingly long. Wiggling your ass impatiently, he rewards you with a painful bite on your ear, making you yelp. The feeling of surprise wasn’t even close to being recognised when your brain focuses on the feel of him lining himself up, the tip of his cock pressing relentlessly against your folds. He grabs your hip tighter when you try to accommodate yourself and push back into him.

“Don’t.” He mutters an order against your skin, inhaling deeply. “I wanna savour you.”

At that moment you don’t even know what that even means, you’re too busy honing in on his cock that’s slowly but adamantly inching into you, thrusting shallowly and easing you everytime he feels resistance.

“That’s it love, there we go.” He breathes out harshly as you feel him bottom out, his hips flush against your ass, eliciting little whimpers from you as he stays still.

You moaned when he pulled almost all the way out, thrusting slowly and deeply into you everytime. Every movement he made is deliberately slow, like he’s there to enjoy his moment and you don’t matter. Tears roll down your cheeks and pool onto the table you were crowded against, he moved nowhere near fast enough to build you up. He hears you audibly sob and stays still inside you.

“Y’aight?” He asks, turning your head a little so he can repeatedly kiss your cheek. He lets out a little shaky laugh that borders on condescension, “Too much?”

Oh fuck you.

“H-harder, Simon.” you choked out, and he obeys. His hips snapped onto yours in an instant. His arms envelop you even tighter; one of his hands slides down to circle your clit as his rhythm picks up and his thrusts become more forceful.

The poor little table squeaks and jostles every time he bucks into you, his large hands roam your body feverishly, his pace increasing as he becomes more vocal, muttering borderline incoherent praises.

You weren’t far behind either, the constant barrage of yesyessimonyespleasedontstopyes spurs him to rail you more vigorously, sliding out completely before slamming back into you harder, faster, his hands a bruising grip on your hips at this point. With eyes clouded, mind unable to think about anything but to clench around his cock and your pussy at his mercy, you wailed as you came to an abrupt climax, clinging onto the table as he continued ramming into you. His pace became more erratic and animalistic as he got closer to his release. It didn’t take long for you to gradually feel the warmth of lust again, his ecstasy leaking into the soulmate bond overriding the pain of over-stimulation as he came with a stutter of his hips.

He eased his hold on you, his hands merely holding you in place, to not let you fall sideways onto the floor. You feel his cock twitch inside, before he pulls out with an uncharacteristic moan. You slowly turn your head towards him and can only watch as he eyed his copious amount of cum dripping out of you.

—

The mean voice that he’s used to listening in his head whispers at him to just bully his softening cock back into you, to stop his stream of cum wastefully trickling onto the floor. Maybe grab both your hands from behind so you can’t fight back. He reluctantly lifts his gaze from your leaking cunt to watch you catch your breath, resting your cheek on the table, seeing how your continuous panting leaves a foggy patch on the surface.

It took a long while for you two to come down from the high, with him collapsing like a sack of potatoes behind you, taking you with him to ease both your knees. He hears and feels your little whimpers as he holds your waist steady with one arm, his thumb mindlessly going in circles.

He patiently watches the shadows move as the sun rises higher, as either of you are sitting comfortably on the floor, his back resting against the sofa.

“Don’t think I’ve ever came that much before.” He spoke up, feeling the cum that dribbled from between your legs has now reached his. Worry has started to seep in. The gears in his head have started turning again.

“I’m on birth control, don’t worry.” You answered, rather coldly, if he may be paranoid about it.

“Got caught up in the moment, won’t happen again.”

“Same.” You turned your head towards the kitchen and he followed your gaze, “Make us some tea, Simon?” You sweetly asked him as you left a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

He would freely hand you his still bleeding heart if you ask him with that tone of voice. Never in his life had he dreamt of meeting someone like you. But here he is, basking in your glow, maybe the first time in what feels like forever that he felt comfortable sitting in silence with another human being. Where the stillness stops being oppressive and his consciousness is free of doubt and uncertainty. He feels... Safe.

Is this love?

#call of duty #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #call of duty imagines #scuffed writing

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fangirlingpuggle · 2 years

Text

Very very dumb DP fic prompt/AU idea again with Danny being eldritch being.

Him eventually having to leave Amity and go to GZ full time because 1)he’s not aging and 2)He’s so powerful it’d be dangerous. Maybe it’s even kick started on by a reveal gone bad and Danny not feeling safe there anymore.

Danny still being a teenager when he comes to visit even years later. Him visiting Jazz, Sam and Tucker as they get older while he looks the same.

Other people in Amity always doing double takes as they see Sam and Tucker walking with a kid who looks just like Danny Fenton who went missing but then they look back and no one’s there with them.

Danny, Tucker and Sam totally fucking with people.

Vlad being super pissed he didn’t get the ‘eternal youth’/Immortality Danny got (He still hasn’t figured out Danny isn’t just a normal half ghost... no one’s told him it’s funnier this way... no one’s actually told him Danny’s heir to the throne and adopted by CW and Pariah... they’re just waiting till he figures it out or digs himself into a hole and CW/Pariah beat the shit out of him)

Danny being annoyed that he’s still a kid by ghost standards and human standards...and is stuck with Fright Knight as a babysitter most times...and that one of his parents is basically Omniscient...can’t get away with anything.

Bonus:

Tucker: Shame we can’t go out drinking

Danny: Hey I’m technically as old as you guys are

Tucker: Dude you are not getting served at any bar

Danny: Come on! I’m your age and technically the future ghost king that’s gotta count for something

Sam: Yeah and by ghost standards how long till you can legally drink?

Danny:...

Danny: Like a thousand years...a few thousand...

Tucker:Sorry dude

Danny:Oh come on Walker won’t know

Clockwork: I will

Danny:OH COME ON DAD!

Bonus Bonus:

He tries to get a can of beer and Fright Knight shows out of no where and stabs it with his sword.

CW: You do know human alcohol won’t do anything right?

Danny: Yeah but it’s the principle of the thing...

Danny: Wait...

Danny: if human alcohol won’t do anything why am I not allowed it?

CW: It’s the principle of the thing

Danny:…

Danny: Touché

Angst bonus: Jack and Maddie seeing Danny.

#danny phantom #dp #au #fic prompt #dp au #ancients being eldritch gods #eldritch danny #danny fenton #dp lost time #lost time #dad clockwork #dp dark ages #dark ages #humor #sam manson #tucker foley #i am just amusing myself at this point #this is very very dumb #dp royal family

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ghostlychief · 1 year

Note

Hi, your articles about Simon ghost are interesting. Can I also make a request, please? How does he react to a reader with a big dog? The dog is very protective and affectionate towards the reader. and the dog's eyes are different colors. I will send you a photo of the dog.

HELLO!! First of all, thank you for reading my Ghost fics, that means so much <3 Secondly, i love this request because one, i love dogs, and TWOOO i love big big dogs. I hope you enjoy what i threw together, and take care <3

That Makes Two of Us

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader (can read as fem, gn, or male really)

wc: 900+

warnings: none

A/N: I apologize for any grammar/spelling mistakes lol pls forgive me

You can’t remember a time when you didn’t have a dog. Growing up, you were always surrounded by dogs, and had one by the time you were age five. Later, in your early teenage years, your family got another one. Needless to say, it wasn’t a surprise when you bought a dog of your own, after you graduated and got a full-time job.

When you saw your new puppy for the first time, she was already perfect in your eyes. She had mismatched eyes- one blue and one brown. Her fur was as dark as a raven’s feather, and shiny too. You decided to name her Daphne, after a character from one of your favorite TV shows.

You could already tell she was going to be a big dog, just by the size of her paws when she was a puppy. And your assumption was right, because she turned out to be about 65 pounds, paws almost as big as your palm.

You guys became two peas in a pod, and you trained her well. She was smart, loyal and very affectionate with you. It’s all you ever could have wanted in a dog, a companion.

While Daphne was lovey and affectionate towards you, her loyalty showed when she met strangers. She was mostly weary with men she didn’t know. Sure, your dad and close guy friends were no issue for her, she trusted them and therefore she trusted them around you.

However, newer men she didn’t recognize the scent of, or strangers on the sidewalk (strange men), she immediately became alert, ready to do anything for you, anything to protect you. This personality trait of hers was always difficult when in came to dating. Because more often than not, your fling with a guy didn’t last long. It was a cycle of introducing Daphne to a new man, which took her some time to getting used to, to that man completely disappearing from your life, all for it to start again.

It wasn’t until you met Simon aka “Ghost” for things to level out, be “steady” so to say. You and Simon have been dating for about three and a half months at this point. You both went on countless dinner dates, occasionally got drinks, and enjoyed the city where you both lived. All which required him not to see Daphne, or meet her, nonetheless. Sure, you showed him pictures of your baby, and babbled on about her when you guys hung out, but he hasn’t had the pleasure of meeting her.

You decided that after the fourth failed fling/thing with a guy, you would wait until you were seeing a guy for about 4-5 months until you introduced them to your dog. Not wanting to continue to confuse her, by having her meet strangers, and people that wouldn’t be in your life for a long time.

With Simon though, you guys instantly hit it off. He was a little bit quirky, with a dry sense of humor that matched your sarcasm. He was fun to be around and brought out a side of you, you haven’t seen in quite a long time. You were happy, and you trusted him. You only wished that Daphne would trust him as much, because deep-deep down in the pits of your heart, you were starting to fall in love with Simon.

It was after you guys went to dinner one night, that you brought Simon over to your place for the first time. You were a little bit nervous. One, because you were bringing home a devastatingly handsome and tall man, and two, because you weren’t sure how Daphne would react.

You quietly unlocked your door and ushered Simon inside. After you turned on the lights, you could hear Daphne’s paws patter on your floor, signaling to you that she woke up, and was coming to greet you. Though, when she saw Simon standing next to you, she instantly stopped in her tracks, and quirked her head to the side, her ears perked. Not expecting a guest to be with you.

She immediately started barking, her low, powerful bark resonating off the walls of your home.

“I take it she doesn’t like strangers?” Simon remains next to you, but doesn’t show any signs that he’s afraid of your giant black dog barking four feet away from him.

“Well…she’s a little protective of me.” You turn to look at Simon, with a sheepish smile on your pretty face.

“That makes two of us, then.” You try not to let Simon’s deep voice and confession get to you too much, but it’s hard and you find your cheeks warming.

You just laugh at his statement, and make your ways towards Daphne, to try and console her. Once you’ve got her calmed down, you usher Simon over.

“Ok, just approach her on the side, but don’t turn towards her, keep your body perpendicular to hers. And stick your hand out for her to sniff. This will let her know that you’re no threat.”

He does just that, and effortlessly, which you’re not surprised about. You’re certain he’s often around military trained dogs due to his job.

Daphne reluctantly sniffs Simon’s hand, but you can tell he won her over because she starts to lick him, and then lets him pet her on the head. Her tail starts to wag vigorously, and now her barks are lighter, more playful as she greets your new friend.

With a smirk coating his lips, Simon asks her, “See, I’m not too bad, am I?”

Hope you enjoyed!

masterlist

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sunlightmurdock · 1 year

Text

Trouble in Paradise | Epilogue | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Previous Chapter | Masterlist

Synopsis: After the most painful break-up of his life, Rooster is stationed in Hawaii for the next six months. Alone, away from home and hurting, he finds comfort in the arms of a stranger.

Warnings: no use of y/n, age gap (rooster is in his mid-30s, reader is in her early 20s), mentions of sex and betrayal, adultery — this takes place 5 years after 1.8

…

“Honey, are you okay? - You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He has. He’s staring right at one. Suspended in time, he barely hears her speaking to him, his hearing and his vision are tunneled. It’s just you. Centre of the universe, like you always have been to him.

Rooster swallows, his adam’s apple rising and falling in his throat. That ache is back, the hole in his chest that he hasn’t felt in a couple of years, torn open right here and now in front of everyone.

You’re looking right at him. Across the room, sitting at a different table, listening to the same speech.

He has to blink a couple of times. This has happened before. It happened a lot after he left. Seeing your face everywhere he turned, it never being you. But this time it is.

He has had this dream before. Being here, staring at you from across the room. The ache in his chest feels the exact same way it does in those dreams. He blinks and it’s still you. He half wants to pinch himself.

You look different now, shorter hair, he’s never seen you dressed up like this - but Rooster could recognise you anywhere. He looks the same.

“Please join me in raising a toast in memory of tonight’s guest of honour, Admiral Tom Kazansky.”

You turn your head away from him, fighting back the sick feeling in your stomach as you lift your glass. Rooster’s still staring. He watches you raise your glass, then he catches sight of the man at your side.

He’s greying, his hairline isn’t what it once was - Rooster has met that guy before. They worked together for a couple of weeks about a year ago. It takes Rooster a split second to see past his anger that you’re with someone else, to realise that you aren’t here with an older man.

That’s your father. Of course it is, Rooster remembers sitting in the hospital with you, hearing that he was Navy. Rooster thinks back to last summer, working with that man for four weeks in Lemoore, having no idea. You’re nothing like that guy.

He thinks back to that summer. Five years ago. The winter that followed. The ache in his chest since he moved back.

“Honey.” An elbow presses softly into his side.

Rooster turns, disoriented, frowning at the face before him. Sara lifts her glass and hands him his. She smiles, tapping the rim of her glass against his with a soft clink. God, he loves that smile.

He loves her. He watches her take a sip of her sparkling water while his glass of champagne remains stationary in his hand. He drapes his arm across the back of her chair and runs his fingers through the loosely curled ends of her hair.

Sara Bradshaw smiles as her husband leans into her side and kisses the top of her head, before taking a sip of his own drink. She sets her drink back onto the table and rests her hand on top of her rounded stomach. Rooster glances down at her hand.

The engagement ring he put on it, the wedding ring he gave her after that. The pregnant stomach that her hand sits on.

You shoot one more look over there, and your heart sinks. His arm around her shoulder, leaning into her side. She’s pregnant. They look happy. Well, she does. He did, before he spotted you.

You turn your head back towards the stage, taking a long sip from your glass. Five years — you’re ridiculous for thinking that some trace of you, six months from half a decade ago, would be enough for him to have waited. It’s not like you did. There’s a ring on your finger too.

When your father had asked you to come here tonight, there had been a part of you that had hoped Rooster would be here. The other part of you knew that he would be.

He had mentioned Iceman to you once or twice, the Admiral that looked out for him occasionally, invited him up for thanksgiving every year even if it was more of a nice gesture than an actual invitation.

It’s a charity event in honour of Tom Kazansky, you would be lying if you said that you didn’t know Bradley would be here.

You just didn’t expect to see him looking so happy, so moved on. Married and expecting. Like he wanted. You lower your gaze, staring at your hands in your lap, feeling stupid for thinking he would still be stuck on you.

Rooster turns his head once more and looks over.

You aren’t looking at him anymore. Instead, you’re toying with the stem of your champagne glass, staring at the table cloth. There’s a look on your face that Rooster has seen before. He has hurt you before, he’s hurting you now. His instinct is to get up out of his chair in front of all of these people and cross the room. Instead, he stays exactly where he is. With his wife.

“You look so handsome tonight.” Sara whispers, smiling softly as she curls her fingers around his. He turns his head to look at her, his face softening just slightly. He lifts her hand and presses his lips to her knuckles.

“I love you.” He whispers back.

She takes his hand in hers and rests it over her pregnant stomach, smiling as he leans closer into her side. You turn your gaze towards the ceiling and just breathe. You left him. You’re the one who ended it. You’ve been happy without him - he’s happy without you.

It’s wrong to be upset.

And yet, you’re just about ready to drop your head into your hands and bawl your eyes out. He’s yours, it isn’t fair.

There are two speeches right off the bat, and then a brief break for people to mingle. Rooster watches. You’re the first one at your table to stand up, you turn and head right for the door.

“I’m going to head to the bathroom, little guy thinks my bladder is a trampoline.” Sara breathes, giving her husband a soft smile. He turns his attention back towards her and blinks.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll see you in a second, honey - I’m gonna get some air.”

He shouldn’t.

But he does. It’s been five years - he can’t wait another second. His feet carry him in the direction you had left in before his heart’s even on board with the idea, let alone his head.

It took him so long.

That first year without you had been hell. It only seemed fair. Six months making a fool of the woman he was supposed to spend forever with, a year of mourning her.

It was hard seeing Amy again. At first, he had struggled to look her in the eye. Amy had hoped that when she saw Rooster that he would be heartbroken, alone, tormented. He had been. It just hadn’t healed her like she thought it would. Because it wasn’t her taking up that space in his heart.

Rooster moved around a lot in that first year. The first thing he had done when he had gotten back was to end his lease, move out of the apartment he had shared with Amy and into a different place. That had just made it worse.

It was indescribable, the ache in his chest, the hole in his heart — the wound that he kept fresh in case you ever needed a place with him again. His friends hadn’t understood it. Mav hadn’t understood it. He felt like no one was ever going to.

There was one time, he had been drunk and wallowing in his pain. He had text you at three in the morning. Written six texts, maybe a couple thousand words, deleted them all and wrote them out again and again. Eventually settled on ‘I miss you’. He hadn’t ever received a response. That was over four years ago.

Maybe he should have sent the thousands of words, poured his heart out into the little blue bubble. It’s too late for that now.

He met Sara after a year away from you. A pretty girl that worked in an office near his apartment. The girl that smiled at him as she was waiting by the bus stop and he was jogging back to his apartment every evening.

The girl he married. Mother of his daughter, soon to be the mother of his son. The girl that hadn’t ever taken the time to ask exactly who it is that Bradley absentmindedly reached across his bed for in the mornings.

He steps outside and takes a big gulp of air. They’re close enough to the ocean that if he closes his eyes, he’s back there, sitting under the stars. With you in his arms.

He breathes as best as he can. He’s been to his fair share of Lamaze classes by now. In through his nose, out through his mouth — it’s bullshit, none of the people teaching those classes has ever felt what he feels. No one has ever loved and lost someone like you.

Bradley thinks back to the happiest days of his life. His wedding day. Layla’s birth, her saying ‘dada’ for the first times, her first steps. The day up on the cliffs, you sitting in his lap, curled into his side, telling him you loved him.

It’s back again, the detachment in his limbs. The numbness he felt whilst grieving you. Like he’s on autopilot, he lifts his hand and brushes it over his face. He leans his head back and turns his chin towards the stars, exhaling heavily.

It took so long for him to get here. Searching for pieces, covering up the hole you left — thinking he was healing it. The cover’s torn apart and the wound is exposed, he feels like all of those feelings are right here, pouring out all over the concrete under his feet.

Learning to love Sara, to lean into her touch like he had with yours. To stop thinking about how it was when he’s holding her.

He feels the feeling in his throat and swallows the whimper, breathing through his nose once again. He opens his eyes and finds the Orion’s Belt. They’re too close to a city here. Doesn’t look like it did sitting on the hood of your bronco that first summer, when he was just getting to know you.

Nothing’s the same as it was back then.

“Hey, sailor.”

There’s a sadness to the words as they come from behind them. Behind his eyelids, you’re there, standing on the other side of that bar, in that ridiculously short skirt, prepared to change his life forever.

In reality, you’re standing behind him, no longer that girl.

On autopilot once more, because there’s no way he could consciously bring himself to look at you ever again, he turns to face you. His heart leaps up into his throat. He didn’t get it wrong, it wasn’t his imagination. The hole in his heart stands before him, calm.

Baby. The word almost slips his lips, an immediate reaction, like a breath he has been holding in all this time. He wants to hold you, to reach out and wrap his arms around you. He stops himself just in time. Only then, he’s left with nothing in his head to say.

He stands before you, lips parted, brows raised. So much to say and no way of possibly saying it all the way that he wants to.

“Hi.” Rooster breathes out. He almost says that he thought it was you, but there’s no point. There was never any doubt in his mind, he would know your face anywhere.

Even when you look so different now, so matured. No tell-tale short skirt and knock-off sunglasses. Tamed, sea-salt free hair, a long dress and elegant heeled shoes.

He still looks the same, if you forgive the smile lines around his eyes and the stray grey hairs that are peppered around his temples.

“You’re married.” Saying it outloud stings like a fresh cut, for you and for him. Your words draw across his skin and leave him wounded, not an ounce of dishonesty in your comment, but a painful realisation nonetheless.

He looks down at the wedding ring on his finger and nods slowly. Bradley considers what comes next — it feels wrong to fill you in on what his life has become, when it still feels like it should have been with you.

“Yeah,” He confirms gently, lifting his gaze. There’s a sadness in his eyes, almost an apologetic look. Regret, perhaps — you aren’t sure.

It’s too quiet out here, like the world around you has stopped just so that you can hear how quiet he’s being. How ashamed of himself he is. You should probably be happy about that.

You aren’t.

“She’s pretty.” You try.

His eyes on yours, his features soft. Rooster shakes his head softly, not daring to take a single step towards you, feeling like he hasn’t quite earned that yet.

“I’m so sorry.” I wish it was different. I wish I had been different. I miss you, baby.

Your head tilts just a fraction. His heart sinks. The corners of your mouth twitch, pulling up into a soft smile. Reassurance, ‘it’s okay’ without actually saying that. It’s not okay, it hasn’t been for the past five years, and now that you’re standing here in front of him, he’s beginning to realize that it never will be.

“You’re going to be a dad,” You tell him, like he doesn’t already know, like he didn’t spend all of last weekend building furniture for his son’s room. It feels wrong to hear you say it. It feels wrong to have you hear, in front of him, in this life. He stares back at you. “Is this your first?”

He shakes his head slowly. It takes him a while to find the words to give you a real answer, his eyes never once leaving yours — like if he looks away then you’ll be gone for good.

“I have a daughter.” He answers quietly, unsure where to start. “She’s about to turn three. Her name’s Layla.”

About to turn three. You take a small, stumbling step back and then stop. You shouldn’t be upset by this — you’re the one who let him go. You should feel happy that he has moved on, you’re mature enough to know that by now.

You tip your chin just slightly, leaning your head back to look at the sky and breathe softly. Now that you’re not looking at him, he takes a moment to look at you. Really look.

Olive coloured satin, draped against your skin, shoulders exposed other than thin straps. A gold necklace that sits slightly askew between your collarbones. He reaches out for you first. His fingers graze over the skin of your open palm, featherlight and chilled from the sea air.

There’s no knowing what to do in a situation like this. The only certainty left in your head is that you shouldn’t have come tonight, but even that falters. Maybe you should have never let him go.

This is the scary part. His fingertips grazing your skin, those sad brown eyes looking right at you, and you’re putty in his hands. You want to tell him that it’s okay, that you’ve been okay, but that wouldn’t be the complete truth.

He has no idea how to proceed. There’s no way he could possibly explain to you how grateful he is for his wife, and their incredible daughter who reminds him more of himself everyday. It doesn’t even make sense to himself, how he can be so grateful for all of that, and still miss you so much.

His fingers slide across the lines in your palm as you count the stars over your head until it makes you dizzy. His hand in yours, the sky overhead, the sea over your shoulder — familiarity isn’t as nice of a feeling as you had thought it would be.

He touches metal. Quickly, Bradley’s gaze falls down. He takes your hand in his and lifts it slightly. You look ahead of you, right at him, watching his adam’s apple rise and fall in his throat.

“You’re engaged.” He realizes.

Hm. You had almost forgotten about that. He looks back up and meets your gaze — there he is. You catch a glimpse of him for a split second, the same protective Bradley who had dragged you out of a bar and thrown you over his shoulder. His features soften and he’s gone as quickly as he had appeared.

But, he’s still in there. The man that had loved you so fiercely.

“Yeah,” You nod your head slowly. It’s recent, and it’s not that big of a deal, but Caleb insists that you wear the ring. “He’s… nice.”

But he’s not you. Understanding in his eyes. Another glimpse and then it’s gone. It’s an odd feeling, because you do love Caleb — you wouldn’t have said yes if you didn’t, but he’ll never be Bradley.

Caleb is a chef, and he’s kind to you. It took him eighty days and fifteen dates to win you over, but he did it all without a single complaint. He holds you through thunderstorms and rubs your back without you having to ask — he promised to love you for the rest of his life and meant it.

You’ve been together for almost two years.

Bradley’s thumb trails over the ring. It’s a pear-cut opal on a gold band — those aren’t strong enough for everyday wear. It’s not going to last. The rock will be fucked in a couple of years, at most. He wonders if this guy that you’re marrying even knows that.

“Congratulations,” Bradley says softly. He looks up and offers you a small smile. “I’m happy for you.”

That’s not true. His hand remains in yours. He brushes his thumb across your knuckles. In all the days he has spent thinking of you, he hadn’t thought of this — marriage. With someone else. He swallows.

The last time he saw you, the pain in your eyes when you told him that you would never trust him enough to want to marry him. That you’d never be able to give him the future he needed. You’re giving it to someone else.

“Are you?”

Rooster’s polite little smile falters just slightly. He opens his mouth to answer, but you both already know what it is. Call it selfish, but he knows that he could never be happy for you, not unless you were his. His fingers weave between yours, he takes a small step closer to you.

“Honey, they’re about to start—“ Your father’s voice trails, his steps slow until he’s stalled all together. He adjusts the jacket of his uniform. His eyes flicker between you and the man standing in front of you. His hand in yours. The wedding ring on his finger. You pull back calmly and offer Rooster a tight-lipped smile.

“It was good seeing you again. I’ll catch you later.”

Your father’s brows furrow slightly as you step away from this married man and towards him. Rooster’s lips part, he knows how this looks. Nonetheless, he lets you lead the way back inside.

Rooster takes a couple of extra seconds to himself, looking up at the sky. He loves his wife, he loves his family — this is what he wanted. He looks like he belongs with Sara, they’re the same age and they have plenty in common. This is why he gave up a future with you. It’s selfish to want both and he knows that. But god, he has missed being that close to you.

Joe turns his head, watching as the man he had seen outside walks slowly back into the room and slips into his seat next to a pretty-looking woman with brown hair and a rounded, pregnant belly. His head whips around to look at you, seething.

“What did you do?” He accuses, his voice no more than an angry whisper.

You swallow softly and sink down in your seat. It’s still strange being around your father, much less being parented by him. Maybe this would have been more effective when you were a teenager, now that you’re an adult, there isn’t much he can do or say about things you’ve already done.

After his heart attack last winter, Joe has really dedicated himself to getting to know you. He’s been trying, you can’t deny him that. But it’s too little too late for him to start lecturing you.

“I knew him before he got married.” You answer calmly, grabbing your champagne flute and taking a long sip.

Joe scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief, “So, do you make a habit of holding hands with married men?”

“I haven’t seen him in years, he’s just someone that I used to know.” You defend yourself, drinking again and setting your now empty glass back down on the table. You breathe out hard and glance over there, catching his gaze. Sad brown eyes across the room. All he’ll ever be.

The lights go down as you lock eyes with him. Caught, he quickly turns his attention back to the stage.

“He’s too old for you.” Joe mutters bitterly. You scoff.

Heart thudding in your chest, trying to focus in on the voice on the stage. This is going to be a long night. You reach across the table and grab Joe’s glass, bringing it to your lips and knocking it back. He shouldn’t be drinking on his heart meds anyway.

“Oh, holy shit.” Jake splutters over his beer, eyes going round as dinner plates. Chloe spins, craning her neck to get a look at whatever has her husband so spooked. He catches hold of her shoulders and positions her, pointing past her shoulder. “That’s the girl from Hawaii.”

“No!” Chloe gasps, mouth hanging open. Jake nods, wincing as he looks towards Rooster and his wife standing over by the bar. Chloe rests her hand on her stomach, she’s having a girl that’ll be about a month younger than Bradley’s son. Jake’s already gearing up for a lifetime of chasing Bradley’s son away from his kid.

Chloe looks between Bradley and you. “She’s really cute. Do you think Sara knows?”

Engaged. Rooster stares down at his beer, brows furrowed angrily towards the brown glass bottle. You’re fucking engaged. You told him never. He would have fucking waited, he could have —

“Bradley, are you… alright? — You’re being really quiet.” Sara says softly, resting her hand against his arm. He lifts his head and turns to look at her. Really looks. He loves Sara. She’s a fantastic mother to their daughter, her laugh is infectious and when she smiles it feels like his heart could just explode.

Now, faced with exactly what he turned away from five years ago, he’s not so sure. You made him so happy. He could have made you so happy.

“If that asshole doesn’t stop staring over here, I swear to god, I’m going to knock him on his ass.” Joe mumbles angrily, shaking his head and shifting on his feet. You glance across. Bradley’s still staring.

“Joe, stop.” You complain, sipping at your drink. A couple more of these and you’ll stop being bothered by Rooster’s presence all together.

“I told you to start calling me Dad.” Joe bites back angrily. You roll your eyes at the thought. He folds his arms across his chest. “So, what — you dated him or something?”

Another big gulp. “Or something.”

It’s hard to define. A summer of falling in love, a winter of having your heart screwed up, stepped on, and then clumsily pieced back together with someone who is now a stranger to you. He didn’t piece your heart back together right, maybe that’s why you ended things — why it took so long to move on.

“Stop. Drinking.” Joe growls, snatching the glass from your hands. You wobble with the sudden force, taking a deep breath.

You glance across at Rooster, he’s looking at his wife now, his hand resting against her stomach as she leans in to talk to him. You stifle a whimper, forcing yourself to stay upright.

“I feel sick.”

Joe opens his mouth to make a snarky comment. Something along the lines of that being an appropriate response. You don’t get a chance to hear it, brushing past him and hastening towards the ladies room. Jake glances across at Rooster. Rooster watches you leave, concern creasing his features.

“Honey, I’m gonna be right back,” Rooster leans forwards and kisses Sara’s temple, squeezing her bicep tenderly. “Just have to…”

He trails off and shakes his head. He can’t think straight right now. Sara’s brows furrow as her husband takes off again. Jake catches a hold of Chloe’s wrist and stops her from following, shooting her a serious look.

You flinch as the door to the bathroom swings into the tile, eyes blowing wide open. “Rooster, what the fuck?”

“I just need to say a couple of things.” He pushes the door shut behind him and fumbles for a lock, then stops himself. He probably shouldn’t do that. He pulls at his collar, it feels especially tight all of a sudden. You stare at him, leaning back against the counter to the sink.

It’s hard not to soften, knowing that he came in here because he’s worried about you. He watches you relax as he takes a step towards you.

“I missed you,” His voice is quiet, like if he says it too loudly then this will become too much. Like he might scare you off. Your brows raise, just the slightest bit. He takes another step. “I thought about you so fucking much. You said you’d never get married.”

You swallow softly, he’s too close now. Close enough that you could touch him with minimal effort. That you can smell him, intoxicating and familiar. That you’re drawn in, suckered by those soft, brown eyes.

“I said I’d never marry you.” You answer quietly.

Five years later and that still hurts. He steps closer to you, brows creasing. He breathing shallows as he tries not to overreact, standing right in front of you know.

“I wanted to stay, I would’ve stayed.” Rooster breathes out, searching your features, hoping for you to give him the answer he’s looking for. You glance down as he rests his palm against the counter to your side, pinning you between him and the marble.

There’s a long pause, because you don’t know what to say. Sending him away seemed like the right decision, and it probably was, but that doesn’t mean you ever stopped thinking about him.

“You’re married.” You remind him quietly. It goes unsaid, but you’ve both got the same thing on your mind. It’s too late. He’s been wondering for the last five years if it is, he can’t spend the rest of his life not knowing.

He breathes out and takes that final step forwards, pressing his body into yours, cupping your jaw between his index finger and thumb as his lips crash into yours. A surprised hum slips out, you bump into the counter behind you.

You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt and pull him forwards again, pressing your lips to his. He nips at your bottom lip, the taste of champagne on your tongue as it slides against his.

His hands wrap around your waist and trail down to cup your ass, you hum eagerly into his mouth. You’ve missed this. For a couple of seconds, it’s just the two of you, like it used to be. Rooster presses himself into you. You tense up as he grabs your hips and drops you onto the counter, relaxing instantly into his touch.

Rooster lips his tongue into your mouth once again, grabbing your knees and parting them, moving to stand between your thighs. His fingertips trail up along your legs, as far as the slit in your dress will allow him. Not far enough.

Out of breath and growing dizzy, you have to pull back, eyes widening. You breathe hard, staring at the man you loved, wide-eyed. Your gaze falls down to look at his hand on your thigh, the gold band on his ring finger.

As soon as you look back up at him, it’s clear that you’re both thinking the same thing. He swipes his thumb tenderly over your cheek, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Fuck.” It’s not quite a sigh, more of a rushed breath. Your eyes widen whilst his close, he takes a step back. He runs a hand over his face and leans his head back. Frowning, you lean forwards and try again. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

You push yourself down from the counter and press a hand over your mouth. There’s a brief pause, a million thoughts streaming through his head as he tries to figure out what the fuck that was and how the fuck he is making the same mistake again.

Rooster turns his head and looks at you, searching for an answer here and now rather than in the memories he made with you. You swallow softly. It felt the same.

“That was such a dumb mistake, Bradley, I’m so sorry.”

Silenced, he stares at you again. There’s his answer. He nods his head slowly and takes another step back from you. It’s not easy to agree, and so he doesn’t, that didn’t feel like a mistake to him. It probably should’ve.

You can see it in his face, he’s so easy to read and he always has been. He still loves you. There’s a strange, brief sense of triumph that fills you. It’s gone as quickly as it rises when you remember the beautiful woman that he’s here with tonight, who he chose to start a family with.

“I should go.”

“Yeah,” He runs his fingers through his hair and nods for you to leave first. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll… see you around.”

Bradley closes his eyes as you turn away from him.

As your feet carry you off of the tile and into the carpeted hallway, there’s no need to turn around. You’re left with more answers than you were expecting. You had been right about him.

He could’ve never been what you wanted. This was always the future he was meant to have. Your heart settles in your chest, glancing down and fiddling with the ring on your finger. You’d made the right choice.

…

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#bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw #miles teller #trouble in paradise #bradley bradshaw smut #rooster x you #rooster bradshaw imagine #top gun smut

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eupheme · 1 year

Text

IN THE WOODS SOMEWHERE | part ii: stay with me

[masterlist | part i]

joel miller x f!reader

Rated E - 6.2k

Tags: mention of wounds/care, brief canon-divergence (spoilers for ep. 6 & 7), reader is mid/late 30s+, mentions of death, use of weapons, found family, angst, wounds, hurt/comfort, the start of feelings, competency kink(s)

He wakes up. And slowly, the cabin starts to feel alive again.

The long evening stretches into a longer night. You’re exhausted from the last 24 hours, the dull throb in your head that echoes against your ribs.

Not wanting to take anything for the ache, now knowing it could be needed. Stretched out on one of the old hickory chairs - watching through sleepy, half-lidded eyes.

The girl - Ellie - stayed up as long as she could. Dozing now, curled up in the wooden chair that matches yours, at the foot of the couch.

He murmurs in his sleep. Knocked out from the pain and the medication, forehead hot with a fever as he fights off the infection.

Some of it senseless - rough mumbles as his eyes move under closed lids.

Sometimes names.

Breathed out, with the rise and fall of his chest.

Gasped, with a creak of the couch as he shifts. Hand twitching at it reaches out, searching for someone who isn’t there.

You can’t leave him. So, you let him take yours. His grip firm and strong even like this, as he settles.

The hours, slowly passing.

But, he makes it.

Through one night. And then another.

A slow routine starting.

Catching sleep in the morning, when Ellie takes over watch. Never imaging you’d be comfortable with strangers in your house - but you figure if they attacked you now, then there’d be a special place in hell waiting for them.

A routine of pain killers, the man’s eyes fluttering open when you wake him. How he frowns each time - looking for the face he knows, too incoherent to understand.

But he gulps down the water you offer. That sharp frown easing as he sleeps, where you brush the sweaty curls from his forehead, adjust the blankets when they get kicked off.

A small realization forming, during this time. You had thought they needed you, in those late-night hours. That he wouldn’t survive, without your help.

But you see the way he fights. How she’s the first thing he looks for. How she hasn’t left his side. A bond there, stronger than you’ve seen in a long time.

Maybe they didn’t need you at all.

Maybe you’re the respite. The soothing hand, the warm food, a safe place to rest - before they moved on. Like Aunt June and Danny had been for you - when your little group turned up on their doorstep all those years ago, battered and broken.

Even if they never ended up moving on.

Even if you’re still here.

It’s comforting, in a way. A means to finally pay back everything that was given to you, over the years.

You hope they’d be proud.

———

A little more time passes, and you find that it’s not so bad. Having more people around.

Ellie is funny.

A breath of fresh air, in your silent, stuffy cabin. Where everything is in its place because you’re the only one that moves it. Where there’s been no one but you and the ghosts of those before, haunting it’s halls for years.

Excited over the things you’ve taken for granted. Eyes shining over things like canned fruit cocktail and instant noodles. Innocently poking around everything you own, to a point where you just sigh and shake your head.

Seasoning conversations with the word “fuck”, peppered in expertly. Fuck this, fuck that, and a fuck yeah.

A side-eye thrown your way the first time, catching the small curl of your smile instead of a reprimand. You remember what it had been like, to be her age.

Not exactly in the same way - you can’t imagine that. Living through this hell, back then. But, just that sense of feeling grown up, wanting to be taken seriously.

The tenuous friendship formed in these first few days reminds you of your childhood.

Befriending a feral cat that slept beneath the porch - tempting it out with bits of food. Sitting on the stoop as she became used to you, until the shift of your stance no longer scared her away.

With Ellie, the food certainly helped. But what got her was the books.

Most of them were old - what you would think a middle-aged couple in the 80's would bring to a cabin.

Guides filled with local birds and flora. Collections of old, short stories. A stack of local maps, the pages well-worn and creased, everything lined up in the handmade wooden bookcase.

You've read them all. There were days in the winter where there was little else to do. A few scavenged, brought back by the others. But now it helps, as you pick the ones you think she'd like - setting them by the chair she's claimed.

The hours become a little more comfortable.

She reads, while you cycle through the small pastimes you have. Your own book you've been working through. Some projects - the beginning of a scarf, crocheted with salvaged bits of old sweaters, a moth-eaten afgan.

Passing the time while he sleeps and heals with the turning of pages, the slide of the yarn.

She had been interested in your work for a little while - an afternoon where you showed her how to yarn over, make a chain.

Her fingers clumsy as she miscounted, too eager for the end result.

Turning what began as a rectangle - the start of a scarf, like yours - into something with wavy edges, each row shorter than the last. The frustration evident as she handed it back to you with a resigned shrug.

But you still weave in the ends, block it out next to some granny squares. With some fringe, it becomes a bookmark - her fingers playing with the ends as she reads.

It’s close to four days in, when things change. When he starts to be awake more often than he’s asleep.

"I think he's turned a corner." You tell her, after the bandages have been changed.

When it came to this - she learned everything you showed her quickly. A quick study, once shown. Resourceful, too - telling you how she had found the antibiotics in an old mall, one that you knew well. The very mall you were certain had been already cleared out - but today, you were happy to be wrong.

This time she takes the lead - peeling back the stained medical tape. Carefully checking the wound before replacing the gauze, fixing it back into place.

That long-held breath exhaled. A small nod, "He has to be. I don't know what I'd do-"

"He has turned a corner." You amend - the words firm, "He's lucky he had you."

"More like, we were lucky I found you."

There's a sullenness that tinges her words then, arms crossed over her knees.

It makes you frown, as you move from the chair. Lowering yourself down, until you're both on the same level, on the wooden floor.

She doesn't meet your eyes, fingers tugging at a loose string on the quilt, dangling off the couch.

You think you understand, a little.

The complexity of the situation - how hopeless she had probably been feeling. How much she had to do on her own, all while thinking she didn't do enough to help. Thinking she failed him.

"This was all you. You know that, right?" Your words are careful, your head ducking to make eye contact, "He wouldn't have made it without you."

Ellie's jaw grits, a quick look your way - before her eyes drop.

"He didn't start getting better until he got here."

You sigh, leaning back on your hands, "You just gave him the antibiotics. They just needed a little time to start working."

Her head turns, as she thinks about that.

"I helped ease some of the pain, but he's strong. He survived, because of you."

Eyes meeting yours. Narrowing, but in a way where you can tell that she’s inspecting you. Seeing if you’re lying.

You’re not. The smile you offer is small, as he starts to stir. Eyes cracking open - finding hers like they always did.

As her expression brightens. You’re not sure if it’s a mask - wanting to appear cheerful for him - or if she’s still at that age where emotions are fleeting, changing with the wind.

“Hey, sleepyhead.” She chirps, his forehead creasing with the name, her loud voice. He grunts an answer, glancing around the room.

Pausing, those dark eyes boring into yours. You hold the gaze, still curled on the ground next to the edge.

A small nod. Just a little jerk of his chin.

Your answering smile is equally small, before you push yourself back up. Heading over to stick another log into the fire, from the iron rack just off to the side.

There’s an understanding, after.

You were a threat, until you’re weren’t. Until they sniffed you out and you passed some unspoken test, somewhere between that first sleepless night, and now.

Their guards aren’t down. Not completely. Yours isn’t either. But there’s an ease to your steps, as you move around the space together. A sleep that comes a little more soundly at night.

Because, you’re not alone anymore.

———

She reads to him, sometimes. The books you pluck from the shelves and leave for her to find.

Keeping Joel company as he stays bedridden a little while longer.

He had tried to get up, on that fourth day. A wince that crumpled his face as he pushed himself up, Ellie’s scold of “what in the hell are you doing?” raining down as her arms braced on her hips.

The look of alarm on his face still makes you want to laugh, days later.

You’re cooking dinner as she reads another chapter - secretly pleased that she seems interested in one of the volumes you treasure. The pages dog-marked, the spine cracked, and cover faded.

Warming up canned pasta in the Dutch oven simmering over the fire, listening to her words as you stir.

“It was after tea-time; it was pouring with rain, and had been all day; his hood was dripping into his eyes, his cloak was full of water; the pony was tired and stumbled on stones; the others were too grumpy to talk.”

“Sounds familiar.” She adds as an aside - her words filling the space as her eyes peek his way every few lines, to see if he’s listening.

Tripping over the names of the dwarves and locations with the confidence only a teenager could have.

"And I'm sure the rain has got into the dry clothes and into the food-bags," thought Bilbo. "Fuck burgling and everything to do with it!”

“Ellie.”

A tired lid cracks open - he had been listening after all, “He didn’t say fuck.”

She sighs, eyes rolling as she slumps in her seat, “Well, he should be allowed to. After the way they barged in and messed all his shit up.”

You grin, from your crouch near the fire, “Mm. I agree with her on this one.”

Clearly outvoted, he rolls onto his side, facing the back of the couch. Pointedly ignoring her as she runs through a few more reasons why she’s right.

Giving up, her voice a stage-whisper - hand cupped around her mouth as if telling you a secret, “He’s just pissed because I compared him to Gandalf earlier. Old and cranky.”

Joel’s head turns, a glare hurled in her direction - her grin as she pulls the book up again. Your own teeth biting the inside of the cheek to hide your smile.

But from your angle, you don’t miss the way his face softens.

The small smile, as he settles back down.

———

It's not long before you all get a little antsy.

Despite the much-needed company that Ellie and Joel bring into your home, after years of solitude it almost tipped into too much at times. Your cabin feels too small for you all to occupy the same space for the entire day, with Joel taking up most of the seating.

Even if at one time, there were many more. But it's been ages since then.

You're certain they feel the same. Not used to idleness.

The twice-daily walks you take around the perimeter of the fence helps. When he is finally able to move a little, sitting up instead of laying down.

Able to roam around the kitchen, eventually wandering outdoors. There, the air is lung-achingly crisp. A sizable porch that looks across the hill, across the miles of trees, down to the old barn.

Once the danger is over - once he starts to heal - that is where you spend some of the afternoons. The thick wooden walls keeping some of the chill out.

Close to cozy after you spend an afternoon putting a small fire pit together, the golden glow keeping all of you warm as Ellie brushes down Callus.

Finding treasures as she pokes around the storage in the first and second floor. A lot of it is supplies, things to be used for repairs.

Planks of wood, a crate filled with tools. A few barrels of gas for the generator - just for emergencies. The walls are lined with the things you use most often when tending the small field just outside - shovels, a pitchfork, an axe.

It's in these rooms that she finds a treasure - disappearing over a crate, until all you can see are the soles of her boots. Coming back up with an "oof", and something clutched in her hand. Covered in cobwebs from where it's laid hidden on the dusty floor.

A small, monobloc bow. You must have set it down one afternoon, and forgot. Trading it for something louder, stronger.

"Woah, this is cool." Ellie tries to pull the string back, the dull 'thump' as her fingers slip.

Still taut, after all this time. You smile as you hold your hand out, the muscles in your arm flexing as you pull it back with a smooth, practiced movement.

"I thought I lost this." You let go, the satisfying 'twang' as it snaps back into place, "Did you see any arrows?"

She's already scrambling back over - coming back with two clutched in her hand. A determined shine in her eyes as she asks breathlessly, "Can I try it?"

You glance over your shoulder, at the man sitting in one of the camping chairs. Staring idly into the flicker of the fire - a hand pressed against his side.

Once he was up, he started refusing medication.

Saying he was just fine. You had protested at first. That he needed it, that it would speed things along.

"'ve had worse." He eventually told you. When it was just the two of you - as you were getting ready to go to bed yourself, “You should keep it. In case someone needs it more."

Wanting to save it for you, or the next person that came along and needed help.

"We'd better ask your-" You catch yourself - correcting, "Uh, ask Joel."

Her nose wrinkles, "He lets me shoot his gun. I don't need to ask him about this."

That makes you laugh, your voice lowering as your head turns back to face her, "Maybe. But I think he will hate me a little less if we just ask, anyways. You get me?"

"He doesn't hate you. He's just..." Her face twists as she thinks, a vague wave of her hand, "Grumpy. Took him months to talk to me, and I'm a goddamn delight."

You had half-meant it as a joke, but her sweet reassurance warms you. Teeth biting your tongue to hold back another laugh.

Finding it surprising to think about how nice that would be, if it was true.

If he truly didn't.

Not knowing why you want his approval so badly. But it's something you've been thinking about since that first meeting. You want him to see you. To notice you.

Years of that piece of you missing, suddenly pushing to the surface like the first buds of spring.

"You sure are. Let's just check, anyways.”

She’s already bounding off, bow in hand. You watch as she asks, the way his eyes flick over the weapon, then back your way.

“Suppose you can.” Joel allows - after a long moment, “Don’t think I’m in the right shape yet to show you, though.”

Ellie wilts, clearly hoping he would. After a moment of hesitation, you join them.

“Been a bit, but I could set a little something up. For practice.” You offer.

The appraising look he gave the bow flits your way, down to the two aluminum arrows in your grip. His tongue poking his cheek as he thinks it through, before he nods.

“Alright.”

Ellie’s excitement is palpable, as she helps you drag out two bales of straw. A crude target drawn on some paper you grab from the house, fixed under the strings.

Standing at your shoulder as you grip the bow in your hand. Showing her how to notch the arrow, fitting the shaft against the arrow rest.

Drawing the string back to your cheekbone, as you aim for the middle of the target.

“You’ll get better the more you use it. This one doesn’t have a sight. Have to get a feel where the arrow aims,” You explain, feeling the tension in the string. “Use the point of the arrow.”

Inhaling a slow breath, holding it in.

A release, exhaling as it fires. Soaring across the yard, hitting just shy of the dark mark in the middle.

Not bad. You still got it.

Ellie’s whoop startles you - a fondness settling, after.

“Holy shit, that was so cool!” She gushes, as you hand it over. Glancing back over her shoulder, “Don’t you think, Joel?”

You can’t help but to turn, to glance his way. Where he’s caught, watching. Clearing his throat as he gruffly answers - his eyes meeting yours, before sliding away.

“Yeah. Real cool.”

———

He follows a half-dozen steps behind her.

Could never stand being cooped up for too long. Staying still made you a target, and this past couple weeks had made his skin itch. When it wasn't throbbing, or burning up.

The cold air makes his lungs ache, but at least he's moving. She hadn't protested, when he had shrugged on his coat. The exercise would do him good, help get him strong enough so they could leave.

Get back on the road.

Ellie had been watching, her feet kicked up on the coffee table. A different book on her lap, the pictures bright, even from here.

"Doing anything fun?" She asked, looking hopeful.

"Just a walk."

Her eyes sliding to the wide window, the snow falling that looked closer to sleet. Slumping further into her seat with a flat, "Eh, pass."

He hadn't pressed. Be happier if she stayed where it was warm.

"Lock up after us, okay?"

The words had come automatically, from deep in his mind. Ones that had been dormant for years, over twenty now. A lump in his throat as he ignored the woman's quick glance his way, before he pushed the screen door open - not waiting for an answer.

Now, her fingers trail across the wire fence, snow falling from the wooden posts when her gloves pass over it. Walking the perimeter, as he's noticed that she does - every morning and as the sun sets.

A small frown forms, the crease deepening between his eyebrows. Watching her fingers, the way the pom-pom on her hat bounces with each step.

He doesn't take well to kindness.

Before Boston, kindness got you killed. A weakness.

In the QZ, it came with a price. A debt, and he never liked owing - only collecting.

He wonders what his is, here.

Set off-balance by the situation he finds himself in. Unsure of his footing with this woman. One who seems frozen in time.

Everything about her and this place seemed to stop when the world went to hell.

The same sort of eerie feeling when he passed through the gate that led to Bill and Frank's place - an uneasy normalcy to everything, that felt unnatural.

So strange, how that could be.

Not quite sure what he thinks of her. There’s a hidden strength that he hadn’t seen at first. Not just anyone could have survived out here for so long. The way she handles the rifle, the bow, clear that she hasn’t been idle all these years.

Her eyes find his often, flicking away when he looks back. Catching the smallest details.

It makes him wonder what she thinks of him.

Actual words, instead of the thoughts he sees written so clearly on her face - gone in a blink when she collects herself. Still remembering the fear when they first met, though she hasn't worn that expression again.

Her smile is kind, he does know that much.

It comes easily for Ellie, a fondness already in the soft curves.

Sometimes, it comes for him, too.

Flakes from above settle on her knitted hat, clinging to her hair, her eyelashes - when her face turns, making sure he's still behind her.

A gun slung across her back, each step easy.

His own rifle is firm in his grip, eyes sweeping back and forth. There's nothing so far but miles of trees - natural slopes and dips. The occasional small creek to cross, not liking the way his body feels like it's moving a few seconds behind.

Discomfort flitting across his features, as he steps across the gap. A moment of imbalance, before he's on solid ground again.

Her hand twitches, as if wanting to hold them out to him. Thinking better of it, as they curl into fists.

A gentle suggestion instead - a nod at his rifle, "Don't have to carry that, if you don't want. Been ages since I saw a soul out here, 'sides Ellie."

He frowns at that, unsure.

But she moves ahead, hands shoved in the pockets of her oversized coat. Slowly, the strap goes around his head, slinging it across his back.

He isn't so slow that he couldn't grab it, if needed.

"You don't get Infected out here?" His voice is a rasp, hoarse from disuse.

Her head shakes as it turns, "Not here. Only see them if I go out."

A moment, his thoughts flickering back. To words he half-remembers, in that dark basement, "You said it wasn't safe. That you wouldn't have come."

She stops then, and he almost crashes into her. A hand steading himself on the wire fence, her face tilted up to his, but eyes not meeting.

"That was by you, not here."

"What was there?"

There's a beat, before she starts walking again. Her voice carrying over the wind, "The Infected aren't the only monsters out here. But both will sink their teeth into you, just the same."

He inhales a sharp breath - had heard about things like that. Desperate people, desperate measures. It sickens him, an uncomfortable roll of his stomach as she continues.

“It's damn lucky Ellie came this way, I'll just say that. That we all made it out of there without catching any notice was a miracle."

The thought about them touching a single hair on Ellie's head fills him with fury. Half-tempted to hunt them down himself, just to ensure it could never happen.

Injury be damned.

His voice low, deadly level, "They don't come this way?"

"No." Hers is equally firm, "Nobody comes this way, not if they know better. There's an old campground not too far from here. Rumor is that it's a nest of Infected, there. Completely overrun."

His steps stall at that, making him a further pace behind. She catches it, and her eyes roll, "It's just a rumor. People around here are superstitious."

He doesn't like her tone, her easy disregard. She hadn't seen the massacre at KC. The horror of all those bodies spilling from the ground, rushing faster than you could blink.

"How do you know?" The words have more bite than he means, enough that she's glancing back again.

She smiles at him then, the first he's seen since they left. Already so different than the first meeting in the basement, when that tone would have had her frozen to the spot.

"Because it's my rumor." The smile pulls a little wider, "There is a camp, sure. But the outbreak happened in September. Camp was over. Been there myself, it's empty."

A shrug, arms crossing over her chest, "Been telling it for the last ten years. Have had it told back to me by people I don't even know for the last three.”

At that, she starts moving along the trail again, "No one is coming out here."

He can't help the small smile that comes, just the slightest curve of his lips.

The gap between them closes, just a little.

———

Hmm, not here.

The large wooden chest closes - solid as you use it to sit on. To think.

Taking a moment, while you poke around the guest room - where she had started sleeping, now that Joel was awake. Looking for the old leather quiver, the extra arrows. Certain that they had to around here somewhere, since you haven't been able to find them in the usual places.

Ellie had been practicing. She's getting good - going out moat afternoons to fire at the bales. You've replaced the targets a few times already - finding some sturdy cardboard - moving them around the yard for variety.

But it was hard, chasing after the only two arrows she had.

You look up from your seat at the end of the bed, to find her standing in front of the closet.

Touching the shirts inside, always coming back to one to the far right side. Dark green plaid, patterned with charcoal and white stripes.

Startling, when you come up behind her - shoving the shirt back into place, "I don't think it's in here.”

"I'll have to check the attic." You answer. Pausing for a moment - before asking, "Did you like that shirt?"

Her cheeks pinken, "It's cool."

You smile, tugging it off the hanger. A memory from years ago surfaces - time spent together in front of the roaring fire.

The sleeves rolled up over strong forearms, your fingers sliding over the buttons. It's been well-loved - but in a way that makes the flannel soft and warm.

It makes you wonder if it still smells like smoke. Like them. If it clings to the memories like you do.

She takes it, holding it limply in her hands. Unsure what to do with it.

You help her, "You can have it, if you want. It could use a good home."

Make it seem like she's doing you a favor.

Her eyes dart down, uncertain - but the wanting wins out. Her zip-up jacket is shed, flung on the bed as she pulls it on over her long-sleeve tee.

It runs big, and she lets you roll the cuffs up to her wrists - the shirt hanging down around her thighs.

"Very 90s chic." You tell her, and she smiles as if she knows what that means. Maybe it's just the approval in your tone, and the unexpected gift.

Ellie parades out to the living room, where Joel was working - sorting through their gear.

"Check it out!" You can hear her laugh from here, the joy in her tone, "We match! Bet you just love that."

The last two words are drawn out, long and teasing.

You can't help but smile - picturing his face, and the grumble that follows.

Certain that he’s hiding his own small smile, as well.

——-

The dust makes you sneeze, the ladder wiggling beneath your feet. It's been ages since you've been up here. Never had a reason too - most everything had been tucked up here for a reason.

Either because it was taking up space. Or because it was too hard to bear. Boxes filled with treasures that aren't yours, from another life.

The floors creaking beneath your feet, as you finally step into the cramped space. A dim light filtering from the tiny square window in the back, the roof slanting so you have to crouch as you check the edges.

Sorting quickly through the piles of stuff that they thought they might have needed, but never used. Skipping over the cans of old paint, some old tools.

Eventually finding a crate that you had thrown a threadbare blanket over. A piece, clicking into place, when you see it. Where you had brought their weapons - unloading them before tucking them away. It had felt like looting, to take them.

Even if you could have used them, it felt wrong.

The yellow and red feathers of the arrows peek out from where the blanket pools on the floor. You scoop them up - 10 in all - along with the quiver they spill out of.

"Found them!" You call down, as Ellie's face peers up through the square scuttle hole. Kneeling on the dusty floor to lower it down to her, before wiping your hands on your jeans.

Taking another look - certain you won't be up here again for a long time. Hesitating, when there's a glint off the flashlight you borrowed. Moving a side table, an old chair aside, to get to it.

A frame, the edges carved and painted with gold. The photo inside is one you remember from when you first arrived. It used to hang above the fireplace - a painting of the mountains, capped with snow. Pockets of pines clustered together.

You measure it with your hands, and after a moment - you take it. Lifting it with two hands as you drag it towards the exit of the attic, glancing down.

Unsure how you're going to get it down there. Maybe if Ellie can grab the end - keep it steady until you can get a good grip on the ladder.

You call for her - but you get someone else instead.

He hovers at the base of the ladder, peering up like she did. Hair slicked back from the shower, grey-streaked - already starting to curl again at the temples. The sight has you clutching onto the frame a little more tightly.

Silently beckoning to you, with a curl of two fingers.

You have to kneel to lower the picture, carefully fitting it through the opening - waiting for him to take it. He grasps it with one hand, easily lowering it to the ground, as you climb down.

His other hand extends, the briefest touch at your hip when the ladder wobbles. You instinctively seek him out for balance, his hand firm and strong as your fingers wrap around - pressing into his palm.

Close enough now to smell the woodsy scent of the shampoo he used, clinging to his skin. Trying not to think about him in the shower, your shower, just moments before.

Your boots finally hitting the ground as his hand releases yours, fingers flexing.

The frame still in his other hand, making no effort to give it back.

"You redecorating?"

That makes you laugh as you fold the ladder up, closing the entrance to the attic again.

Starting to walk into the kitchen, his steps heavy behind yours. You pat the dinner table and he sets the frame there, as your head tilts towards the taped-up window.

You've spent time cleaning the floors, the sink beneath. But hadn't had the time to figure out how to fix the window that shattered.

Today seemed as good a day as any.

"Not exactly." Your eyes slide unconsciously to Ellie, pulling her boots on by the cabin door - the strap of the quiver around her shoulder, "Need to replace this window, figured I could use the glass in this."

Her eyes lift then, a look of guilt crossing her features.

"Ain't the right kind of glass." Joel muses, his voice flat as his thumb presses down against the edge of the frame.

His tone, the words, make you bristle. An embarrassment at not knowing, just thinking glass was glass.

Hand resting on your hips as you answer, "Well, it's better than a hole."

He glances up from where he leans on the table. Pose mirroring yours when he sees the flat press of your lips.

Words coming slowly, "Just don't want you gettin' cold. Glass ain’t as thick as it should be."

A pause, as he considers - as your cheeks heat, "But sure… it'll do."

"You oughta help her out, Joel." Ellie is pushing to her feet now - her voice turning proud as she glances his way, "He used to be a contractor."

Saying the title like it was something precious, something important. His expression turning into one you've come to recognize as embarrassment - when she pokes fun or brags about him.

It feels right - this little reveal. Explains a bit more about him. A lot can happen in twenty years, but you’ve watch the way he looks at things, examining them.

Even down to his frame. Broad shoulders - strong in a way that only hard labor can bring, muscles layered under the softness that comes with age.

A prickle runs from your neck down to your belly at this thought, and you tear your eyes away.

Watching as she opens the door, his call following her into the cold, "Don't go too far, okay? Stick close to the barn."

Her acknowledgment coming as the door bangs shut, leaving the two of you alone. Your arms fold instead, a small sigh as the defensive thoughts thaw. As he looks at you, hands shoving into his pockets.

"Don't know why she's pressing me to help," His voice is low, "Seems like you've been gettin' along just fine here."

You bite back a smile - knowing exactly why she offered. A form of repentance for breaking it in the first place - offering him up to do the work for her. Your eyes slide away, as you sigh.

Coming back, your arms slowly uncrossing, "I actually don't know what I'm doing. Not for something like this."

A small shrug, as you start to pick open the fasteners on the back, "Was just going to wing it."

His voice comes then, slowly and softly.

"I could show you."

The offer is genuine, this time. A rare moment where you meet each others eyes. The soft brown of his, ones that you've looked often in silent admiration.

Your nod is small, like the smile you let through.

"I'd love that."

He helps you peel back the tape, the air outside drifting in the opening - chilling the room. Taking down the bits of cardboard, examining the damage.

"How did this happen?"

"Oh, you know." You hedge, shrugging. Not wanting to explain, if Ellie hadn't already, "It happens."

His eyes flick sideways at you, but he doesn't press.

You help him tug the remaining shards of glass free from the frame. One splintering and jabbing the tip of a finger - a small hiss as you press it between your lips without thought.

As his eyes follow - snagging, lingering, for a long moment - before he's nudging you out of the way with his hip.

"Let me handle this part."

Watching as he finishes cleaning the frame, until it's ready for the glass.

Somewhere along the way - you find that he's the one doing all the work. Listening as he explains each step, as you make a batch of instant coffee for the two of you. His black, yours with a tiny bit of maple syrup - harvested from the ridge behind the cabin.

Taking the glass out of the picture frame, measuring it against the window. Marking a mark of the size, scoring it with a utility knife that he fishes out of the pocket of his heavy coat.

It's impressive, watching him work. Especially with what little tools you have - making his own putty with things found in storage. His thumb smoothing down the compound on the last edge, a quick glance your way that you miss.

"What did you do? Before." He asks - his interest catching you off guard.

Your hands wrap around the mug, "I, uh... didn't get a chance to be anything. I was still in college, when everything happened."

There's a low hum of sympathy. A quick lean out the window to check on Ellie when you don’t continue - before he's sitting down in one of the chairs. The frame left to dry, before he fits it back into place.

A knee bumping against yours as his legs adjust under the table, long legs spreading wide.

Fingers tracing the edge of the frame now, a stilted silence settling. Unsure if you are in the mood to delve into then. Thinking about what you could ask him instead, if that's what you're doing now.

Getting to know each other.

"You been traveling with Ellie long?" You wind up asking.

He gives you a long look, under the curls that have sprung free. A hand scratching the scruff of his beard - the dark hair flecked with grey - his eyes not leaving yours.

"Couple months. Since summer, best I can guess."

You nod - that was what she had told you, on that first journey to find him.

"You got a ways more to go?"

There’s nothing intentionally prying about your questioning. It just feels strange not to know anything about the people staying with you - little opportunity or an opening to ask before now.

Ellie offers some, but she nearly as wary as he is. More prone to narrate what’s going on, questions about the books she reads.

“Think so. Heading to Utah, once things clear up.”

His wound, and the weather.

Winter was harsh in Colorado - with the heavy snow, it was near impossible not to get lost in the dense lines of trees. Assuming you didn’t freeze to death, first.

“Is it hard? Traveling with someone so young, I mean.” You can’t help but think about them. Wondering what life would have been like, if you had gotten home in time, “Just, the responsibility and all…”

It’s a selfish question. You don’t even know what you want his answer to be. The pause stretches longer then, and you're sure you've pushed too far.

"I'm sorry. You don't-" You start, but then he's answering.

“It is.” Eyes tracing the wood grain of the table, “But it’s not my first time. Lookin’ after someone her age."

Falling silent for good, after that.

The realization aches. Pieces fitting together - things he's said, almost on instinct. Old words from another time. How he looks out for Ellie - a softness under the gruff exterior.

You reach for him - moving slowly. Giving him time to pull his hand back, to retreat.

But it stays in place, a twitch of his fingers as they open - making room. Letting yours curve around them, like before.

You give them a squeeze, just a soft acknowledgment.

After a moment, he squeezes back.

Thanks for reading! 💖 would love to know what you thought!

#I hope you like it 💕#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #Joel Miller fic #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller x female reader #joel miller imagine

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thecameronchronicles · 2 years

Text

More Than Friends

TW: Dark Rafe! Extreme sexual content and language. Coercion, angst, and guilt sex. Minors DO NOT ENGAGE!

SUMMARY: If you had a dime for everytime you ended the night crying into the shoulder of your best friend, his polo or button up sodden with your tears, you could have paid for college and then some. And this night was no different. After you spent over two hours sorting through outfits to appear classy yet fun and demure yet of age, you decided on the delicate lace top and skinny jeans complimented by your natural makeup and loose locks. All the while, this culmination was witnessed by the man whose arms you found as your only comfort. Your best friend, Rafe Cameron. Although the majority of the Outer Banks saw him as a hot-heated rich kid who needed to be knocked down a peg or two, he was always different with you. But tonight..that difference would be possessive-even frightening.

WORD COUNT: 4300

More Than Friends

“I just don’t get it! This happens EVERY time!” You relieved yourself of your recent pace, pulling yourself out of your heels and barefoot on the hardwood floor leading to the bed, where your best friend of nearly a decade just sat dazed in his own thoughts.

“They seem interested for like an hour and then something makes them pretend like they don’t even know me! Not to mention the guys who just ghost me! I mean, I only have less than a month until college, I don’t have time to waste on jerks like that-” But with your rant only came Rafe’s silence. It was somewhat expected as these conversations were ones you usually had with his sister, Sarah. The best you usually got had been some backhanded comment about how you were annoying. Instead, he just sat in silence, almost as if he was in deep thought, or even in the midst of being reprimanded.

“Maybe there's just something wrong with ME…” You continued still, giving him an easy path to throw some smartassed remark that you were used to. Whether it was the way you still wore braids well into your adolescence or how you could hardly drive without getting into some sort of an accident, you could always count on his remarks. But yet again, he continued in his own haze.

“I’ll just go find Sarah…” You breathed in approaching annoyance, half berating yourself for believing that you would find the mend to your bruised self esteem in Rafe. He was the kind of friend that was good for a laugh and would throw the first punch in your defense. But the one-on-one emotional heartfelt conversations were more for his sibling. And yet, you allowed him the chance to aid your frustration with him by walking slowly to the door, waiting for him to comment. But alas, you were able to reach for the handle without so much as his deep breath heard at your back.

Until suddenly his large hand came to the break of the door, keeping it closed, his body closer to you than it had ever been. You couldn’t help but chuckle as he managed to dramatize everything, usually leaving him as a victim to his own naivety of self-awareness. But when you raised your eyes to him, his secondhand now falling to your other side, your gaze found a shift in his expression. There hasn’t been a day since you first shared a pack of crayons in kindergarten that he looked at you with anything but adoration-maybe a few occasions of sibling-style annoyance. But in this moment, nothing but darkness captivated his usual blue irises, now turned black.

“Rafe?” You questioned, your voice smaller than anticipated as he licked his lips for a moment, his head remaining down just before he spoke, those dark eyes lifting higher beneath his curtained blonde locks.

“I can’t let you leave.” Your stomach twisted at his words.

“Wwh-what do you mean?” Having half expected you to push him across the room or rival him as you did as if it was a talent, his tone altered to something resembling contentment as he readjusted himself more comfortably in front of you.

“I’ve watched asshole after asshole try with you and none of them deserve you…” Your head tilted into a compassionate ‘awe’. Before your eyes came to note the torn nature of his knuckles that connected pieces of a puzzle you weren’t aware were needing assembly.

“Did YOU punch Drew?”

His silence and tensing of his jaw supplied the answer he wouldn’t grant you.

“I actually liked him! He talked about more than surfing and college!”

“So he has more than two brain cells-doesn’t mean he deserves you-”

“So because you want to, what, protect me, you beat up the guys I go out with?! God, are you twelve?!” Your eyes suddenly froze as this realization deepened. “Last week with Chase…you threaten him or something? The week before that with Jonathan? Are you intimidating all of these guys? Threatening them to stay away from me?”

“They don’t deserve-”

“If you say that one more time-” He grew sheepish before you, gaze kept dark as it peeked from beneath your assumptions. You shook your head in disbelief.

“I know you’re intense about things…But THIS is too far! God…you don’t own me…” This final remark sent something within his chivalry towards you to not only snap but reverberate.

Before you could leave the room, which had been your goal as you reached for the door once again, he had you by the arms and in the direction of the bed. Once upon a time, you would have been found in his arms, even over his shoulder, in the infantile game of tag being extended into your teenage years with pool parties and moments of sheer joy and teasing. But with this, it was possessive-even painful. And you ignored those little flickers of fire that shot throughout your body in the excitement it left behind.

“You’re right.” He hovered over you, back flush with the bed, as you rose high enough on your elbows to showcase some form of dominance, but he kept you where he desired with his arms on either side of your hips and his knee between your legs.

“Because if I did…” He moved closer to you, hot breath teasing your quivering lips. “You wouldn’t dare go against me-”

You scoffed. “Why? What would the big bad Rafe Cameron do?” He clenched his jaw tighter as you continued to tease him, believing once again he was just being dramatic. But the kindness he had shown you for the better part of a decade was lost in the grip he held on your jaw.

“I’d fuck you until you remembered how unpleasant it would be for you to disobey me.” You tried to ignore the heat developing between your legs, the sudden latch of your panties between your thighs, as you found this sudden shift in him to be all too alluring.

However, you knew anything between you and Rafe beyond a platonic relationship would be a disaster. You were polished and organized where he was arguably lazy and in a constant downward spiral whether it was with his dad or his illicit addictions. This was what kept you from acting on those impure visions you held of him when you came into your own as a young woman-the pulsing between your legs that purred for attention, and you quelled once or twice before deciding it was better as a fantasy. But now…it was all too real.

“Let me go…” You warned as he lifted his knee higher between your legs.

“I’ve watched you flash your ass for those guys Sarah brings around…the desperation-when I can give you what you need…” The way his knee rubbed between your legs sent you in a sudden shift upwards as you gasped.

“Stop it-” You demanded, his eyes only darkening further to your confused rejection in contrast to your lips parted in anticipation and eyes dilated with excitement.

“I’ve had to listen to you whine about those other assholes…Watch them put their hands on you…on what’s MINE-”

“I’m NOT yours!” You were silenced by him taking hold of our jaw once again, now pinning you back onto the bed.

“You will be. Tonight. Right now. I’m done being patient…” His simple words set you in preparation to object, before you found him slipping his middle finger up your dress and bypassing your panties.

“No. I don’t want this-” You lied, more worried of the aftermath of what it would mean for you than the truth of the lust building into a coil within your stomach.

“For someone who doesn’t want this…you’re fucking soaked for me, babygirl…” Your lips parted at his words, eyes coming up into a roll that you interrupted with your stubbornness.

“Rafe-” You warned as he only smirked wider.

“You’ve said my name a lot in ten yars…bout time I make you scream it-” Before you could object, you were on your stomach and your dress was suddenly over your hips. The cool breeze caused by this shift made you shutter as he pulled you against him, your spine outlining his toned physique.

“Please, don’t-” You whimpered, his middle finger now plummeting into your depths, the satisfying squelch of your deception confirming the real truth of your desire, making him kiss your neck with approval.

“You don’t want me to stop…Not when I can make you feel so good…” A second finger, the one adorned with his gold brushed signet ring pulled you into a gasp as he continued to pleasure you.

“I can make you feel so good if you’ll just let me…” He seemed almost caring, even soft, in his remark as you bit your lips to keep him from learning how deeply his touch affected you. Those feelings you repressed had overfilled to the surface, verifying to him of your lust for what you claimed was indifference.

“You want me to make you come…I’ve been thinking about it for so long…” As you went to speak, he interrupted you by the sudden turn of your head to look at him, fingers on the back of your neck.

“All you have to do is say yes and you’ll never think of any other guy whose talked to you, let alone touched you…You’ll only want me-”

“No…” To this, he withdrew his fingers and lifted them to your lips.

“No? Then why do you taste so sweet for me baby?” He forced you to taste yourself, the moment leading eroticism well against your denial.

“Aren’t you gonna share?” He took his fingers back between your folds, pulling more of your release to his lips, a satisfying pop validating his words once again.

“God, you’re so tight, too…Better than I imagined…” His hand came to your hips, pulling your skirt up once again as your hands quickly apprehended how he tried to force it into ascension. Suddenly a knife from his back pocket came to your cheek, the cold blade teasing your skin and making you whimper in fear of not knowing how far he would go.

“I’ve been patient, ribbons…” A name he had given you since you wore a set of crimson ribbons to a barbeque one summer, now so sinful on his lips wearing your lust. “I’m not waiting anymore…” Using the blade, he cut only a small slit in the front of your dress before tossing the weapon to the floor and tearing the rest of it to expose your lingerie to him.

“Shit…” He drew out his curse with a deep breath and an eventual groan, his hands descending between your breasts to feel your racing heart.

“Say yes…” He breathed into your ear, his hands returning between your legs, small circles torturing your aching clit.

When you remained silent, he lowered his middle finger inside of you, quickly followed by his ring finger, as his thumb took over for the neglect of your clit.

“Say yes and I swear to God I’ll make you scream my name in pleasure…But stay silent, and I’ll only use you for my own…” You swallowed hard, slightly curious to know how far he WOULD take things.

“Tell me you haven’t thought of this at least once…Tell me you’ve never been wet thinking of me and touched yourself, getting off by saying my name…” His fingers returned to your hair, continuing to pleasure you as he pulled you to face him once again.

“Because I’m going to put all your fantasies to shame…” With the grip still on the back of your neck, he bent you forward.

“Last chance…Just say yes…” He breathed in breathlessness, the sound of his belt leaving little to question what his intentions had been. The war raged within you to decline or accept. If the latter, it meant a change, he wouldn’t be able to blame tonight on being drunk, high, or simply riding the effects of another episode of being hot-headed. But it was the realization of how he was stone cold sober and doing this out of pure desperation, something you had wanted for the better part of your friendship, that sent the little whimper from your lips.

“What was that?” He questioned with a grin heard in his grimace.

“Yes, Rafe…Please-” The growl that left his lips acted as his own endorsement as he suddenly had you on your back, looking up to the man you’d always craved but kept at arm’s length. The way you had dreamed of his torso perfectly manicured by hours spent in the gym and a diet plan keeping him cut lean and not too bulky, was made reality as he pulled his shirt in a single motion. However, you weren’t allowed a true moment to appreciate him before he pulled you to the edge of the bed.

“I’m so glad you spoke up, babygirl…I didn’t want to hurt you…Now I get to make you feel good…”

“Rafe-” Before you could respond, he was buried between your legs, his nose brushing your clitoral hood as his tongue ran attentive stripes between your folds. Once moaning in approval, those licks turned to penetration to your opening, quickly replaced by his fingers as his tongue moved back to your clit. The combination of sucking and biting was the perfect display of how you felt for each other; angst and pleasure.

“Oh my God!” He grinned against your thigh to your sudden religious outcry, something he pulled from you in continuation with his name as an echo along with your groans.

“Rafe! I’m gonna-” But to this confession, he withdrew from you, sending you to glare at him.

“Why…Why did you stop?” But to this, he only moved over you, kissing you quietly with compassion you wouldn't have expected from him prior to now. The way his fingers remained in your hair as he pulled you upwards were enough to leave you dizzy before realizing he pulled you forward for a purpose.

“Don’t you think I deserve a little something? Having to watch you in those little bikinis and daisy dukes?” You were enslaved by his guilt, licking your lips as his Adonis belt led to a cusp of public hair, just enough to send your stomach into summersaults for what was beneath.

“Be good for me, yeah?” His eyes fluttered to the feeling of your fingers wrapping proudly around him, the way you took a hold both dominant and caring, before kissing his tip. The shudder of a chuckle sent him to shuffle before you until you became motivated in the way he collected your hair within his grasp, prepared for how you would please him.

“Fuck!” He grunted at the sudden sheathing of your mouth accepting him in denial of your natural reflex. The grip in your hair was painful yet manifesting an endorsement from you as you wanted to enact the same torment he had done to you; bringing him so close to his orgasm to have the power to then take it away. Because of this, you were enthusiastic with the twists of his base, generous with your tongue, and ignorant of your own tears that he found as beautiful beads of evidence of how you belonged to him. But when he began to tighten in sloppy thrusts, you pushed him forward and into a stumble before wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

Licking his lips for a moment, he took a moment to compose himself by the surprise of your inexperience proving useless against his deepest desires made a reality. Cock twitching at the sight of you teary eyed, at waist level, and breathless from his impressive girth, he lowered himself over you, hands indenting the bed at either of your sides to make you sink deeper into the slate duvet at your back.

His fingers found the back of your neck rather quickly, keeping you uprightt by this grip alone, as you remained in a breathless silence in wait for his next erotic action.

“You really want to know why I beat up every guy who looks at you? Why do I threaten them?” You remained silent, able to piece two and two together, but also basking in how your stubbornness seemed to bring you pleasure against him.

“Because nobody gets to know how good you feel…” He looked between the two of you,the small space merely a few inches, as he carried the head of his cock between your folds while keeping you half upright to witness along with him.

“NOBODY gets to be inside of you but ME…” He grunted, extending every glorious inch, well beyond average, past your previous protests.

“Ah-” You inhaled sharply, his width stretching you beyond what was comfortable as he began his thrusts, taking you in short inclines and expected declines as your hips became flesh with one another.

“And. Nobody. Gets. To. Hear. You. Moan.” Your eyes narrowed to him as he only laughed, well aware he had been victorious in his objective for the night. And yet, somehow, there was something silent behind his eyes that told you he was only beginning.

“Poor girl,” He patronized with a chuckle. “If I would have known how badly you needed my cock, I would have fucked you so much sooner.” He forced you closer into him.

“See how you’re taking me-so FUCKING well…SO GOOD-SHIT!” He breathed lust into each of his words of praise before releasing you to rest on the bed behind you. Yet comfortability wasn’t something you were allowed as you felt him pull your leg over his shoulder as he held himself over the headboard, allowing it to scuff the wall at mercy at its back.

“I want everyone to know you’re mine.”

“I’m. Not.” You struggled, half endorsing him to do harder and deeper as you basked in how feral your rebellion made him. But instead, he only laughed.

“You will be when you’re dripping my cum-” He spoke against you, falling over you completely, delving into you in depths you weren’t aware you held. Your body reacted immediately, every nerve trembling at the feeling of him. To make matters worse, his thumb came to your clit, rubbing those circles that suddenly had you bucking against him.

“Not mine? But pretty fucking desperate to cum on my cock…Maybe I shouldn’t let you…”

“Rafe-” You breathed, half whining as he smirked.

“Tell me you want it. It’s so much sweeter after you denied me…” You kept your lips pressed as his thrusts and fingers increased in velocity. You could feel your orgasm fast approaching, the involuntary clench of your velveteen walls selling out your attempts to keep this detail quiet from Rafe as he threatened to slow.

“I-”

“Did sucking my cock make you unable to talk? Use your words baby…use ‘em and I’ll let you cum like a good little slut-”

“I’m not a-'' He cut off the defense of your character, now pulling your second leg over his shoulder, removing his circles from your clitoris to hold you down and use every ounce of tension, passion, and aggression in his collection of deep and powerful thrusts.

“You are tonight. For me, you’re whatever I want you to be.” He paused for only a moment, one hand now set on the wall above you as he compiled a string of saliva and allowed it to fall over your mound.

“You’re so close, baby, I can feel it…Just tell me what I want to hear.” Your fingers clawed at his thighs as he became annoyed at your defiance, once finding it cute, now finding it as motivation to prove yet another point to you. Turning you on all fours, he lifted you up just enough so your hips would be aligned with his cock, that he teased between the folds now dripping his saliva and your impossibly wet cunt.

“Ribbons, I’m losing my patience-” His hand moved in a large circle over your exposed ass, his breathlessness the only sound in the anticipation of what was to come.

“You want to cum, you have to use your big girl words for me…”

You mustered every ounce of defiance you could to look back at him with a snicker.

“I don’t need you to make me come, Rafe-” To this, he buried himself inside of you, no longer caring for your pleas or the way you fought him. Holding the back of your hair in an uncomfortable pull, he suddenly pulled you upwards until your spine was flush with his back. Pistoning into you at an ungodly pace that fit his ego, his fingers returned to your familiar and now swollen heat.

“If you don’t want to tell me, I’ll just make you cum until you’re too fucked to care-” Your heart rose to your throat at the thought.

“I’m thinking three times-” Your objection was silenced to the way he was suddenly rubbing you nearly raw, yet somehow perfect in pressure and pain. As if he could read your body without you acting out his effect, he retracted when discomfort arrived and replaced it with a new wave of pleasure. At first it was his lips on your neck, then his fingers twisting your nipples until they were stuck erect, and finally, it was the sharp slaps to your ass that he now began in tempo to your dwindling attitude.

“That’s one-” He vocalized upon feeling you cream over him, having done so silently to try and cover the fact he had made you cum in record time. Yet you weren’t allowed even a breath as he continued over your stimulated clit.

He no longer moved within you, instead, just focusing primarily on his fingers to drive you to the edge. The way he twisted and pulled at you, one finger penetrating your core had you already spilling over into a second release that made you fall apart in his flexed arms. Your head was reliant on his shoulder, set back at rest for having been spent now twice, and he paused before the third.

“You don’t want to admit you’re mine?” He flipped you over onto your back, allowing you the reprieve of his absence, only to feel him withdraw and return inside of you in effortless retraction and returned penetration.

“I’ll just fill you with every drop of my cum until you can’t deny it.” He thrusted once more, sending your eyes rolling to the very back of your head.

“You’ll be dripping ME for days…Anybody even tries to touch you-” He laughed, pulling you over his lap as he guided you into the perfect bobbing motions to ride him as he saw fit.

“You like riding my cock?” When you didn’t answer, he took the back of your neck and slowed his thrusts, pulling you into a stretch you still hadn’t adjusted to from his size-making you question if you ever would.

“I’m not stopping until you answer me…I don’t care how sore or how much you beg-and crying…” He shook his head, “That does something entirely different to me-that shit only motivates me…So fucking answer me or I’ll-”

“Rafe-please…” Your teeth chattered to the delusional bliss just within reach behind his slowed motions.

“Please what?”

“Oh God, Rafe! Please, I can’t take it anymore…” You whined, every ounce of strength fading in the gentle caress of his hand brushing a tear from your cheek.

“I know you can. And you will. Until I’m done with you.” His tone turned increasingly more harsh as he had you bouncing on him once again, the moans and pleas blurring into the stars behind your eyes as his thumb returned to your clit.

“Want. You. To. Come.” You managed to utter.

“What was that baby girl?” He teased, simply wanting to hear it again as your eyes pulled open in a deflate of your dominance.

“Come for me, Rafe…I want you to come…”

“Good girl.” He growled, the request sending his head into your shoulder, rising up to bottom outside inside of your aching core, where he supplied his release in the ropes in sudden eviction from his cock, speaking your name as he held you as deep against him to ensure he painted your interior with what he had been concealing for the last decade. Licking his lips, he kissed your motionless mouth before taking a moment to bask in his effect on you.

“Rafe?” You called to him as he withdrew from you slowly, still managing to make you wince from the overuse of your entire feminine anatomy. He turned to you, half expecting a slap, before you moved close to him, fingers soft on his shoulder.

“Next time…I get to be in control…” You excited him in a way he had never known before.

“NEXT time, huh?” You slowly nodded.

“What are friends for?” You brayed in almost a singsong fashion, attempting to slide off of the bed as he took hold of your hand.

“Nuh uh. We aren’t friends after THAT. You’re MINE.” He kissed you again, this time with possession; tongues and teeth.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He inquired as you moved to the direction of your abandoned clothes, motion to them as he questioned.

“If you can walk, I’m not done with you yet. Besides, I said three times…”

“I DID.” You answered, almost annoyed.

“You thought I meant YOU?” He chuckled.

“No. I’ve had to spend the last ten years watching you try for everyone else. Now you know what I am capable of…” He leaned back down to you, bent over so his palms were on either side of you as you remained sitting upright.

“And I’m not done with you yet.” Your mind ran rampant with what more he could possibly do to you. But of the question of what next position or collection of words spoken in vulgarity, one thing was for certain.

You were now definitely more than friends…

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