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boop-le-snoot · 10 months

Text

masterlist

dirt

sundress+no panties+daryl = uh oh...

title and soundtrack is dirt by depeche mode. you need to take depeche mode away from me tbh, I'm hung up on the exciter album writing smut when I should be making updates to my negan and ironstrange fics.

I also headcanon daryl having huge fat swinging balls for some reason and I'm so sorry you had to read that I turn into an animal when I write daryl

cw: 18+, word count 3k. a little rough (butt slaps, some bites, he calls you a "bitch in heat" and a "slut" a couple of times - lovingly of course), a little pervy (you're fucking outside and daryl eats his own come out of your pussy+breeding kink if you squint really hard).

He reaches in, fingers curling around the bunched up, patterned cotton of the dress and his mind blanks. The low growling, he realises, is coming from his own mouth.

"The fuck, girl?"

You look at Daryl over your shoulder, where the bare skin has erupted in goosebumps from his hot, humid breath. "What?"

You sound annoyed, but there's a distinctive teasing undertone to it. Your eyes are narrowed a little too much. The corners of your cherry-tinted lips are tilted upwards.

"You ripped all my damn underwear, Daryl! What did you expect?" You grouch, breaking the second of still silence. "Can't just take a stroll to Victoria's Secret anymore, can I?" Seeing his face darken even more, you hastily add, "I got a couple I wear on runs."

You sound so cute when you're annoyed, Daryl thinks, but it's overshadowed by his blood rushing in his ears, hot and fast. His cock is still pulsing in his jeans and it demands to be released.

"So you jus' walkin' 'round with allat juicy ass hangin' out fo' all da men to sniff?" Daryl feels an urge to clarify to you, what is exactly you're doing, that he's upset with. "Cuz that's exactly what all them dawgs are fuckin' doin'!" He's jealous, of course he is, but most importantly, he doesn't trust any of the men as far as he can see them.

Hell, he isn't completely sure even Rick would pass on the opportunity to get an eyeful of your soft thighs, your scrumptious ass, or your fat cunt, for that matter.

Lord knows they're the juiciest fucking things he has seen in his whole entire miserable life. Just thinking about it makes his rock hard cock twitch and release a sad dribble of pre-cum in his pants.

"Exactly, your girl!" You declare, eyeroll audible in your voice. "Nobody's seein' me without my panties 'cept you."

Daryl's only response is to hitch up the sundress higher, the movement so quick, the fabric gives a sad crack as the seams threaten to burst. Your ass is still bare, still round and smooth as ever, nobody should have this sort of curves while they're in the middle of a damn apocalypse, he thinks, and sinks to his knees and sinks his teeth into the supple skin of your right ass cheek.

You yelp at the sharp pain. You squirm, your attempt at getting away, of course, futile: your hips and waist are firmly in his grasp. Rough fingertips dig into you, just shy of painful.

"There," Daryl inches back a bit, admiring the indentations left behind by his teeth. For someone who forgets to take care of himself most days, his teeth are surprisingly straight and white and strong. And he lets you feel it. "Now if any asshole decides to go nosin' where he shouldn't, there'll be a warnin'." Daryl sounds proud of himself, which is all and all - fair.

Once the initial shock subsides, your feel your cunt lips stick together even more as your arousal oozes out of them- and down your thighs, now that there isn't any fabric to contain it all. In all honesty, you did enjoy the occasional breeze that would waft up your skirt, even if it didn't offer much respite from the sweltering summer heat.

And Daryl is definitely not helping matters, either. He's like a damn furnace, pressed up against the back of your legs, all solid bulk, breathing hot and moist into your skin, every exhale going around the curve of your ass and disappearing between your legs. He knows it the moment that you shift in place, subtly trying to widen your stance even though there is nothing more you want than to rub your thighs together to provide relief to your swollen lips and throbbing clit.

He raises a hand, wide and open-palmed, and smacks your ass. "You're such a fuckin' slut," he grouses. And your first instinct is to gasp at the offense; you hide your grin in a lip bite. Yes, yes you are. And you know it. And he knows it. Your ass cheek jiggles as he gives it another well-aimed slap. "Lookit you," Daryl presses the issue, "drippin' wet." To hammer his point home, he takes a thick, fat finger and runs it along the seam of your cunt.

It glides easily. You shudder, biting back a moan. Your legs shake just a little, but Daryl notices - he always does - and his finger dips inside your lips. The rough, calloused fingertip swipes through your labia, stopping just short of your clit. You whine and he withdraws.

His numerous knives and tools clatter as he abruptly gets up.

"You wanna be fucked, huh?" Voice quiet, Daryl's front presses to your back with a malicious intent. The prominent bulge of his erection is pushing into your back. "Is that why you goin' round naked? So anybody coulda bend you over, anytime, huh?" He reaches around you, hand blindly nosing for your face. When he finds it, he wastes no time in prying your mouth open, sticking the damp finger inside.

Your own cunt, salty and tangy, blossoms on your tongue. The gesture makes you moan around his finger and him- he sticks another one in, keeping you quiet.

"Shut the fuck up," Daryl orders. The rasp in his voice makes your knees buck and your cunt weep and he knows it. His free hand moves at your back, and with the accompanying noises, you come to realise that he's opening his pants and hurrying to free his dick.

When the damp, silky tip touches the bare skin of your ass, your body reacts before you do. Your mouth wraps tighter around his fingers. Spit dribbles from the corners of your mouth and onto his wrist. Your back arches into his body. He is just as scalding as the sun beaming down from the sky.

Daryl pushes his fingers deeper into your mouth, holding them there until you gag. The motion makes your whole form spasm and shiver; his cock gives a responding jump of its own.

"Lookit you," he rasps directly into your ear, hot breath tickling the shell of it. "Like a fuckin' bitch in heat," he grabs the meat of your ass cheek, spreading you one-handed. His cockhead noses around the cleft, leaving a sticky trail behind itself. It dips near your cunt, adding your juices to the mix. "You want it so bad."

You do. You really, really do. But you know Daryl is mean. You love it when he's mean to you. When he is proud of the strength of his bulk, when his eyebrows draw tightly over his brilliant blue eyes and nothing, absolutely nothing can escape his predatory stare. You crane your neck, trying to look back at him, to plead with your eyes.

He gets it, because he always does. Daryl's fingers quickly leave your mouth, dragging a wet trail of spit down to your neck where his fingers wrap around it in a secure hold.

"You want it so bad, then fuckin' beg," he says the words and you immediately, greedily descend into the permitted depravity.

"Please, Daryl," your voice sounds hoarse, interrupted by hiccups as you struggle to swallow the saliva that had pooled in your mouth and around his fingers, "please, fuck me. I'll be good. Please."

You feel him fist his cock as it twitches; you can't help it, really, as you arch your back even more and push your ass against his rough hand. Immediately, he withdraws it, just to slap you again.

"You're a bitch in heat," he muses, but you can hear the beginnings of impatience in his voice. "Say it!"

He's never made you do that before. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, you gasp, part shock part offense, until you feel a drop of fluid roll out over the outer lip of your cunt and fall and disappear somewhere below you. Then it's just lust. The kind that tints the whole world red and narrows your field of vision.

"Fuckin' say it!" Daryl demands, patience thin.

You wouldn't put it past him to just shove himself in at this point. "I'm... I'm a bi- I'm a bitch in heat," you hiccup, feeling your face flood with heat. "I'm a bitch in heat, please fuck me!"

You feel his lips tilt up just the tiniest bit against your ear before he reaches back for his cock and aims it at your cunt in a single, precise thrust. You gasp and mewl as he suddenly stops halfway through. Your cunt ripples and flexes and squeezes. Daryl drops his forehead onto your shoulder, panting.

"So fuckin' tight," he murmurs, mostly to himself. You're not - he knows better, he makes sure you're not before he even thinks about sticking it in - but you are. All that blood that went straight to your cunt the moment his breath caught up in his throat at the sight of your bare pussy - It's making your cunt swell all around him.

A pathetic mewl leaves your lips, your satisfaction incomplete. You wiggle, you arch, but Daryl is as unyielding as ever.

"You take what I give you," he growls, teeth bared like an animal against your ear. Nonetheless, you feel the tip of his cock kiss your cervix. Stars burst in your eyes. You are so full, practically bursting at the seam of your cunt where his fat balls rest against the stretched hole.

Slowly, Daryl withdraws, both of you hissing at the drag of his fat cock in your engorged cunt. You may be a bitch in heat but he's every bit the stud that is just as fervent and feral to breed you. His teeth creak as he pulls back completely, leaving just his weeping tip inside of you.

And then he slams home. And again. And again. And again.

With every powerful thrust of his hips, you gasp. Quiet, pleading moans is the limit of your vocal capacity. Mouth dry, the air gets trapped in the back of your throat as your lungs demand their due.

Daryl is unrelenting. His blunt fingernails drag over the skin of your throat, leaving marks in their wake, as he makes way to your mouth.

"This is what you wanted, slut?" He pants into your hair. "Be quiet. Be really fucking quiet unless you want everybody to see what kinda..." He inhales sharply, feeling your walls flutter at the flith dripping from his tongue.

And it shouldn't make you feel the way you feel. Those fucking words just add more accelerant to the fire in the pit of your stomach, spreading it from there and up, over your face. It flames. Your hand helplessly clutches the nearest surface as you attempt to brace yourself against his thrusts and the notion that anyone could see you.

Bent over something or another, dress hiked up to your waist and Daryl's hips pistoning in and out of you at a rapid pace. He didn't bother undressing save for letting his pants hang freely just below his cock and balls. Heavy, fat balls, littered with coarse dark hair, that slap against your cunt and your clit with a resounding smack every time he drives his cock inside of your cunt. The squelching noise it makes is obscene.

Another whine, and your pussy squeezes him once again, blind and hungry for release. You can feel it building steadily, deep within your abdomen.

"Fuck yeah," Daryl growls, "you fuckin' like this, don't 'cha?" He's gotten the hang of it: the dirty talk, he knows exactly how to get under your skin. He's a mean bastard with nothing close to dignity or self-respect. If anyone saw him, rutting into you, little more than two animals, he wouldn't, couldn't stop.

Daryl would stare them down up until his cock swelled and busted, depositing his seed inside your womb.

Your knees feel weak. It's getting harder and harder to keep up with him; seems like every pathetic whimper that leaves your lips only makes him meaner, stronger somehow. The grip of his hand on your hip is bruising. Daryl effectively wears you on his cock, submerging himself into the warm depths of your pulsing cunt over and over.

"Da-Daryl..." You gasp, you moan and you plead.

He doesn't stop. He merely handles you into a different angle, the one that hits that special spot inside of you with every powerful thrust. He is mean, but he is also fair.

"Gonna cream my cock?" He barely makes sense to himself, the words that his dry mouth garbles seem to have a mind of their own. "Gonna be good, girl? C'mon."

"Ah," you want to say yes, you want to affirm, but all that comes out of your mouth are garbled, unintelligible noises of pleasure. But Daryl sees it. It's in the way your arch becomes near-painful, body overtaking your mind. Even the slightest bit of pain blends into hot-blinding pleasure. You don't know where what ends and begins.

It begins somewhere behind your cunt. The contractions start slow and aching, and every punch of his cock to your guts intensifies the feeling tenfold, until every last inch of your cunt is squeezing around him in that same arduous, suckling rhythm. It's like your pussy is nursing at his cock, attempting to suck his life out of him and deposit it into you.

The pleasure is like a wall of fire and water. Your chest blooms with it, but your extremities swarm with pinpricks. Mouth parted in a silent scream, you sway forward, managing to catch yourself on your elbows at the last moment.

The man behind you doesn't care. He's way past caring, having had started chasing his release the moment your cunt enveloped his cock in a vice grip. The meat of it is sensitive and he spends the few inches to the finish line gracelessly mashing it inside of you, accompanied by the sound of wet flesh meeting even wetter, sloppier flesh.

"Take it, fuckin' take it," you hear him gasp through your stupor before that familiar, warm rush floods your cunt. His cock twitches, once, twice, three times, each forceful throb followed up by more and more seed being pumped into the depths of you.

Against your back, Daryl sags and pants out his excerption. Like a dog. His wet nose leaves sweat stains on your back where he nuzzles into you.

Your knees shake as you struggle to hold up his weight, and then your legs completely turn to mush when droplets of his cum escape your cunt as his spent cock slips out. You know you should be worried about stains in unsightly places but somehow, you can't bring yourself to care.

Daryl notices this, of course. His bulk slides off you; you hear him quickly shove himself back into his pants before his ass hits the ground with a loud thud. Next to you, of course, his stubbly, prickly cheek rubbing over the skin of your leg. He places a wet kiss on the inside of your thigh, and then another.

You know the drill. It's hard for him to find words, sometimes, after a scene like that. It's the intensity of it, the forceful ejection of him out of his head where he spends most of the time, that renders him speechless. Daryl is forced to feel - good things. It's not something that he is used to.

Your skirt is still around your waist and the hot sun is shooting lasers directly at your ass and pussy. You've managed to get your bearings enough to feel at least a little self-conscious, a little exposed. Your combined fluid still drip from you and for a split second, you think about pulling up your panties to try and at least somewhat contain the mess.

Right, you sigh to yourself. It makes your exhausted body twitch and sag even more.

Daryl gently pushes away your hand that was attempting to pull the dress over your ass. You freeze; he smiles against your skin, a little closed-lipped grin that makes something warm and fuzzy make a nest inside your chest. That quickly turns into a startled gasp as his fingers glide through the mess of your cunt.

You're spent. Exhausted. So sensitive, his rough skin practically hurts on your hole and clit.

But Daryl gets it. You get him, and he - he gets you. His hot breath fans over your pubic hair and it's all the warning you get before he opens his mouth wide, flattens his tongue and licks. You've made a big mess and there is a lot to take care of, but if there's anything about Daryl that you know, is that he's thorough at what he does.

In no time, he's got his tongue shoved down your cunt as far as it would go, curling against your walls, lapping up his and your cum like your pussy is an all-you-can-eat-buffet and what's inside of it is sugar and spice and everything nice.

But it's not enough. It's not anywhere near your clit, or any other place that could make you produce more of the cream he's feasting on. Idly, you think about who's the real bitch in heat here, but push out your hips to meet his face nonetheless. You can be mean too. If you want to.

I don't know what to say for myself

#daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x you #female reader #twd smut #not tagging this with norman reedus bc i have posted my face before and I'm not that bold #or am I?

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headkiss · 6 months

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Oooo what abt a cozy holiday fic w steve & shy reader snuggling under blankets w hot cocoa🥹

hiii thank u for this request!! here’s some sweet steve fluff with r after a tough day at work <3 | 0.6k

Steve Harrington has become your comfort person, which, if someone had told you that in high school, you would’ve never believed.

Now, however, he’s different, letting his goodness shine through. You’re not sure how you got lucky enough to land him, but after a run-in at the grocery store, a first date (and many more), you get to call him your boyfriend.

Dating has never been the easiest for you, with your shyness that hasn’t faded much over the years, but Steve was patient, following your lead while also encouraging you to open up.

So, months of dating, and you’re only ever happy to see him, the nerves dissipated with the first ‘I love you,’ that he spoke.

“Stevie?” You call, stepping into the Harrington home, your spare key in hand.

“In here, honey!” He calls, his voice filtering out of the living room.

Even just the sound of it has you relaxing a little, setting your things down and walking over to him.

In the living room, you find that the couch has been covered with cozy blankets and pillows, a Christmas movie paused at the opening credits on the TV, and two steaming mugs of hot chocolate sit on the coffee table.

“Hi,” he says, taking the few steps over to you as you look around. “I thought we could do a holiday movie night. What do you think?”

Your heart squeezes, and after the day you’ve had, your eyes well up a little, too. You surge forward and wrap your arms around his middle, cheek pressed to his shirt. “Thank you.”

Steve hugs you back easily, a reflex at this point, an arm around your shoulders, stroking your back gently, a hand pressed to your head to keep you close. He thinks about when you used to be too afraid to initiate anything, and feels immensely thankful that you’d trusted him enough to get to where you are now.

“I was hoping you’d like it, but I didn’t think it’d be this much,” he says, chin resting on the top of your head. “You alright, honey?”

You sniffle once, nodding against him. “Bad work day. The holidays are so busy, and I was out front all day. Just tired.”

You’ve always preferred to be in the back, doing stock or cleaning things up, because it’s so much easier. No awkward conversation you’ll stress over later, no second-guessing every word you say to strangers.

Steve knows that, so he dips to press a kiss to your hair. “I’m sorry, honey. I know it can be overwhelming. Let me help you feel better, yeah?”

“Thank you, Stevie.”

You let him lead you to the couch, where he sits right next to you, an arm swung over your shoulders. Before you know it, he’s got you bundled up in blankets and tugged close to his side.

He presses play on the remote, letting the Christmas movie and its festive soundtrack start to play. “Comfy?” He checks.

“Mhm. The comfiest.”

“Perfect,” he kisses your head again. “You just tell me when you want some hot chocolate, I’ll pass it to you.”

“I can get it myself, you know.”

“Yeah, but I like taking care of you.”

You shake your head with a small smile, the stress of your work day melting away, the awkward encounters long forgotten.

Eventually, about halfway through the movie, Steve realizes that you’d fallen asleep, cheek on his shoulder, hand holding onto his arm. He focuses on your steady breathing, on your face completely soft and relaxed, and he can’t help but smile.

Steve thinks that this Christmas and every other one to come, the only gift he’ll ever need is you.

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lovings4turn · 4 months

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જ⁀➴ 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊 . . . (𝐎. 𝐏.)

— when oscar gets a little too drunk to drive home after a party at your place, you offer him a place to stay for the night

+ part of my 'be my valentine' mixtape series ! this was super fun to write - i have such a soft spot for writing for oscar, so

+ mentions of drinking and alcohol

a collage of empty bottles and sticky countertops were the only remaining pieces of evidence that a party had occurred in your flat. just over an hour ago, the small place had been packed with people, some you were close to, and some you were sure you vaguely knew, somehow.

loud music had been replaced by the soft sound of a vinyl playing from your bedroom as you pottered around with a black bin bag, throwing away as much waste as you could without disturbing some of the fuller bottles of alcohol. anyone who threw away a half-full bottle of gin was a sinner in your eyes.

it was peaceful, finally having some time alone to breathe, to think. well, almost alone, anyways.

oscar stumbled around your flat with a bag of his own, steadying himself against the counter as he collected the leftover beer bottles for recycling. it was endearing, the way he seemed to trip over his own feet every now and then, the intoxication turning him into bambi taking his first few steps.

his usually pink cheeks were flushed a little darker, hair more messy as a few longer strands fell in front of his eyes. clearly putting all of his focus into his task, oscar didn’t even bother trying to push his hair away, succumbing to slightly obscured vision in his already less-than-stable state.

truth is, oscar wasn’t even meant to be staying over.

when you’d invited him to your place initially, he had claimed he would come for a drink or two, but leave early since he was already feeling pretty tired. that plan had went out of the window twenty minutes after he arrived, thanks to logan supplying him with a shot - or four - before he’d even finished his first beer.

since he’d driven over and was in no fit state to get behind a wheel right now, you’d instantly offered for him to stay at yours. he could take your bed, the couch, wherever he wanted, as long as he stayed. because he wasn’t an absolute idiot, oscar agreed without complaint.

another thud alerted you to oscar only just managing to catch himself against your kitchen cabinet, having lost his balance once more. you held back a laugh, not wanting to embarrass him, but he caught your eye with a crooked grin.

“are you sick of me yet?” he asked, accent made even thicker as his mouth worked harder to wrap around the sounds of his speech.

“not at all,” you replied, the words rolling off of your tongue without a second thought.

you didn’t think you could ever be sick of oscar, especially not like this. here he was, absolutely smashed, yet still making an effort to help you out by cleaning up around the flat a little even though you’d insisted you were fine doing it alone.

anyways, to be sick of oscar right now would make you a hypocrite: you were far from sober yourself.

a lull fell over you both, the only sound coming from the lovers rock album playing in the other room and the gentle clink of glass bottles. the padding of your sock clad feet was like percussion in the soundtrack of your simultaneous cleaning, and the whole thing felt somewhat domestic as you worked peacefully.

but, you were only human.

it was only a matter of time before you both gave up on the cleaning, vowing to do it in the morning when you were sober and more alert. the last thing you needed was for someone to drop a bottle and make the process ten times harder.

after fumbling for the kitchen's light switch and bathing the room in a cold darkness, you both moved over to your bedroom, the fatigue of the evening suddenly crashing over you.

making it to the bed seemed like far too much of an effort, yet sitting down right in front of the wooden frame was apparently much more appealing to you both.

oscar let out a soft oof as he collapsed onto the floor next to you, folding his legs up to his chest in a way that didn't look to be too comfortable thanks to his taller frame.

motivated by your own selfish wants, you let your eyes trace over every inch of oscar, taking advantage of his more oblivious state. his already sleepy eyes were lidded, and it seemed like he was fighting his own body just to stay awake for a little longer.

because nothing was ever fair, oscar caught your stare. you expected a teasing remark, maybe even a playful expression, yet nothing came.

instead, coffee coloured eyes met your own, softening reflexively as he caught your gaze. there was no mistaking it. oscar was moving closer to you.

just as your lips brushed against his, barely there like the flap of a butterfly wing, the music stopped. as the vinyl cut out, you and oscar were snapped from the bubble you’d found yourselves in, and you both pulled away with a sheepish laugh.

“fuck. two seconds,” you mumbled, huffing a little as you clambered onto your feet and flipped the record over, placing the needle back down onto the disc to begin playing the second side.

and if you happened to sit a little closer to him when you returned to your previous position, who was to blame you?

instantly, oscar's hand came to sit on your waist, thumb brushing gently against your hip as he dipped his face closer to your own. there were no interruptions this time, and your lips found his like they'd been searching for them your whole life.

and lucky old you had the whole night to savour this moment.

#.° ༘🗝️⋆₊ becca’s drabbles #𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 becca's 'be my valentine' special #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #formula one x reader #f1 x reader

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d10nyx · 4 months

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lacerated to the bone

ft. danny johnson as ghostface x fem!reader

cw: 18+ content, dark content, masked men, stalking, photography, heavy dub-con, knife play, coercion, choking, blood, threats, predator/prey play, fear play, major character death, p in v, creampie

a/n: requested by anon! hope it lives up to the idea you had, bcs i had so much fun writing this one !! title from 'a life less ordinary(need a little help)' by motion city soundtrack

word count: 2.1k words

“Come on… come on.” You say under your breath as you work at the generator, your heart rabbiting in your chest. You're looking over your shoulder every few seconds, trying to make sure that the killer isn't on your trail. You did your best to save the others from the entity, but you'd failed. You were all alone now. You had to survive.

You can't shake the feeling that he's watching you. There's an eerie silence around you, the only sounds coming from the generator you're working on. The final one. You let out a deep breath as you look away again, but your fingers falter, and the sounds of the generator failing echo throughout the forest.

“No, no, no…” You say quickly, perking up to examine your surroundings, hoping that you hadn't alerted the killer. You curl up behind the generator, waiting for a few moments as you try to listen out for any movement. The minutes that stretch by feel like hours, but there's no sign of him.

You let out a deep breath, standing up before you lean over to work on the generator again. Before you can get started, you feel a finger tap your shoulder. You turn around quickly, coming face to face with a camera. You hear the click of the shutter, and then a bright light flashes that ends up blinding you for a few seconds.

You blink rapidly to clear the spots from your vision, stumbling back. You knew who it was. It could only be one person. You needed to get out of here, and fast. When your vision finally refocuses, you're left face to face with Ghostface. The mask tilts to the side as he cocks his head, his voice husky and slightly crackly from the vocal modulator as he speaks.

“Boo.”

You're running before your brain can even register the movement. You do your best to escape, weaving through dilapidated structures to try and lose him. At every chance you got, you sent wooden palettes tumbling in narrow spaces, keeping a mental note of where you'd cut off the path, hoping to slow him down.

At this point, the chase had become a matter of stamina rather than technique. It was clear the killer wasn't going to let you go, barely letting you out of his sight for more than a few seconds before he was on your tail again. You knew better than to hide, but you were running out of options. Your breathing was becoming laboured, and your legs burned from the chase. You knew you didn't have much of a chance - he was stronger, faster and smarter than you.

It was all down to luck. Your eyes flick over the treeline rapidly - it's a bit far out from the generators and the exit, but it was your best chance of staying concealed. The feeling of being watched irks you once again, causing you to stop and try to find the source.

It's quiet. Too quiet. All you can hear is the sounds of your own breathing. For a moment, you almost feel like you've lost him. That is until you hear a sound that's becoming far too familiar for your liking.

Click!

You turn to try and run again, but a gloved hand wraps around your ankle, yanking you into the underbrush. You cry out as the branches scratch the skin that's exposed as he drags you towards him.

“An image is worth a thousand words, don't you think?” A voice echoes from behind the mask, his free hand shifting to press down on your chest to keep you flat on the ground as he pins your legs down with his knees. With his other hand, he snaps a few pictures of your fearful expression with a beaten down looking film camera.

“Can't wait to get these developed… add them to the collection.” He adds after a moment, placing it down carefully so he can reach for the knife he had tucked in his belt. “I think I like this look on you…”

“Please…” You croak out weakly, your voice wavering as he trails the tip of the blade down your cheek and along your jawbone. “Please, don't.”

“Oh? Already begging for your life?” He coos, patting the flat of the blade against your cheek a few times. He presses the tip of the knife against your cheek, placing just enough pressure to nick the skin. “You're in luck. See, I don't normally play with my designs, but…”

He slides the tip of the knife down your skin, applying pressure when it reaches the hollow of your throat. The mask tilts down, and you can almost sense the sick satisfaction from him as he watches your blood trickle out with every panicked breath you make.

“Well, you're different. I've been watching you for a while. I wanted this to be special; the kind of headlines that people don't forget.” He leans down slightly, and you can feel his gaze boring through you despite the mask obscuring his features.

“Anyway, look at me getting all sidetracked. You poor thing, you keep shaking. I hope that's not on account of me?” He mocks, holding the knife to your throat to keep you from making any attempts to escape. “My apologies. I've always been one for a good story. And you, my dear? I feel you'll be my best one yet. I have a… proposition for you.”

“Please, just stop. I won't say anything… I swear! Just let me go I… I was so close, please!” You sob, raising your hands to try and push him off of you, as if that'd do any good. You wriggle underneath him, ring to give yourself a chance to break free and escape his grasp.

“You see, I'd love to do that. Really, I would. There's just one small issue.” With that, he loosely nods his head towards one of the hooks not far from you. “See, I could let you go, but that wouldn't be in my best interests… now, if you want to make it worth my while…”

He trails off, dropping his head down so his mask is looming directly over your face. He presses the knife down harder, drawing blood as the sharp edge digs into the skin of your throat. “Either you give me what I want, or I'll gut you and offer you up to the Entity. It's simple, really.”

Your stomach sinks at his words. There's no mistaking his intentions. The mask is tilted towards you expectantly as the knife against your throat is replaced by his tight grip. He trails his blade down, hiking your skirt up with the tip of it.

You nod. What other choice did you have? It was this, or die. You couldn't die here. You won't.

“There we go. Good girl.” He says as he removes his grip on your throat to pat your cheek, slipping the knife in between the top of your thigh and the edge of your panties. You tense as he pulls the fabric taut with the blade until it splits. You shiver as the cold metal brushes right above your folds, sliding the fabric out of the way to expose you to his greedy eyes.

You squirm underneath him as he runs the flat of his blade downwards, trying not to jerk your hips as he brushes past your clit, a small whimper falling from your lips. He smacks the blade down a few times, landing spanks against your pussy until sticky strings of arousal connect you to his knife.

“Filthy little thing.” He hums, pulling his knife away to drag a gloved finger between your folds. “Making such a mess. To think, I was planning to wet my knife in a very different way.”

You watch with a mix of arousal and horror as he shucks off the cloak, exposing the black jeans and t-shirt he wore underneath. He keeps that mask on. Seems to enjoy the way you shiver whenever your eyes land on it. He manages to unbuckle his belt one-handed with little struggle, the clink of the metal echoing in the air for a few moments.

He drops the knife down to free his cock and hold it in his right hand. His left hand slides its way up your body, squeezing one of your tits before his hand trails higher, gripping your throat once more. Just to be safe. He smacks his tip against your clit a few times, clearly enjoying the way it has you jolting. Your cunt gushes as he ruts against your sensitive nub, drawing a moan from your lips.

He slides his cock down until the head catches your hole. With a grunt, he pushes forward, filling you to the brim. He throws his head back, his chest rising and falling visibly with his rapid breaths.

“Christ, doll. Didn't think you'd be this wet.” He hisses through gritted teeth. He drops his head forward again, watching your expression carefully through the mask. The tone of his voice sends heat pooling in your lower abdomen, air leaving you in a breathless sigh.

His thrusts are shallow and desperate. He barely pulls out before slamming back in, not wanting to leave the tight heat surrounding him longer than necessary. Each thrust brings a whimper from his lips. Hastily, he reaches a hand out to grab his camera, the one resting on your throat squeezing down just enough to have you gasping in a breath, your cunt clenching tighter around his cock.

“Oh!” He moans, his hand shaking as he snaps a few pictures of his cock sliding in and out of you, the length coated in a layer of clear slick. “God, that's so tight. You like it when I squeeze your throat, huh?”

His voice is hoarse as he speaks, slightly breathless. He tightens his grip on your throat a little more as he speeds up his thrusts, fucking into you with a more brutal pace, his cock bullying your cervix with every movement. Blood rushes to your head as he pounds the air out of you while leaving you unable to suck more air in due to him choking you. You start to get light headed, your vision growing spotty and blurry with unshed tears. As your eyelids begin to flutter, he lets go and you're quickly sucking in deep breaths, your chest heaving.

“Ah, sorry, darling.” He forces out, sounding absolutely wrecked. He drops the camera to hold your hips in both of his hands, pulling you back on his cock with enough force that you're sure you'd be littered in finger shaped bruises. His balls slap against your ass with every heavy movement.

“Oh, can't wait to get these pictures all done. Gonna build a whole shrine for you, dolly. Such a pretty thing.” He reaches down to pinch and tug at your clit before rubbing circles into it with his thumb. He's too rough, and you're already so sensitive. Your body twitches, whines spilling from your lips as you cum, back arching and dragging along the dirt as you clench around his cock.

“W-wait… gotta… gotta get a picture, fuck.” He croaks, flipping you over onto your stomach. He grabs your hair in one fist, yanking your head back painfully as he sinks his cock back into you, making you cry out. He snaps a couple of pictures of him buried deep inside of you, aiming the camera mostly at your fucked out, tear-stained face.

“Fuck… fuck. Coming…” He manages to choke out, the sensation of your walls squeezing him enough to milk his cock. He drops his head down to the crook of your neck, the material of the mask jarring your heated skin. “Shit.”

He drops the camera again, his hand fumbling with something in the thick brush. In the corner of your eye, you see a glint of metal in the moonlight, causing you to flail in panic, scratching at the ground and trying to fight him off.

“You promised!” You yell, trying to scramble out from underneath him as you realise what he’s about to do. “You said you'd let me go! Please… I did what you asked!”

Your eyes widen with fear - wet and panicked as he lifts the knife up, plunging it deep into the side of your neck. Blood bubbles up in your throat, making you cough and splutter as the excruciating pain shocks your core.

“Sorry, doll. Honest. I know I said I'd let you go, but, well…” He yanks the knife out, and your body convulses as you try desperately to suck breath into your failing lungs.

“A good story always needs a twist.”

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beenbaanbuun · 1 month

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hi bunny! nice to meet you! ive started to follow you recently and im in love w all your works, but specially w the opposites attract universe! ive been an addams family enthusiast since childhood and mixing it with ateez has made it even better for me :)

ive grown curious about how san would get used to the household daily life and to darling's antics. and how much time would it take for him to grow fond of her, ofc lol :D

san tries his hardest to let everything that happens in that household wash over him like water off a duck’s back, but every single day he’s faced with a new challenge.

first of all there’s the sex. san thanks the stars that he isn’t a prude, because he wouldn’t last a day in that house if he was. his first 5 minutes in that god-forsaken house were soundtracked by the sound of a bed squeaking, and then when he finally met his boss, all he could smell was the scent of sex which clung to him like cologne. he finds pretty quickly that it’s not just hongjoong that smells that way, but it’s actually just imbedded in the walls of the house. he’s walked in on enough sex to know the reason why the scent of pleasure hangs over the house like a thick fog, and he tries his hardest to not be surprised each time he steps through a door to see someone’s dick stretching out the resident ball of energy. it’s still a little difficult…

and then there’s the ball of energy itself. there’s something about her that’s rather endearing, even from the very first moment he meets her. when she stumbled down the stairs looking every bit the princess that he’s come to realise she is, he was immediately intrigued. even more so when seonghwa and hongjoong began to dote on her slender fingers immediately moving to straighten her outfit—after all, san was still a stranger at that point and it’s only proper to look your best when greeting a new acquaintance. then the grumpy werewolf descended on her, tail wrapping around her thigh as if to claim her as his own and san found himself so curious it almost hurt.

but getting to know darling was a lot easier said than done. despite her following him everywhere for the first couple of days, a certain werewolf also decided to tag along everywhere. whilst she was rambling in one ear, the mutt would be growling in the other. san got the message pretty easily; don’t get too close unless he wants to lose his life. he tried to counter it by shooing her away so he can ‘do his job’, but the hurt look that would settle over her face only made the werewolf even more upset. san was lost for what to do, and the two of them seemed hellbent on making his life infinitesimally more difficult than it needed to be.

it was around three days in when yeosang got bored of following san around, and so the mutt kidnapped her and held her hostage in the living room with him. he didn’t trust the stranger with his pup just yet, and if he had to keep her pinned to the floor with his own body to keep her safe, then that’s what he’d do! he was a guard dog after all… it had absolutely nothing to do with jealousy and hongjoong was a liar for ever claiming it did!

after that, it was harder to get to know darling, but san didn’t mind. he still got to hear her ramble about anything and everything every time he stepped foot into the living room, and he still got to see her every time she snuck away when yeosang’s attention was on something else for two seconds. for those brief couple of minutes, san found himself enjoying her presence immensely!

and then yeosang would storm in and snatch her away for himself again…

#ateez x reader #matz x reader #yeosang x reader #opposites attract universe

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emmcfrxst · 3 months

Text

for i am yours and you are mine; arthur morgan x reader

word count: 602

warnings: none. just some post-coital bliss with everyone’s favorite cowboy <3333 also i left it as gnc and non descriptive as possible, apart maybe from one (1) line where your hair is mentioned briefly, implying that it can be tucked behind your ear but you can ignore that part <333 feedback is appreciated <333

The ruckus of Rhodes’ nightlife seeps through the thin walls of the hotel room Arthur rented for the both of you, muffled voices of drunken strangers declaring wars between one another the soundtrack of your post-coital admiration of the rugged but handsome man underneath you. The moonlight bathes your lover in a silver glow, highlighting every scar, every freckle on his skin, your swollen lips tingling with the need to kiss, kiss, kiss. A calloused thumb brushes against your cheekbone as Arthur tucks a messy strand of hair behind your ear, his gaze soft. You lift your hand from its spot over his heart, wrapping your fingers against his wrist and bringing it to your lips, making his breath hitch. You smile tenderly at him, knowing that despite the fact that he knows your love for him is true, he still isn’t used to being shown such blatant affection— and still believes, although not as firmly as he once did, that he’s unworthy of it.

The thought still makes your heart ache anyhow; how could he ever believe he is anything but worthy of being loved?

A man who has spent his entire life caring for others —albeit in his own personal way; a rock for so many members of your private little community of gangsters and thieves. A man with a devotion that knows no bounds, who would sacrifice his own life for the sake of the ones he loves —and in a way, he already has many, many years ago. You do not even dare imagining what your life without Arthur Morgan would be like; the thought making you feel sick to your stomach. No, Arthur Morgan might not believe he is worthy of the unconditional love you give him, but hell if you aren’t going to keep on showering him in the deepest pits of your affections.

“What’chu thinkin’ bout in that big brain o’yours, darlin’?” The rumble of his voice sends pleasant shivers down your bare spine, your fingers retreating back to his chest, fiddling with the hairs there. An act that has, although possibly strange, brought you comfort so many times before. If only he knew just how free, how safe he truly made you feel. But oh, one day, one day you will make him believe it.

“Nothin’. Jus’ that I love you.” Your words have the same effect on him as the very first time you’ve uttered them: his eyes flash with a mix of awe, tenderness and vulnerability he lets you— and only you— see; a peek behind the facade of strength and nonchalance he seems to wear like a second skin. He shifts under you, hand coming to rest on your thigh, hitched up over his naked waist. The bedsheets feel cool against your heated skin, the sticky, humid air of Lemoyne still no match for your devotion to your lover, bodies tangled into one. You feel Arthur’s lips brush against the crown of your head, his thumb massaging the meat of your thigh lovingly.

“Still don’t know why ya do, but I sure as hell am glad for it.” He mumbles into the night, a confession you’ve heard so many times before, the meaning behind it still as deeply rooted into your heart as it was when Arthur first allowed himself to be loved by you. Wordlessly brushing your lips against his collarbone, you press your cheek to his chest and fall asleep to the thumping of his heart: listening to all of its little secrets, its deep desires and —maybe, hopefully —one day mending all of its broken pieces back together.

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan fluff #rdr2 imagine #rdr2 fic #red dead redemption 2 fic #arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2

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zepskies · 10 months

Note

Hello my lovely friend! I would love to see an imagine/head canon of Dean and the reader seeing each other for the first time after he either comes back from hell or purgatory if you’d be up for it 💕 up to you whether it’s an established relationship or mutual pining 😉 thank you! 😘

Hello, my dear!!

Thank you so much for this imagine! I needed a bit of Dean. 😘

Now I went with Purgatory for this one (S8, E01 – “We Need to Talk About Kevin”).

I diverged from canon of Sam not looking for Dean to make sure if he was dead. Not just because I think that choice by the SPN writers wasn’t true to Sam’s character (Even Jared has said this lol), but because I think if Dean had a girlfriend at this point in time, Sam wouldn’t just abandon her to deal with Dean’s loss alone.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Song Inspo: Yes, I had one for this! Weirdly enough, it was the entire “Moneyball” soundtrack. The whole smooth but intense pace of it really drove me on this.

Word Count: 2,200 Warnings: 18+ only for some smuttiness.

Imagine: Reuniting with Dean, not knowing if things will be the same.

You’re doing the dishes when your phone rings.

You check the caller ID, frowning when the number is unfamiliar. But you answer with a thread of wariness while you’re holding a glass.

“Hello?” you answer. For a moment, there’s silence on the line. Your brows knit together in suspicion.

For months, you’ve been living with Sam and Kevin in this dusty cabin in the woods. Literally, in the middle of buttfuck nowhere. It was the only way you and Sam could try to protect the prophet from Crowley.

So the fact that you're getting a call at all is surprising in and of itself.

Your frown deepens. “Whoever this is, you have three seconds before I hang the hell up.”

“Hey…it’s me.”

Your suspicion fades, but shock overtakes you. Your breath stills in your lungs when you hear Dean’s voice. However, your brain can’t compute.

It’s been a year.

“Sweetheart, are you there?” he says.

You finally choke on a gasp, and the glass slides out of your hand and shatters in the sink.

“Hey, you okay?” his gruff concern is so very Dean that it continues to choke you into tears.

“Dean,” you utter. Your mouth trembles as your eyes close, and your tears find their own way down your cheeks. “I…I’ve been…you’re okay?”

“Well, I’m here,” he answers, with some dry humor, but he sounds off. You don’t know what to make of that, but now you’re worried.

You look down at your shaking hand, and you realize that there’s a small piece of glass that ricocheted into your palm. You ignore it, because all you can focus on is your boyfriend’s voice in your ear.

“Where…are you?” you ask. Every trembling, heave of breath brings you closer to a sob.

“Louisiana. Clayton, Louisiana,” he replies. His voice is even, but there’s emotion there too. You hear it, only because you know him so well. “Where are you?”

And how soon can you get here? his tone implies.

After Dean disappeared in the aftershock of Dick Roman’s death, you, Sam, and Kevin had been scouring every lore book on God’s green Earth. Nothing has gotten you closer to finding Dean in the last year.

You hadn’t allowed yourself to fully give up, but in recent weeks, you would never admit that your heart has been starting to falter. So has your body.

Sam watches you closely on the way out of the house, heading to the Impala. You’re grateful for the way he’s been looking out for you, but you also resent it. You don’t need help. You’re fine…mostly.

As strange as it’s been living in this house, it’s become your safety blanket. Your cold shell where you can block off the rest of the world, as if time hasn’t been ticking by all these months outside of it.

But now you’re practically shaking. Call it nerves, lack of sleep, too much caffeine, too much crap food, stress, and grief. You ignore it, taking a firm grip of the passenger door handle and yanking it open. Sam drives.

The hours are excruciating. Your leg bounces restlessly, and Sam notices, but doesn’t comment. He does try to soothe you with your favorite music in the car. He tries to pick up conversation, but you’re not having it.

You’re even being pretty selfish right now. Sam had been without his brother for a year, just as you had been without. And here he is, trying to comfort you.

You can’t help it though.

You’re not okay. You don’t think you’ll ever be okay again until you see him.

Sam eventually pulls into the dingy motel in the middle of rural Louisiana. (And yet, somehow on the corner of a Hustler, one of Dean’s favorite sex shops. Your lips curve slightly.)

Sam’s calling Dean on his cell, but you’re too impatient to wait for the man to come out.

You jerk the car door open, and in your haste, you don’t realize that you’ve slammed the door shut.

“Hey, easy on my Baby.”

You turn with a gasp lodged in your throat, but not even that can escape when Dean comes into view. Complete with red plaid and old jeans and rough stubble that approaches a beard, and a duffel bag.

Dean’s smirk fades into a softer grin when he takes in the familiar curve of your face, the gentle frame of your body, the sight of your tears, welling up in your eyes.

You take in a shuddering breath, and you go to him. Dean drops his bag so that he can properly welcome you where you’re supposed to be.

His arms wrap around your waist, a hand coming up to cup the back of your head. He smells like motel soap and second-hand clothes, but all you care about is that he feels solid and alive and your heart’s just shy of shattering, or knitting back together. It beats a fast flutter in your chest.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he rumbles in your ear. You nod, even though you can’t help the way you’re shaking, crying, clinging to him.

“I’m sorry,” you say. You hate that those are your first words to him, but you can’t help it. That’s what you feel, down to your bones. “We tried so damn hard to find you…”

Dean pauses a bit on that, but he just shakes his head. He meets Sam’s gaze behind you and offers his brother a smile. Sam smiles back; he’s full to the brim at the sight of Dean, but for you, he’s patient. He can wait his turn.

“I know,” Dean tells you, holds you a bit tighter. “I'm all right. It’s not your fault, you understand?”

You draw another shaky breath and lean back far enough to see his face. You raise a hand to touch his cheek. When he stares down into your eyes, you know you’re going to be okay.

And so will he. You’re going to make sure of it.

In lieu of words, Dean leans down and captures whatever you might’ve said then with his lips. The kiss is heat and longing, both sweet and rough. It’s everything you need.

It’s a long drive all the way back to your cabin in the woods. Dean checks on you often while you’re passed out asleep in the backseat. He’s back in the driver’s seat of his car, hands wrapped around the familiar leather steering wheel, but he still doesn’t feel totally…right.

Despite being wrapped around the leather, his right hand feels empty. Like it needs the weight of a weapon. He’s still tense and on edge, even now, and Sam notices.

“What was it like?” he asks, quietly so he doesn’t wake you. He’s glad you’re finally sleeping.

“Purgatory?” Dean scoffs. “Like being deep in God’s freakin’ armpit.”

Sam’s brows knit together, but he waits, seeing if Dean will continue. And he does, after giving Sam a brief glance.

“It was monsters, Sam.” A never-ending twilight. Never a moment to rest. A wide-eyed existence of gnashing teeth and blood and black ooze.

When Sam inevitably asks how he got out of Purgatory, Dean is vague, evasive. Castiel didn’t make it, he admits, also in halting detail. But Dean is more willing to focus on how tired you and Sam both look. How pale your skin is. How it seems like this is the first hour of sleep you’ve gotten all week.

“How’s she been?” Dean asks, once again checking on you through the rearview mirror. Sam inhales deeply, making Dean frown.

“She’s been holding on,” Sam replies. “Strong, for Kevin especially. Poor kid’s too scared to go outside half the time.”

Dean turns to him with a frown.

“You’ve been taking care of her, right?” he asks.

Sam huffs, with a wry smile. “When she let me.”

Dean quirks a bit of a smile. That sounded like you. Stubborn at your best, damn near impossible at your worst. But the latter is what he’s worried about.

He later carries you inside the cabin, acknowledging your sleepy mumbles that you can walk, but not actually heeding your words. Sam tells him which one is your room, and Dean carries you there. By then you’re awake, but resigned to the fact that he isn’t going to let you down.

Your hand smooths up his arm, up the back of his neck and into his hair. It makes a pleasant tingle run up his spine.

“Your hair’s gotten long,” you muse, sorting your fingers through the strands. His hair’s darker too, not quite so dirty blonde, now leaning closer to light brown.

Dean smiles a bit. “If that’s all that’s changed, then I’d say I’m in good shape.”

He lays you down on the bed, and you bring him down with you by grabbing onto the front of his gray undershirt. He sinks down onto the edge of the bed and drifts a hand from your arm, to your face. He refreshes his memory of every angle, the soft feel of your skin. He knows his hands are rougher, but you feel the same.

You draw him into you and it begins.

Kissing him feels like taking a much needed breath. The way he grips your arms when you lick sensuously into his mouth—a sudden squeeze, an iron hold—it ignites your blood and the fire in your lower belly.

Your fingers rake into his hair. His solid grip moves to your hips, and you lie back when he guides you onto the mattress.

The sound of your breaths mingling together become shallow as you shove the plaid off his shoulders and ruck up the shirt. He does the same for your shirt and jeans, followed by his own. All that’s left it his skin against yours and rough hands squeezing fingerprint bruises into your hips and thighs.

You don’t mind at first; the strength of his hold and how much he wants you spurs you on. You’re slick and pulsing with need when Dean eventually slides home inside you. He has a hand tight in your hair, gripping tighter as he begins to move hard and fast.

“Dean,” you pant. You moan on his name, but you’re also trying to get his attention. You wince as his hand tightens, both in your hair, trapped against the pillow, and on your hip. You hold onto his wrist.

“Ease up, baby,” you whisper. You don’t want Sam or Kevin to hear you, even though you’re sure they could guess what you and Dean are up to.

But Dean doesn’t seem to hear you at first. You look up into his eyes, and you’re not sure if he’s entirely seeing you. It’s not like him, and it triggers warning signals in your mind. You have to wrap your legs tightly around his hips, squeezing his wrist even harder to stop him for a moment.

“Dean,” you insist. And he finally sees you.

When you soothe a thumb against his wrist, his eyes widen. He releases his hand from your hair, bracing against the bed instead.

He frees the other hand from your hip, and he sees the shape of his fingers already forming in your skin. He knows his hold was tight enough to bruise down to the bone.

It’s happened before, but not like this. Dean’s never lost control like that. Not with you, even in times like these.

“Fuck,” he mutters as he catches his breath, frowning deeply. His green eyes meet yours, raw and guilty. “I uh…I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

You tilt your head at him with a thoughtful frown. You reach up to frame his face with both hands, and you wordlessly tug him down to you. Dean is somewhat reluctant, but he follows your guiding hands and meets your waiting kiss, tender and slow.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats against your lips. His voice is low and coarse, filled with the true depths of his emotions. Everything he's been trying to hide from you.

Your eyes sting with the threat of tears.

“It’s okay,” you reply, through sweeter kisses. “I love you. We're gonna be okay.”

He hesitates. Then, he nods, accepting your words and your warmth.

His hand slowly brushes against your thigh, soothing along your bruising skin. You still have your legs wrapped around his hips, but you lessen your own hold, now that he seems to have come back to himself.

You both realize then that it might not be okay for a while. But that too is all right. Because you’re nothing if not stubborn, and Dean is worth the challenge.

He closes his eyes to breathe and center himself. They blink open at the feeling of your hand, insistent on his shoulder. Your face is both tenderness and determination.

You push against him and twist until he's the one on his back, on the bed, holding your hips, the two of you still joined. He looks up at you still with a measure of reluctance.

"I've got you this time," you tell him, stroking his cheek. His almost-beard prickles against your palm.

After a moment, you can see in his eyes that he believes you.

And you begin again.

AN: Gaaaah, this man. I'm weak every time I write about him. 🥲

I have another Dean imagine coming soon. Some special anon asked for the reverse of "Sam being in love with Dean's girlfriend."

So stay tuned for "Dean gives you an impossible choice." 😉

Dean Winchester Imagines

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Dean Tag List:

@hobby27 @this-is-me19 @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesdeanvessel @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @ades106 @emily-winchester @deans-baby-momma @melancholictearz @nic-kolas @katherineann83 @sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @tipthejar @ajjustice @thewritersaddictions @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @deanwanddamons @antisocialcorrupt @adoringanakin

@theonlymaninthesky @teehxk @midnightmadwoman @mrshalverson2021 @iprobablyshipit91 @agalliasi @venicesem @waters-2567 @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @solariklees @xsophianicolex @deansbbyx @mimaria420 @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley @sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @ultrahviolentart @beskarfilms @skyesthebomb @deans-spinster-witch @tmb510 @iamsapphine @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @fabimaou @simpforbuckyb @vanillawhiskeyflavoredkisses @roseblue373 @syrma-sensei

#ask me stuff #reuniting with Dean #Dean back from Purgatory #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester #sam winchester #angst #dean winchester smut #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x female reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fic #spn #supernatural #zepskies answers

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kitashousewife · 10 months

Text

you started dating kita shinsuke your second year of high school.

you met him at the beginning of the school year when you asked him for help with your math homework. he happily obliged, and by the end of it he had earned your phone number.

the next few weeks were filled with late nights texting each other, talking about nothing at all. you learned his favorite color, and you told him about your favorite songs. he asked you to be his girlfriend a month after.

that was eight years ago. red is still his favorite color, and he still has your favorite songs on his playlist.

the first two years of your relationship was filled with tests, study sessions under his grandma’s blossom tree, and many volleyball matches. you never missed a game, not even the far away ones. always in the crowd to cheer him on while he gave you a small smile, ears red and cheeks pink.

kita picked you up for your first date in a old farm truck. you heard him coming yards away as the engine hummed through the neighborhood. the paint chipped and exhaust sputtering as he parked in the driveway, palms a little sweaty as he fixed his hair in the rear view. he about jumped out of his skin when he saw that you were already at his door. he still drives that truck, using it for chores and deliveries, but you’ll never say no to a ride when he asks.

that same truck got the two of you into trouble. the sound alone made it almost impossible to stay out late, cutting sneaky last minute kisses on your front porch short. one particular night, you had begged your mom to let you stay out late, to which she agreed as long as you were home by midnight. at 11:59, in a fit of giggles, the two of you came racing into the driveway.

kita pulled you in for a kiss, only to be illuminated by the the kitchen light flicking on. you jumped out of the truck, running into the house with a dopey grin on your face while you made up an excuse to your mom, blaming non existent traffic for slowing you down.

kita wasn’t off the hook either that night. gran heard him coming from down the road, waiting for him in her rocker with raised eyebrows.

after graduation, the two of you spent every moment you could together. delivering kita snacks while he worked in the fields, having picnics under the stars, even joining his friends on trips to the lake.

when it was time to head to university, kita was the first to offer to help you pack. he calmed your nerves and dried your tears, promising to be there for you whenever you needed.

he called you every day while you were at university, even traveling to see you between holidays.

after you got your degree, gran so graciously offered to let you live with her. your family had moved away, and you couldn’t bear to be away from kita any longer. you spent your days at work, only to come home and enjoy dinner cooked by gran with the man who had your entire heart.

as if you had any more to give, kita asked for the rest of your heart at the end of harvest a couple years ago, proposing with a family ring that he had been saving. you could only nod as tears streamed down your face, being spun around under the evening sun. kita didn’t even change, still wearing the work pants and stained t shirt, dusty boots and sun hat that he donned earlier that morning. he couldn’t wait any longer.

your wedding was everything you could have imagined. full of friends and family, dancing and food. kita spent weeks with his friends fixing up the yard, making it fit for a queen and her king on their big day. lights hung from the trees, flowers from your garden littering the grass and tables, all while your friends laughed and sang along to soundtrack to your love.

three years later, you and kita sit in the back yard after dinner in an attempt to cool off after a long day preparing for harvest. the summer sun hung low in the air while you filled kita in on the phone call you had with your mother.

“she found a few boxes of my things,” you sighed. “stuff from school, photos and things. i told her to set them aside.”

“anything good?” kita’s back is on the grass, and his feet are flat on the ground. the knees of his pants are soiled brown from the fields.

“photo albums, note books, random odds and ends i think. i’ll grab them from her eventually,” you pick at the blades of grass at your feet. “i’m sure we could have a good laugh at some of them.”

your husbands mud stained hand comes to rest on your thigh.

“do ya remember when i first brought ya home to gran?”

you smile. it was an absolute disaster.

“i thought i would never be welcomed back,” you laugh, and kita snorts.

“she loves ya too much,” he closes his eyes as you play with his hands. “what did ya break again? a plate?”

“a drinking glass,” you nod. the memory is as vivid as ever. you had offered to help with dinner, but while you were turning to grab a hot pad you ended up knocking a drinking glass off of the counter. you apologized over and over, no matter how much gran waved you off and assured you that it wasn’t a big deal. i’ve got a cupboard full of them, she said.

“ya know what she told me after i dropped ya off that night?”

“bubble wrap her next time?”

“no,” he playfully flicks your leg. “she said how much she liked ya, how she thought ya had great manners. she loved how sweet ya were too,” he says. “gran told me that night that i would never be bored with ya,”

you grin. “and gave you been bored?”

“not recently,” he teases. “i have never been bored with you. i love sharin’ this life with ya, no matter what we’re doin’,” he sits up next to you and wraps his arm around you.

“even dishes?” you rest your head on his shoulder and he chuckles. as long as you’ve known him, that’s been his least favorite chore.

“even dishes,” he nods and takes a sip from his glass. “do ya wanna go for a drive?”

you eye his truck, still as faded and beat up as the first time you saw it. except of course for the scratch on the tailgate from when you tried to drive it for the first time.

“always, shin. where are we heading tonight?” you dust off your legs and his before you walk towards the driveway.

“i didn’t have anywhere in mind,” he opens the door for you, as always, shutting it before walking to the drivers side. “is that alright?”

“it’s perfect,” you look out towards the fields, now slightly golden from the sinking sun. the irrigation sprinklers would be going off soon. “maybe we can stop by gran. i have some things from the garden to give her,”

kita nods, placing his hand on your thigh. the middle seat between the two of you won’t be empty for long. usually after a few minutes, you slide over to sit right next to him.

the two of you pull out of the driveway and down the road, taking in the farm land around you. rows and rows of corn, grass, wheat, and rice. some fields of livestock, some empty for the season. kita drives with one hand, and you can’t help but smile when the light catches his sparkling wedding band as it shines against his tan fingers.

you don’t know how you got so incredibly lucky all of those years ago. you’ve never wanted anyone else. no matter what, no matter where, you’re always going to choose kita. the man who holds your bags for you, picks you a flower on his walk from the fields, the man who has a polaroid of you on the dash of his truck.

the man who has loved you fully from the start.

#kita x reader #kita shinsuke #shinsuke kita #kita x reader fluff #kita fluff #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #haikyuu fluff #hq fluff

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halcyonfawn · 6 months

Text

the meaning behind "face the raven" theme in "wild blue yonder" and more

a continuation of this post. i need to talk about this otherwise i'll explode.

some people have also said that this theme is playing in "last christmas" and "hell bent" (thank you for pointing that out, i'm going to die) which makes it all even worse (better). therefore, this post is, more or less, destined to turn into capaldi's era brainrot. but not all of it, i promise.

you've been warned.

first of all, allow me to refresh your memory. let's look into the context of the scenes where we heard this music theme before.

"last christmas"

according to series 8 official soundtrack, this theme is a part of "every christmas is last christmas" and is heard quite clearly two times. they're both important scenes for the doctor and clara.

too late.

a moment full of regrets and nostalgia. the doctor thinking he's lost clara again, wishing he would have come back sooner. clara reminicing her life without the doctor in it.

"so no one matched up to danny, eh?" "there was one other man, but that would never have worked out." "why not?" "he was impossible."

it is (heavily) implied that "one other man" is the doctor. does the doctor himself realise that she's talking about him? open for interpretation. but what this small exchange truly does is showing a game of saying something without actually saying it.

"can you really see no difference in me?" "clara oswald, you will never look any different to me."

yet another way of dancing around words. there's something special and touching about this last line. it is sort of a confession of unconditional love. but the word itself - love - is never spoken out loud.

then again, twelfth might be face blind.

second chances.

now, this scene is a complete opposite of the one mentioned above. it's full of hope, anticipation, happiness. a beginning of a new arc. he is given a second chance and he takes it. the doctor asks clara to run away with him once again. and she says "yes" without hesitation, takes his hand, kisses him on the cheek.

conclusion? these two scenes are focused entirely on the doctor and clara's relationship. it is there to show their strong connection, how much they mean to one another. utter devastation at the thought of their time ending and the absolute joy of reuniting after being separated. a chance at a happy ending. which also makes the music that plays on the background their theme.

"face the raven"

"every christmas is last christmas" is now turned into "face the raven" and is asocciated with clara's death. it also makes the previous name even more heartwrenching since last christmas was literally clara and doctor's last hurrah. we can hear this piece of music appear in two scenes as well.

clara's monologue about facing the raven.

"if danny pink can do it so can i. die right. die like i mean it, face the raven. maybe this is what i wanted. maybe this is it. maybe this is why i kept running. maybe this is why i kept taking all those stupid risks, kept pushing it."

she's accepting her fate and aknowleges her recklesness all the way throught the season 9. it was meant to be. there wasn't enough space for two doctors in the tardis.

"i let you get reckless" "why? why shouldn't i be reckless? you're reckless all the bloody time! why can't i be like you?" "clara, there's nothing special about me. i'm nothing but less breakable than you. i should've taken care of you."

this scene is also about how a human life can be so very short compared to the time lord's and how easily it can end. it's fragile. and it's the doctor's curse: bearing the pain of losing his loved ones.

clara meeting her fate.

as she approaches the raven, ever so brave, the doctor watches her. he hears clara scream, then witness her collapsing onto the ground. it is extremely painful, but this is, i repeat, the doctor's curse: watching his companions leave. there's no use in running away from that pain, it haunts him every step of the way.

"hell bent"

next time, "face the raven" theme can be heard during the memory wipe sequence. there is no name given for the background music in this particular moment, but it's quite obvious it represents loss and... letting go?

the doctor is about to make clara forget their time together (does that ring a bell, anyone?).

it is worth pointing out that the music becomes the loudest at the exact moment the doctor says:

"look how far i went for fear of losing you. this has to stop. one of us has to go."

it is the culmination of their relationship. companions that push each other to extremes. together they might destroy the whole universe in order to keep each other safe. there's no other way but to separate. they've formed such a strong connection than one is ought to forget the other.

even though at first the doctor is determined to wipe clara's memories, he then admits she is right: it is unfair to take away all that wonderful time they had from her. so he gives her a choice. or, more like, an offer to play a russian roulette. it's either you or me. i'm not going to press that button. we will do this together.

to summarise: all of these moments featured a strong connection between clara and the doctor. it also tells us a story about how hard it is to lose someone you care about deeply, especially for the doctor.

how is it all connected to the doctor and donna?

memory wipe

the doctor has to make donna and clara forget about him in order to keep them safe. expect that he doesn't give donna a choice, wiping her memory almost instantly, without saying a proper goodbye to her. obviously, he didn't have enough time to think of a better way to solve the problem since donna wouldn't have lasted long. however, it is still a decision he regrets making.

from "the star beast":

"i'm so glad you're back, donna. it killed me, it killed me, it killed me."

if we take a look at clara's situation, it's a bit different. i've already mentioned it above: at first, the doctor wants to do the same thing to clara that he did to donna. make her forget. expect, this time he is confronted for doing so (even threatened, at some point).

"these have been the best years of my life and they're mine."

i think this line triggers something in the doctor. because this is when he realises that this is not the right thing to do. not exactly. he'd already done it once and he regretted it. so this time, he offers a slightly different solution. someone still has to forget, but they'll press that button together. it's a mutual choice.

now, i know it's not entirely related to the dialogue in "wild blue yonder", but i think it's worth mentioning that donna and clara's stories are somewhat similar. i'm sure it's been said before, but it's still important.

donna's story was incomplete because she wasn't given a choice. now, that she remembers, 14th doctor makes sure their time together is worth-while. a second chance just like in "last christams".

too alike

another similarity between these two stories is that clara and donna are not entirely humans. not anymore.

donna's half timelord. even though her head is still not big enough to fit all the doctor's memories, she still has a part of the doctor in her.

clara's frozen in time, that makes her practically immortal. she risks her life, she reverses the polarity of the neuroblock, she gets her own tardis, she's even reffered to as "clara who" at the end of "hell bent". she has become the doctor in a sense.

but there can only be one doctor. so where's the story heading to at this point, i wonder? but we'll come back to this question later.

"but what really happened?"

before i say anything, it is obvious that the doctor's silence before and after he says "a lot" is him reminicing all that'd happened to him during the 11th, 12th and 13th reincarnations. all of the loss and pain he went through.

but why "face the raven" theme of all things? it could be a general theme of grief/nostalgia/painful memories, nothing else implied.

but please let me be delusional for a bit longer!

just as that scene in "hell bent" brought the doctor back to the moment he made donna forget him, could it be that bringing back his best friend's memories in a whole universe that "he absolutely loves", also reminded him of another important person in his life with similar story? just like "hell bent" mirrored "the journey's end", "wild blue younder" gave us a reference to "hell bent".

this is where we get back to the question about the current story direction.

foreshadowing?

donna's story is not over. and there are a lot of possibilities how it can end.

say, there is a connection to clara's story here, i wonder if that's where the plot's heading. in one of the trailers, the doctor does say "i'm not sure if i can save you this time" to donna. and it worries me. then again, maybe they're just tricking us into thinking something bad will happen (oh the drama).

i'd say it's unlikely donna's going to die because that would be absolutely devastating after just bringing her back. at the very least, the ending wouldn't be completely "happily ever after". perhaps, sacrifices will be made in order to prevent something truly horrible from happening.

why did this face come back?

in "the girl who died" twelfth doctor finally realises why he got his face. it is a call-back to "the fires of pompei" (don't even get me started on its being the episode with 10th and donna).

the message the doctor was giving to himself turned out to be:

"i'm the doctor and i save people!"

but what is 14th trying to tell himself?

i think it's about donna and more.

he's fixing his mistake of erasing her memories and depriving her of the right to remember amazing things that'd happened to her.

it's a reminder to actually tell people how much they mean to him. as we can see, 14th's more open with his feelings and constantly shows signs of affection towards his loved ones, even breaking the "never say i love you" rule.

it's about being honest and open with people because they deserve to hear it from him and he deserves to hear it back. because "things happen and then it's too late".

again, take 12th doctor, for instance. he constantly represses his feelings. but in my humble opinion, the reason why he's changed by season 10 was clara. she pulled him out of the dark place. and even though her death almost threw him back to that state again, he is still a better man by season 10.

but there were things left unsaid. love and care were always there but it was never said out loud. kind of the same thing happened with 13th.

i strongly believe that donna is that person for 14th. they're best friends who love each other deeply. and after the doctor lost her and got a second chance to fix everything, he does, he's being affectione. he's finally open with his feelings.

conslusion: why did you make us read all fo this?

to answer the question in the title: it's all tied with how memories are important and priceless, fixing past mistakes, moving on and learning to treasure every moment with people you care about like it's your last.

it can also be a foreshadowing for something terrible, but i choose to hope for the better.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

aaaand that is the end of my doctor who rant. thank you for getting this far, if you did!

my feelings about all of this can be described with this one meme:

#doctor who #doctor who meta #dw #dw spoilers #wild blue yonder #twelfth doctor #fourteenth doctor #tenth doctor #donna noble #clara oswald #face the raven #last christmas #hell bent #twelveclara #whouffaldi #i'm sincerely sorry if you've stumbled across some stupid grammatical or other mistakes while reading #i wrote a part of this at 3am #[unhinged analysis]

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mydearesthrry · 11 months

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hey love, im absolutely in love w your writing and wanted to ask if you could write something about harry asking reader/(y/n) out? maybe he’s super nervous cause he’s been crushing on her for awhile <3

obvious - h.s.

a/n: thank you for the request, lovie! this got a little messy but i hope i lived up to your wishes a little. enjoyyyy <3

🎀 warnings/cw: nothing, fluff ofc, harry being a little nervy boy

🐇 pairing: actress!reader x harry styles

💐 wc: 1.1k

summary: y/n thought she was being so obvious- looks like she was wrong.

“You look incredible,” Harry mutters, eyes trying to stray off of his script in an attempt to memorize it for the scene the next day. “I’ve been thinking we should try something crazy…” He pauses, trying to let the scene play out as accurately as possible. “Let’s have a baby.”

A few beats pass. “What?” YN follows, a bewildered look in her eyes. Harry just smiles, eyes flicking down at his script, nodding when he remembered his line.

“I mean, not right this second, obviously, we don’t have time. But…” Throwing the words around in his head, trying to ignore his chest squeezing at how accurate his next words were in reference to her, “I love you, and I want more of you, and now I think I want a little you. I don’t know. It’d be an adventure.”

Their eyes catch each other, and they share a look that they both couldn’t explain even meant. YN dropped her gaze first before clearing her throat and shifting on the sofa. “Yeah, that was great, H. I think we’ll do well tomorrow.”

Harry sniffed and looked down at his script, flipping back to the title page. “Um– yeah, we will.”

Fuck. Harry thought. His hands kept fidgeting, left leg bouncing up and down. He wasn’t even anxious, per se, but he felt so incredibly nervous because of the pretty angel sitting next to him. He’d been pining over her since he was a teenager, watching all of her movies the day they came out, and listening to all of the tracks that she’d sung on every soundtrack. He even went on a spontaneous trip with the boys when they were in New York just to see her perform on Broadway.

So safe to say, when he got the call back that he’d gotten the role of Jack Chambers in Don’t Worry Darling, he was doing somersaults when he found out who his on screen wife would be. It felt crazy to him that his dreams from when he was in tenth year had finally come to fruition— kind of. The two had a weird relationship at first, YN being extremely closed off and standoffish at the beginning, but she slowly let Harry break down her cemented walls that she’s had up for so long. She didn’t know why, but for some reason, Harry was one of the only people that she allowed to get to know her– fully, at least.

“Okay, pretty boy, it’s getting pretty late, and I have an earlier call time tomorrow than you do, so I think I’m gonna head out now.” Standing up, she brushed off the front of her gray sweatpants, showing up to Harry’s flat in the most comfortable clothes possible since she knew she would be there for a while. She picked up their now empty wine glasses, them having shared a glass or two throughout the course of the night.

Harry didn’t give any response and an awkward silence filled the air, almost suffocating as YN stared at Harry in confusion. “H?”

Nothing.

Harry was lost in his thoughts, seemingly. I need to do it now, but what if she says no! What if I’ve been misreading her this entire time and she’s just being nice? But that wouldn’t even make sense, would it? She’s been picking up what I’ve been putting down… I think? Has she? Fuck… Wait, wait what? Is she leaving? Why’s she slipping her shoes on?

“Wait,” Harry managed to choke out, YN halting her movements immediately. “Don’t– um, don’t leave, please? Come sit down, I wanna… I wanna ask y’something.”

Fuck, he was really doing this.

“Been trying to tell you that I’m leaving for like, ten minutes now, Babe.” She laughed, toeing her shoe off, dropping the other one she had in her hand onto the floor.

“What’s up? What’s the matter?” She traced his face with her eyes, clocking his distant look that was written all over his face.

“Bug, have t’tell y’something, but if I’m wrong, y’have to tell me, promise?” Harry mumbled, eyes flicking down to his hands where he was fidgeting with his ringless fingers. His rings were in a velvety cinched bag that YN, of course, had gotten him at a little thrift shop they found.

“Promise, babe. Now, what is it, is everything okay?” She gripped the bottom of his chin in an attempt to get him to look at her. It began reminding her of the scene they filmed earlier of their characters in the living room in a very vulnerable state.

He was too nervous to say his next words to even realize she'd called him babe. “I… I- um- I don’t want this t’ruin our relationship, but I have t’tell y’cause it’s been basically eating at me, but I… I really like y’and I want nothing more than t’take y’out on a date. But, if y’don’t feel the same don’t worry! I jus’ didn’t want to not tell y’and ruin our friendship or anything, even though now I fear I’ve made it wors-”

“Oh my God,” She cut him off, giggles that soon turned into full on cackles filling the air. He watched her in fear, a worried look now on his face at the thought that she was laughing at him. “Harry, sweet boy, I would love to go out with you.”

“I- you- wha- what? I… I don’t think I understand?” He stumbled, her actions and words not adding up in his YN clouded brain.

“I thought I was being so obvious about how I felt about you, H. Sorry for not being more clear, that’s on me. Is this why you’ve been so distant and weird with me lately? You’ve been acting like this just ‘cause you have a crush on me?” She tried to understand, but by the look on his face she could see that he was really not getting what was even happening right now. “Babe, I’ve liked you since I watched you in the crowd of the first AMA’s you went to. I didn’t even get to meet you, but I’ve liked you since I’ve seen you, and it honestly’s gotten worse since I have to pretend to be your wife on screen.”

Harry was bewildered. “So, y’telling me, that all this time I’ve just had to ask? Instead of torturing myself every night?”

“Yeah, bug, that’s what ‘M telling you,” She giggled, moving closer to him on the couch. “We’re doing this backward, I think. How’s it that I’ve had your literal tongue in my mouth before you’ve even taken me out on a date?”

“Well, when you put it that way!” He laughs, pulling her onto his lap like he’s always wanted and waited to do. They sat in silence for a few beats, letting their eyes roam around their faces without worrying about the director yelling 'Cut!'.

“What’re you waiting for? Gonna ask me out officially?” She whispered, moving her face closer to Harry, them being able to now feel their breaths waft between them.

“Nah, gonna kiss y’first, officially as us, and not as Jack and Alice.” Harry mumbled.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

And when their lips finally touched as Y/N and Harry, the teenage boy in Harry was practically doing backflips and somersaults, knowing that his dreams had finally come true.

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x y/n #harry styles blurb #harry edward styles #harry <3 #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles au #harry styles imagines #harry styles x fem!reader #harry styles x actress!yn

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erinfern0 · 6 months

Text

kyle “gaz” garrick — nsfw headcanons

kyle who is such a sweetheart, he makes playlists that remind him of you, but soon they turn into soundtracks of your sessions. he has a playlist for any fantasy you two might want to play out. they help him to relax when he's deployed.

kyle who peppers kisses all over you, no matter where. your face, neck, thighs, back. his lips find your skin before you can even register it.

kyle who always praises you and whispers sweet nothings to you no matter how rough he might get. yeah, he might break your back but never your heart. if he's going to degrade you, he won't go all the way, he always follows with some praise. “that's it, slut. you're doing so well.” type of thing.

kyle who has a praise kink in both ways. he loves to let you know how beautiful you are, how good you make him feel, etc. as soon as you start to praise him too? he melts. straight away.

kyle who's favorite places to kiss on your body are your wrists. he just adores the feel of your pulse right against his lips as he looks into your eyes.

kyle who loves going down on you. come on, we all know he's a munch. especially if you've had a bad day, he's on his knees in seconds, pawing at your bottoms to let you know it's time for his meal.

kyle who loves to eat ass. and he does it like a pro. he loves anal in general — both giving and receiving, but it takes him a while to admit it. after you two talk about it's all he can think of.

kyle who gets horny at such random moments, you never expect it. you find yourself watching a movie by yourself, he's back from running errands all day. he's tired and sleepy, but all of a sudden he needs you. just the sight of you wearing your shorts is enough.

kyle who is willing to try any fantasy your mind can think of, he just loves to experiment with you just for that connection and knowledge about you that he gets every single time.

kyle who loves to bring toys into the bedroom, as like i mentioned - he loves to try everything. he especially likes it when you use vibrators on him, he turns into a pretty mess quite quickly.

kyle who is gone the second you expose your chest to him. big, small, flat, soggy - doesn't matter. he loves all chests, especially the nipples. will suck and kiss them until his mouth is sore.

kyle who stumbles over his own words. as soon as he gets sexdrunk - you know it. his sentences break in the middle, mostly interrupted by soft curses.

kyle who goes “oh, fuck” under his breath as soon as he enters you, his mind can't react to such contact differently.

kyle who loves to put on a show for you. he makes it a performance of his life every time you ask him to do something, teases you, and just does it like the great lover he is. he doesn't exaggerate anything tho, just uses his words a little more carefully, tries to show you exactly what you might want to see.

kyle who adores mutual masturbation. the intimacy plus another opportunity to perform for your entertainment — the combo he loves so much he can't help but ask for it every couple of days.

kyle who definitely steals something of yours as an innocent reminder of your presence beside him but always ends up with the filthiest imagination involving the object.

kyle who can't help but says your name every time he masturbates. as a moan, whimper, or grunt, it's always on the tip of his tongue.

kyle who takes a while to allow himself to make any noise, thinking it's slightly shameful how loud he gets. as soon as you make him feel comfortable about it he can't shut up.

kyle who is an absolute switch, loves to be the soft dom who fucks you slow, deep but hard just to let you ride him and praise him right after.

kyle who shudders and twitches for a while during and after he cums. he's just so sensitive he can't help it. the feeling of your body so close to his, your breath on his lips, and his hands reaching out to just touch you — doesn't matter where.

kyle who loves to take his time with you but is obsessed with quickies, especially when you do it right before you leave the house. You're about to see your friends in half an hour? he'll spend half this time fucking you or eating you out and the other half just cleaning you up and driving there. will definitely side-eye you every now and then, gazing over the almost invisible evidence of what happened just minutes ago.

kyle who whispers filthy shit into your ears in public just to brush it off and move away with a chuckle. people always think he's just talking shit or throwing jokes but no - he just made a comment of how pretty you'd look bent over the shelves.

kyle who loves to be edged so goddamn much. especially when you give him handjobs, talking him through them and pulling your hand away as soon as you see him getting close.

masterlist | request info

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javipispunk · 1 month

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Bush of Rhododendron Flowers

Jackson! Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: In the language of flowers, the rhododendron symbolizes danger and to beware. Fitting plants for the meanest man in Jackson to have in his front yard. You wish you had listened to their warning, too late for that now.

Word count: 1.2k

Rating: Explicit. MDNI

Warnings: Joel and Ellie never go to Salt Lake, Allusions to smut, angst, Joel is mean and a liar and a little rough, manipulation by Joel and reader, self-loathing, self-sabotage, unrequited want, unhealthy attachment, one use of the word ‘darlin’, NO HAPPY ENDING

A/N: The second I saw @morallyinept May challenge I knew I had to write about Joel and Rhododendrons. The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh has lived in my mind rent free since I read it for the first time over a decade ago, so heavy inspo from that. Also the song Rhododendron by Bella White played a large role in the making of this fic. Highly recommend both! Divider by the ever lovely @saradika-graphics

masterlist

You sit on your front porch and stare holes into the pink flowers in Joel Miller’s yard that mock you. Spring has arrived and made itself a home in Jackson. Flowers are blooming and cover the landscape like flecks of paint on a canvas. The sun is bright and birdsong echoes in the crisp air, a soundtrack to the movie that plays over in your mind.

Beware, beware, beware, the rhododendron chants at you.

You think back to the first time you met Joel. It was mid-Winter and the earth was covered in a thick blanket of snow. You’d been walking down the street when you heard a bellowing yell. Everyone that was around turned their heads towards the man that had yelled Tommy Miller's name. You’d never seen him before and Lord was he a sight for sore eyes. His graying hair was a mess on the top of his head and his denim clad legs looked sturdy underneath him. If he wasn’t in the middle of a reunion with his brother you would have gone up to talk to him right then and there.

Your opportunity to talk to him came a few days later when you both walked out of your houses at the same time, he had recently moved in across from you. You’d heard rumors that he was gruff and brash, but that didn’t deter you, in fact it only made you want him more. Something about the chase and all that. He didn’t acknowledge you on this particular morning, not even a glance in your direction, so you mirrored his actions.

It happened a few more times, both of you turning onto the street at the same time before he finally accepted that he would be seeing you often. One day he cleared his throat loudly, causing you to turn your head towards him. He gave you a curt nod, you replied by looking him up and down and nodding back at him. A truce of some sort, still neither of you had spoken a word to each other.

/ / /

It continued on like that for a while until you went a few days without seeing him. You’d become weirdly attached to your ritual and his absence worried you, you would later come to find out he’d been injured pretty bad on patrol and was instructed to take it easy. The first time you saw him again after that you decided to finally talk to him.

When he gave his signature nod you spoke up. “Was beginning to wonder if you died or somethin’.”

He froze, obviously caught off guard by your disruption of the routine he had become comfortable with. Then he ran his fingers over his chin and really looked at you.

“Got pretty damn close.” He mumbled and started walking away. Usually he was a few paces ahead of you but with whatever injury he’d sustained he was walking slower than normal. This meant that you were now walking side by side, much to your amusement and his dismay.

“Care to enlighten me?”

“No.” was all he said, unsurprisingly. You chuckled and that was the end of that.

/ / /

It all came to head when you were sitting at the Tipsy Bison. It had been one of those days and you just needed some relief. Like every other time he saw you outside of your shared morning walk he pretended like you didn’t exist. You’d had enough of it and at this point it didn’t matter if you wanted to kiss him or not, he was just being plain annoying. So you walked up behind him and whispered in his ear.

“It’s not very neighborly for you to not say hi to me Joel Miller. I thought we had a nice little thing goin’ on with our walks there.” You didn’t wait for him to reply and swiftly walked away out the door into the cool night. Barely three steps out the door you felt a firm grip on your arm pulling you around the side of the building. Hook, line and sinker.

Joel grabbed your face in his large hand and made you look at him, square in the eye.

“Neighborly huh? I ‘ont think thats what your wantin’ outta me darlin’”

You winked at him and his lips were on yours in an instant. He was rough with you, biting and pulling your lips with his teeth, like a wolf devouring a deer. And just like a deer you were caught in the headlights, not sure which direction you should go. You let him take the lead, willingly pliant under his touch. It was too cold outside to take any items of clothing off so you stopped there and he walked you back to your house.

When you got back you could tell he wasn’t sure if you wanted him to follow you inside. You bit your lip and looked at him seductively, eyes hazy with lust.

“Well? You just gonna leave me out to dry like that?” you said. He hurriedly followed you inside and your clothes had been shed before the door was even fully closed.

/ / /

That was the beginning of the end really. Once you’d had a taste of Joel you needed more, you were insatiable. The more you sought him out the more withdrawn he became. It was on and off for nearly three months, secret rendezvous between weeks of avoidance. When he was with you he was so sweet, he took the time to clean you up and would whisper sweet nothings in your ear. But in the in between times you were insignificant to him. He even started leaving his house an hour early, just so he wouldn’t have to see you.

/ / /

You’d asked him about it on one of those rare occasions you found him in your bed.

“I’m sorry darlin’, just busy.”

You knew he wasn’t sorry and you knew he wasn’t more busy than he usually was. And he knew that you knew but that was the end of the questioning.

As Spring came, feelings changed. You were more irritable than ever with his back and forth. You couldn’t tell what was truth and what was a lie. One moment he was saying he wanted to settle down with you, the next he was saying he had rotten luck with that kind of stuff so he didn’t even wanna bother trying. There were lots of empty sorry’s passed between you two those last few weeks. You wanted it to end, but you never wanted him to leave.

/ / /

Right now as you sit on your porch, coffee long forgotten on the stoop next to you, you know it’s over for good. Just a little while ago you watched him walk out of his house with a pretty blonde woman. He gave her a kiss and a pat on the behind. Her giggle was like a blood curdling scream to your ears.

Your heart is sitting in a million little unfixable pieces at the bottom of your abdomen, the wreckage of a ship left to rot on the sea floor. You brought it upon yourself, you know that, holding onto someone that never really wanted to be there in the first place. How horrible to grieve someone who is still alive.

Beware, beware, beware, the bush of rhododendron flowers continues to stare back at you.

#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #the last of us fanfiction #jettsflora&faunachallenge #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader

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brightgoat · 1 year

Text

I watched all of JJBA

My thoughts on it, no major spoilers:

FIRST OF ALL: If I were to recommend it to someone, I would say watch the parts in the order of: 3, 1, 2 (although 2 is largely irrelevant), 4, 5, 6. By all logic, I should hate this anime. It goes almost completely against my taste in fiction.

Continued under cut

Watching this anime is like getting waterboarded, occasionally a genuinely good moment will come where I am allowed to take a breath, but before i even register it some bullshit happens and I am dunked back in.

However, while getting waterboarded, I’m in a desert, i see the fucking stardust crusaders in the back, this is the only water source so while i cant breathe i am glad to have access to it.

Then finally, a particular moment comes, and i start drinking all the water, until theres nothing left and i finally breathe, and that particular moment is when father Pucci appears on screen, an essay on why he’s the best character coming hopefully never.

Watching this is like being forced to bash my head against a wall at gunpoint, and then being happy that my blood made a cool pattern on the wall. None of the characters act like real people. Time and space does not exist. Inconsistencies are everywhere.

Set ups and no pay off. Pay offs withOUT setups?? The characters describe their every action so honestly you could watch this with forks in your eyes and still know whats happening, except you won’t know from the intense mindfuckery that takes place.

But overall I had a great time. Amazing soundtrack, loved the OPs, I love the char designs and I love art that isn’t afraid to be weird and unapologetic in its weirdness, it’s insanely creative and the humour can be great, some moments genuinely had me hyped and my eyes wide

I loved how in a lot of episodes it focuses more on the antags, making you root for them (though thats often cuz the protags are annoying-)

My fav part is absolutely Stone Ocean, it has the best protag and antag, best visuals, side characters that I actually gave a shit about unlike most side chars in the prev seasons. Still rooted for the antag though.

My fav Jojo is Jolyne, second is Giorno (but the version of him in my head anyway cuz he had an amazing set up but shitass payoff in my opinion)

Fav side chars are Rohan, Anasui, F.F., Ermes, Bucciarati was alright I guess, I like Trish’s design, Polnareff was entertaining.

Fav villain is hands down Father Pucci, he’s the reason I watched this entire thing, the character who apPEARS IN THE VERY FINAL FUCKING PAR- Dio close behind. Kira was fun as well.

Gonna read Steel Ball Run maybe, because I’m still in the fucking desert and i need water-

#jjba #jojos bizarre adventure #jojo's bizarre adventure #review #jjba review #jjba thoughts #stone ocean #this was posted on my twitter at first but i decided it should be here as well #my thoughts on OVER HEAVEN coming soon

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goldustwomun · 2 years

Text

take a chance on me (b.b.)

pairing: bradley ‘rooster’ bradshaw x ex! mother! reader

summary: your daughter stumbles upon a photo of you and a mysterious man, immediately noticing the similarities between him and her. nothing good can come from revisiting the past, especially one you’d hoped to avoid because you’d never gotten the courage to tell him, the man from the photo, that he’s a father.

warnings: major rip-off of the mamma mia! plot but this was purely for enjoyment so xxx; angst angst angst; swearing; allusions to sex; a lot of exposition so sorry ‘bout that

wc: 9.2k+

note: had so much fun messing around with this request (thank you by the way!!). listening to the mamma mia! soundtrack the whole time and now yearning for an island romance<3

ps. reader’s age is slightly hinted to being over 30 but that’s only if you do the math and i left the daughter’s age ambiguous (she’s a teen, over sixteen at least); also, daughter’s name is poppy!

pps. i probably won’t be writing a second part to this because i love the ambiguous ending; let your imagination run free lovelies :))

more of my work x

The summer heat was thick and just about everywhere, like sticky honey you can’t wipe clean off your fingers after spreading it onto a piece of too-burnt toast.

You were on the verge of giving up, trekking back home and collapsing onto the sofa with a stand-up fan aimed at your sweat-slick face.

Maybe the dungarees hadn’t been your best idea when it came to thirty-degree weather, but the utility of them, their pockets filled to the brim with spare screws, a cylinder-shaped glue for the hot glue gun you’d lost in your storage room a week back, a few hair ties for when the one currently holding yours up snapped for the third time that day.

Practicality over comfort, as was your motto for the past over-a-decade of your life. As it had been, since you’d found yourself pregnant after a one-night-stand (turned many, many night-stand) you’d yet to shake yourself free of).

You were never one to ask for help, and when it came to raising your child, things hadn’t changed. No matter how desperate you were, working two jobs on an island you didn’t speak the language of, an infant perched on your hip, whaling in your ears whilst you simultaneously cleaned the rooms of the little bed-and-breakfast you’d landed a job at.

When you weren’t taking care of your kid or working, you were thinking about one of those two things, or both.

And it wasn’t like you hated it entirely; she was the best thing to ever happen to you, could have arrived at a more opportune time, but she was your best friend if you’d ever had one. So saying she was a mistake or something you regretted– it was an unfathomable thought that had only crossed your mind once, sat in the doctor’s waiting room, pregnancy test wrapped in toilet paper, clutched tight in your trembling hands.

“Ma’!” she yelled now, your little Poppy with her chocolate-brown curls, sun-kissed skin from all the time spent at the beach. Remarkably like her Father, but you’d never tell her that.

“I’m here, I’m here!” you answered in a similar, exasperated fashion, bent over a crack in the intricately tiled mosaics that covered the floor of the plaza.

You still worked at that bed-and-breakfast, though now it was yours and had expanded to a vast number of the buildings at the centre of the island. Everyone helped out, whether out of kindness or a small fee, and you were grateful for the community, the small army, you had behind you, catching you every time you stumbled (far too often than you’d ever admit).

“Need help?” Poppy asked, amused, hands perched over her white-tiered skirt clad hips, looking like the stubborn replica of her mother, of you. Her head just about obscured the sun from beating down on you anymore than it already was, framing her with a halo of gold that tinted the edges of her hair.

“I’m alright, love,” you assured, heaving yourself straight with a pained groan. Poppy crowded you, arms going around your shoulders to help you up. “Why don’t you go help Esme. She’s in the storage room, looking for the hot glue gun.”

“Still haven’t found that thing?”

“No, I– fuck. Everything disappears around here. Swear we’ve got a ghost or something, the only logical explanation.” Poppy nodded along, taking your finger-pointing at the supernatural with a deathly seriousness.

“Makes sense if you ask me, ghost with a hankering for rusty tools,” she agreed, voice solemn. “Aaaand you’re sure I can’t help you here?” she asked again, murky brown eyes baring right into your soul. You brushed her off, nudging her in the direction of the sweet old lady, Esme, with her wonky English accent and pastries to die for.

“If you see anything you like, put it to the side!” you called after her retreating figure, shaking your head as she chucked a ‘thumbs up’ behind her back.

Not only was she the spitting image of her Father, or rather, the man who got you pregnant as you called him in your head, but she walked and talked with that same air of breezy confidence that got him into your pants in the first place.

You’d hoped a few more of your mannerisms (and none of your risky mistakes) would have brushed off on her as she grew up, but other than your resolute anger and little patience, she was nothing like you.

Always headstrong, sometimes teetering on the precipice of arrogance, but she usually relented and bugged you with her incessant chatter until you forgave her.

Would stare up at you, all watery and doe-eyed, hair curling around her chubby cheeks still splotchy from her tantrum, near ready for tears again until you were shushing her with a carrot stick coated in hummus (her favourite but you worried she’d turn into a chickpea or something close to it).

Even if she was part-chickpea, you’d love her forever.

Named her Poppy after the bunches of wild, scarlet-red flowers you’d seen breaking through the stones of the Acropolis when you were pregnant and needed a break from the island. Your Poppy was a lot like that; able to push past even the most inconceivable of hardships, past whatever unmovable stone that might be surrounding her, threatening to cage her in, until she was illuminating the world around her. Painting it a little brighter for everyone to enjoy.

Your very own field of flowers.

Poppy could admit that even with having grown up on the island, she could never get used to the heat or the muggy feeling of her clothes sticking to her like a second layer of skin. But she persisted, finding Esme with a cloth tied around her head as a make-shift hat in the barn they used for storage.

It was… falling to pieces, and still, that was an understatement.

The blue doors looked more grey than anything ocean-like, the junk crammed inside, stacks on stacks of unlabelled cardboard boxes she worried had a family of something disgusting in at least one of them. The ceiling had caved-in in places, allowing beams of sunlight to penetrate through, and acting as a door for the birds to fly in and build their nests.

So yes, the barn was falling to pieces, the entire hotel was, actually. But what worried her the most was that her Mother seemed close to the same fate despite being so young, so she’d persist where she had to.

“Little girl, come help me with this box would you!” Esme ordered from somewhere within the labyrinth of boxes. Poppy picked her way through, using the groans Esme exerted as a homing-beacon and eventually bumping into the older woman. She was caked in dust and dirt, but didn’t seem to care all that much if the grin on her face was any hint of her mood.

Esme was rather grumpy a lot of the time, so a smile like that, one that screamed mischief, and her eyes beaming with that all-knowing look she got sometimes after visiting the psychic on the other side of the island… Well, something told her this couldn’t be good.

“What’s in this particular box, May?” Poppy questioned, huffing as she pushed it onto the ground.

“You’ll see in a moment–” Esme tssked at her impatience, patting her back so Poppy would move into the light so they could see its contents more clearly. When it was in place, Poppy looked-up at her from her crouched position on the floor expectantly, still unsure of where this was headed.

“Don’t give me such a dumb look, little girl, open it!” she scolded, frowning so deeply Poppy worried her mouth would be stuck that way permanently.

Sometimes she thought it already was. “Okay- Okay– Stop calling me that,” she added under her breath, pulling back the hole-ridden flaps and immediately rummaging through, wondering what all the fuss was about.

“This just looks like a bunch of old junk, May. I don’t think the glue-gun is in here.”

“Keep looking,” she insisted, peering over her shoulder. It was only a few minutes later that her hand came down on Poppy’s shoulder, gripping tight enough that Poppy stopped shuffling things around, hand stuck on a tattered journal she’d never seen before. “That one– take that out.”

“This?” Poppy asked inquisitively, lifting it from the box and standing up so Esme could see.

“Yes, this,” she nodded with a relieved sigh, flipping open the first page. Inside, Poppy admired the elegant script, eyes widening at the name inscribed on the first page.

“This was Ma’s?”

Esme held it out to her, confirming her wild thoughts, doing little to halt the curiosity currently poking at her mind. “This was your Mother’s when I first met her. Maybe… younger than you, or the same age, I’m not sure. But she was beautiful, and hardworking, and very, very pregnant.”

A forced laugh stumbled past her lips, disbelieving as she carefully turned to the next page. A stray photo, not stuck down like the others, flew out of the bottom. Poppy scrambled to pick it up, not wanting it to get lost amongst the piles of stuff they desperately needed to sort out.

In it was her Mother, looking radiant with her head tilted back in laughter, flowers in her hair, an arm around her waist that belonged to an unfamiliar man. “And– this guy, who’s he?” Poppy’s heart was hammering now, knowing the answer before Esme could even respond.

He had her curls, unruly and deep brown. And something about him, the fluidity in his shoulders, the ease with which he carried himself, the look on your face. It couldn’t be…

“I’m not sure. I never knew his name but he was following your Mother around that summer, like a lost puppy. Very cute,” she murmured appreciatively, gaze fixated on the photo in your hand.

Poppy’s heart sank, hating the lack of answers, the not-knowing. She needed to know, could feel the fire stoked in the pit of her belly that would keep her up until she found out more, more, more.

You wouldn’t say anything. You were tightlipped about the ingredients in your famous pasta sauce, so anything about Poppy’s potential Father would be a no-go, a dead end she couldn’t get herself stuck in and clue you in on her snooping.

“What happened to him– the puppy man?” Poppy did nothing to hide her curiosity, knowing deep down that Esme had lured her to this box for a reason.

Everyone could see how you were wearing away, working yourself to the bone everyday for a dream that seemed just about unreachable. You needed someone, anyone, to help you, and Poppy wouldn’t always be there to do just that.

She knew you didn’t need a man, bursting into your life and fixing your problems. It’d have you biting at his heels until he was running off into the sunset. But a partner– a companion, maybe, who could support you when the job was brutal and rough and you were nearing a breakdown like no other– you deserved, at the very least, that.

Poppy would make sure of it. It didn’t take long for her to do the calculations, nine months minus her birthday and she had an approximate date to look for. She thumbed through the journal, marking the pages that mentioned any indication of when you’d written in it, and shoved it into the back pocket of your denim shorts to search through later.

She’d find him if it was the last thing she’d ever do.

Hopefully, it wouldn’t be, but she needed to see you smiling like you had in that picture. And Poppy had an inkling, a feeling, a certainty like no other, that the answer to all of your problems, maybe her’s as well, would be found with the man with the funny moustache and wicked grin.

The internet was a powerful machine, and one, Poppy thought decidedly, she’d be forever grateful for. It didn’t take long to hunt down the mystery man from the photo. She smiled, somewhat maniacally, really, at the screen as she read through the email she received from the United States Navy.

She’d gotten the idea after noticing the dog-tag around his neck, nestled against his bare chest. It was hard to see at first, what with the obnoxious printed shirts he wore in every photo, but Poppy was nothing if not thorough, meticulous, error-free.

Anyway, it wasn’t like the Navy had actually responded to her far-fetched cries for help, but she did find a help-centre that was rather effective in hunting down men who had gotten someone or the other pregnant while deployed internationally.

Poppy wondered how often this kind-of thing happened that they needed a whole department for it, suddenly trying to burn the image in her mind of a few more miniature him-with-the-moustache-s walking around the Earth.

But it couldn’t be, not with the way he had stared at you in that photo. And you’d kept it, all these years, so it had to have meant something.

Bradley Bradshaw. She scoffed, what a dumb name. And his callsign? Somehow worse– Rooster. She hoped eternally her maybe-Father wasn’t a proper moron now, and could still live upto the photos she had of him (of which she found many more hidden between pages in your journal).

He was quite attractive, almost two decades earlier. And you– well, even today, you were ethereal in Poppy’s eyes. Carefree and determined.

“Pops– hun, I’m going down to the post office, need anything mailed?” you asked from the other side of her bedroom door.

“Yeah! One sec,” she replied, frantically shoving all of the post-it notes and pictures back into a drawer in her desk, doing one last scan of her room to make sure she hadn’t left anything lying around before snatching up the letter– to Rooster– from beside her laptop.

Poppy opened the door to see you resting against the door frame, flipping through the letters (bills, probably) you had clutched in your hand. You held out your hand, waiting for her to drop it in your palm, but she quickly yelled out, “No!” which had you looking up from the dreaded envelopes with a raised brow.

“No…?” you asked, confused at her unusual outburst. “So you don’t have any mail?”

“No,” she repeated, dumbly, mouth forming words that never made it out. “No– I have a letter, but I’ll come with you. Drop it off myself,” she explained eventually, nodding along as if she was trying to convince herself.

You relented, sending another curious look towards your daughter but stomping down the stairs, creaks following, to the car. “I’m leaving now so put your shoes on!” you sang.

She sighed out of relief, shoving her feet into her trainers and barreling past you into the front seat of your Jeep. “God, Poppy– what’s gotten into you? Acting like a five-year old, I swear,” you grumbled, irritated and lethargic enough to have her wincing with guilt.

This was a good thing, right? Sure, you’d be angry– scratch that, furious, murderous, down-right irate, when you found out, but you’d understand. She was doing this for you.

“Sorry,” she appeased, kicking her feet onto the dashboard that earned her another withering glare from you. It did little to dissuade her as she continued talking. “Just giddy, that’s all.”

“Giddy? About a letter?” Poppy hummed in agreement, watching the ocean and mountain-side trees rush by, painting an array of abstract strokes across her vision. “Is it for a boy?” you asked, teasingly, side-eyeing her before returning to concentrating on the winding road ahead.

“Mmm, funnily enough, yeah,” she giggled, loving how you were entirely clueless.

“Interesting,” you murmured, then reaching across the console to squeeze your daughter’s bare knee. “Be careful, yeah?”

Poppy’s eyes flashed, chest-clenching painfully as she worried her lip between her teeth. Her hand moved to rest across yours. You’d never opposed her love-life, of her having one, but Poppy had always wondered why your own dating history was so sparse, time spent, instead, taking care of her or, later on, the hotel.

“Always, Ma’, you know that,” she made sure with a tight grin, praying you missed how it didn’t reach her eyes.

This was a good thing, she reminded herself. This was for you.

Poppy was jumpier than usual, like a skittish cat, you observed silently. Slamming doors and screens shut when you walked by. You didn’t necessarily care what she was up to until she was rambling off, a mile a minute, going on about an excuse you hadn’t asked for.

You were a good mother, one that didn’t pry or push when you wanted the gossip and highlights of your kid’s life. Had built a relationship, a friendship, even, with your daughter where she voluntarily shared the information without you ever needing to bat an eyelash.

So you tried not to worry, to let the mishaps distract you from the seemingly never-ending list of work you had tugging your attention elsewhere.

But that was another thing about being a mother; worrying was second nature, a muscle that unknowingly worked itself sore whenever your daughter was out of your sight.

She’d go off during the day, by the beach with her friends, at the dock helping with shipments or sailing into the late afternoon, returning only when the sun was sinking into the horizon and the sky was all shades of purple, pink, a burning orange.

She’d give you a soft, routine kiss on your cheek as you sat on the dinner table, skin sticking to the plastic cover you’d laid on the surface to protect the wood. Spew details of her day, who said what, who kissed who– though always failing to mention the letter from a month ago, the unknown boy she was secretly buzzing about was still unknown.

You hadn’t forgotten the letter, not recognising the address, some small town in America with little significance to you.

Poppy sat across from you now, talking around a mouthful of the sandwich you’d made the both of you with the leftover baguette from the bakery across the street, one that hadn’t sold that day so was priced cheap.

“--and then, you’ll never guess, but Dom was changing on the boat and basically flashed everyone. Tony and Riley included. I felt so bad, almost pushed the boys overboard and she was so red for someone who, basically, never got embarrassed.”

You snorted, stopping mid-bite. “Just because someone doesn’t make their emotions obvious doesn’t mean they don’t feel them. And I hope they’ll apologise to her.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” she agreed enthusiastically, eyes wide as if digesting every single one of your words. “And they did right after I threatened them. It wasn’t awkward for long, they’re not a bad bunch or anything. It was an accident, Dom said so herself.”

“That’s good,” was all you answered, now distracted by a letter in your hand you’d pulled from the pile as Poppy talked. She was watching you intently, burning a hole through the paper, and, being her Mother, you already knew she was dying to know who it was from.

“It’s for you,” you said eventually, putting her out of her momentary misery as she squealed and snatched it from your hand. You watched discreetly, touched by the sight of her mouthing the words as she read the letter. “Is it from that American boy of yours?”

“American?– what– I mean, how do you– how do you know he’s American?” she stuttered messily, mouth agape and ready to argue.

You reflexively held up your hands in surrender. “Hey, love– I just saw the sender’s address, that’s all,” you assured.

She collapsed back into her seat, mumbling an apology for getting all worked up.

It was now or never, you decided, finally sick of the anxiety coursing through your veins these past few weeks.

“Poppy, you’re… alright, right?” you asked, struggling to find the right words and sighing, forehead resting against your palm while the other crossed the table, holding your daughter’s hand, grip light and featherlike, in comfort.

“I mean– you’d tell me if you were in any trouble, or anything. I wouldn’t judge or–”

“Ma!” she scolded, sounding appalled by your line of questioning and roughly pulling her hand out of your grasp.

“Don’t ‘Ma’ me, Pops. You’ve been going mental for weeks now! I’m allowed to fret, I’m your Mother!” you retorted, standing up abruptly, chair screeching against the linoleum tiles as you dropped the plates into the sink.

“It’s nothing, I swear–”

“Is it drugs?” you asked suddenly, turning around to face her.

She looked completely aghast, arms crossed against her chest defensively and, what was likely subconsciously, pouting at you. “If it’s drugs, Pops, we can get help. I’ve got money saved up and I know a decent doctor on the mainland. I’ll get you an appointment tomorrow if you let me–”

“Ma!” she screeched again, parroting your earlier movements, walking right up to you, holding your shoulders firmly, and shaking as she spoke, or rather, yelled. “I’m not on drugs, don’t be stupid!” You scowled at her, pushing her off of you.

“Then what is it because I’ve been wracking my brain for what could possibly have my child on fucking edge and–”

“I found a journal!” she interrupted, voice loud and exasperated. You whipped around, pinning her down with a stare you’d mastered over the years. She froze on the spot, likely shocked she’d let it slip in the first place.

“You found a– a journal? Where? Who’s?” you asked succinctly, hiding your shaking hands behind your back.

“Uh– it was– Esme, she– it’s her’s, and she wanted me to help her find the name of this guy who’d visited her when she was younger. I reached out and it’s a letter from him, that’s it. I was excited for her,” she explained, but the way her voice wavered made you certain that wasn’t the whole story.

“Then why didn’t you just tell me?” you reasoned, still unbelieving. It was too convenient of an explanation.

“Because she told me not to! You’re– you’re a bit harsh, sometimes, a bit cynical when it comes to love,” she said, hesitantly, mouth twitching with a smile at how you were now the one pouting. “Anyway, you’re always telling me to butt out of people’s business so I thought it’d be best to just keep it to myself.”

The two of you, mother and daughter, stood in silence for many long minutes, bathed in the nauseating yellow glow of the kitchen lights, flickering bulbs casting ugly shadows across your faces. But it was home, the one one you knew, so you never complained, at least not out loud.

Not when Poppy was around to hear you. “Okay, I believe,” you relented, returning to the dishes, though Poppy nudged you out of the way.

“Why don’t you let me do this, huh? Go sit down for a bit, I’ll finish tidying up.”

You opened your mouth to protest but Poppy was quick to give you a look– the look. Same one you’d mastered after many years of dealing with her fits, and evidently, she seemed to have learnt it as well. You acquiesced reluctantly, hands raised for the second time that night, and fell back, fainted more like, onto the sofa.

Poppy stood, hunched over the sink, and you watched her from your position in the living room.

Something– a nagging feeling you couldn’t quite get rid off– poked at you, at your brain in all of its aching, slimy glory– that the story she fed you was just that– a story, fictional. But you trusted her, unlike some other mother’s who’d lecture you over the cabbages in the market about how you were too lenient with Poppy, how she’ll end up just like you.

You griped internally. She’d be lucky if she turned out anything like you. Your gaze returned to her, shoulders moving as she scrubbed at the dirty dishes.

Okay. Maybe not exactly like you.

He arrived on an assuming Tuesday, a single bag strapped to his back, all brown skin and smouldering looks hidden behind decade-old sunglasses. Poppy couldn’t believe it, not one bit, as she greeted the stranger while working at the pier.

He had her curls, unruly and deep brown.

“Can I help you?” she asked politely, lips pulled into a frown to hide the urge of flinging herself at him with no explanation at all.

“Yeah, I’m looking for this address–” he fumbled with a piece of paper, pulling it from his back pocket. It was a letter, her letter, and he jabbed at the address, her address, on the front of the creased envelope. “--or if that’s not familiar, Poppy? She said her name was Poppy. Do you know anyone like that around these parts?”

She snorted. What were the chances?

She’d almost bailed on her shift, persuaded by Ben and his pretty smile to sneak out to the hidden beach on a nearby island. You’d managed to coerce him into going another day, mumbling an excuse or two in between kisses as you rushed down to the dock.

And then there he was, looking a lot like the lost puppy Esme had described to you. He still had the same odd facial hair, though it fit him a little better, having aged well.

“Poppy? Yeah, I know her,” Poppy mused, pulling at her bottom lip in faux-thought, eyes darting between the letter and the confused man holding it.

“Right, well–” he cleared his throat, shifting his weight between his feet. “Can you direct me towards her?”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” you nodded vehemently, hoping he couldn’t see the grin threatening to take over your features.

He sighed defeatedly after waiting for you to continue, and after you failed to expand on the information, he shoved the paper back into his pocket. “Okay, thanks for the help”-- sounding not the least bit thankful.

Better put him out of his misery, she thought eagerly, looping an arm around his shoulder, having to lean up on the tips of her toes to reach. “It’s actually you’re lucky day, Bradley–” you began, that same grin winning its battle.

“How do you know–” he cut you off, then stopped himself, pausing as he turned to face you. “Oh…”

“Oh!” she mirrored, though a lot less like she’d had some sort of epiphany. more mocking and exaggerated.

“So you’re Poppy?” he asked, stupidly, bashfully, shaking his hair out of his eyes. They were slightly longer, the strands, than in the photos, but he had that same boyish charm you’d sensed.

“The one and only,” Poppy enthused..

“So you’re–”

“Her daughter? Yeah, that’d be me,” she finished for him, teetering towards something more serious, more solemn, bracing yourself for the moment of realisation as the both of them walked up to the road, identical gaits and hair and noses, where Poppy’s Jeep (or the one she’d borrowed from you) was parked.

It never came.

“And your Dad?”

You choked on a breath that never made it down the right pipe, halting in your steps. “My Dad?” you asked, bemused.

“Yeah– is he around? Would love to meet him, your Mother as well, of course. I was really surprised by the letter but I think–”

“My Dad isn’t around. Never met him,” she explained slowly, frustrated by how he really wasn’t understanding. Had she not been obvious enough?

Shit. Would she give him a fucking heart attack if she told him now?

She looked him over, deciding he wasn’t so old that an unannounced confession would kill him.

“I’m sorry about that, men can be real dickheads,” he stated, as if knowing from experience, not bothering to censor his language, and she liked him just a bit more for it.

He was perfect for you.

Poppy watched, unspeaking, as he settled into the passenger seat, admiring the interior of the car– probably the one thing you owned that wasn’t ripping at the seams. “So, where are we headed?”

“The hotel Ma’ owns, it’s at the–”

“Centre of the island?” he interrupted, staring distantly out at the unwavering landscape.

Bradley-- Rooster let out a shaky breath, one she tried not to notice, understanding that the two of you, meeting after all these years– it wasn’t going to be easy. Not when there was a significant part of his life he didn’t even know existed, one that came in the form of her.

“You remember,” you pointed out, surprised and sounding more like a statement rather than a question.

“Yeah, I mean– I remember everything. How could I not?” There was something beneath his words, a weight to them that had her shifting uncomfortably in her seat, foot colliding with the accelerator as they hurried home.

“So you’ll be staying here,” she announced, shoving her shoulder against the barn door and coughing at the dust that attacked her senses once she managed it open. Bradley– or Rooster, as he’d told her to call him– followed close behind, cautious with every step as he took in his dilapidated housing.

“Here?” he questioned out loud, pushing at the bunches of hay lining the floor with the toe of his combat boots. He was sweating like it was no one’s business and Poppy giggled to herself, finding amusement in his unspoken disgust.

“Yeah, here. The hotel’s all booked up–” a lie, she just couldn’t have you stumbling upon him before she’d planned how it’ll all go down. “So this was all we had left. I’ll find a spare mattress for you, and the bakery across the road– owned by a sweet, old lady–” another lie, it was Esme and there was nothing sweet about her. “--who can help you with showering, food, all the necessities.”

He stared intensely as she spoke, as if not really listening to a word she was saying.

“What is it?” she asked eventually, breaking free from his gaze as she busied herself, distracted herself, with collecting the boxes into a corner, out of the way to allow him some more room.

Rooster shook his head, convincing himself to look elsewhere, and smoothed his hair back.

“Nothing, sorry. You just– you’re so much like your Mother. It’s crazy, really.” She beamed at him, suddenly sitting on the floor opposite, and he joined her amongst the dust and hay.

“Really? You think so?” He nodded, laughing at her eagerness. “She said once, I don’t think she knew I was awake and I was really young, or younger,” she amended then continued. “She said I reminded her of my Dad, but I couldn’t ever tell you if it’s true or not.”

“Can’t say I knew him either–” Brilliant, it was all just brilliant. “--but you’re as… fiery, I guess would be an appropriate word, as she was.”

“And what was she like?”

He was ready to answer, not needing even a moment to think his response through, but your voice from outside the barn had Poppy’s eyes widening with fear, heart sinking low in your chest.

“Poppy! You in here?” You struggled with the door, pushing all of your weight into the crumbling wood.

“Fuck–” she cursed. “You need to– you need to hide, like– now.” He watched, perplexed, opening his mouth to question the sudden turn in events but she held up a finger, shushing him like he was a child and not her Father-who-didn’t-know-it.

“I’ll explain later just– please,” you begged quietly, urging him deeper in between the organised junk and out of sight.

She inhaled, exhaled, steadying her thrumming heartbeat. “Ma’! Y-yeah, I’m here, one second.”

Poppy pulled on the handle, hauling it open but the circular, metal ring broke-free from the door.

“Another thing to fix, I guess,” you noted, nodding at the rusted metal in her hand. “What’re you doing in here?” you asked, as if only now aware of where the both of you were.

“Here? I’m just– glue gun, yanno. Esme still couldn’t find it so I thought I'd try again.”

“Alright you flaky weirdo. I swear, you wouldn’t even need drugs to act all high and jittery, manage it just fine all by yourself,” you mumbled, dismissively pushing past her and heading straight towards the area Poppy had, moments earlier, shoo-ed Rooster towards.

“You can't go there!” she burst out, holding out a hand in front of you that you glowered at.

“Yeah, and why’s that?” you asked, voice tight and ready to pull the Mother card you never really enjoyed playing. You’d earned it, sure, but it was a little demeaning considering how old your daughter now was.

“Because– Because–”

Shuffling footsteps alerted your attention towards the disarray, squinting between the piles, searching for where the noise originated from. “Is there someone else here?”

“Yes! There is!” Poppy admitted, and your stare returned to her. She could see, right past your head, where Rooster was stepping into the light, assuming she was about to explain his presence, but she shook her head imperceptibly– not yet, go back, go back

You stared expectantly, waiting for a response. “It’s Ben,” she blurted, not sure, even herself, where she was headed. “And he’s– well, you see– he’s naked. Yeah, we were about to have sex and you walked in and he’s all embarassed.”

You sputtered, all but sprinting towards the door and unable to look behind you so you missed how Poppy relaxed minutely. “Oh– wow, okay. Just– that’s not what I was expecting,” you stuttered, palm shielding your eyes. “I mean, firstly– not here, gross, that sounds unbelievably unhygienic. And secondly– use protection.”

You didn’t stay any longer, escaping to the outside, and Rooster appeared beside Poppy almost immediately.

She turned, ready to barrage him with excuses and explanations she hadn’t thought of yet. “I’m so sorry, she’s–!”

“She doesn’t know, does she? That I’m here?” he asked, though he didn’t need you to respond to know the answer.

He groaned into his hands, bending at the hip and breathing raggedly. “Okay, so– I’m gonna go before she does find out. It was nice meeting you Poppy,” he said, all in one go with no room for you to interrupt.

“No you can’t– she’s just–”

“No, I really, really need to leave,” he bit out, not facing her as he strapped his bag to his back.

“If you just give her time–”

“You don’t understand!” he exploded, eyes fluttering shut as he visibly attempted to calm himself. “The last time she saw me– it wasn’t– it wasn’t good. And I left the next day, without a word of apology or justification or–” Rooster sighed as if he’d had this argument with himself countless times before. “--so no, I can’t imagine she’ll ever come around.”

He stopped at the boundary of the door, calling behind him. “I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

Then he left, again.

At least he apologised this time, she thought bitterly.

You were stepping down from the hardware store, or hole in the wall, really, when you saw him.

A flash of saturated colour, mind-numbing prints, and broad shoulders. You gasped, frantically searching around yourself as if questioning if anyone else had seen a ghost from their own past.

No. They seemed to be going about their day as usual– Johnny sweeping at the cobblestone directly in front of his store, Mia laying fresh fish on ice, ready to be sold, her six-year old daughter tugging on the bottom of her dress with tears in her eyes.

No one was phased, except you. You looked back to where you’d seen him, but he wasn’t there anymore, only an empty street corner with nothing particularly out of the ordinary.

What the-- You rushed forward, intent on finding out the truth as your boots slapped loudly against the pavement, dodging busy workers and locals, all, now, staring at your wild movements.

“Child– where are you in such a hurry to?” Esme yelled, head poking through her bakery window with a scowl at the abrasive noise you were making in your pursuit.

“I’ll explain later, May!” you hurtled back, not stopping despite the burning in your legs, your chest.

Still, you carried on, making it all the way to the edge of the city centre, rushing to a stop as you stared across the abandoned gravel road. There was no one there except you, and you panted, exhausted and head-pounding, as you scolded yourself for such a stupid daydream. The heat had never gotten to you like this before.

It felt so real, him.

“Hey,” a voice greeted, cautiously, from behind you. Your eyes closed, hands clenched at your side, before you turned to face the tentative owner.

“Hey yourself,” you answered, surprising yourself at how civilised and steady your voice sounded to your own ears.

Bradley fucking Bradshaw. It was real after all.

“Are you okay?” he asked, hurrying towards you and letting his bag drop to the ground between the two of you, pulling out a water bottle and holding it out in front of you. A peace offering of sorts.

You only stared at it, like it’d bite you if you got any closer. “Take it, sweetheart. It’s fucking miserable out here.”

The endearment had you flashing your eyes at him, fire or rage or something somehow hotter– the sun had nothing on you in that moment, but he stumbled back, remembering himself.

“What are you doing here?” you demanded between gritted teeth, chin turned up at him.

“Sightseeing,” he said simply with that reaching grin that had you melting years earlier.

You scoffed impatiently. Poppy really had gotten her knack for lying, or royally sucking at it, from him.

“That’s bullshit. Why are you really here?”

There must have been an edge to your voice that had him spilling the truth, because you were stunned when he explained.

“Poppy– you met Poppy?” you asked, forcibly nonchalant, arms no longer dangling stupidly at your side but rather picking at the straps of your dungarees, loose threading growing longer as you pulled at them.

“Yeah, she’s a good kid,” he said, nothing giving away– not in his words, his body language, the look on his face– that he knew. Knew she was his.

He sat on the edge of the pavement, right by your feet, and patted the burning space next to him. You blew at a strand of hair tickling your nose, hating how you listened, even then, and sat right next to him, shoulders brushing the slightest bit and you were scampering to put some more distance between the two of you.

He smirked, quiet, leaning his arms on his bent knees, and his head on top, turned towards you as he watched you fight yourself.

“So, how’ve you been?” he asked, waiting, patient, all things you could never be.

“I’m fine,” you grumbled dryly, accidentally meeting his eyes, Rooster’s smirk deepened, before darting away. “You?”

The mid-afternoon heat bared down on the both of you, colouring your shoulders darker and doing nothing to help the heavy thumping against your skull, like a jackhammer or a fucking normal hammer– whatever. It just hurt bad.

Rooster noticed, silently offering his water to you again which you reluctantly snatched from him, gulping almost half of it down before he decided it was safe to speak.

“Still get migraines from the heat?” he asked, though it was more an observation than a question. You nodded, placing the now-empty bottle between your feet.

“I’m fine, as well. After I left–” you visibly winced, glaring against the rays of the sun as you willed yourself to look anywhere but at him, not when the tips of your ears were burning, ringing, making you dizzy and woozy and about ready to throw up all over your worn boots.

“--I went back to training and was then deployed overseas for a long time. Been training new recruits for the past few years now. It’s–” he stopped, glancing at you momentarily, but decided to continue. “--it’s nice. Feels like I’m moulding them to be better versions than me because I sure wasn’t picture perfect by any means.”

“No, you really weren’t–aren’t–” you agreed, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know I never said sorry, and it seems pointless now but–”

“Bradley,” you said his name and his heart stopped. He was dead and even though it was you that had killed him, right there with your voice alone, it was also only you that could bring him back to life. “I really don’t want to hear this,” you begged, and you never begged– never.

What had he done to you?

“Please, sweetheart–” Again with the nickname. You bristled beside him, standing up all of a sudden as if you were about to run in the opposite direction of his familiar ruggedness. “I need you to hear this, just a second–”

“No– you don’t,” you growled out of frustration, tugging your hair free and pressing your fingertips into your skull, anything to soothe the ache growing there. “--you don’t get to need anything, you, you– fucking prick!”

He said nothing, baffled, shocked, certain nothing he said now would make this situation any better. It was downhill from here.

“You said you loved me– promised me the fucking world and a ring and a life together, and the next morning, you left! You fucking– you left!” You were yelling now, unafraid, unabashed, uncaring if anyone could hear. They couldn’t, and if they could, they wouldn’t clue you in that they were.

The people of this town loved to know the darkest, most confidential secrets of its inhabitants, all without ever showing their face. This wasn’t any different.

“I had to!” he insisted aggressively, pushing off the rubble and invading your personal space, leading you back, back, back– until you hit a wall. You held him at arm's length, hand pressed against his hard chest, holding him there.

If he got any closer– well, if the past was anything to go by, you wouldn’t remember to stay mad long.

“I had to!” Rooster repeated, desperately. You said nothing, so he went on. “I got a letter– they needed me back, I can’t– I can’t tell you why–” You sneered, typical. “--but, I was going to come back. I swear it.”

His breathing was loud, dense in your buzzing ears. It’s just words, nothing but words– you repeated to yourself, over and over again. Bradley stepped back, giving you space and himself, as well. But his despairing stare– it pierced something inside you, something you hadn’t thought was still there.

“I wrote letters,” he stated.

“I know, I got them,” you retorted acridly, slumping into the wall for support.

“You never responded.” Again, stating facts.

“I was busy.” Being pregnant.

He nodded, unable or unwilling, you weren’t sure, to argue. An emptiness stretched between you and him, the kind you don’t think any words, half-hearted i’m sorrys, or passionate confessions could ever fill.

He bent to pick up his backpack. “Is there anything, and I mean anything, I could say to make you forgive me,” he asked, voice dejected and the rest of him following suit.

You shook your head, words failing you.

Rooster, Bradley– he turned to leave, accepting defeat, and something roared in your chest, urging, begging, pleading for you to stop him.

You don’t know why you did it, or how you thought it would ever be even a half-decent idea, but it spilled past your lips before you knew what you were saying, confessing, like a foot jamming between a door, forcing it open for someone, anyone.

Bradley.

“Poppy,” you said, loud enough for him to hear. He stopped but didn’t face you. “Poppy. She’s– she’s yours.”

His bag– the poor thing had been rattled all day– fell off his shoulder, and he spun, in slow motion, questions discernible on his face but struggling to make it out of his mouth. “How– We didn’t– I used–”

“What’s that thing they say– ninety-nine percent effective.” You shrugged blandly. “Guess we were the one percent.

It was strange having a man in the house, but there he was– Bradley Bradshaw, or Rooster, sat right at your kitchen table looking a lot like a man you’d once loved but hoped to forget.

There’s this story you loved to tell Poppy when she was young, dealing with the realities of bullies and snarky kids with nothing else to do but poke fun at her absent Father and questionable living circumstances. It was ironic, really, because it wasn’t like they were exactly well off, but kids were mean and you were sick of seeing your daughter upset everyday when there was nothing you could do.

So you told her the story of Pandora’s Box, or Jar, actually, as she corrected you, having read about it in the library but still entirely enchanted by your way of storytelling. It was like letting her in on a secret only grown-ups knew and Poppy was downright bewitched to be a part of the club.

It was never the whole let-out-everything-awful-and-wrong-with-the-world part of the story that was your motivation for telling it, or her love for hearing it, but rather, the ending.

After all the evil, poverty, greed and general nasties had escaped, tainting the world and the humans that inhabited it– out came hope, fluttering on its weak wings but beautiful all the same.

At the time, you’d believed hope to be this beacon of light, something to keep you going when nothing else could, when the bullies had you down bad.

Now, however, you saw hope as a cruel joke.

That after all of this negativity that had made mankind wrought with sin and selfishness, hope lingers about for no reason other than to yank your chain, keep the wheel of capitalism turning, the public nothing but a lot of pigs with hope dangled in front of them like an out-of-reach carrot.

You’d admit it’s a pessimistic take on the story, but it wasn’t long after Poppy was born that you realised hope was a sweet lie fed to the ignorant.

The proof of it sat right in front of you, looking exactly the same except for the way in which his hair tickled the tops of his ears, having grown out from his previous military-ordered buzzcut.

“Can I get you something? Tea? Water?” you asked, words maddeningly courteous as you yanked the fridge door open, searching for something to offer your guest.

He hadn’t said a word since you’d blurted it out an hour ago, instead, guiding him back into town, to your house, Poppy nowhere insight (likely hiding out until she’s certain you’ve cooled down, though unluckily for her, the very sight of her would have you revved up and raging whenever she dared make an appearance).

Rooster stared at a single tile on the opposite end of the kitchen, fixated and motionless like a statue and nothing like the passionate, begging man from earlier.

“Helllooo?” you asked again, waving a hand in front of his face that snapped him from whatever trance he’d been under. He blinked at you, face blank enough to unnerve you. He should’ve said something by now, right?

“Water would be good, thank you,” he answered eventually, hoarse like he hadn’t spoken in years. You nodded, pulling a glass from the cabinet and letting the sink run into it before placing it on the plastic-topped table in front of him.

You sat down on the only other usable chair that happened to be right next to him, the other two with the unstable legs and missing backrests having only been kept to make your kitchen look a little less incomplete.

You both sat in silence, one that seemed just about never ending and had you gnawing on your lips and nails like a mad man. He looked over at you, noting your anxious state, and pulling your hand away from your mouth. It was infuriating, the way he acted like no time had passed.

Well it had if your daughter was any indication. A whole lifetime had come and gone, for you, at least, and he couldn’t ignore it away, not like the rest of his problems or like he’d done with you. You were about to say as much, going off like you’d been itching to since you’d set sights on him, but he beat you to it.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He wasn’t looking at you, but you didn’t need to see him to hear the distress in his voice, and beneath that, a restrained sort of anger.

“I had nothing to tell,” was all you offered him, and his gaze snapped to you in the blink of an eye, his temper apparent on his features as that one vein at the top of his forehead stood proud, face going scarlet as he held himself back.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he spit out, unbelieving. “Nothing to tell?” he repeated. “I have a daughter, for Christ’s sake! One I would’ve loved to know about if you’d done me the courtesy of actually letting me in!”

Your hands clenched into tight fists, fingers twitching. “What? Like you were any better when you up and left?”

He was shaking his head at you, unwilling to hear anything you were saying, and you were no different. “It’s not the same fucking thing, you know that. I had to leave. It’s my job, my duty, to my country and to–”

“Well what about me, huh?” you bellowed, reaching decibels you didn’t think were physically possible. Yet there you were, defying all odds. “What about your duty to me? To us? You promised–”

“I know what I promised you, but how could I give you anything– a life, a home, a family, a future– if I was broke and unemployed. Money doesn’t grow on trees, sweetheart, not here in the real world.”

You couldn’t take it, exploding out of your chair. He didn’t know, couldn’t know, what you’d been through, what you’d fought past. But he followed close behind, grabbed you by your wrist until you had no choice but to face him.

Rooster’s breaths escaped him in hard bursts, and you looked no better with the flush creeping up your neck and the scowl permanently etched to your face.

“That’s pure coming from you, the same man who was throwing away his life to join the army, giving up a paying job, all because his ego wouldn’t let him work for his Dad.”

Bradley recoiled like you’d slapped him.

“You weren’t around to see me working two, sometimes three if I could manage it, jobs– for years, Bradley, years. It was hard, so fucking hard, but I did it because I had someone dependant on me. I wasn’t alone, living like some unattached bachelor. I worked myself to the bone for her– for Poppy.” You were close to sobbing by then, the weight of it all finally registering. “Because if I didn’t, no one would.”

He looked like he wanted to argue more but thought better of it in the end, letting go of his hold on you and moving to lean his forehead against the wall in the living room. You watched, not wanting to move lest he remember you’re still there and end up going for a second round. You couldn’t, yearning for respite of any kind.

And his head turned from where he was, catching the chest of drawers nestled in front of the window with photos of you and Poppy adorning every inch of its surface. He walked over, wordless.

You joined him where he stood, hand brushing against his, by accident, you’d tell yourself later, but when you tried to move away, he slipped his fingers through yours, squeezing hard.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, though there was no one else to hear it, no one but you.

You nodded, accepting his apology, then realising he wasn’t looking at you, you said, “Me too. I’m sorry.”

He reached forward, picking up a photo of Poppy at age two, hair in pigtails, chubby knees covered in sand at the beach. It was the first time she’d gone into the water and you wanted to live in that moment forever, freeze it and hold it close to your chest. It had seemed like the biggest milestone at the time, and you remember wishing he was there to treasure it as well.

“I know why you did it,” he admitted, and you faltered from where you stood. “And I’m not going to stand her and pretend like I would have dropped everything, put everything on pause, for the two of you. I can’t guarantee that, knowing who I was back then.” You inhaled shakily, eyes glassy from barely-held-back tears.

Bradley turned to you abruptly, hand sliding out of yours to hold your face instead, close and intimate. Like nothing had changed.

You didn’t fight it, savouring the feeling of being held, of relinquishing control to someone else, if only for a second. “But that’s not who I am anymore. I don’t care about what happened and what didn’t. I’m here now, and, if you’d let me, I’d like to stay. Learn a little more about you, and about– about Poppy, as well.”

You searched his face for any hint of a lie, that innate urge to protect your child at all cost threatening to label Bradley’s confession as pretence. It’d be easier if it was, you thought, if things weren’t so complicated and you could just say no.

But no matter how hard you looked, how long as well, you found nothing, only love and a sincerity you couldn’t possibly fault, even if you were still broken and bruised from years of delayed burn-out.

So you did the only reasonable thing one could do. You nodded, complimenting it with a watery smile he chuckled lowly at.

“Yeah? Gonna take a chance on me, sweetheart?” he asked, needing confirmation but unable to hide his budding rapture.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Okay, okay. I think– maybe, we can work something out.”

He grinned and fuck– was he a vision. No matter how you framed the past, it was all going to be both of yours’ fault for what happened, and how it did. His for leaving and yours for keeping the child you shared a secret.

And it wasn’t like the road ahead was going to be at all easy, you’d accepted your fate already. But maybe, and you might have been overstepping or consumed by an unexpected wave of euphoria that impaired your judgement– but maybe a family was worth fighting for.

After all, the best things in life, the things truly worth having and celebrating, were never meant to be easily acquired, otherwise you’d just take them for granted.

You didn’t take this for granted, and you didn’t let the hassle deter you.

For the first time in a long time, you had hope, and there was nothing cruel or funny about it.

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