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thelastofhyde · 7 days

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a mercenary named time.

pairing. jackson!joel x fem!reader

synopsis. as joel begins to age, memories of sarah are beginning to fade. though he wants nothing more than to talk to you about his troubles, there's something standing in his way: he never told you about sarah.

warnings. this is more joel x sarah centric than joel x reader oops, hurt/comfort, ageing + difficulties that come with it, grief, mentions of death/religion/afterlife+ generally other sensitive topics, fluff, does this count as whump? (v minimum editing/proofreading)

word count. 4.9k

hyde’s input. wrote this as an attempt to distract myself from the fact i was on a plane (i hate flying). not much happens plot wise, and it just becomes me analyzing joel (in my own way) halfway through but hey, i wrote it and, though it's nowhere near perfect, i'm gonna post it!

due to the ties tlou has with zionism, here are helpful posts/links regarding the ongoing genocide in palestine. from the river to the sea. ( post, link, post )

Aging has become a threat again.

A part of him wonders if the threat ever truly left, or if it simply migrated south of his brain, chasing a warmth only leisure possesses, to make way for a survivalist winter’s cold. With the safety of walls and the sanctity of the commune, at last he’s caught on to the passing of time, the slow-crawling spider who spun its web into his skin.

During the cold, there'd only been movement. Pacing down streets divided by those who live in fear and those who brandish riot gear, and tip-toeing past fungal-faced mutations, and stumbling in a daze of pain through snow to find her. A safety distance of unmarked miles, away from that hospital, is what it took for him to finally pull over, cut the engine and exhale. Out with the panic, and the urgency, and the fear. Ellie was there, laid across the back seats, a paper gown as blue as any April sky, a cursed relic upon her sleeping form, terrorising him with images of what could’ve been, had he failed to save her too.

In the warmth, there’s tranquillity. Stretched out legs upon worn out sofas, quiet hums of forgotten tunes on rescued guitars, tangled limbs on love-stained sheets. A home, a daughter, and a you, whatever you may be. A fallen angel, a summer fairy, a ray of sun. Any form you come from, he accepts it, welcomes it. Thanks it for bringing you to him, smelling fresh as a daisy, riding up next to him on his first patrol, smiling as sweet as the honey he’d eaten with his breakfast when you asked him if he needed help reigning in his horse.

No, he’d grunted more than spoken to you. And wound up flung off its back, ten paces later. From the ground staring up, he’d watched your face appear above him. Bitten back laughter, a stretched out hand, and a question of if he wanted to swap rides, take your mare for the day.

She’s far friendlier, you’d assured him, after he let you think it was your strength that pulled him back to his feet. Takes to strangers a little easier than him, you’ll be safe.

And he’d believed it, against his own nature.

Tommy had been the one to notice, to nudge him hours later and nod his head in your direction. Real sweetheart, ain’t she? Joel’d said nothing. Shrugged his shoulders, dipped his head, sipped the whiskey out his cup. Tracked your movement across the room like a hunter stalks its prey. Or, maybe, it was more like a bee examining a flower, wondering if the pretty vibrance of your outsides carried a match to your insides, if the taste of your soft petals was a great enough sweetness to satisfy a craving he’d long foregone.

Four months of observing later, spring came and he stung.

Since then, you’ve been his, whatever that may mean anymore.

He’d already been yours.

And yet he finds himself unable to tell you of his recent trouble, the emerging signs of his age that the needle of time has begun to stitch into his seams.

The greys that curl upon his head grow more frequent. Blink, and they seem to double. His skin stretches differently than before, at times it feels he wears it more than owns it. There’s aches, and pains, and cracks from his joints, where before there’d been numbness and tiredness. A back that refuses to straighten like it used to, no matter how hard he stretches under the fleeting warm drops of his morning shower.

A guilty conscience whispers in a voice much like Tess’, a memory of her telling him ageing means he’s still here, even if she’s not. It’s harder to find the good in it, anymore, when he has so much to lose again.

It’s his memory that scares him most. Like a photo album, the images within seem to fade with time and, the more he grabs at them, the more they wear away.

It started with something small. Forgetting you’d told him you would be heading over to visit Maria and the baby after your patrol shift, leading his heart to near beat out his chest as he raced down to the stables like some crazed man, rambling about how something’s happened to you, you’re not back, only for some kid- Jessie, a friend of Ellie’s- to tell him you came back hours ago. He’d pulled you a little tighter against him that night as you crawled into bed, the earlier unnecessary fear a little too visceral in his racing heart.

Then, it happened more often.

Ellie asked him to help her clean out the garage space for her, he forgot and agreed to cover someone’s turn cleaning the stables.

You told him of your love of mint tea, and instead he found you green.

Tommy asked him across the dinner table- a double date, a cause to debut Ellie’s first solo babysitting duties- if he remembered the name of that old bar they’d liked, and his mind was blank. Empty.

All of it, inconvenient. Yet he could brush it off, let it affect him only like a bruise: momentarily, till it faded.

Until recently.

Until the memories of her began to fade.

He’d woken up one morning, earlier than you like always. Kissed your sleeping face, creeped down the creaking staircase, switched on the stove to boil some coffee. And realised he could no longer remember what she’d liked better: pancakes or waffles.

A few weeks later, he tried recalling what shade of blue her soccer team’s kit was. Was it light blue? Or a darker blue, like fresh denim? Was it even blue at all?

Ellie asked him, the caution she used to bring towards mentioning her name long gone with the changing of seasons, if she’d liked any comic books. The sound of a runner, itching and twitching behind some fence interrupted before she could notice he didn’t have an answer.

Sure, she read. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d caught her curled up in bed, the light of her torch illuminating more than just the pages of a book, but her face, too expressive for her own good at times, reacting to each twist and turn of the story. Sometimes, he’d stand in that doorway, unnoticed, till her eyes dropped shut and the light rolled out her hand. Other times, he’d clear his throat, catch her off guard, and tell her get to bed, kiddo, or I’ll tell Mrs. Atkinson you’ll be round after school tomorrow.

What use is it, however, remembering all that, if he can’t remember if she liked comics?

He should talk to someone about it, he knows. He’d tried to, at first. Had tried to drink the courage into him, sat across Tommy one late night, sat around a fire as they settled in for a night in the ski lodge, stranded by some heavy snowfall. He failed then, just like he failed when he tried to tell Ellie, till she raced off to throw snowballs at some kids and he remembered she was too young to listen to his burden, too beaten by life already to deserve stress within the respite of Jackson’s sanctuary. When he failed a fourth time to speak to Tommy, the real issue dawned on him.

He wants to talk to you. You’re the one he talks to, the one he goes to bear his wounds to, trusting no other’s love but your own to patch him up and calm him down. There’s only one issue, however.

He’s not told you about Sarah.

It was never a conscious decision, some secret he’d chosen to hide. Speaking about her simply hurt and, after the arduous months of crossing the country with Ellie, finding a place to call home in Jackson, and learning to hold somebody close again, he’d wanted to get away from pain, for a little while.

Then came the first anniversary of her death spent inside the commune. He’d drank himself blind, like every year before. There’s a hazy memory of that night he’s glad to suppress, one where he’s covered in his own vomit and you’re struggling to hold his weight up under a pouring shower, the sounds of his sobs muffled into your soaked sweater. He’d awakened, and awaited the questioning. Expected to open his eyes and find you stood at the foot of his bed, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed. Seeing the room empty was a shock, but drifting slowly down the stairs and finding you scrubbing the stains out of his shirts near floored him.

The very same shirt you wear now, curled up on the sofa. Your eyes are shut, legs are bare, and there’s a gentle breeze that blows at the curtains you’d hung up, your first act upon moving in with him.

With a careful step, he avoids the creaking floorboard as he crosses the threshold. Slow as he can, he lowers the bag off his shoulder and props it gently against the wall, careful it doesn’t slip and let its contents spill out. Then he works at his laces, undoes them one by one, loosens them so his feet meet no resistance as he steps out of them. The summer’s heat affords him the liberation from heavy coats, less layers to shed now he’s returned to you at last.

You lay right, he strays left. Towards the kitchen, footsteps light as he can manage. Two chairs are pulled out at the table, two bowls sit drying neatly by the sink. Ellie must’ve stopped by for dinner. He’s glad to know she’s eaten, glad to know you kept each other company, glad to know the light is off in the shed and her snoring fills the hollow space. And he’s glad to find some food for him. He takes a bite, lifts the plate, finds a note beneath. Your handwriting, what do Joel Miller and breakfast have in common? followed by an arrow, urging him to turn the page around. The answer’s there, weakening his ageing knees. I can’t start my day without them.

Back by the sofa, a book sits split open, spine broken and pages pressed into ageing wood. Its cover is faded, frayed, much like he feels himself becoming.

He recognises it as one he’d gifted you, seasons ago. If he tries hard enough, he can remember the snow collecting in his unruly hair as he waited at your doorstep, and the way your smile melted the chill away, and the mumbling fool he’d made of himself upon handing the present over to you, some version of said you were bored, so I found this for you all he managed before turning on his heel and striding back to his own home, ignoring the teasing smile upon Ellie’s face.

After all this time, you still have it. Still read it. The fact slows his heart, soothes his aching back. Suddenly, he’s more than ready to head back out there, beyond the walls of Jackson, if it means collecting more books for you to remember him by when he’s long gone and withered away, no more than a familiar smell stained into your sheets and a fading warmth in the palm of your hand.

Two loud pops sound out of his knees as he crouches down by your side, the smell of your shampoo flooding his senses the closer he grows to your sleeping form. There’s a want, nestled deep inside his bones, to pull you into his arms and deliver you upstairs to a bed made for two, in search of a peace his soul has not found since he’d left for his shift in the early hours of the morning. It would be cruel, however, to wake you when you’re so beautiful.

Joel once thought he’d liked you best when you were smiling, till you’d fallen asleep on his porch one night, after hours of talking his ears off. Since then he’s liked you best sleeping, resting. Comfortable enough to trust his watchful eye to keep any harm away while your body takes back its much needed rest, even on days like this when he’s not physically there. You’ve got his shirt, his scent embedded into every thread of it, and that’s enough to keep you safe.

The rough of his fingertips reach out to graze the soft of your cheeks, gently dancing up to comb a few strands of damp hair away from your face. It seems you’ve gained your own spider, the faintest of lines beginning to take shape upon your skin. You wear it better than him, Joel thinks, the passing of time upon your body a picture of love, and prosperity, and hope for more time to come. He wears it like a burden, however. A death sentence, a timer on how long till the cold hand of Death takes the place of your warm one clasped in his.

Adjusting to a life he fears to leave has not been easy. There’d been a time where the promise of death was a comfort. To wake each day, reckless with his time and mindless to his body, a thought of all the pain, and all the sorrow, and that overwhelming, heavy, overbearing loneliness that hung over him like a storm cloud at last coming to an end and ceasing to exist, it had kept him going. Though faith died alongside her, a dream of reuniting with his babygirl on the other side was one he clung to on nights when no drop of alcohol and no unlabeled pill was enough to send him off to sleep. Death now, however, means parting from you, from Ellie, from Tommy. It no longer comforts so much as it disturbs him.

Would you comfort yourself, in the wake of his death, with dreams of reuniting someday, down the line, when Death takes you by the hand and guides you back to Joel?

He can only hope his babygirl can forgive the way he now longs to keep living, in spite of her waiting patiently for him in whatever comes after this life. Perhaps his failing memory is a consequence of this, a punishment she sends for making her wait even longer to feel his embrace again, slowly stealing away the only parts of her Joel has anymore.

Even in guilt, he can’t bring himself to believe his Sarah would do such a thing. Her heart was never touched by the bitterness that had hardened his own, her soul pure a freshly fallen snow.

I want you to be loved, dad. Echoes of her voice in his mind, words she’d confessed to him with teary eyes, a half-eaten birthday cake sitting between them, two candles, one in the shape of three, the other a zero, tossed messily on the table. There’d been no real fuss for his thirtieth, at his own insistence. Just his parents, his brother, his daughter. Those he loved, gathered around one table, eating away at food he’d made.

I’m already loved, kiddo. I got you, don’t I?

Joel knew what it meant to feel unloved. For a long time, that’s all he felt. The love only a child could gift died just as quickly in his arms as she had, under the watchful teary eyes of his brother. Grief he dragged around with him, dedicated to both her and the love he no longer felt.

First came denial. A steady 48 hours post-mortem, in which he walked ahead of Tommy and convinced himself she was there, a few feet behind him, talking her uncle’s ears off as he made sure to clear any oncoming threats The denial culminated in him bleeding down the side of his face, a missed bullet somewhere left behind, and Tommy’s pleading voice trying to move him forward, dragging him to tents set up by the army.

Eleven stitches, each one imbedding loss and cowardice into his screaming skin. The anger settled in a few days later. It made a home within Joel, latched onto his heart and began to beat in place of it. It changed him, aged with him, convinced him it was the only partner he’d ever need. A hopeful glimmer of bargaining came in the shape of Tess. But anger and all its roots were too deeply burrowed within Joel, unwilling to be weeded out, no matter how firm the hand.

Complacency was far easier than any fight. Tommy left, the buzz of a firefly seducing him with the idea of better, of more, of a cure. Joel convinced himself things were easier without Tommy and his morals around. The routine of waking, struggling, drinking, passing out was one he practised well and thoroughly. Till Marlene and her suicide mission.

Then, the strangest thing happened. Ellie, with all her snark, and her crass words, and her humourless puns, reminded Joel how it felt to be loved. Laid upon his chest, a need for warmth and a plea for him to survive, she became the closest thing that felt like Sarah in twenty years. How could Marlene expect him to walk away, to leave her in that hospital?

Pain rushes in like a wave meets the shore, dampening him in a melancholy he saves for whiskey. Still resting peacefully on the sofa, your chest rises slow, steady, and constant. He tries to mimic it, matching his own breathing to it. It reminds him of dancing with you in the kitchen, barefoot and bare chested, arms entangled and forehead pressed to forehead, doing his best to stay in sync with your gentle sways.

The floorboards creek the further his aching body sinks to the floor. Like a man meets the altar, he’s on his knees. Blunt fingernails dig into the worn out brown leather of the couch, the only grip he has on reality.

A discombobulated memory dances across his mind. One of a much younger him, with a head full of brown locks and a sleeping daughter upon his couch. Outbreak night. He’d been peacefully unaware of the happenings outdoors, happy to turn another year older next to his Sarah, when a call came through. His brother, dumped in some jail-cell and begging for release. He’d not thought it through much, sighing in frustration yet rising slowly to his feet nonetheless. If he’d known how that night would end, he’d have held his daughter a little tighter as he carried her to bed, he’d have left every kiss he could afford against her forehead, and speak every I love you he had left in him.

Grief is a river that travels the mountain of his mind. Strong, cold, descending upon a downward slope. Its currents are unforgiving, grabbing a hold of anything that blocks the path. Too easy is it for him to slip and fall into the rapids, losing hold of his footing on reality before he realises he’s struggling to breath and there’s a whole new river carving a way for itself out his eyes and down his cheeks.

His eyes close. His breath halts. He tries to remember those breathing exercises, the same ones he uses any time the pain swells too much and the panic begins to attack his nervous system. Deep breath in. Slow breath out. Deep breath in. Choke down a sob. Slow breath out. Joel. He pictures you, feet upon solid ground, hand stretched out as you try to goad him out the trepid waters of his grief. Joel. This image of you reminds him he’s got a name, got a life, got a purpose. To help Tommy on patrols. To make sure Ellie always has a place to call home. To keep you warm in the winter, and kissed during spring, and safe no matter where the sun may sit. Joel. The tears fall faster. Messier. He��s no longer a quiet companion at your side, but a mess of ragged breathing and nose sniffles.

“Joel?”

Skin to skin. Soft hand to wet cheek. You’re awake faster than he can process, too quick to wipe tears or feign smiles. Legs scramble off the couch, parted and bent at the knee on either side of him. Musk, and lilies, and every scent that makes him feel safe and close to you envelop the shared space between you.

“Joel, baby, what’s wrong?” Your thumb swipes uselessly at his cheeks, fresh waves rolling out his eyes before you finish wiping the last. Sleep is written all over you, woven into your breathy voice and weighing down the bags of your eyes. He feels a whole new wave of guilt, waking you from such a peaceful slumber with the sight of him and all his ailments bursting out the frayed seams that hold him together.

He thinks he says your name. It’s hard to tell. The blurred image of you through his teary eyes inspires a heavy burden of disappointing you that he can not cope with, and so he ducks his head between your legs, forehead pressing on the inside of your left thigh. His breath is short, his heart is sore, and he’s staining your delicate skin with his pain. You let him grieve upon you, pull him closer. A hand soothes up his back. Your voice tells him it’s okay, and you hum a sweet tune he’s sure he’s played you many a drunken nights, when the confidence kicks in and he’s serenading you with his country twang and guitar strings.

There’s no prying, no demand to rightfully know why you’ve awoken to your lover, steadfast and stoic at his worst, collapsing into your hold. You let him cry. He lets you hold him. You’re all he’s been missing, this feeling of support he’s denied himself for far too long. No fear of your judgement, but fear of pulling you in amongst the dangerous currents alongside him.

An anchor comes in the shape of your fingers carding through his unruly hair, a tether that pulls him back into the living room, into your home, into you. With the patience of any saint, you let him move at his own pace, head slowly rising from your thigh, back straightening to the best of its abilities. His hand, rough and hardened by time and grit and survival, paws at your thigh, clumsy in its attempts to dry his tears off of you, a fear of it sinking into your skin and some part of his sadness taking root inside your bloodstream.

Your hand stills his, gently, coercing his fingers to thread with your own as your other hand cups his face and guides him to look at you. You're beautiful, in a way that makes Joel wish he was better with words so he could spend the rest of his days finding new ways to tell you so. Instead, he has to settle with a simple, “my pretty girl.” You smile, bashful, as if that’s enough, as if you don’t deserve more.

“Hello to you too, handsome.” You peck his cheek, he chases after you with his mouth. Two small pecks, a third he fails to achieve as you hold him back. “Don’t think you can distract me with those perfect lips of yours, Miller. I’m worried about you, and no amount of kisses are gonna change that.”

He refocuses on his breathing exercises. Deep breath in. Slow breath out. Deep breath in. No sob this time. Slow breath out. Your gaze, soft as a cloud, rests over him gently, your own chest rising and falling in sync with him. With every night he’d lay awake, trying to think of how to bring up Sarah and the details of her he’s failing to hold onto, never did he imagine the weight to fly off his chest so easily with just a supportive smile from you.

“I had someone before, who I loved.” He pauses. Clears his throat, shifts his weight. His knees are beginning to ache the longer they sit digging into the hard floor. He should have listened to your advice of scavenging a rug. “Not how I love you. Like I love Ellie.”

Silence.

Not the kind where you hear a pin drop, but one that allows the laughter of children playing down the street to blow in with the breeze, and the creaking of the old house you’ve both made a home, and the squeaks and chirps of wild-life continuing on outside, unaffected by the end of civilisation.

Then, “I know.” Joel’s eyes widen, disbelief painted across them. “Tommy’s let it slip a few times. Just when we’re on patrol and he sees something that reminds him of her. Or he’s telling me a story that’s sole purpose is to embarrass you.” A part of him wants to feel angry at his younger brother, stealing his right to reveal such a large part of who he is. The other part of him feels for him too, a reminder that Sarah’s loss is not one he tackled all by himself. She was his daughter, but she was also Tommy’s niece. How could he blame him for feeling comfortable enough to share his grief with you? “Ellie also mentioned it, once. Back before you and I were really…” You fall silent, trail off, as you both usually do when faced with tackling the task of labelling what exists between you.

“Why,” he chooses to distract himself from it, scared of a world where he asks for the right to claim himself as your husband. Those things don’t matter anymore, with the world gone to shit, but a man could still dream. “Didn’t you say anything?”

“It’s your story to tell, I didn’t want to force it out you. I figured you’d tell me when you wanted to.”

He may not know how to label what you are to him, but he knows he loves you. God, does he love you.

“Thank you, darlin’, I really-” He’s getting choked up, caught between his grief for Sarah and his love for you. You seem to understand, as you always do, hands slowly pulling and coercing him up onto the sofa, occupying the space next to you. “Can’t thank you enough.”

“You’ve nothing to thank me for.” You promise, sealing it into his skin with a kiss to his cheek. “I don’t like to see you cry, Joel, but I prefer you do it in front of me. Don’t hide parts of yourself. I want all of you. Good, bad, and everything in between.”

There’s the urge to let himself fall into the river again, now that you’ve pulled him ashore and attached yourself to him like a life vest, an oath to never let him drown. He feels his eyes well-up, but doesn’t let them fall, as his mouth runs ahead of his mind and at last confesses the troubles he’s been keeping close to his chest.

“It used to be like this every day. Tears, unless I numbed myself free of consciousness. Then, things got better. With Ellie and you around. Anytime I felt the anger or the pain swelling, you’d be there and there’d be room for laughter. But I’m getting older, darlin’. Memories’ not the same. There’s things about my babygirl, my Sarah, that I just… can’t remember. And it scares me. Scares me so bad that I don’t know how to cope with it. If I ever woke up and couldn’t remember her face, it would kill me. I wouldn’t be able to go on.”

He speaks slowly. You cling to every word, a gentle nod lets him know you understand. A part of him wonders how deep that understanding runs, if you too had lost a child. He wants to afford you the same grace you’ve given in, and so he doesn’t pry. If you have a story to tell, he can only hope to still be around to listen.

Oblivious to the thoughts of you holding a faceless child swirling around in his head, you pull Joel into you, encouraging him to let you hold his frame. You’ve told him countless times he needs to let himself be cared for, a spark that ignited many arguments in the early days of your love. It feels nice to comply at last, head drifting down to rest on your steady shoulder. Your legs curl up onto the couch, lay gently over his own, as an arm wraps itself around his aching back.

Only like this does Joel feel he’s finally arrived home after weeks of wading through the depths of his own sorrows, evading a bounty placed upon him by time.

Joel is ageing. Everyday, a new line appears on his face. Every year, a new ache burrows in his bones. But, if each moment he can feel your love in acts of kindness, and left-over meals, and sleepy limbs upon a shared mattress, it doesn’t feel as daunting. He wonders what awaits him in the afterlife, when he and Sarah reunite as he so hopes. He doesn’t doubt for a moment that she’d be proud of him for finding solace in a heart like yours.

“Tell me about her.” You plead to him something he’s spent years longing to do.

Without missing a beat, words flow easily and memories play on in his head, his precious daughter no longer blurry in a haze, but fully in focus, smiling wide at him with a mouthful of food.

“She loved pancakes.”

#joel miller x reader #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fluff #joel miller oneshot #pedro pascal x reader

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haddonfieldwhore · 2 months

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tonight - adam faulkner-stanheight

adam faulkner-stanheight x gn!reader

summary: you get evicted and have nowhere to go but your ex boyfriends apartment.

warnings: HUGE plot hole tbh… you just have to come up with how adam got out of the trap on your own, language, angst, blood mentioned gender neutral but reader is mentioned to be wearing eyeliner, i did not edit this 🫢

word count: 1.5k

you wrapped your arms around yourself as you shoved clothes in a bag, the heat having been shut off to your apartment days ago. you were three months behind on rent, and your landlord had never been a patient man. the second he found someone who was willing to give a deposit, he had taped the eviction notice to your door; that was this morning. you had discovered it upon returning home from work, leaving you only 6 hours to pack up your entire life and get the fuck out.

it was a pitiful apartment; it was drafty and the faucet squeaked, and the shower had next to no water pressure- and you still could barely afford it. you didn’t have many belongings to move out, and considering you did have the time or money to hire movers, you supposed you would be leaving your furniture here; it wasn’t worth anything anyway.

you stuffed the last of your clothes into your backpack and grabbed the essentials from your bathroom cabinet, leaving behind anything you could bare to part with.

you honestly weren’t too considered with your belongings at the moment - not that any of the things you were abandoning were prized possessions. you were more concerned with where you would sleep; where you would live.

you considered calling your one coworker that you tolerated, but you knew she had family in town and didn’t want to add on the the workload she already had of hosting multiple guests.

which only left you with one option.

adam.

adam who at this time last year, would have thought nothing of you sleeping at his apartment - you practically lived there. but things went south between you and your ex boyfriend, and your relationship had more or less imploded. you hadn’t talked to him since the night you had screamed at him that you never wanted to see him again, and now here you were, outside his door at 1 am, soaking wet and near freezing from the pouring rain. you would have called, but in the whirlwind of getting kicked out of your home, your cell had died and you were pretty sure you’d left the charger behind.

you mind ran through every possible reaction adam could have to you showing up at his apartment, and you weren’t sure you liked any of them.

somehow you didn’t consider him not answering the door at all. you knew he wasn’t asleep, he never was at this time. it was possible he was in his dark room, headphones on blaring some moody rock song you’d always pretended to hate. you kicked at the weathered carpet of the dirty hallway, hoping none of his neighbours came out to see what the noise was.

adam’s apartment building was barely better than yours, and you’d prefer not to encounter any of the locals if you could help it.

you knocked one more time, not really having another option, but again there was no answer. you fiddled anxiously with your lanyard of keys that jingled around your neck, and then your hand landed on one you hadn’t used in a while.

after one last unanswered tap on the door, you inserted the key into the lock and twisted it with a click, and turned the knob.

you hoped it wasn’t considered breaking and entering if you had a key.

there were no lights on, which wasn’t entirely unusual for adam, and you had grown to be able to maneuver around blindly through the apartment, and you found he hadn’t moved anything as you walked the same route to the lamp in the living room as you had a thousand time. the dusty lamp next to the couch illuminated the room only slightly, but enough to show you that adam’s keys and shoes weren’t by the door, telling you that he wasn’t home.

you were alone.

everything began to sink in all at once, and you took a deep breath, the familiar scent of adams cologne lingering in the filling your nose.

rather than sink down onto the couch in your dripping wet clothes, you opted for a quick shower, the hot water mixing with a few tears that trailed in black streaks of eyeline down your face, smudging beneath your eyes.

adam would always wipe it off with his thumbs with a smile and ask ask why you hadn’t taken it off before getting in.

you wrapped a towel from the hall closet around your body and grabbed some clothes from your bag, throwing on a t shirt and some shorts before curling up on the worn out couch in the (barely big enough to be a) living room. you had almost officially moved in with adam before things ended, and you wondered what your life might look like now if you had.

at one point you thought you and adam might be married by now. he had thought about it too; hell, he had even looked at rings once or twice, but couldn’t afford one.

but that was before, and this was now.

now, was reality setting in that you were homeless, and sitting in someone else’s apartment, waiting for them to get home from who knows where, with no idea how he would react. things had ended ugly between you and adam, but deep down you realized that even after months apart, you missed him. you were both young, and life got stressful and you pushed eachother away. it wasn’t that either of you had royally fucked anything up, things just bubbled over until you both had taken it out on eachother.

your found yourself shivering from the change in temperature from the steamy bathroom to the more open living room, you pulled a blanket off the arm of the couch and draped it over yourself, fighting to stay awake.

you lost the battle, comforted by the familiar sounds and smells of adam’s apartment, and drifted off to sleep.

adam was in such a panicked state when he arrived back at his apartment, he hadn’t noticed the soft light coming from under the door. he hadn’t noticed that it was unlocked either, thinking nothing of it as he stumbled inside, though he made sure as hell to lock it behind him. he was so out of it, he didnt even notice the extra pair of sneakers next to him as he kicked off his shoes, his keys nearly landing in them as he let them slip out of his hands.

adam took a deep breath, running his hands over his face as he tried to wrap his head around what had happened.

that room….

the blood…

it didn’t matter. he had escaped.

he had won.

that’s what mattered.

he walked straight past you with no notice and went to the kitchen, scrubbing his hands under the sink with nearly half the bottle of dish soap before he felt even remotely clean. he splashed cold water onto his face, before wiping his eyes, letting them adjust to the light again for a second before his eyebrows scrunched together in confusion at the sight of your sleeping form on the couch.

was he dreaming? was he still chained up in that bathroom, hallucinating that he’d escaped and that you were here?

he walked forwards cautiously, as if the floor would collapse beneath him if he stepped to hard, but reached the couch with no difficulty. you stirred awake at the sound of the floor creaking, and your eyes fluttered open to look up at adam.

“hey.. fuck, i’m really sorry, i had no where else to go and i still had your key and-“ you stopped with a soft grunt as he sat down next to you and threw his arms around you, holding you so tight you could barely breathe.

adam buried his head in the crook of your neck, and you hummed in content as you wrapped your arms around the back of his neck, pulling him against you as you leaned against the armrest of the couch.

“it’s okay. i’m actually really fucking glad you’re here,” he mumbled.

“adam are you okay? you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” you looked down at his white t-shirt that was stained with dirt and… ”is that blood?”

“i - maybe. i don’t know. it’s not mine i don’t think,” he stuttered, sitting up slightly to look at you. “some fucking psycho kidnapped me and -“ he sighed “it doesn’t matter. just… don’t let me go okay? i’m really happy to see you.”

your fingers laced through the back of his hair and tucked him into your shoulder again, a worried look on your face.

“i missed you, adam,” you admitted, and you meant it.

“god, i missed you too.”

in that moment adam needed you more than anything; a familiar face, someone that he felt safe with.

you didn’t know what he’d been through, and you would let him tell you when he was ready, but for now, you held him close as he clung to your body like a life raft.

and you would be there as long as he needed you.

because you needed him too.

#posting this after i barely proof read it #might come back and edit it later but probably not #adam faulkner stanheight #adam stanheight #adam saw #saw #saw fic #adam stanheight x reader #adam stanheight fic #adam faulkner stanheight x reader #adam faulkner stanheight fic #adam faulkner x reader #leigh whannell #leigh whannell fic #saw movies

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isabella-kr · 1 year

Note

Just read your reassurance fic and fuckin loved it. Absolutely feral for price rn. Not sure if you're still open for requests, but i am a strong believer that price gives the best hugs, holds you to his chest for comfort, problemsolving kinda hugs, but maybe something happened and now its oc/reader's time to return the favour.

This is the first time I've ever made a request so hope I did it right lol. basically I'm starving for fluff. maybe a bit of hurt/comfort.

Thank you so much for requesting!! I'm so glad you liked it!! I agree, he definitely gives incredible hugs and I would kill to experience them at least once. I hope you don't mind, but I made this an F!reader because you didn't specify and it's what I find easiest; however, if you'd like me to change this to gender neutral, let me know and I will edit this :))

Out of Your Control

Do not repost

Synopsis: After a mission gone awry, Price can't help but blame himself for everything that had gone wrong. Hugs won't solve the problem, but they will definitely help ease his nerves.

Pairing: John Price x Female!Reader (Hints of an established relationship)

Genre: Angst & Fluff / Hurt & Comfort

Warnings: Swearing, self-blame, Price cries, reader cries, use of ‘sweetheart’ and ‘love’

Word Count: 2k

General Masterlist COD:MWII Masterlist

GIF not mine

The mission was a disaster.

Everything that could have gone wrong, went wrong. It was as though the enemy was expecting them, and decided to make his defence ten times stronger, quicker, and more ruthless. It was clear that the mission was doomed for failure from the start, but they prevailed nonetheless; eager to complete their task.

The place was swarming with soldiers who were armed with weapons from head to toe. So were they, but no matter how armed their Squad seemed to be, the enemy soldiers had twice as many guns, and twice as many blades. They were like flies on a hot summer’s day, doubling at speeds that didn’t seem humanly possible, and before long, they were surrounded from every corner.

Their hushed voices rang out through the comms as they considered their next course of action. Yet as Price was about to tell them to retreat - to evacuate because there was no way they would come out if this mission alive – it was already too late. Loud sirens rang out in their ears, and the rapid sounds of stomping boots made the hairs at the back of all their necks stand up. It went south too quickly for them to even attempt to deescalate the situation.

Bullets rained down like hail, and it didn’t take a genius to know they would not be getting out of this scot-free, and none of them did. Some of their injuries were worse than others, but they all looked equally beat up, as though they were on the brink of death.

It was barely an hour later that they were sat in the medical bay, with nurses and doctors running around them like headless chickens. Their frantic movements and hushed whispers made her head feel like a balloon ready to be popped, and she could only assume the others felt the same from the way their faces scrunched up with discomfort.

Price was nowhere to be seen, having ran out the moment the nurses told him he was free to go. The Captain’s injuries weren’t as severe as the others, and that only seemed to worsen the guilt he was already feeling.

It was Soap who looked the worst out of all of them, like Death himself was about to knock on his door and take him away. Yet somehow, with half of his face turned purple, and his left eye swollen shut, he still managed to send her a sweet smile the moment their eyes locked together.

She sent him a sympathetic glance in return, hissing and flinching when a bullet was suddenly extracted from the flesh of her thigh. She almost glared at the doctor who pulled the metal out of her, but stopped herself when an anti-septic was wiped over the open wound, and another wave of pain made an anguished groan leave her throat. She could only sigh and wait for this to be over; to finally leave and get some time for herself.

“Take this,” a nurse spoke with a sweet smile, giving her three small pills and a cup of water. Once she downed the medicine and emptied the small, plastic cup, the nurse nodded, “Good. Now, you get some rest, alright? You need it.”

“Thank you,” she nodded, plopping down from her bed to leave the stuffy room. She winced with every limped step she took, but decided she would rather suffer than spend the night in the medical room because of a non-fatal injury.

She wasted no time before making her way over to her room, welcoming the familiar smell with a smile on her face. The material that was soaked with her sweat and blood was pulled off her tired body, and soon replaced with something more comfortable. The new clothes were soft to the touch and didn’t stick to her bruised skin, making her sigh out in relief. She decided to wear something that would cover her up entirely, not out of modesty, but to hide the injuries from the captain’s guilt-filled eyes.

After leaving her room and making another stop to brew two cups of tea, she began making her way down a long corridor. It didn’t take her too long to arrive at Price’s office, though the wound in her thigh definitely slowed her down somewhat. His door seemed to be locked shut, for when she pressed her elbow against the handle, it didn’t budge.

With a small sigh, she knocked on the door with the rip of her boot, and waited for the door to be opened. Yet no sound came from inside the room; no gruff voice telling her to piss off; no sound of papers rustling, and no heavy footsteps making their way across the room.

She exhaled sharply, eyes closing as she kicked the door harder than before. Some of the tea trickled down from the mugs, the steaming hot liquid burning the skin of her finger. She ignored the burning sensation, instead focusing on the man who she knew was on the opposite side of the door.

“Sir, I need to speak with you,” she spoke out loud, hoping the sound of urgency in her voice would get him to open up. But alas, the silence continued. “Captain-” she looked around her, making sure there was no-one there to hear her next words, “John… please let me in.”

That seemed to get him moving, as only a few seconds passed before the door was pulled open. She walked in without waiting for permission, and placed the two hot mugs on his desk. Her eyes were quick to notice the scattered papers on his desk, his handwriting turning frantic on some of them.

Her eyes soon settled on the bearded man who walked around the desk and sat down in his chair. He had a blank look in his eyes, and she slowly sat down on the chair on the other side of the desk. She moved one of the mugs closer towards him, but he made no attempt to reach for it. His eyes didn’t even glance down to look at it.

“John,” she spoke slowly. Softly.

He didn’t look at her, and she swore his eyes were avoiding eye contact at all costs. There was a dark bruise forming on the apple of his left cheek, the skin turning a dark purple, mixed with a sickly yellow. A deep gash also decorated his clavicle, the skin red a raw, yet the wound was not deep enough to require stitches.

She could feel her heart break into a million pieces at the sight of his hopeless state. “John,” she whispered once again, “…sweetheart.”

This time, his eyes moved to look into hers. They were glazed over, and she could tell he was close to cracking, the guilt eating him up alive.

“This wasn’t your fault, John,” she told him with a shake of her head.

He let out a humourless laugh. The type of laugh that told her just how deep in despair he was. “Yeah, it was. I should’ve known better.”

“John, no.” She disagreed, “You couldn’t have predicted this.”

“No, but I should’ve been ready for it,” he argued, “I should’ve been prepared for things to go wrong.”

“And you were,” she spoke softly, “But we were all taken by surprise. None of us could have known this was going to happen. No matter how prepared we could have been. No matter what you think you could’ve done, we were simply too outnumbered.”

With a tilt of his head, he exhaled sharply, “This was supposed to be an easy mission. In and out.”

She nodded in understanding, “And it would’ve been if the information you were given was correct,” she pointed out. “This one was out of your hands, John.”

He shook his head in disagreement, hie eyes trained on the ceiling as if it was the most interesting thing in the room. With a small wince, she pushed herself off the chair and walked over towards him. Her fingers curled around his jaw and she moved him so that his eyes were locked with hers.

“John, what matters is that we’re all alive.” She told him, “You’re fine. The boys are fine. I’m fine. We’re all okay.”

With a blank stare, his hand moved to her thigh and applied some pressure in the exact spot where the bullet had penetrated her skin. He didn’t do it hard, in fact, he barely touched the area. Yet despite all that, she felt like a thousand needles were stabbed into her sore skin at once.

She choked at the pain that travelled through her body, and her hand instinctively pulled his away. He stared at her with a look that told her he did not believe a word she just told him. How could he when the soft, and otherwise welcome gesture caused her so much pain.

“You don’t sound fine to me, love.”

“John.” She scolded, “This isn’t something that’s never happened to me before. I’ve lost count of how many times I got shot, and I’m sure you have too.”

He didn’t respond to the accusation, his eyes only closing in shame. With a small, yet deep sigh, she managed to pull him towards her. The non-bruised side of his face was pressed against her chest, and her arms wrapped securely around him. The palm of her left hand cradled the back of his head, whilst the other moved to rub comforting circles on his shoulders.

“I know you won’t believe me,” she whispered, “But none of us blame you. Not Ghost, not Soap, not Gaz, and most definitely not me”

Upon hearing her words, he wrapped his arms around her torso and pulled her even closer to him than she was before. A small whimper left his lips, and he moved his face so that his nose was pressing against her. She moved down, carefully not to startle him, and kissed the crown of his head. She kept her face there, only tightening her hold around him when his body began to shake; the dam which he had built breaking into pieces as he allowed his emotions to flow freely.

His tears soaked through her shirt, and the situation made her own eyes well with tears. She didn’t care when they began to roll down her cheeks, or when his fingers clenched around the material of her shirt and pulled on it. She only cared that he finally let himself feel, without shoving his emotions away until they became unbearable.

“We would never blame you for this. Sometimes things are out of our control, okay?” She hummed against him, “There’s no point in beating ourselves up over it. It’s in the past. We can’t change it, so let it go. Please, just let it go.”

A sob wrecked through his body, and his fingers let go of her shirt to dig into her skin. He managed to nod against her, and she felt as though a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She knew the guilt had not fully left him, and that they still had a long way to go, but this was progress. She was just glad he was willing to try and move past it, and no matter how long it would take him, she would remain by his side the entire time.

She would wrap her arms around him and hold him close as he let the tears flow freely, just as he had done for her so many times before. She would hold him for as long as he needed her to, even if her arms began to ache, she would keep her arms wrapped securely around him.

“Just please…” she sniffled, “Don’t beat yourself up over this. We’re all going to be fine. Nothing a little rest and some medicine can’t fix.”

“And some stitches.”

“Yeah,” she let out a small laugh as her lips pressed against his hair once more, “And some stitches.”

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https-furina · 1 year

Text

✎ 4:47am.

ft. diluc x fem!reader

w.c. 1k words

content: short fluff, mildly angst btw! established relationship, perhaps reader has a little past trauma, they were childhood friends, diluc 100% has anxiety, unedited + not proofread

notes: i promise i’ll get around to editing and adding word counts soon, i’ll slacking a little. this turned out more angsty than i was hoping it would but i just wanted concerned husband!diluc. i’m definitely not proud of this one cries

when you had first settled down amongst the rows upon rows of vines, hidden by the leaves, the sky was a deep indigo. it had been littered in specks of stars, all different shapes and sizes and all glittering in their all individual ways; a lot like the beautiful ring now settling on your ring finger. the thought sends your gaze down to the jewellery, a smile crossing your face. two days feels like a fever dream now but it had in fact happened.

he had let you choose location above all else - or else you would have been marrying at the winery - and you quickly settled for the waterfall just south of springvale. diluc had no room to disagree when he saw the way your eyes lit up, sparkling in ways that no jewels could ever compare to. it was like he fell in love with you all over again, the exact way he did years ago having watched you spar with his brother.

a sigh escaped your lips at the thought that kaeya brought this together and diluc still couldn’t completely drop his malice towards the cryo vision. your eyes fall back to the sky, fading into a lilac as morning begins to dawn on mondstadt. how long had you been sat out here? you scowled at the thought of your peace coming to an end however that’s not how your better half reacted when he rolled over and felt a lack of presence beside him.

ruby eyes open, squinting momentarily as his large hand wanders the silk bedsheets imported from liyue and finds that his beloved is nowhere to be seen. a feeling akin to fear sends electricity through diluc’s body, his body rushing to sit upright so quick he gives himself whiplash for a moment. where in celestia was you? had you been taken? no, you couldn’t have been - adelaide would have came running by now to wake him.

he still finds himself rushing out of bed, throwing his hair into a messy ponytail as he saunters the halls of his home, checking every room he’s known you to settle in. where could you be so early in the morning, when the light is beginning to filter through large glass windows as the sun awakens. dread is coursing through his veins, careful when he slams open a door as to not disturb the resting souls still within the manor.

diluc is in the vineyard within moments of searching his manor, looking around for your familiar head of hair or your sweet scent - but even then, the thousands of grapes are strong enough to drown it out.

“why do you look so concerned, my love?” your voice draws him out of his mild panic, his eyes landing on you finally. you’re perched between rows of grapes, cross legged as the leaves cover you. it would be a perfect hiding spot, had you both been kids again. diluc sighs out, a little dramatically as he holds a hand out for you to take, raising you to your feet. you’re still wearing your nightshirt, insinuating you was either going to return to him in bed or be back in the manor shortly.

“it’s not every day i wake up and my wife is missing,” diluc mumbles, albeit embarrassed that you caught him looking so flustered, “don’t do that again.”

you giggle, pressing a chaste kiss to his calloused knuckles before leaving one on his lips too. you laugh but you know diluc is right to be worried as such, he has been ever since you were children. it’s what made you two so inseperable at a young age but you were kidnapped as a child. as the daughter of one of the dawn winery’s most beloved ingredient suppliers, you spent a lot of time at the winery with kaeya and diluc. your disappearance threw the brothers into a fit belittled with anguish as they ignored their father and tracked you down.

ever since, they’d never parted you from their sights for any longer than a few hours and diluc had partially developed anxiety if you were missing out of the ordinary or for longer than usual. while he’s working, he usually has - begrudgingly - kaeya or adelaide at your side. diluc makes a soft noise, brushing hair from your face with his spare hand as he takes in the way your lower lip has jutted slightly and your eyes have softened despite your laugh moments prior.

“you’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” he needs not say it very loudly for you catch his words, nodding a little with a exasperated sigh. sometimes you can’t help but think back on it, diluc has even caught you multiple times having nightmares about the memories. the redhead says no more, strong arms wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you into his chest. you had already noticed how he was barely dressed saved for the ponytail he’d thrown his hair into, pulling a frown onto your lips. you truly had worried him that badly again.

moments pass before the two of you are looking up at the sky, adorned in hues of oranges and pinks as the sun begins to peek over the horizon. you shiver and diluc instinctively tightens his arms around you.

“come, let’s go back to bed.”

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

curled up against your husband’s resting form, head laid on his chest as you listen to his steady heartbeat, you realise just how much he cares for you. your legs brush against those familiar silk sheets and you cherish the moment as much as you can before diluc must rise again, going about his work as if he hadn’t shown his most weakened state in the early hours of the morning to anybody awake to witness it.

#꒰꒰・♡ soft pillows #diluc x reader #genshin fluff #genshin diluc #genshin impact #genshin #genshin x reader #genshin headcanons #genshin x female reader #afab!reader #https-heizou

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livwritesstuff · 6 months

Text

this is an edited repost of something I wrote last year for the 10-year anniversary of the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School (now 11 years today). to say the least, it’s a difficult day for a lot of people, including me. i wrote this all in one go just as a positive outlet for the things this day evokes and i went back and forth on if i would post it, but i know i’m not the only one who has been affected by these events. if you’re someone who finds this day to be a hard one, this one is for you.

tw: references to gun violence and school shootings

It’s late morning in December 2012 and Steve is watching the news. He isn’t really paying attention to the current segment about opiate use, too busy being completely annihilated in Words with Friends by his eleven-year-old, who just played the word ‘jinxes’ for 23 points, the bastard.

He’s mid-way through sending Moe a text (“get off your ipod you’re in class”) when the channel’s Breaking News intro interrupts the interview that he’d been ignoring. He looks up to see that the headline has changed.

Steve sees shooting, and then elementary school and feels his heart jump into his throat the way it does any time he hears sirens when his daughters or his husband aren’t home – not because he really believes it’s for them, but because it could be. There’s always a chance it could be.

And he’s got two kids in elementary school right now.

He makes himself read the headline in full – it clarifies that the school is in Connecticut, nowhere near him and his house and his children’s schools in the Massachusetts suburbs, but it does little to remedy the panic that has his heart going a mile a minute.

Steve sits for a while, eyes glued to the TV as the anchor slowly ad-libs, clearly waiting for any new scrap of information.

On the first commercial break, Steve checks his phone. He’s got one text – from Moe telling him to play another word in their game. He responds back with the message he’d written before he’d become fixated on the news.

On the second one, he texts Eddie, tells him he loves him and asks if he’s heard what’s going on (he knows he probably won’t get a response for a while – Eddie is notoriously bad at checking his phone and that’s when he’s not in a meeting he’s been looking forward to for weeks, as is the case today).

By the third, they’ve learned the school is on lock-down, but not much more.

Everything he hears after that is nothing short of harrowing, and leaves Steve feeling sick to his stomach.

Eddie finally texts him a couple hours later, after the news anchor has been switched out for another, to say his meeting ran late (an actual director had reached out to him saying she was interested in adapting one of Ed’s books into a movie – today was the day they got to talk in person) and he hadn’t known any of this was going on, but he’s on his way to pick up Hazel from her AM kindergarten session.

Steve’s day continues. He makes lunch, he finishes some laundry, he responds to emails, always with one eye on the news. His shock at what was occurring mere hours south of his home, subsides, slowly replaced with a dull horror because he’s seen a lot of things in his forty-six years of life, but nothing like this. One by one, his three girls return home from school and he hugs each of them like he always does, but today it’s a little tighter.

It’s a Friday, and Friday night is movie night in the Harrington house. It’s Robbie’s night to choose (she picks Spy Kids, like she does every time she gets to pick the movie since it came out last year). Before they start, Steve and Eddie tell their kids what happened. They do their best to find an explanation that is sufficient for ever-precocious Moe, but not too much for Hazel, their sweet kindergartner who only just turned six. Once the movie starts, they all pile under the same blanket, and where there’s usually fidgeting and arguing and occasionally having to pause the movie altogether to wipe tears and wait on a time-out because someone weaponized a foot or an elbow after they weren’t given the big bowl of popcorn fast enough, tonight there is quiet and stillness.

The next day, the girls are back to their normal, bickering selves, but Steve still can’t shake the aching feeling in his chest every time he thinks about what happened the day before. He starts to get that itch in his brain, the same itch he'd felt after he ran out of the Byers’s house in 1983, after he turned back and saw those Christmas lights flickering, the itch where he’s gearing up for a fight.

As the months go on, Steve finds himself reading into gun control laws, finds himself with multiple non-profits fighting for them bookmarked on his computer, finds himself following politics for the first time in his life as he watches bill after bill get shut down by both sides of the debate.

Honestly, Steve isn’t sure why he cares so deeply about this – and not just what happened in Connecticut, but the issue of guns and gun safety in general. It’s not like he hasn’t fired a gun before. It’s not like he’s never seen their value (he still remembers that drive to the War Zone so many years ago). It’s not like he hasn’t ever felt safer with someone nearby wielding one, even if that someone was Nancy Wheeler.

Maybe he’s a little too familiar with children being the casualties in a war they didn’t choose to start, didn’t choose to fight in, and if that had made him angry at nineteen, he’s irate now, now that he has a six-year-old like the students in that classroom in Connecticut, now that he has an eleven-year-old like El when she escaped that lab in Hawkins.

It wouldn’t be the first time Steve threw himself into a battle that had nothing to do with him, that he knew very little about, because he knows what happens when children get caught in the crossfire of a battle that has nothing to do with them, and he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he sat idly by and watched it happen again.

#i’m NERVOUS posting this one idk #they can’t all be fun times folks #idk if el was eleven years old in season 1 i'm pulling the artistic license for that one #i am definitely projecting here but whatever that’s what fandom is for i’m pretty sure #steddie #liv’s steddie dads verse #steddie dads #steve harrington #eddie munson #tw: school shooting #tw: gun violence

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candycandy00 · 14 days

Text

Well that sucked. I think I’m just gonna give up on modern shonen manga having satisfying ending arcs. They’re just full of baffling writing choices and trolling their readers for the hell of it.

Sure, give us hope for a week and then not only NOT revive Gojo but instead confirm once and for all that he’s totally dead and there’s no chance of him coming back. Honestly it feels like 236 all over again. Like he died again.

But this is terrible writing. What the fuck was the point of all the “go south or go north” bullshit? All the lotus flower imagery and references to Buddhism? They all went exactly nowhere.

Worst of all, this totally negates the only positive reason for him to die that all the people defending his death kept trotting out in every discussion: “He needed to die so the younger characters could shine and grow!” That argument is utterly meaningless now because in the end they had to literally drag out his corpse! They’re still depending on him! We’re still getting a Sukuna vs Gojo round 2 without the benefit of having the actual Gojo back. So his death didn’t even serve the narrative function it was supposed to! Meaning his death had no purpose in the story. It was just Gege being a troll.

Honestly I’m feeling about this the way I’ve been feeling about BNHA for a while now. I’ve lost my emotional investment and I don’t really care what happens from here on out. I’ll fix it in fanfic.

Edit: Just to be clear I’m not upset at Yuta (he literally got permission first I don’t get why people are mad at him). And I don’t hate the concept of Yuta using Kenjaku’s technique to take over someone else’s body. And without all the narrative context, I don’t have a problem with him taking over Gojo’s body. But! My issue is that, in context, it totally defeats any purpose of Gojo dying in the first place.

Ever since Gojo died, everytime his fans even mentioned wanting him to come back, we all heard the same thing: “What’s the point of bringing him back? He already lost to Sukuna. Bringing him back now would just derail Yuji’s development!” And even though I disagreed with that statement, I could see the logic there. I could understand that viewpoint. But this chapter destroys the only good argument for not bringing Gojo back. And we still don’t get him back. That’s why this chapter makes me so angry.

#Jjk leaks #jjk spoilers #jjk 261

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sh4wty18 · 21 days

Text

forever is the sweetest con.

all images were found on pinterest! inspired by 'cowboy like me' by taylor swift.

read pt. 2 here

pairing: jake webber x reader. cowboy!jake x bartender!reader

summary: it is july, 1895, and you own a saloon in southern texas. jake is known as 'the bandit', one of the most infamous cowboys in the south. one night the bandit pays a visit to your bar... and changes your life.

cw: au, angst, SMUT18+, fluff, alcohol, fingering, oral (fem!rec), p in v

word count: 5.0k + edited (it's long but so worth it i promise)

---

Your bedroom was hot, as expected for the middle of July in southern Texas. You left all the windows open during the daytime, closing them at night when it got cooler, to try and trap the cold air inside the saloon. You lived above the bar, on the second floor. You were the only female saloon owner in town. Hell, you were probably the only female bartender in the state. Owning your own saloon was an entirely different story. But you had done it. When your father had died three years ago, you were his only successor, so naturally he left all his money to you. You decided to use a chunk of that money to purchase a lease on a two story, run-down building in the middle of town, just a few steps from the local bank and the town square. You had spent a bit more of that money renovating the building, fixing yourself a perfect home on the top floor and your business on the ground floor.

The actual saloon looked exactly how you’d dreamed as a child. It had a long, mahogany bar, with matching wooden stools. Behind the bar, shelves and shelves of expensive liquors lined the wall. There was a grand fireplace on the wall opposite the entrance, which you mostly used for decoration, considering the climate where you lived. Photographs of you and your family decorated the mantle, from different points in your life, a constant reminder of the love you’d lost, but also the love you’d once had. Dark wooden table and chair sets were placed meticulously across the floor to leave a bit of room for a dance floor. Next to the dance floor, perched against the back wall, was a beautiful piano, passed down through your family line for generations. The crisp white linen curtains lining the open window panes were always blowing.

You were proud of what you had created, and you were doing well for yourself. People in town did not seem to mind that the saloon was owned and operated by a woman. In fact, your bar was the one place in town people came to have fun. When the night was busy– piano playing, saloon girls gracefully serving customers while providing entertainment through song and dance, and you pouring up drinks and offering conversation– you knew there was nowhere you’d rather be. Of course, you wondered what it would be like to travel around the country, stopping wherever you please, meeting new people with stories you couldn’t even begin to imagine. But that was just a dream, and a crazy one at that. You had already accomplished more in your life than most other women you knew, which was sad but true. What you had was enough, right?

There isn’t time for existential crises now, you think to yourself, as you adjust your outfit for the day in your vanity. You button your light blue blouse up tight, and tuck it into your layered skirt, with a pair of heeled boots. You did not enjoy the feeling of being constrained in your clothing– men could wear pantaloons with only one shirt and waistcoat or jacket, and no one would bat an eye. But the second a woman wore a dress with less than seemingly a hundred layers, it caused a commotion. You found ways to keep your independence though, such as by not wearing undergarments. They were useless, you determined. Their sole purpose was to further imprison women in their own bodies. If men didn’t have to, why should you?

You attempted to fix your unkempt low bun, but it was no use. You allowed a few curly strands to fall by your ears, and started downstairs to open the bar for the afternoon. Every day of the week except Sundays, you opened the bar at 3 pm sharp, and closed at around 12 am. This of course depended on when all the customers actually left their chairs. They usually left in a drunken haze, slurring their goodbyes to each other and you, and exited into the night. Sometimes you didn’t lock up until 1:30. It was hard work, but after paying your employees, and rationing out money for taxes and utility costs, you were still left with a decent sum of money for yourself.

You stepped into the bar, basking in the afternoon sun, and immediately went to the front to open the windows and unlock the front door, swinging it open and keeping it in place with a rock from outside. You swept up the floors a bit, and wiped down the bar and tables with a wet rag. It wasn’t long before the men, and even a few women came flooding in, ordering drinks. Light chatter filled the room as more customers arrived.

Your two saloon girls and pianist arrived around 6 pm, ready to work for the rest of the night as it got busier. You were cleaning some glasses at the sink, as the sun slowly began to set outside, when you suddenly heard the entire saloon go quiet. Odd, you thought, and turned around to observe what was happening. You saw a man standing in the doorway, one hand resting on the pistol hanging from his hip, the other on his hat, which he tipped toward the gawkers. He had a cigarette between his teeth, which he placed between his pointer and middle fingers, taking a deep inhale, looking around at the people surrounding him. The setting sun shone directly on him, and you couldn’t quite make out who he was. He walked toward the bar as he exhaled, smiling directly at you. You had to stop your jaw from going slack as you realized who he was.

“It’s The Bandit,” a voice in the corner of the saloon squeaked. And it was. The Bandit was the most well known cowboy in the south. He was an outlaw, infamous for committing intense burglary. He robbed banks, and was quick to take out any government official who got in his way. He didn’t pocket the money though, despite what the rumors had said. No. Instead, he gave the money to people in need. Families, orphanages, the poor, the marginalized. He took care of people in need, and eliminated anyone who tried to stop him. In a way, (a more violent way, albeit), he was like God.

The Bandit stepped slowly towards you, one strong hand still lingering over his pistol. He was incredibly handsome, with shaggy brown, shoulder-length hair, amber eyes, and a chiseled face. He wore a cream-colored button down, paired with a loose red bandana, dark brown pants, and knee high boots, with his holster wrapped snugly around his hips. You hated the way you could feel the heat growing between your legs. To everyone else he was nothing more than a criminal. Everybody knew if The Bandit ever made it to your town, you kept your head down, did what he said, and didn’t ask questions. They were scared of him, but not you. You admired him. The government was corrupt, and had been oppressing people for as long as it existed. Was he wrong for wanting to help the oppressed, even if he was getting his revenge on the oppressors while doing it? You didn’t think so.

He took a seat at the bar, directly in front of you, taking another long inhale of his cigarette, as if he was waiting for you to initiate conversation.

“What can I do for you tonight, sir?” you asked, smiling, as everyone else in the saloon stared at you like you were crazy.

“Whiskey– neat,” he said, the corners of his mouth upturning at your gaze. You poured him a double and slid the glass across the bar to him.

“Here,” you say, “On the house.”

“Why thank you, darlin’,” his southern drawl is not helping your attraction to him, if anything, it’s making you want him more.

“Of course!” you respond cordially. His rough hand grips the glass and he sips the whiskey. You watch.

He swallows, “This may be the best god-damned whiskey I’ve ever had. Who’s your owner? I'd like to pay him a compliment.”

“You’re lookin’ at her,” you smile.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he says, genuine shock taking over his face. Not in a bad way, but out of respect for you. “Well, you heard me, ma’am. This whiskey is great. Could I buy a bottle?” He places three bits on the bar and slides them over to you.

“Certainly,” you reply, “But whiskey is only two bits for a bottle.”

“Keep the change,” he winks, and you smile. You grab a bottle off the shelf and hand it to him. “Have a drink with me?” he asks.

You laugh, “Sir, I can’t drink on the job. It’s unprofessional.”

“You’re the owner. You can do whatever you damn well please.”

He was right. You’d never really thought about it that way. You feel your face flush, never one to be comfortable getting corrected by a man. This time, you decided it was okay. You grab another glass off the countertop, along with a corkscrew. You bite your lip as you watch his muscles tighten as his bicep puts in the work to twist the cork out of the bottle. He pours a shot for himself, and one for you. “Cheers,” he says, “To the first female saloon owner in the south!”

You laugh and clink your glass, downing the shot. “I don’t know if I’m the only one in the south–”

“Don’t be humble,” he cuts you off, “You should be nothing but proud of yourself. You’re incredible.”

“Well… thank you,” you say, not really sure what else you could say. You were shocked. He wasn’t the monster everyone had made him out to be. He was kind.

You tend to the few customers left in the bar for the rest of the night, most of them had snuck out when The Bandit entered, leaving coins on the table to cover their drinks. By 11:30, the only people remaining in the bar were you, the pianist, and The Bandit, who had now removed his holster and placed it on the bar next to his glass. You had sent the saloon girls home a few minutes prior, since the whole place was practically empty, and the pianist had fallen asleep, slumped over the keys. The only remaining light came from the soft glow of the oil lamps scattered around the saloon.

“You’ve been watching me all night,” it’s a statement, not a question. He’d noticed your wandering eyes always falling back on him. Embarrassing.

“What makes you say that?” you ask as you turn around to face him, elbows resting on the bar, leaning toward him.

He smirks, “You think I haven’t noticed? You’ve been staring at me all night. I’ve been waiting to get you alone, to talk to you.”

“About what?” you ask, returning his mischievous smirk.

“Anything,” he says, pouring you both another shot. “Tell me your name. Tell me how you knew you wanted to open a bar.”

You down the shot in one gulp with him, thinking briefly of your answer. “My name is y/n,” you start, “I always knew I didn’t think the same as most people. I didn’t want to be chained to a husband and kids. I didn’t want my money to belong to anyone else but me. And I hate the government for what they’ve done to us. All of us. Women, people of color, poor people. It’s sick. Why are we treated as lesser humans, just because we weren’t born white men? So when I was twelve I decided I wasn’t going to follow the path everyone had already paved for me. I was going to make my own life. I used to visit my grandfather’s saloon all the time when I was younger, a couple hours away from here by foot. When my dad died, the first thing I thought to do with the money he’d left me was put it towards my dream. To be the owner of something, to make all the decisions, to lead. And that’s what I did.”

The Bandit listened intently, hanging on every word, taking you in. His gaze softened on you as you talked, like you were slowly winning him over even more as you explained your story. He poured himself another shot, and tilted the bottle toward you, “Want another?”

“I think I can handle one more drink tonight,” you smile, feeling light and giggly from the whiskey you’d already had. He smiled across the bar at you and handed you your glass, his fingers brushing against yours as you took it.

You felt the heat radiating from your core again, so you decide to continue the conversation, lest you do something you might regret, “And you? How did you get here?”

He laughs, a hearty, full laugh, “How did I become the biggest outlaw in the south, you mean?”

You blush, embarrassed, and nod, sipping on the whiskey in your glass.

“Well,” he starts, “I guess my story’s a bit similar to yours. I was sick of the government taking advantage of people. I wanted to do something about it. So I did. Everyone thinks I’m some villain, but can I tell you a secret?” he leans towards you, lifting a hand to cup around your ear, “I’ve never even killed anyone. Those are just rumors that’ve spread about me over the years, and I never stopped ‘em. Having everyone fear me made it easier to get away with the robberies. That way, I could help more people.”

You gasp, but it quickly turns into a laugh, “Why are you telling me this? I could ruin you.”

“You won’t,” he says. “We’re too similar. Betraying me would be like betraying everything you stand for.”

You hated how well he could read you, even barely knowing you. “You’re right.” you laugh again, and this time, he joins you. His fingers dance over your arm, “Dance with me,” he says.

“Dancin’ is a dangerous game,” you reply, and he grabs your arm softly, pulling you toward him.

“And what’s stopping me from climbing over this bar and worshiping you right now?” he breathes against your ear, “I saw how you were looking at me tonight. The feeling’s mutual, honey.”

The hair on the back of your neck stands, and goosebumps prickle your arms. You walk out from behind the bar and shout, “Tommy, play us a song!” the pianist wakes suddenly, plucking out a slow tune on the keys.

The Bandit takes you in his arms. One hand resting on your lower waist, the other intertwined with yours. Your free hand holds the back of his neck. He’s taller than you’d expected, you think, as he gazes down at you. You sway to the rhythm Tommy plays, moving in slow, graceful circles around the dance floor.

“Will you stay here forever?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” you say. It’s the truth. You have been questioning your life to an insane degree recently. You always thought owning your own business and being able to have control in something, was all you needed. Now after meeting The Bandit– someone you’d admired for so long, both for his values and his free-spirit– you were beginning to wonder if owning a business was even scratching the surface of the life you wanted. “Where are you headed after this sleepy old town? I know you never stay in one place for too long.”

“I’m headed out west to the Sierra Nevada, Yosemite. Got some friends out there. I might settle there for a little while. Give life on the road a rest, you know? No one’s comin’ for me. They never have. Too afraid of me to risk it,” he smiles down at you, leans in and whispers in your ear, “You’re the first person who’s got me even the slightest bit close to changin’ my mind about leavin’ here.”

You feel your cheeks flush, as they often had this evening, and you look away, trying your best to hide the grin forming on your face. He does the same, grinning at the wall instead of you.

“Oh my God… have I got The Bandit himself flustered?” you tease, cheeky glint in your eyes as you stare up at him.

He leans in to whisper again, “You’ve got me more than flustered, love.” He pulls your body closer to his, so you’re pressed firmly against each other, and you can feel his erection pressing against your pelvis.

Your breath catches, and he smirks down at you, clearly relishing in his ability to make you nervous. “Tommy, you can leave,” you interrupt his playing, “Have a good night.”

He stands and carefully closes the fallboard, collects his belongings, and walks toward the exit, “You as well, Ma’am,” he responds. You kick the rock holding the door in place, so the door closes and you can lock up.

You turn back to face The Bandit, who struts toward you confidently, placing a hand on your back to guide you against the bar. He moves his hand down your back and rests it just above your ass, while his other hand holds your cheek and gently traces circles into it. Your arms reach to wrap around his neck and pull him closer. He hesitates for a second, knowing that whatever he does next will permanently alter both of your lives. The risk must have been worth it, because he slowly presses his lips to yours. They are soft, which surprises you. How does the most infamous cowboy in the south also have the softest lips you’d ever felt? Everything you learned about him made you want him more, and the kiss quickly turned from gentle to hungry. He squeezed your ass roughly, and pressed you harder into the bar. Saliva coats both your lips as he gets messier, eventually moving to kiss down your chin and nestle his face in the crook of your neck, sucking hard.

You let out a gasp and breathlessly say, “I bet you do this with every girl you meet on the road.”

He breaks away for the briefest second, “No,” he continues marking you, leaving bright reddish purple bruises in any spot he can reach, “Just you.”

“I’ve wanted you since the second you walked into my bar,” you manage to breathe out as he moves back up to continue kissing your lips. He bites your bottom lip softly, pulling away to look down at you.

“So have I,” he says, “I don’t know if I’ve ever wanted anything more.”

He flips you around so your tummy is pressed against the bar now, one hand firm on your arm, steadying you, as the other moves the layers of fabric up your thigh, and his fingers brush against your slick. Suddenly you feel even more grateful that you chose not to wear undergarments.

“You’re ready for me,” he whispers in your ear, his head resting on your shoulder, and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. He begins slowly massaging your clit, while the hand that was holding your arm snakes up your neck and squeezes lightly. “This alright?” he asks.

A gentleman, too, you think. But you can’t manage a snarky reply, so instead you nod, arching your back into him, and say “Harder.”

His head still sits on your shoulder, and he turns slightly to make eye contact with you, “Of course, princess,” he tightens his grip around your neck a bit, his fingers working quicker and rougher too, and you let out a moan. He moves his hand from your neck to cover your mouth, “Can’t let the town know you're brushing with The Bandit now, can we?” you reach up to move his hand away, “Let them hear,” you sigh, and turn your head to messily kiss him, moaning loudly as his touch gets more intense, and you feel the band in your core stretching.

Before it can snap he removes his hand from under your skirt, and flips you back around again, lifting you up and setting you down on the countertop. He continues kissing you desperately, wildly, like sharing oxygen with you is all he needs to survive. “I want to taste you. Please let me taste you,” he begs, hand grasping the side of your face again.

“You can do whatever you want to me,” you affirm. He smiles and kisses you again, as you unbutton your blouse and yank it out from your skirt. He wraps a hand around your waist and slowly kneels down, kissing your chest and breasts and stomach, stopping once he arrives at your pelvis. He grabs the layers of your skirt and pushes them up, burying his face between your thighs, quickly returning to work, this time with his tongue. He sucks at your most sensitive areas, giving you no time to readjust to the new sensation. You moan loudly, feeling the fire in your lower stomach reignite. You run a hand through his perfect hair, silently letting him know he’s doing a good job. He smiles against your skin, eyes gazing up at you to watch your face contort with the motion of his mouth. He holds your thighs further apart, allowing himself a better angle. The stimulation is so intense now, you can’t help but shakily gasp.

He keeps his pace and angle exactly the same, knowing you’d reach your peak soon. It only takes ten more seconds before the band finally snaps, and you cry out, arching your back to ride your high for as long as possible. He kisses your inner thighs, and then comes up to kiss your lips. You can taste yourself in his mouth, which somehow makes you even more eager to get him upstairs and in your bed.

You cup his cheek, still breathless, and whisper, “I want you inside me.”

He lets out a choked sigh as you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling his groin against yours to feel his erection again. “I’ve never needed anything more,” he replies, and picks you up, “Where to, miss?”

“Upstairs, first door on the left,” you begin kissing his neck now, returning his favor from earlier. You suck below his ear, finding a particularly sensitive spot, and he whimpers as he carries you up the steps and into your bedroom. He gently places you on your bed, and begins undressing. You watch him, eyes wandering down his bare torso. In the moonlight, you can see every ripple of muscle under his skin. “You’re beautiful,” you say as he takes his pants and boots off, leaving himself completely naked.

“Not as beautiful as you,” he responds. You can’t help staring at his length, the tip already dripping.

“Looks like you’re the one who's ready for me now, huh?” you manage to smirk this time, ego boosted by your ability to put a man in this state.

He smiles down at you as he sits down on the edge of your bed next to you, helping you remove your shirt and skirt, leaving you bare as well. He kisses you again, taking you back as hungrily as he’d left off downstairs, wrapping a hand around your waist, pulling you in.

“Ride me,” he breathes out against your mouth.

“What?” you ask, caught off guard.

“Sit on my lap and ride me,” he brushes his nose against yours desperately, “I want you to be in control.”

“I’ve never done it like this before,” you say as he messily kisses down your neck again.

“I can help you,” he replies, pulling your body onto his lap, one knee resting on either side of his waist, so your torsos are pressed together. He holds the bottom half of his shaft in place as he slowly sinks into you. You hold on tight to his shoulders for support, until he's all the way inside. His head falls back and he lets out a groan as you start rocking back and forth. He continues sloppily kissing you, leaving more purple marks anywhere his mouth lands.

It feels different than any other sex you’ve had. Of course, you have had your fair share of run-ins with men. Customers, friends, nemeses, but it had never been like this. The men had never wanted you in control, they simply took what they wanted without a care in the world. You used to think that was what sex was– fun but never satisfying. You thought the only pleasure you’d receive would be from your own hand, until tonight. For once, a man had actually put you first. He wanted to make you feel good. Making you feel good made him feel good. And you wanted more.

You’re still rocking back and forth, using all your core and thigh strength to move up and down a little, but it’s not enough.

He must sense your need for more, because he places both of his hands roughly on your hips, lifting you up a few inches and then yanking you back down harder, bucking his hips forward to get as deep as possible.

He moans loudly, eyes rolling back as he repeats the motion over and over, willing you to the edge. You grip the back of his neck with your hands, interlocking your fingers and pulling his head towards yours. Your foreheads press together and you can’t keep your eyes off each other as you both let out breathy moans and pants.

“You’re perfect,” he whimpers.

“Don’t stop,” is all you can muster. So he goes faster, and his strength is quite possibly the most attractive thing you’ve ever seen. He lifts you up and down like you weigh nothing, pounding into you while keeping you in the position of dominance. He’d clearly been paying attention to which angles make you moan the loudest, so he can hit them again. And again. And again. Until you’re falling apart on top of him.

You finally cry out, body shaking, but he doesn’t let up. Knowing he’s made you finish twice tonight has almost pushed him over the edge as well. “Where do you want me?” he asks through strained groans.

“Anywhere,” you gasp at the overstimulation.

“Wrap your legs around me tight, darlin’,” he moves his arms up your back, holding you close, and flips you both over so he’s on top of you, resting his weight on his hands. He thrusts into you a few more times before pulling out, white liquid coating your stomach. He collapses on top of you with a final moan, and holds your face in his hand, kissing you softly.

“Let me clean you up,” he offers, kissing your forehead and standing up to find the nearest towel.

“I have clean rags in the top drawer of my vanity.”

He finds one and wets it in the water basin next to your vanity, bringing it back over to the bed and gently wiping up the liquid on both your bodies before tossing the rag on the floor and climbing back into bed with you. He leans against your pillows and wraps an arm around you, pulling your body close, while you drape your arm around his waist. He looks down to meet your gaze, and you stare up at him.

“I will never forget this night,” he says, and kisses your lips for the last time.

You know that was his goodbye, but you don’t want to think about it, so instead you rest your head against his chest and listen to the beat of his heart.

“Goodnight,” you say. But he’s already drifted off.

—

The next morning, your eyes flutter open to the sun beating down on you, and an empty space where The Bandit once slept. You were expecting this, he’s an outlaw after all. What you weren’t expecting was a letter on the pillow next to you, with your name written on the envelope in his neat, loopy, cursive handwriting.

You carefully rip open the envelope to find a stack of crisp fifty dollar bills, enough to provide for you for the next few years. With them, a folded piece of paper. You pull out the letter and open it, your eyes eager to take in whatever he’s left you. It reads:

“My dearest y/n,

I deeply apologize for cutting our time short, but I must return to the road. I fear I may have already overstayed my welcome here, and my friends await my arrival in California. I want you to know that you have captured my heart and left me utterly bewitched. You’re a bandit like me, you know. In your own way. Keep fighting, keep resisting. It is the people like us who ignite change in this world.

I am leaving you with what I suppose is enough money for you to either travel around the country or put into savings for a rainy day. Are you completely certain this stagnant life is enough for you? If you ever decide it not to be, you know where to find me. I hope to see you again one day, I will wait for you.

Yours, and yours alone,

Jake”

Jake. He told you his real name. He told you he was yours. No man had ever done something so romantic for you before. You held the letter to your chest, tearing up, and wishing he hadn’t left, even though you knew he couldn’t stay. He needed that life, constant movement, action, and adventure. You were starting to think you wanted that too.

After getting ready for the day, you head downstairs, eyeing the spot on the bar where just last night you’d been brushing with one of the most infamous criminals in the country. Except he wasn’t a criminal. He was kind and intelligent and flirtatious, and he was yours. And he was waiting for you. You gaze out the window with longing, only to notice that across the street, the bank window was shattered, and police were gathered outside. It had been robbed. You chuckle, the corners of your mouth upturned.

You wonder what the weather's like in Yosemite. You’ll find out soon enough.

---

this took several days to complete, but i love it. as always, i hope you all enjoyed! <3 likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated!! should i write a part 2?

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vintagegeekculture · 11 months

Note

I started reading some of R E Howard’s books because of your blog! They’re lots of fun and I can see so many of the standard fantasy tropes forming. What are some of your favorite covers or illustrations of his work?

My favorite Conan might just be this very off model one, in the Gnome Press editions. At this point, Conan was as completely forgotten as his fellow Weird Tales character, Jules de Grandin, Occult Detective, who was the more popular character at the time. I love it because it's so off-model. Unfortunately, the Gnome Press editions went nowhere, and Conan would not be rediscovered until the paperback boom, where he was kept alive by fantasy superfans like L. Sprague de Camp and Lin Carter.

A friend of mine, and fellow pulp collector, asked me a really interesting question in a late night bull session: what would have happened if Robert E. Howard had lived?

As most pulp aficionados know, Howard was clinically depressed and dedicated his life to taking care of his elderly mother. When he discovered his mother was not going to live through the night, he committed suicide that very night.

We can never really know the answer, but by examining his trajectory and that of his pulp writer contemporaries, we can make a pretty educated guess.

I have some bad news for Sword and Sorcery fans: Howard had completely abandoned the Conan character for months following his death, and indeed, any kind of horror or fantasy fiction, primarily as his relationship with Weird Tales went south. For a while around his death, Howard entirely transitioned to being a Western writer, and in the general opinion of many Howard fans, his most mature and best work were not his sword and sorcery yarns, but the Westerns he wrote at the end of his life like "Vultures of Wahpeton" and "The Last Ride."

In addition, we have an example of what happened to a lot of other writers of Howard's generation, like Hugh B. Cave, another Weird Tales guy, who eventually stopped writing horror and action, and transitioned to being a Caribbean regional writer, or how Manly Wade Wellman wrote about his native Appalachia and North Carolina. Wade Wellman's old 30s characters like John Thunstone and caveman Hok the Mighty were vastly overshadowed by his regional creation of Silver John, the Appalachian balladeer.

It's very easy to imagine a scenario, then, where had Robert E. Howard lived, he became a Texas regional writer mainly known for his Westerns, where he produced his most mature work, and the fact he wrote horror and sword and sorcery is a barely remembered fact only known to the most thorough of academics, who might just chance on the name of a Harold Lamb, Talbot Mundy, and Edgar Rice Burroughs influenced set of yarns starring some guy named Conan.

#robert e. howard #pulp fiction #weird tales

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saltsicklover · 9 months

Text

Part Six

Here it is, and let me just say, I am so sorry in advance! My heart hurt writing this one...

Title: Once an Asshole, Always an Asshole

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 4600+

Rating: R

Warnings: Swearing, Drinking, Cigars and Smoking, Crying, Angst, Pining, Robert Floyd (A warning).

Second Chance Romance!

Disclaimer: I do not own Bob Floyd, or anything related to Top Gun Maverick within this piece. Not Proof Read or BETA'd. All mistakes are my own.

I do not consent for my work to be edited, reposted, or translated.

You are responsible for your own media consumption. This is a work of fiction that may contain mature themes. If you are sensitive to those subjects, please do not read.

---

The group, Sunny included, make themselves comfortable at the tables near the pool table. It's their usual hangout spot, so they slip into their groove quickly. Nat and Hangman are now going head-to-head in a cut throat game of pool while Sunny and Rooster chat, acting as peanut gallery when the game requires it. Sunny basically had to push Nat into playing, convincing her that they will have two weeks together and more than enough time for everyone. Natasha grumbles as the game gets started but slowly put her game face on, not ready to loose to Hangman.

"So, Sunshine, where are you from?" Rooster asks before taking a long swig of his beer.

"Originally? Or do you mean where I live now?" Sunny shoots back, a twinkle in her eye that Rooster can't help but notice. Sunny brings a hand up to her necklace, playing with the small pendent between the tips of her fingers.

There is something about her that reminds him of his Mom. Maybe its the way she instantly fills the room around her with light, like it's pouring straight from her soul. Maybe it's her carefree nature, or the way her bangs have come loose from her pins, the delicate curls falling into her eyes. Somewhere between the first sight of her, as he and Natasha barreled into the parking lot of the Hard Deck, and now, his soul decided that Sunny is exactly who his sister would have been if he had been fortunate enough to have one while growing up. They may not look alike, share parents, be from the same place, or even know each other, but his heart knows she is going to be a part of his life. Damnit if he isn't going to treat her exactly like the little sister he has always wanted.

"I live in Colorado Springs now, I work at a book publishers office there. I'm actually hoping that they will take me on as a permanent novelist as soon as my first full length book is actually finished being written. I thought by now it would be done, you know? But life get in the way I guess, huh? I can't live off of publishing poetry for the rest of my life, that's for sure," Sunny tries to tuck the loose pieces of hair back into her clips but they keep slipping through her fingers. "I'm from Montana, originally, though!"

"Oh! That's where that accent is from!" The pieces fall into place for Rooster, "I was thinking you were from somewhere down south but I couldn't place it!" Sunny is thankful Rooster grazed over the published books thing. Though she loves work, and she is proud of all that she has accomplished, its a real relief to not have to talk about work.

"Oh yeah," A blush creeps over Sunny's features, her chest flooding with a color akin to her dress. "Other direction!"

"Where in Montana?"

"No where you've heard of," She tries to dismiss it with a wave of her hand, her other still toying with the pendent on her necklace.

"Try me!" Bradley is confident, really, even though he knows he isn't going to have a damn clue. He couldn't name a city in Montana if he tried.

"I grew up outside of Wibaux, south of I94, in Florence," Sunny's voice is quiet, the quietest it's been since she got into Hangman's pickup. She is still trying to pin her hair back, the frustration she is feeling making it increasingly difficult. "It's a little nowhere town, really. It was mostly school sports and lots of ranching. Not much to write home about,"

"Isn't Bob from Montana?" Natasha asks the boys, but they both shrug. "Maybe he was from Wyoming. Somewhere tiny, that I know for sure,"

Sunny laughs a bit, finding Natasha's lapse in memory amusing. For as long as they have known each other, Sunny has always been convinced that Natasha has a fantastic memory. She would have to, to fly that damn jet, right?

"Did you guys have a big football following?" He questions, trying to keep the conversation going. Rooster wants to know her like the back of his hand, the yearning to add another person to his small patchwork family itching at his palms.

Sunny drops her hands in defeat, the battle with her hair useless without a mirror. She rolls her eyes at herself, a thick sign falling from her lips. She takes a quick sip from her drink before putting her attention back on Rooster.

"We didn't have a football team," Bradley looks at Sunny like she is crazy, the whole idea seeming nuts to him, "Big ones were swimming and basketball, actually," Bradley goes quiet for a second and so Sunny adds a small "Go Pronghorns!" with little to no actual pep to her voice. She waves her fist half heartedly in the air, the movement strange.

They sit there for a moment longer, both of their faces twisting to awkward grimaces before they burst into fits of giggles, all of the awkwardness that begun enveloping them bursting in on itself and disappearing.

"Were you a basketball or a swimming fan?" Bradley inquires from behind his beer can.

"Are we talking the sport or the members?" The question earns Sunny a look from Natasha. She leans against the side of the pool table, Hangman behind her, lining up his next shot.

"Don't even get her started, Roos," Natasha jabs playfully.

"What, I cared about sports!" Sunny attempts to defend herself, but the blush enveloping her skin tells otherwise.

"You didn't care about sports, don't try and kid yourself," Nat winks, "You only went to the swim meets because you were just in love with-"

"Alright!" Sunny almost jumps out of her skin, holding her hands out in defeat, "I am going to run to the restroom, then hit the bar for another drink, does anyone need anything?"

Sunny sends a glare to Natasha as she slides down off of her stool. She mouths 'I hate you' to her friend, her eyes holding no malice.

"A round of beers please, my beautiful Sunny," Natasha speaks, trying to butter her up, "But hurry back! Bob just texted, he said he's five minutes out!" Sunny gives her a thumbs up before heading for the bathroom.

She doesn't actually have to use the bathroom, just the mirror. She makes quick work of pulling the pins from her hair, the pieces falling down to their natural place. She picks up one by one, French twisting them back out of her face. After a couple on each side, secured with pins she washes her hands and heads out the door, her next stop, the bar.

As she made her way through the crowd, she couldn't keep her mind from wandering. She thought of the Ranch back home and the world she left behind. She spots a young Airman, belly up to the bar, his blond hair pushed back out of his face. He can't be older than twenty two, his young features and baby face make him look about eighteen. He reminds her of Robert Floyd and her heart aches for just a second, but she tries to shake that thought from her head as quickly as it came.

If Natasha hadn't opened her mouth, maybe she wouldn't be thinking about him again. Maybe she wouldn't be feeling that pang of stale hurt in her chest, reliving that conversation over and over again. 'I didn't work my ass off to throw it all away over a girl like you,' it still hurts, though it's different now. The pain isn't sharp as daggers and all consuming. Instead, it is wrapped tightly around her ribs and sometimes, it squeezes, constricting, reminding her that it's still there.

She catches herself missing the smell of cherry tobacco, the scent still stuck in her nose.

"You must be Sunny," A warm voice greets her from behind the bar. "I'm Penny," the dark haired woman greets, a kind smile spread over her lips. Penny looks like the personification of home. The warmth that emanates from her is almost stifling, but Sunny can't help but bask in it anyway.

"I like your nametag, much better than the ones we usually get in here," The words are said with a wink, then blush spreads across Sunny's cheeks. Her hand comes up to feel the crinkle of the sticky nametag stuck to the front of her dress.

"Yeah, that's me," Sunny smiles at her, the blush darkening on her cheeks, "Can I please order a round of-"

"Beers for those two knuckleheads and the lovely Phoenix?" Penny finishes for her, already pulling the beers out of the cooler. "I've also got a Pepsi for you and a glass of water for Bob. He walked in a minute ago," Penny has everything down to a science, one that surprises and delights Sunny in equal measure.

"How'd you know?" Sunny giggles, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I have the pleasure of being engaged to the Dagger Squad's captain, so I know those guys pretty well, plus they are pretty much the only reason I stock beer in cans anymore," Penny puts the last of the drinks onto a tray with a chuckle. Sunny moves towards the tray, her fingertips grazing over the edge.

"Phoenix has been talking about you coming since the moment she found out. Then Hangman gave me the rundown when he came in with Rooster," She explains, her hands working quickly as she wipes down the bar. Then, she grabs a cup of peanuts from behind the bar top, placing it on the tray, "It's all yours, take the tray with you, I'll be by to pick it up in a few minutes,"

"Thank you," Sunny speaks, pulling the tray up off of the counter, balancing it near her shoulder. Thank god for the muscle memory of her long forgotten waitressing skills.

"You've got one hell of a memory, Penny," Sunny compliments, shooting the older woman a bright smile.

"Thank you, Sunshine," Penny winks. Sunny nods her head towards Penny one last time before turning on her heel, headed back towards the back of the bar. She dodges a couple of young Marines, both too caught up in their own conversation to see her coming. Sunny turns back to Penny, rolling her eyes playfully as she gestures to the Marines with a tilt of her head.

"Oh, and Sunny," Penny yells after her, a light giggle laced though her words, "Welcome to Fighter Town!"

Sunny navigates through the ever growing crowd, making her way back to the Daggers. She can't help but let her eyes wonder over the many uniforms that adorn the crowd. From flight suits and Peanut-Butters to BDU's and Veteran hats. It felt like everyone in the bar was wearing something to signify that they were Military affiliated.

She feels like an outsider, someone from the wrong side of town, the wrong state, the wrong part of the country. Her world has always been quiet, from the sprawling plains of the family ranch to the stillness of her office. Her world is soft, made up of cricket sounds and book pages. This world is hardened exteriors and no fear.

The world around her is bustling, sticky with stale beer and sweat. There is a constant underlying smell of jet fuel and saltwater across Fighter Town. It's all new and she can't help but wish Natasha would have prepared her better.

She knew Natasha was in the Navy, of course she did. Natasha clued her into that fact when they first started talking, but what really secured that fact for Sunny was when a couple of Naval Officers showed up on her doorstep to interview her about her involvement with Natasha. Something about clearing those closest to her before she could be rewarded her Top Secret clearance.

Sunny never did tell Nat of the men who knocked on her door, dressed in uniform. She felt her world slow down at the sight of them, like it does in the movies when a Soldier dies; the world spun unbelievably fast the moment she found out Natasha was okay. Whatever she told them must have worked out; two months later she received an email from Natasha, boasting about her new clearance. Sunny couldn't have been happier if she tried.

Still, Sunny feels that she is standing on the outside looking in, the way she has felt most of her life, until she catches sight of Hangman and Rooster. They are bumping shoulders with each other, both wearing smiles that light up their eyes. She can hear Natasha's laugh through the bustle, the sound makes her heart swell. The world feels just a little bit smaller, or maybe she is just a little bit closer.

Her eyes catch Natasha through the crowd as she makes it to the pool table where Hangman and Rooster have begun a new game. Rooster is leaning over the table, lining up a shot to the corner pocket. That's when she sees him.

Everything around her feels impossibly slow, her heart beat echoing throughout her body. She can feel it in her hands, fingers pulsing as she opens and closes her fists. Sunny takes in the sight before her, trying to concentrate over the whooshing of her heart in her ears.

Robert Floyd is sitting next to Natasha, his blond hair cut shorter than Sunny had ever seen it before. It was cropped short on the sides, the longest parts at the top of his head gelled back out of his bright eyes. He had aged, of course he had, but instead of looking older, he just looked like a more mature version of the boy she had always known. Slightly bent, gold framed glasses sit slightly crooked on the bridge of his nose and he reaches up to adjust them often, trying to get to bent metal to sit correctly on his face.

Sunny had never seen him so quiet; he sat leaning in towards Natasha, his ear in her direction, his hands laced together in his lap as he listens to whatever story she is telling him. The smile on his face is exactly the way she remembers it, slightly crooked as it lights up his entire face.

The medals pinned to the chest of his uniform are perfect; from their color to their placement, hell, they are even lint rolled to perfection. They make her a bit nauseous, too akin to his letterman jacket in her eyes. It is strange to see him like his, so gentle, so pristine. There's no cowboy hat clutched loosely in his hand, his usual boots swapped out for well polished dress shoes. From where she stands, she can't catch even a hint of the tobacco that typically permeates from his clothes.

Her heart aches a bit for the loose, unkempt guy she used to know. From the lack of distinct cherry scent down to the missing pearl that usually cover his now plain buttons. Yet, it's the hair she misses the most. She loved his long locks, specifically the way her fingers felt threaded through them. He looks so much like a man now.

Initially, Sunny feels the urge to run over to him and wrap her arms around his torso. She wants to press her ear against his chest and listen to his heart beat, just like all the women do in all of the books she reads. She wants that second chance romance moment- the one where the leading man takes the leading woman's face in his hands, looking deep into her eyes as he confesses all of his wrong doings. She wants to feel his hands on her bare skin again.

Then she remembers that conversation again. It plays over in her mind once more. 'I didn't work my ass off to throw it all away over a girl like you,'.

Now, she can feel the anger bubbling up from deep in her. She wants to throw a beer at him, cover his pristine uniform in amber liquid, letting the tan fabric go dark and wet. Sunny imagines the pleasure she would feel watching the liquid fall from his frame onto the well polished leather of his shoes. She wants the revenge, the shouting match, the bared feelings of hurt and aguish. Sunny wants to yell at him in the way Miss Bennet yelled at Mr. Darcy, all anger and justified hurt. Maybe then, they would both be fraught with pain, just as she had been since the moment he walked away from her.

But before she can do either, her body is moving on it's own accord. Sunny sets the tray of drinks down on the pool table, interrupting the game. Hangman and Rooster look at her with 'what-the-fuck' expressions, but she ignores them, instead stepping around to the other side of the table. Her movement catches Bob and Natasha's attention, drawing them out of their conversation.

Bob looks at Sunny, his eyes darting from her eyes to her lips then back again, triangulating her features. He takes her in like she is his reason for breathing. She is stunning, that much he will admit to himself, from the way her hair is pulled back from her face, to the slight blotchiness of her skin, no doubt from all the crying Phoenix had been telling him about.

Bob takes in a deep breath, letting Sunny's face fill in all of the blank spaces in the stories Phoenix has shared with him. He lets the image of her features paint each memory, bringing them to completion.

He lets his gaze trail down her body, taking in the gentle pattern of her dress, the little yellow flowers spiraling around the bright red fabric. Bob has always been one for details. His eyes hit her boots next, his heart stuttering a bit at the sight. God, he has missed seeing people in boots, and a beautiful woman in boots? That might just do him in.

When his eyes trail back up her body, they lock in on the pendent of her necklace. The distinct outline of Montana hangs from the delicate chain around her neck. Bob fights the quirking corner of his mouth, attempting to keep the large grin threatening his features at bay. Finally, he thinks, someone from home, someone he might just have something in common with.

That thought causes a wave of anxiety laced excitement to roll through him, his heart cresting over the wave of emotion as it rolls from his head down his torso. He tries to push the feeling down, the further away from his chest the easier it is to focus.

Bob stands quickly, holding his hand out to her in greeting, ignoring the obvious look of bewilderment on her face, "Hi, I'm Robert Floyd, you must be Sunny! I've heard so much about you. It's wonderful to meet you!" His tone is light, friendly even. It squeezes her chest, her heart aching.

This is not the Bob she knows.

Her expression doesn't change and the wave of anxiety rolls back up Bob's body, taking his heart under the swell again.

Sunny doesn't even move, she doesn't speak, instead, she stands two feet in front of him and her best friend, her head cocked slightly to one side. Her eyebrows are deeply furrowed, mouth slightly agape. Her eyes slowly move from Bob to Natasha and back again, all of the pieces connecting. She narrows her gaze to a pinpoint.

"Sunny, what's wrong?" Natasha's voice is filled with nerves, her own anxiety peaking. Natasha could almost feel the confusion coming off of Sunny in waves that crest into pure negative. There is silence between the everyone for a minute before Natasha asks again, a little more force behind her voice this time, "Sunny, what's wrong?"

Bob still hasn't retracted his hand. Sunny shakes her head at the sight. Everything finally understood.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," Sunny's voice is almost silent, pointed, until she turns her attention to Natasha, "Robert Wayne Floyd, the 'sweetest guy you've ever met', your goddamn back seater is Floyd!"

Nat's eyebrows are furrowed and she looks at Bob for some sort of a clue as to what's going on. All he can do is shrug, having awkwardly retracted his hand after his name came flying from Sunny's lips. He was taken aback by the use of his full name and the venom Sunny's voice possessed as she spoke them.

Rooster and Hangman are standing closer now, further from the pool table, their game and drinks long forgotten. The men behind Sunny are each on edge, unsure of the situation but ready to jump into action at a moments notice.

Sunny turns her attention back to Bob, heat overtaking her skin and disbelief bubbles through her. Her eyes hold a distinct look of hurt as Bob scans over them, taking in the features of her face.

"You have no idea who I am," There is no fluctuation to her tone. It was not a question. She wants to scoff, but really, she knows she shouldn't be surprised. This is Bob Floyd, after all.

It was in this moment that Sunny realized just how much of a hold Bob still had on her heart. There was no room left to wonder as he stood in front of her, a kind but confused look written over the plains of his face. Somewhere in her subconscious she knows the wants to kiss him. Kiss that dumb look off his face, thread her hands through his too neat hair, and remind him exactly of what he walked away from. She doesn't move, instead, she clenches her fists, the feeling of her pulse thrumming thickly through her tightly curled fingers. Sunny wants to hate him, that feeling tangling in her chest, still so familiar after ten years. She should hate him, but she doesn't.

Bob swears he can almost see the gears turning in her head, almost hear her thinking. Her expression is hard, concentrated. He wants to help her, to know what about his presence in this bar has got her all tangled up. He feels like he was left soaking wet under the hot sun, uncomfortable in the way his skin is almost burning under her gaze.

Sunny brings her hands up to her face and Bob almost tenses at the movement. Sunny breathes deeply behind her palms before running her hands over her hair. Pieces come out of the twists, falling into her eyes. That sparks a bit of familiarity deep within Bob's brain.

"Of course you don't," Sunny's tone is dry, un-humored and scratchy against her throat- she holds back tears. She draws her lips into a line, shaking her head.

"What's going on, Sunny?" Natasha is standing now, positioning herself in between her best friend and her WSO. She shoots a lightly panicked look to the Pilots standing behind Sunny, her eyes almost shouting for help, like they might know something she doesn't.

Hangman moves to step closer, answering Nat's panicked look with action. Bradley stops him with a firm hand on Hangman's chest.

"Not yet," His voice is barely above a whisper, almost getting lost in the loud atmosphere of the bar. If the two men hadn't been standing so close together, Jake would've missed the words. With a grumble, he pushed Bradley's hand from his chest but stays put, heeding the warning.

Maybe if Sunny hadn't been so upset she could've told Natasha that the man standing in front of her was the same man she had told her about so shortly after they began emailing- her first real heartbreak, the man who she had never really gotten over. Maybe she could have told her that she was literally teasing about Bob a few minutes before, talking about the one person on the swim team that she was in love with. Maybe she could have clued Nat in, but she doesn't say a word.

Instead of getting over him, she ran. She ran from the family ranch, from her small town, from anything and everything that reminded her of Robert Floyd, because that was the only thing she could do to keep from breaking her own heart again and again and again. Sunny told herself she left to go to school, to become a writer, that she was doing it for herself. In reality, that desire got pushed to the back burner for a while, the need to be as far away from Florence had been forefront in her mind.

So, in leu of offering any sort of verbal answer, instead of clearing things up, Sunny pulls her knee up, reaching into her boot, pulling a small pocket knife loose form the inside of the leather. There is a warn patch on the leather, where the knife has been kept there for some time, the brown now discolored form the many times the knife has been pulled from and put back into that specific place. It has been kept there for years.

Natasha and Sunny share eye contact as Sunny pulls the knife from her boot. Natasha's eyes are pleading, the creases on the corners visible. Her brows are furrowed, lips pursed. The whole expression screams 'tell me what's wrong, let me help'. Sunny, on the other hand, has her brows is raised giving Phoenix a clear look into her eyes. They swim with hurt and turmoil, something she usually sees in the eyes of new Seamen on the backends of deployment. Nothing could have prepared Natasha for seeing that look in her friend's eyes.

The knife is hidden in Sunny's grasp before any of the Daggers can see it. She holds it with too tight a grip, her hands trembling, one around the folding knife, the other down at her side.

This isn't her Bobby, that much she is sure of. The man in front of her is not the man she had kissed her and left her, the man who broke her heart. Hell, there isn't a smoke tucked behind his ear, there should be, there is always one. He doesn't smell like cherry tobacco. He doesn't smell right, and that makes Sunny's heart clench tighter. That's what decides it for her, the lack of distinct tobacco that usually clings to his clothes.

This really isn't her Bob Floyd. This man in a stranger. But, she knows one thing for sure.

Sunny throws the closed pocket knife at him, the object making hard contact with the center of his chest, thudding against him before clanking to the ground. It bounces unceremoniously under the table. Bob brings his hand up to rub over the area the metal came in contact with, but his eyes never leave her form.

The moment that old pocket knife left Sunny's grasp, she wanted it back. She curses herself for letting the emotion take over her thoughts- the fact that she is still clinging onto any sort of hope that the man in front of her might remember her twists up her insides. She wants Bob back but she has settles for the only part of Bobby she had been able to hold on to She wants to carry it with her like she has been for the last ten years. She wants it the knife back, but it's too late for that now. It sits face down on the ground, discarded like she had been all those years ago.

Sunny turns to walk away, tears threatening her eyes again. Before she goes, she is throwing one last sentence over her shoulder, directed right at him.

"Oh Bobby, once an asshole, always an asshole,"

#bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x you #bob floyd imagine #robert floyd x reader #robert floyd x you #robert floyd imagine #bob floyd angst #best friend phoenix #best friend natasha trace #once an asshole #bob floyd fic

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