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yanderecrazysie · 1 month

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Twisted Zoo Chapter Eight

This is based on the stories of a keeper reader with the octotrio by @ashensgrotto and @merakiui .

Also @twistedcece @cenatour @ursinaw @xiaopleasecomehome @bearshideout @koebishrimpuwu @vash-yuu @help-whatdoimakemyusername @secret-potion @magmdnv @sunshine-for-serotonin @mel-star636 @silkkorchid @thatpersonuouknow @the-ace-reader @pamv11 @coffee-or-hot-cocoa @hrhqueenfox @goseew @luxthestrange @juno-of-wonderland @who-mst @despairingy-obsessed @lanxianschoenheit @ceramic-raven @sirenetheblogger @a13x15a5133p @abcdontbotherme @m0063576 @kimdourden @rammylog @starshiningsirius @im-here-for-the-fun-of-it @the-monochrome-jester @leleunderscore06 @tinymonke @lonelybluesworld @owodi @girl-nahh-two @obeythehuman @berry-efoy @ivorette @the-broken-truth and @thisisafish123 wanted to be tagged! Let me know if anyone else wants to be tagged for future chapters. If you no longer want to be tagged, please tell me! (Some of the tags might not have worked, and I’m sorry if so!)

Summary: You’re a brand new zookeeper at The Halfling Zoo- a place where half-animals live in captivity. Your job is simple- feed them and study them. Your main worry is that one of the more dangerous halflings might kill you.

Unfortunately, that may become the least of your worries.

Next Chapter: Chapter Nine

WARNINGS: none

Note: All characters are aged up, since there will be mature themes in future parts.

Also, I can’t promise I’ll finish this. I suck at finishing stories.

—-------------------------------------------------------

“Hey, (Y/n)! What have you got there?” Ace was quick to greet you when you walked into the bird exhibit, balancing a box of donuts in one hand as you closed the door behind you.

“I brought donuts!” you said with a wide smile. Ace’s face lit up, “Oh sweet! Is there a cherry flavored one?”

“Huh?” you were surprised by the request, “I’m not entirely sure that exists… either way, I’m afraid I don’t have that flavor. I have strawberry frosted ones though.”

“I’ll take it,” Ace said, reaching greedily for the box in your hand. You walked closer to him and popped the lid open.

“There are so many flavors!” Ace gasped at the sight of the box’s contents, “Say what you want about humans, but they’re real masters at making food.”

“Yup, we’re pretty good at food,” you laughed.

Ace took a donut with pink frosting and sprinkles out of the box and studied it, “Looks kinda girly.”

“Doesn’t matter what it looks like,” you snorted, “The taste is the only thing that matters.”

Ace took a bite and chewed for a moment, savoring the flavor, before his eyes lit up with excitement, “Delicious!” He ate the rest of the donut in two bites.

“So you like cherry?” you asked.

“Cherry pie, at least,” Ace said, “In the rainforest, I lived near a village, and a kind old lady used to give cherry pies to all the halflings.”

“That’s really nice of her,” you said with a fond smile, “Was she sad to see you leave?”

“She died,” Ace said, looking away, “She was long gone by the time I left the rainforest.”

“I’m so sorry,” you said, but Ace merely shrugged.

You reached out and took one of Ace’s hands in your own, “I’ll try to bring you a cherry pie one of these days, when I get better at cooking, okay?”

Ace smiled at you, “I’d like that.” He cleared his throat, eyes looking a little watery as he suddenly spread his colorful wings and flew into his birdhouse.

You turned to Deuce’s cage and found him already watching you.

“Want a donut?” you asked.

He gave you a reproachful look but dipped his hand into the box you offered to him anyways. He chose a simple glazed donut and put it aside for later. You had the feeling he might not be one for sweets.

Still, he looked up at you with a soft smile, a light blush, and a “thank you”. You smiled and told him, “No problem, Deuce.”

You decided to go to Trey next, even though he creeped you out a little with the way he looked at you, as though he knew everything about you with one glance.

You found him waiting patiently for you to approach him, despite him being an owl in the middle of the day. “I’m surprised you’re not sleeping,” you told him.

“I could never sleep through your visit,” Trey said softly.

“That’s surprisingly sweet,” you replied with a smile.

“Surprisingly?” Trey asked, “Am I not allowed to be sweet?”

“No, it’s just…” you pushed aside your misgivings- it was probably rude of you to be so creeped out by a halfling that did nothing wrong. Owls always had a severe kind of look to them, that’s probably why he scared you, “Nevermind. Would you like a donut?”

Trey took one from your box and smiled at you, “Long time since sweets.”

“When was the last time you had one?” you asked.

“Used to cook. Made tarts,” he explained.

“You made tarts?” you asked, surprised, “I didn’t know halflings could cook!”

“I could,” Trey said, a proud smile sliding across his face.

“That’s amazing!” your earlier misgivings were forgotten. Your heart melted from how soft his smile was. He looked so innocently happy, thinking back to when he made tarts.

He turned his bright smile on you as he took a small bite from the donut he had selected, “I wish I could make tart for you.”

“I’m not sure how that would work, but maybe someday we could find a way. I would really love to try one of your tarts, Trey.”

His smile widened, “There is a way.”

Suddenly, you felt as though his smile was wrong somehow, as though there was something darker behind his words. Even so, you asked, “What way is that?”

Trey lifted a finger to his lips, corners of his mouth curling upwards, “Secret.”

“Alright then,” you sighed, “Well, I’ve got to give donuts to the others. Bye Trey.”

“Goodbye, (Y/n),” he replied, watching as you walked over to the flamingo’s cage.

You stepped onto the marshland and lifted the box high, “Hey, Riddle, Cater, I have donuts!”

Cater ran forward with a loud “oooh”, but you were more surprised with Riddle’s reaction. The red-haired halfling picked up a strawberry frosted donut with all the care in the world, as though it were a precious, fragile object. He stared at it for a while, even as Cater chowed down on his chocolate donut.

“You brought these… for us?” Riddle asked, “Why?”

“I brought some for the lions, hyenas, and wolves, so I thought it would only be fair,” you said with a shrug.

Riddle continued to stare at his donut in awe until Cater teasingly wrapped an arm around his shoulders, “Riddle, you are going to eat it, right?”

Riddle’s face turned red immediately and he stuffed the donut into his mouth, tearing a large bite out of it in embarrassment. You held back a giggle and reached out a hand to pat his red hair, “It’s okay, I’m really glad you like it.”

Riddle looked up, face red as a tomato, and met your gaze. His blue eyes widened and he ducked his head, somehow turning even redder. He hurried away, still holding tightly onto his strawberry frosted donut. Cater chuckled and turned back to you.

“Thank you for the donuts. Riddle likes sweets,” he said, “Very much.”

“I didn’t know that about him,” you said, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Bring him a strawberry tart,” Cater said in a stage whisper.

“Trey said he makes tarts,” you said.

Cater’s eyes widened, “Yes, I know. Riddle and Trey were childhood friends.”

“That’s so cool!” you took a glance at Trey’s cage and was glad to see it was close enough to the flamingo’s cage that they could talk to each other.

“Yes, well,” Cater looked suddenly uncomfortable, “Riddle’s childhood was not… Well, that’s up to him to share.”

“Oh…” you frowned, looking after the retreating male with sympathy, “I’ll definitely bring him a strawberry tart soon.”

“Thank you,” Cater said, swooping over and landing a kiss on your cheek. You gasped in surprise and placed your fingers over the spot he had kissed. Cater chuckled and waved, running after Riddle and leaving you behind, standing there dumbstruck.

Finally, you managed to pull yourself together and shook your head with a laugh. All of the halflings were so different, and Cater certainly was a character.

You left the flamingo cage and headed for the peacock cage. Vil gave you a disdainful look as you approached them, but Epel and Rook drew closer with interest.

“Hey, I’ve got donuts!” you sang out. None of them looked particularly thrilled, but they still all took one from your box.

“I’d like to get to know you all better,” you said with a friendly smile, “Is there anything I could bring you guys as a gift?”

“Moisturizer,” Vil said, turning his head as though he couldn’t stand to look at you. It kind of ticked you off, if you were being honest.

“I actually have some in my locker. I can go grab it if you want. I have lotion too.”

Vil and Rook stared at you as though you had hung the stars in the sky. Epel didn’t seem to care as much, merely munching away on his donut. You smiled at him, “You’re looking handsome as ever today, Epel.”

He choked on the donut, blush rising on his cheeks and a hesitant smile gracing his lips as he looked at you fondly, “you remembered.”

“Of course I did!” you said with a smile. Epel blushed and looked away, his feathers puffing out in embarrassment.

“Now, I’ll go get that moisturizer and lotion for you, Vil,” you said, “Do you want anything, Rook?”

“Your kindness is astounding, mademoiselle,” Rook said, fluttering his eyelids as a smile swept across his face, “But I will be happy with moisturizer as well.”

Less than ten minutes later, you were sitting with Rook and Vil, all of your skin care products spread between you all. Vil looked like Christmas had come early.

“Thank you,” he said, genuine to the core. It was the first time you had truly seen him smile- he was truly beautiful with one.

Rook looked on happily, pleased to see the both of you happy. It was a peaceful scene.

If only it could stay that way forever.

#twisted wonderland

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corazondebeskar-reads · 21 days

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of rage and ruin - chapter one

of rage and ruin series

chapter one

series masterlist | next chapter

werewolf!alpha!Joel Miller x f!omega!reader

word count: 3.1k

summary: Joel Miller made it twelve years into the apocalypse without getting bit. He turns into a much different kind of monster than he expected, though.

chapter warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, a/b/o, alpha/omega dynamics, omegaverse, captivity, torture, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, horror themes, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, gore, abuse by captors (not by either joel or reader), death, murder of innocent people, typical raider/hunter behavior, mention of cordyceps, angst, no y/n, reader is able-bodied and afab with no specific descriptions, viewer discretion is advised

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

This is a werewolf omegaverse fic that uses traditional and non-traditional elements of the genres. It largely ignores TLOU canon.

DISCLAIMER: A plotline of this story involves unethical medical care and human experimentation re: vaccines. It may give anti-vax vibes. This is NOT an anti-vax story and I do not want any related discourse please and thank you. This is about FEDRA being the absolute worst, not about the real world in any way.

In a rare moment of lucidity, he thinks he used to be human, once.

He’s partially transformed more often than not. Almost never fully, unless he’s under the sway of the moon. His real keeper.

These raiders may think they own him, but he knows the truth.

But lucidity is rare, and most of the time, Joel Miller is more beast than man.

Most of the time, he doesn’t even know he’s Joel Miller.

No matter what, though, he’s a nearly uncontrollable force of nature.

That’s why they keep a shock collar around his neck and tasers at their waists. That’s why they never turn their backs or leave him unrestrained. He fought like hell for a long time until he broke.

No shame in it, he knows. Everyone breaks eventually.

As the years have gone on, though, he’s been getting restless and snippy, less cooperative. And the pain doesn’t really matter anymore.

Nothin’ really does when you’ve given up.

On the last new moon, when the wolf was quiet and the man was loud, he’d tried to refuse. He sat, buck-ass naked, on the gritty wood floor of the house they were raiding.

He did not sniff out treasure like some fucking metal detector. He did not tear the humans limb from limb. He did not feast.

He paid for that night and had the receipts to prove it, laid into his back from the silver-tipped whip.

He should have tried harder to die at the start.

He hadn’t understood right away, when they took him. It, frankly, didn’t even cross his mind that they’d know. Laura, the woman in the woods, had been so sure it was secret.

He got it when they shot him in the leg with a BB gun, though, and the silver shrapnel burned. They were prepared. Silver-coated chains and cuffs, silver-tipped batons and whips and knives. Cattle prods and electric collars.

They’d been hunting him.

They tried to break him easy, first. They were looking for a wolf; didn’t know they’d find Joel Miller. They left him chained in an abandoned suburb, giving him just the minimum food and water to keep him alive.

It worked to weaken him, but they didn’t want him weak forever. Not a very good guard dog or weapon if he can’t lift his head. So when that didn’t work, when he didn’t beg and plead or bend the knee, they gave up and bulked him back up slowly.

So they tried pain next.

He came to know the healing as a curse. They avoided the silver, at least at first, since it’d leave damage. But when they found out they could break his bones over and over and over?

That’s when he started to wish he was dead. What was the point, anyway? He couldn’t go back to Boston. Couldn’t risk himself around Tommy and Tess.

Couldn’t kill himself if he tried, but they could, with their arsenal.

Didn’t matter what he wanted in the end; his brain wouldn’t give in. It overrode his silent pleas, and it fought and fought and fought.

So they took him on a raid. Starving, chained under the full moon, and they waited. He couldn’t go far, but he didn’t have to.

They brought the food to him.

“You’ve no control over it, huh?” Cheryl said after, leering into his “room.” They send her to play nice, but he knows she’s the worst of them all. They just think he’ll smell pussy and roll over. “We didn’t need you to kill them. You just need to scare them and help us find what we’re lookin’ for.”

They had him. He knows, he knows, he knows. He’d have done anything to stop it from happening again. From devouring tied-up families who dared to say “no” to Jim and his crew. From throwing up blood and bones and bows.

He can’t kill himself. They won’t kill him. He had no choice.

He broke.

This new moon, they don’t take him out to scavenge. No, instead, they drag him outside and spray him down with the hose. This, in itself, is not unusual. But when they force the muzzle over his snapping teeth to scrub at his skin with precious lye soap and a rag, he starts to get concerned.

His suspicions are confirmed when they take him back inside.

The only time he’s left unbound is here, in his room. Well. It meets the vague requirements for a room, but it’s also reinforced with silver-plated steel and concrete. Cheaply so, but enough to mute his senses and hopes.

Usually, they wait until the grate is shut to unclip the lead. They wait until he kneels and offers his hands to unlock the shackles. When he’s been good, of course.

But not today. Today, they chain him tight to the wall at the far end of the room.

They’ve had this theory that he hates to admit is not without merit. Looking for another way to control him, they’ve tried to find him an omega.

The first few times, they just forced him on them out wherever they’ve raided. Usually, he’s too out of control, and they don’t survive the encounter.

The most recent time, they dumped one in his cell. But the poor thing still smelled of his alpha, having only lost them hours earlier.

Joel didn’t react well.

They’re trying something new, now.

That he’s here while they clean his room is deliberate. He knows this. They’re purging all his scent from it, and they want him to watch, want him unsettled.

He growls when they remove his mattress completely. It’s a pathetically small, thin, hole-ridden thing, but it’s his.

Before they drag in a new one, a flat pack of grated metal is tossed in the corner. Two of his captors go to work on assembling the contraption, and another leaves for a while, only to return with a sawed-off portion of his mattress.

It fits neatly inside the cage. For that’s what they’ve constructed. It’s silver-coated, of course, but pathetically weak otherwise. If he truly desired, he could snap the bars as easily as bone.

He’s not keen on having burnt hands, though.

Just inside the front of the cage, they clip up a bit of cloth. He doesn’t need to be told what it is, knowing immediately after it’s extracted from the airtight glass Tupperware.

They tell him anyway. “Got a new toy for you to try, if you’re good. For now, this is all you get.”

The heady scent of omega soaked into the panties permeates his room.

He’s salivating a little by the time they finally release him, but he waits until the heavy footfalls echo from down the hall to give in.

They smell divine. He can’t resist tasting, lapping at the tiniest hint of musk and omega under his elongated tongue.

“Told ya he would have shredded her,” Jim says to Cheryl when they come in the morning with his breakfast. Joel’s in his mind enough to feel a little shame, back of his neck burning, when they see the tattered fabric.

It’s clear they anticipated it because, along with his tray, he’s given a new pair.

They’re not so appealing this time. The sweet scent is cut by acidic fear like vinegar through molasses. He ignores them in favor of his meal.

He eats better here than he ever did out there. He’s worth more rations to the raiders than to FEDRA. Robust meals full of meat and eggs and potatoes.

They need him strong, after all.

It’s not until a few hours later that he’s drawn back in by the underwear. It’s not so acrid anymore. Or maybe it is, and he’s just in the mood. Either way, he buries his face in them while he strokes his cock and uses them to catch his cum when he finishes.

There. That’s better. The mix of him with… whoever you are.

When they bring him lunch, they make him put the panties on his old tray before pushing it out to them. He doesn’t burn with shame this time; no, he almost feels proud. Like a peacock fluffing out its feathers. They know now. They must.

Whoever you are, you’re his.

The next day, they bring back the same pair. He wolfs out a little at the fresh layer of you over his cum. It’s all fear and tears and disgust, but it doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter at all, not to him, not to the wolf.

All that matters is how his head fills with static when he licks across the gusset and howls.

Cheryl’s looking pretty smug on the other side of the door, but for all that she’s pleased with the results; they still threaten to turn on the collar if he doesn’t eat quickly.

He’s nearly fully wolf, gobbling down the food and returning to his treasure. He snarls as he strokes his cock, the head angry and purple as he tugs. He doesn’t spill onto the panties this time, not wanting to cover up the perfect combination of your scents. In the end, they’re shredded anyway, as his fingers stretch and break into claws.

In his full glory, his senses are even sharper. Sharp enough that he can hear a faint sobbing across the building and Cheryl’s sharp laughter.

“I don’t know,” she’s drawling when he tunes in. “He sounds pretty excited to meet you.”

The soft sobbing turns raw and cracked. He can smell the salt and phlegm, can practically taste it in the air. He’s aware of Cheryl, but nothing is louder than the way your heart is tripping over itself.

When Cheryl’s words sink in, when he realizes he might actually get to have whatever delicious creature they’ve gotten him, he howls again, a long, aching sound that creeps down your bones like frost.

Later, when he’s a little more present, he realizes they didn’t shock him either time he howled. It’s usually a guarantee.

Whatever game they’re playing, it doesn’t bode well for you.

Joel Miller made it twelve years into the apocalypse without getting bit. He wasn’t even worried when it happened. They’d been heading back to the QZ, him and Tommy and Tess, when a wild dog attacked them.

Or, well. A wolf.

Tommy had gotten a bullet in its head, but it had Joel’s arm in its jaw at the time. Its teeth had rent through his jacket like a spoon in a banana split.

FEDRA would shoot him without a second thought, so they doubled back to the little cabin and hunkered down. Figured they’d lay low long enough for it to be hideable before sneaking back in.

Tommy went out at daybreak for the carcass—it’d be leagues better than what they had in their bags. When he came back, he was faint and empty-handed.

“...don’t make any sense,” he kept muttering, pacing the tiny kitchenette.

Joel and Tess exchanged a glance.

“Probably a bear took it,” she suggested.

Tommy ran his hand through his hair, shook his head, and did it again. When he looked up at them, it was through wild, unpredictable eyes. “Wasn’t a wolf. It was a man.”

“What’re you talkin’ about?” Joel said.

“C’mon.”

They followed him through the thicket, and sure as shit, in the same place the wolf’s corpse had lain was a man with a bullet through his skull. He was completely nude.

“Gotta be a coincidence,” Joel muttered.

Tommy turned to him, eyes wide and hands shaking. “What kind of fucking coincidence is this?”

There was a rustle, and they all turned, guns raised, as a woman peeked from behind a tree.

She put her hands up and waited. Tess jerked her head to one side, and they lowered but did not stow their weapons.

The woman was in a ratty cotton dress with no shoes; autumn leaves crunching underfoot.

“That’s, um. That’s my husband,” she said softly.

“Apologies, ma’am,” Tommy said, his face soft and sad. “But—I think he attacked us.”

Her green eyes grew wide, pupils dilating and breath catching in her chest. “Did you get bit?”

Tommy and Tess instinctually looked at Joel.

“What’s it to ya?” he said.

“Did you get bit?” she repeated.

“Was he Infected?”

“Not with cordyceps, no,” she says. She avoids looking at the body but flinches when she brushes a foot against a blood-soaked leaf.

“What does that mean?” Tommy said.

“I think it’s best we go someplace and talk.”

Against better judgment, they follow her through the words to her home. She claims to have two kids alone there, four years and six months.

It turns out to be true. She gets them both down for a nap and serves hot stew. They try to refuse, but she insists.

Tommy feels a little sick eating the food of a man he killed. They all listen, rapt, as she begins to speak.

“It happened a year ago. But it wasn’t an accident.”

When the full moon is two days away, Joel is nearing the furthest from himself. Same shit, different month, but his reactions to your scent are getting, well, feral.

They’re bringing him strips of cloth, now. He gets a new one with each meal. He doesn’t destroy them anymore. Oh, no. When he’s clearer, he wishes he did.

But no. He smells and licks and then jerks off with them. If only that were the worst of it. He’ll come to be mortified during the waning, but he starts to add them to the cage. It’s fairly saturated with the smell of him from his old mattress, but it pleases the beast within to line it with the sweet mixture soaked into the torn sheets.

You’ll understand, then, the wolf thinks. You’ll know it’s safe for you. Somewhere he’s made, a den all your own where he can keep you.

But you won’t know, because what you know is very little.

When FEDRA started asking for volunteers to test vaccines, you didn’t hesitate. You knew the risks. And the rewards—room and rations for the length of the observation period, anywhere up to a year in length. You knew there would be a catch—probably many, but given that you rarely had a room or rations, it wasn’t a hard choice.

But this was the end of the world, and “informed consent” was not something that survived the outbreak.

They worked in batches. A truckload of live bodies at a time. Sterilizing showers with the barest trace of privacy, dressed in stiff starchy scrubs, and led into little cubicles where nurses with needles sat in wait.

A quick jab to the upper arm, and then you were off. The hospital was an old correctional facility, but again, for someone who hadn’t had a bed on a reliable basis, you felt only relief.

Until the deaths started.

They didn’t even try to hide it. Within 24 hours of arrival, a fourth of your group was gone. Carted out in black bags marked with β and nothing more said. You watched through your window like everyone else.

Someone came around the next day and drew blood from every remaining subject, and the tagging began after that. You could see the symbols on other’s doors, but not your own. α or Ω. What they meant, you couldn’t begin to guess.

It started not long after.

The changes.

At first it was so subtle, you may not have noticed, but a nurse came by each day to ask you a series of increasingly embarrassing questions.

What do you smell? What do I smell like? What does your sweat smell like? How sensitive are your breasts? Describe your vaginal discharge. How aroused are you on a scale of 1-10?

They began weekly tests. Blood draws once a week and daily urine samples, of course, but also hearing and vision. They made you run on a treadmill hooked up to wires.

And then, one day, after six months of intensive observation, they moved you.

Or. They tried to.

You were exhibiting a specific set of side effects, they said. You were to be transferred to another facility for subjects with the same side effects for further observation.

Raiders took out the truck halfway through the ten-hour journey. It was… it was a bloodbath, actually. For the FEDRA officers, anyway.

When they had you all lined up, grippy socks soaking in the ankle-deep mud, well, that was when you all learned which symbol was on your door. They couldn’t keep the word out of their mouths. Omega.

Not that it fucking explained anything.

One by one, a short blonde with a bob went down the line of you and shoved something up to each omega’s face. That’s it. It seemed to have no greater purpose.

But for some reason, when she pressed the cloth against your nose and mouth, she smiled. And they separated you.

Whatever that was had a deep, oaky musk, like the illicit brewery operating out of the warehouse you often slept in before the trials.

They tell you nothing.

They make you sleep on strips of cloth, so you roll around in the pile as you toss and turn, rubbing your sweat and slick and pheromones all over.

They don’t bring you anything of his, but you catch faint whiffs of him (him, always him, they never call him by a name), of those aged, liquor-soaked barrels, but all it does is make you nauseous. You don’t understand how you know it’s him; you still don’t understand any of it.

You learn very quickly not to ask questions.

They take him out on the night the moon is full and bloated, hanging over him like a searchlight. See, it whispers, I can find you anywhere. Anywhere. It doesn’t matter. If it didn’t, the wolf would find it anyway.

He is not himself.

He is his truest self.

He is two or one; neither yet both. A monster movie mashup of fur and teeth and roughshod science experiments conducted by a doctor who wasn’t a doctor at all. He’s the monster’s victim. He’s the monsters’ monster.

He’s the wolf and the wolf is him.

He’s The Wolf and he’s swallowed Joel down.

He’s the man, the weak link, buried so deep he can’t see the light of his celestial mistress

He’s Joel Miller. Sometimes, sometimes.

Tonight, he is gone. There is only the Wolf.

And the Wolf knows. As soon as they cross the threshold, he knows.

Dawn is rising, the hunt is over, but he’ll be the wolf for a while longer. And he knows that fuckin’ smell.

It’s the saccharine sour mix of you. Heavy on your sweet apple undertones, and oh, he knows.

You’re in the cage.

next chapter

*title from "Bad Moon Rising" by Creedence Clearwater Revival.

😬 I've been working on this baby for a long, long time, so I will be drinking your likes and comments desperately. thank you for reading and i love you.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #alpha!joel miller x omega!reader #alpha!joel miller #werewolf joel miller #the last of us fic #joel miller fic #dark fic #dead dove fic #a/b/o verse #fic: of rage and ruin #a/b/o au

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cheapposts · 4 months

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Scar wakes up and gets to live another day.

It feels so weird. So wrong. Wasn’t he supposed to die in the end? Scar is pretty sure he was. He saw it with his own eyes: every winner before him died in the end. But for some reason, Scar didn’t.

At first he was confused. Maybe there’s been some kind of mistake. Maybe he’ll drop dead any minute now. But then a day came by. Two days. A week. And no god struck him down with a lightning. Scar was becoming more and more weirded out by that. He tried taking matters in his own hands, but no amount of jumping from a cliff to his death led him to freedom. He respawned again and again, wearing the same clothes with poppies and lilacs, having the same red eyes looking back at him from the river, staring at the same shade of red his name had every time he took his communicator in his hand and typed, "Hey?", "Anybody alive?", "Hello?", because what if the reason why he’s still alive is that he’s not actually a winner yet? What if there’s another player, and all he has to do to end this is to find and kill them, or let them kill him? But he never found anyone, and two weeks after the day he won, he stopped searching.

Three weeks after the day Scar won, he already had a new house going on. He settled at the edge of the map near mesa. "Screw this," he figured, "I’m not going to just wander around the land for months if the gods forgot to kill me. I’ll do things!" And things he did. After he was done with his new house, he fixed his old base, and tore down Mumbo's tower, and built a couple of things here and there. It was nice.

The next week was spent relaxing. He tended to his crops and fed cows he’d stolen from someone (not that the person would mind; they were dead). He died once that week and woke up in his bed again, but at that point it was starting to feel normal.

Five weeks after the day Scar won, he finally had to admit that the gods were not going to kill him. That for some reason, they decided to trap him there. Or maybe that’s what their idea of a happy ending was, maybe Scar happened to become the winner of the final game, the final round, and this was his reward. Maybe all the other players have gone home. Maybe Scar’s the only one left behind, and they live on without him.

There was no use in thinking about possibilities. It was only upsetting him. No - terrifying him. Instead, he took the matters in his own hands once again, and paid a visit to The Secret Keeper.

"I don’t want that," he said to it. "If this is my reward, I don’t want it. I want to go home. To Hermitcraft. Back to my friends. Back to where they’re alive."

The Secret Keeper didn’t seem to react. Scar felt his chest heat up with rage.

"Get me out of here!" he yelled, voice wavering. "You psychos! I- I miss my cat!"

The Secret Keeper didn’t answer.

Scar went home, laid down on his bed, and spent the evening thinking about Jellie's warm fur and his friends' smiles.

Scar wakes up and gets to live another day.

#579 words #sorry for any typos/mistakes #it was supposed to be a fic not a ficlet but i’m not sure i’ll ever finish it so. i’ll just leave in here #ficlet #fanfic #goodtimeswithscar #secret life smp #secret life spoilers

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1doesnotsimplyhavejust1fandam · 7 months

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Imagine being such close besties with someone that your entire world knows about it. Just. Sirius Black and James Potter being so close that literally nobody questions that Sirius was the Potters’ Secret Keeper, even when he immediately went after Peter in a very public way, instead of laying low like any sane person would do after they were just revealed a traitor and their precious Lord died (although, they did think Sirius went mad, so it makes sense in a way). But of everyone in the Order, no one once questioned the Potters making Sirius their Secret Keeper, despite his prejudiced family, despite the Prank, despite any number of ways in which Sirius wasn’t perfect. Everyone in the Wizarding World still saw Sirius and James, and thought, “yeah, there’s no way it was anyone else, even if the betrayal makes their friendship seem so much less deep”. There was no reason for Remus to question it because he watched James and Sirius be the best of friends for a decade, he knew Sirius was Harry’s godfather, he knew James would have trusted no one more, that Lily loved Sirius and thought the world of him. There really was no other choice for the Potters, to anyone.

Which makes Peter being Secret Keeper that much more awful because it was such a genius move! Sirius was actually so smart to try this twist, to suggest making Peter the Secret Keeper. He knew everyone knew how close him and James were, how close he’d always been to the Potter family, he knew they’d come after him and Sirius would’ve DIED rather than betray his friends, his godson. He would’ve died to protect Peter too, so that nobody would know who the Secret Keeper really was. There was no reason to suspect Peter when there was Sirius Black, known Death Eater hater and unendingly loyal to his friends, RIGHT THERE. If Sirius really HAD died, he would’ve gone out thinking his friends would still be safe bc once Voldemort discovered he wasn’t the Secret Keeper, it would’ve jumped to Remus or even an older Light member like Moody or Dumbledore. Sirius damned himself knowingly, before ever finding out that Peter had gotten the Potters killed.

Sometimes I think about how Sirius managed to convince James and Lily to use Peter instead of him. They both must’ve known that Sirius would be killed immediately once it was determined that he didn’t know the Secret, so Sirius must have used Harry against them, said that they needed to do ANYTHING to keep their little boy safe, even if it meant Sirius offering himself up as a target, a sacrifice for their safety. Sirius must have thought he was so smart, because he found a way to keep his friends and godson safe, even though he wasn’t the Secret Keeper, and he didn’t put them at risk by trusting “potential spy: Remus Lupin”. He must have argued with James and Lily for ages about it, convincing them that it was the right decision, some misdirection to keep them safer for longer, another line of defense between their little Harry and the monster who wanted to destroy him.

It’s already wild to me that Sirius even held enough power/voice in this discussion to even suggest Peter as Secret Keeper. Like, the level of trust James and Lily must’ve had in him, to entrust their lives AND their son’s in Sirius’ plan? Nobody can ever say that Sirius wasn’t loved and trusted to the ends of the earth by James and Lily. They wanted HIM because there was nobody they trusted more, even with how reckless Sirius is shown to be, even years later. Trying to imagine Sirius in Azkaban all those years, knowing he basically handed his best friends over to Voldemort with that plan? Hell on earth, literally. He speaks on it maybe once to Harry in the entirety of the series, and it’s so clear that he is completely derisive about the plan. He despises the fact that it was his plan that got his best friends killed, that caused Harry to lose his parents. He blames himself (and Peter), but he had over a decade to sit in prison and think about the what ifs of that plan, to remember that it was his idea that killed James and Lily.

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hey-august · 1 month

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Working on the big top for years, working with buggy for so long you trust each other more than anyone, being each other’s confidant and best friend but NEVER crossing the line to anything else because! That’s still your boss! And your friend!

You could neverrrrrr imagine anything happening between the two of you especially not late at night, cleaning up after a show after the crew has gone to bed, sitting down to take a break and putting ur head in his lap, looking up at the stars and catching buggy staring at you? Oh my god that’s crazy nooooo you absolutely would neverrrrrr reach up and pull him down to kiss you omg

Ugh. ugh. ugh. ugh. I LOVE this anon. I love this and things got out of hand. It deviates sliiiightly from what you wrote because I kept forgetting about the stars. I hope it's still enjoyable!!

WC: 908 Warnings: SFW, buggy x GN!reader, lil bit of longing, mention of drinking, barely proofread

It’s purely platonic. A friendly connection. Captain and crewmate. Drinking buddies. Shoulders to cry on. Secret keepers. Partners in crime. Friends, and nothing more.

Becoming close happened so naturally that no one questioned it. Life carried on, as it does, and eventually you and Buggy were joined at the hip. While you worked on the crew and he was the captain, the dynamic didn’t carry into the friendship.

No one worried that you were an informant for their boss. You knew when to keep your mouth shut, when to pass along “rumors,” and you still joined in on the shit talk. It was all part of the bonding and you were thankful that your connection to the captain didn’t ruin it. If anything, it boosted morale. Your closeness with the captain made them feel closer to him as well. If you could survive slapping him on the back with laughter, so could they.

The other tokens of friendly affection, however, they left to you. Grabbing Buggy by the arm and dragging him to see something. Teasing him whenever he got irrationally ticked off. Shoving him playfully after a prank. Pushing the hair from his face when his hands are busy. Offering calming words and a quiet walk when his emotions were too extreme.

Buggy reciprocated in kind. Only letting you polish off his personal flask. Fixing your clothes when you misaligned the buttons or left a tag out. Swapping plates and drinks mid-meal. Calling you out on your shit when you were being rude or pissy. Offering you his room as a quiet place to calm down when you needed a minute.

You two were buds. Peas in a pod. Birds of a feather. And nothing more. That’s just how it was. How it was supposed to stay. It was luck that the friendship worked out well and didn’t jeopardize the crew. You couldn’t risk throwing that off-balance.

No matter how much your heart ached when you shared drinks that touched both of your lips. No matter how much you liked when he squeezed you with one arm while laughing raucously at a shitty joke you told. No matter how long you wanted to stay in his room, hoping that he would come in to join you. No matter how many times you held his hand in the dark, while you both walked the deck among the stars.

You were friends.

You used to be friends until that one night. Another successful raid, another successful show, another successful party. The crew worked hard and they were exhausted. Knowing you could convince the captain to finish cleaning in the morning if you two were alone, you helped the rest of the crew sneak away slowly.

“Looks like it’s just us again, Bugs.” The captain hadn’t noticed the dwindling numbers and needed you to point it out.

“What? What?! Where did those freaks go?” Buggy spun around, as if he expected you to be lying. Maybe his crew was hiding among the seats, waiting to pop out.

“It’s been a long day, captain. We’ve done a lot…why don’t we sit down for a moment.”

That was the first step. Get Buggy to relax. Once his guard was down, it would be easier to convince him to call it a night.

Instead of listening, the pirate continued to grumble. Slipped in between complaints about abandonment were short praises and compliments about how well his crew performed and what a great captain they had to bring them such glory. Rather than interrupting his monologue, you sat on the wood ground to listen and wait for him to follow your lead.

Buggy’s mouth ran on as he joined you on the floor cross-legged and patted his lap. You reclined and rested your head on his leg, settling in to be a good friend.

It was no secret that Buggy talked a lot. You were a good listener. You had to be, as his best friend. Sometimes he just wanted to talk. He didn’t need to be heard, but you always paid attention. The pirate’s voice was soothing. Whether it was shrill when he was shrieking, grating because he was shouting, low because he was angry, or bubbly with excitement, you wanted to drift away in the sound. Closing your eyes, you let yourself fall deeper.

As he carried through topic after topic, his voice grew softer. Calmer. You could easily imagine Buggy’s expressive yet content face. While it was imprinted in memory, the real vision was one that always took your breath away. Opening your eyes to get your fill, you were faced with the gentle expression aimed towards you.

With air stuck in your chest, your mouth was empty. Lonely.

Reaching up, you put a hand on the back of Buggy’s head and pulled your friend closer. And closer. And closer. Until your lips touched. Until you could breathe again, filling yourself with him. His mouth was soft. Warm. Inviting. Your tongue accepted the invitation and joined his for a dance that started cautiously before turning into something fervent and confident.

You held him close until your breath stopped again, stilled by emotions that grew too big and too fast to keep contained. Loosening your hold on his head, Buggy took the cue. He pulled away, also out of breath.

You two stared at each other in silence.

“It was about time,” he finally said before leaning in to kiss you again.

#buggy x reader #buggy the clown x reader #buggy the clown #buggy x you #x reader #buggy op #opla buggy #one piece buggy

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rosanna-writer · 4 months

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Love at First Sight's for Suckers (1/5)

Summary: [A Feysand Newsies AU] Rhysand had a reputation. A big reputation. But fortunately for Feyre, a newsie selling papers on the streets of Velaris, tabloid gossip about the handsome, charismatic, hard-partying war-hero of a High Lord's heir means business is booming. That is, until the city's newspaper magnates get greedy, Feyre finds herself an unwitting labor leader at the center of a strike, and Rhys becomes an unexpected ally... Warnings: None

A gift for @the-lonelybarricade, for @acotargiftexchange! @lbs-secret-santa is me!

LB, creating this for you has been such a blast, and I am definitely the luckiest secret santa in the world to have such a gem of a giftee. It's rare for someone to have both a talent AND a heart as big as yours—you're truly the High Lady of Feysand, not just because your fics are incredible, but because of the way you make new writers (including me earlier this year) feel immediately welcome and how you handle fandom nonsense with such grace and tact. I'm so glad to call you a friend <3

And sorry for an author's note that reads like an annoying award show speech, but there are SO MANY people I want to thank. The event organizers did such a thoughtful job creating an event that brought so many people together across the fandom; not just secret santa/giftee pairs, but people reaching out to new betas, roping new friends into secrecy shenanigans, and getting hyped about other gifts! @iambutmortal, @thesistersarcheron, @itsthedoodle, @wilde-knight, and @ablogofsapphicpanic have been the best betas/saucy Rhys pun brainstormers/secret keepers/DM screaming session partners, and the daily headlines would not have happened without their beautiful brains. I had SO MUCH FUN watching the excitement and creative energy grow and grow in the lead up to this reveal. And also @reverie-tales, thanks for being my unwitting cover to throw LB off my trail!

Anyway, you can find the first chapter Here on AO3 or under the readmore. Happy Holidays!

One Heir to Share? Rhysand's Rita's Threesome

Baring it All at Starfall! Rhysand Stuns in Daring Deep-V Shirt

Rhysand's Baby Blues: Heir's Latest Fling Spotted Shopping for Baby Clothes

Future High Lord’s High: Witchberries, Fae Wine, and Wild Starfall Benders in the House of Wind?

Lady of the Night or FUTURE Lady of Night? Rhysand's Girlfriend Shocks Royal Family at Nynsar

Un-Rhys-onable: Night's Heir Refuses to Kneel to High Lord

Heir Head! Rhysand Forgets Alphabet During Library Community Service

Rhysand had a reputation.

A big reputation.

Perhaps that was why after selling him the newspaper every day for the better part of a year, Feyre Archeron had long since decided that he was far too full of himself to be ashamed of anything.

As he did every Saturday morning, Rhys appeared on her corner like clockwork, wearing last night's clothes and his trademark smirk. If Feyre wanted to know what lucky male or female had gone home on his arm, she'd only have to check tomorrow's society pages, which were always breathlessly detailing the exploits of the Night Court's handsome, charismatic, hard-partying war-hero of a High Lord's heir.

Not that Feyre cared. There were more important things to worry about than Rhysand's love life, like where her next meal was coming from. She only kept up with it because his scandals sold papers like nothing else.

And she definitely didn't feel a stab of envy every time she read about his latest fling. That would be pointless—a lesser fae shadow-wraith like Feyre would never be Lady of the Night Court. The stir Rhys's Illyrian mother had caused made that obvious enough, even if she was the High Lord's mate.

"Good morning, Feyre darling," Rhysand drawled, the way he always greeted her.

"It's noon, Rhys," Feyre said. The nickname might have been overly familiar, but Feyre had noticed his eyes glittered like stars whenever she used it with him. And besides, after being up since dawn, she wasn't inclined to fall over herself currying favor with someone who'd just rolled out of bed.

"Then let me be the first to tell you that you look delicious this afternoon."

Feyre rolled her eyes, positive she looked the farthest thing from delicious in her threadbare leggings and sweater. If it were anyone but Rhys, she would have been sure they were being cruel. But he had enough of her goodwill that he could pay her teasing compliments and not end up with his teeth bashed in for his trouble.

"Did you give them anything interesting to write about last night?" she said, leaning back against a streetlight and crossing her arms over her chest.

Rhys picked at an invisible piece of lint on his tunic, which almost had Feyre rolling her eyes a second time. Despite being in last night's clothes, he didn't look the least bit disheveled—probably some spell he'd cast to ensure he looked irritatingly perfect as always.

"Mor needed a wingman again," he said.

Feyre relaxed, relieved at his answer. Rhys's equally beautiful cousin was the subject of plenty of headlines of her own, and the two were frequently seen together. The people of Velaris were fascinated by the pretty blonde former Hewn City princess–when the Herald ran a story about her, Feyre just had to shout "Morrigan" to turn heads and make sales. If the lead story was about her, Feyre could probably afford to eat tomorrow.

It had been a while, though, since Rhys had been spotted with someone new on his arm. Or with anyone other than Morrigan, his sister, or the two Illyrians he called his brothers actually. Feyre had rolled her eyes at the rumors of a secret relationship or a hidden love child—if you asked her, the most likely explanation was that there were only so many attractive people in Velaris with a weakness for violet eyes. Rhys was bound to run out of people to fuck eventually.

"Is that the truth?" Feyre said, a teasing smile playing on her lips. "Or did you actually find someone to settle down with?"

She'd meant it as a joke, but Rhys didn't smile. There was something hungry, almost predatory, in the way his gaze slid over her. Feyre found herself flushing, even as she stared right back. "Would you care if I did?" he said.

It felt like a challenge; Feyre lifted her chin. "Of course I'd care if you stopped causing scandals. I'm a newsie, and gossip sells papers."

"Of course," Rhys said, something in his expression seeming to shutter. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a gold coin, handing it to her. The value was far more than a single paper was worth, but he'd always insisted she keep the change.

Feyre pulled a paper from the bag slung over her shoulder and handed it to him, longways so there was no chance their fingers would touch. She'd let that happen once, and his fingertips brushing hers had sent a crackle of electricity along her skin that she'd been thinking about ever since. Her mind replayed it almost daily—and frankly, Feyre found that embarrassing.

She pocketed the coin. "Pleasure doing business with you."

When Rhys spoke again, he dropped his voice to a low, sensual purr that sent shivers skittering down Feyre's spine, heat washing over her despite the autumn chill that cut through her tattered clothes. " Everything is a pleasure when it comes to you, Feyre."

He flashed her one last feline smile, and Feyre tipped her cap as he winnowed away, trying not to blush. With her other hand, she fingered the coin in her pocket. It would go under the floorboard with the rest of the ones she'd stashed away. Only a few more until she could afford the one-way ticket to the Continent that she'd been dreaming of.

Velaris was wonderful— if you could afford a big, strong door to lock out the hustle and bustle. Feyre certainly couldn't, and she was dying to get away.

A flash of auburn hair and a shout of "High Lady!" across the street pulled Feyre from her thoughts. Lucien was striding towards her, a half-empty satchel of newspapers slung over one shoulder and carrying another paper bag in his hand. She raised a hand in greeting—she'd stopped cringing at the nickname a long time ago.

"Is the new spot over by the docks working out for you?" she said when he got closer, even though she knew the answer. Lucien could sell papers anywhere; he didn't even need the eyepatch and the sob story about being an Autumn Court orphan who'd found his way to Night—just his brilliant smile was enough.

Lucien shrugged, the gesture far too elegant for someone who'd spent his morning selling newspapers to sailors and fishmongers. "I can make anything work."

"Then why did you come looking for me?" Feyre said. With unsold papers still in his bag, there had to be a reason. The newsies bought the papers from the distributor each morning, starting each day operating at a loss until they'd sold enough papers to recoup the cost. Lucien still had work to do if he wanted to turn a profit.

He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "Isn't gazing upon your beautiful face reason enough?"

"You sound like Rhysand."

"And you're saying that like it's a bad thing. Trouble in paradise?"

Feyre resisted the urge to roll up one of the papers in her own bag and smack him with it. Lucien had overheard her speaking to Rhysand once and apparently decided the prince was in love with her. Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

"Rhysand isn't—"

" By the Cauldron, he'd follow you around like a lost puppy if you'd let him."

"He's just a flirt," Feyre said, the edge to her voice making it clear she didn't want to talk about this anymore. "What did you need me for?"

"Someone needs to finish my pickles," Lucien said, pulling a sandwich out of the paper bag. He handed Feyre half, along with the entire side of pickles it had come with, then sat down on the curb to eat, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

Feyre nibbled on the pickle, the first thing she'd eaten all day, and thanked the Cauldron for a best friend who hated them and shared them with her. Putting her papers aside, she sat down next to him. "Thanks, Lucien," she said, unwrapping her half of the sandwich. Lunch would be on her next—that had been their unspoken agreement for years, even when meals were sporadic and infrequent.

They lapsed into silence, more intent on eating than talking. It was comfortable, a much needed rest after a morning spent shouting headlines at passersby. Feyre's feet already ached from standing all morning.

After a few minutes, Lucien balled up the now-empty wax paper. "Now that you're fed, I think it's safe to mention that you're needed over by the Rainbow."

"Again?" Feyre said with a sigh.

"Bron and Hart are fighting over the same spot. The High Lady should step in."

Feyre wasn't sure when exactly it had happened, but at some point, she'd found herself the unofficial leader of the newsies of Velaris. She'd always kept an eye out for newcomers and lended them a hand—advice on selling papers and navigating the city was all she had, but Feyre shared freely. When there was a problem, she was usually the one to resolve it.

At some point, "High Lady" had gone from an ironic nickname for a poor girl on the streets to a mark of respect for a young woman who took care of her own.

"I'll talk to them," Feyre said, finishing her food and standing up.

Lucien started to thank her, but Feyre had already called on her magic, her body becoming nothing but shadow. Incorporeal like this, she could slip through walls and travel unseen—and crucially, it was faster than walking. As a lesser fae, it was the only magic she had at her disposal.

Even in the brightest sun, Velaris was full of shadows. And for better or worse, Feyre had made them her home.

***

Rhysand had planned to give himself time to read the news before he was due for a meeting at the House of Wind. Yesterday, he'd told himself he'd be up early enough to look over the agenda ahead of time. He'd wanted to be prepared, and his father would have his head if Rhys was late for official court business again.

But somehow, the High Lord's ire seemed incredibly far away last night, when the Cauldron only knew how many drinks he'd had and Mor was dragging him back to the dance floor at Rita's again, and dawn had nearly broken when he'd finally stumbled home.

Late or not, though, he still had to see Feyre.

The most important part of his day had become buying the paper from her. It wasn't about the news and never had been—every day, Rhys hoped that would be the day she finally took an interest in him that went beyond trading a few teasing remarks and rolling her eyes. He'd never flirted so much, so painfully obviously before, just to have it all go ignored like water off a duck's back.

And that had already been going on for a few months before the mating bond snapped.

Their fingers had brushed as she'd handed him the paper. Perhaps that brief touch skin-to-skin had been all it had taken for the urge to claim and taste and scent his mate to hit him with all the force of a brick to the head. Before he'd done something stupid, Rhys had winnowed away without an explanation or a goodbye.

After that, Rhys had resolved not to tell her, at least not until she showed some sort of interest back. But in the months since, he hadn't gotten her to even blush. And even if by some miracle, she did want him that way and accepted the bond, there was no guarantee she wouldn't resent him after a few decades as future Lady of Night. Her indifference was painful enough—Rhys wasn't sure he could withstand her hating him.

For the short flight to the House of Wind, Rhys let the chill in the air clear his head of thoughts of Feyre. He was supposed to focus today. Some of the city's most powerful merchants had asked for a meeting with his father, and as the High Lord's heir, Rhys was expected to be in attendance too.

The meeting room was already full when Rhys walked in, brushing his windswept hair back into place. From the head of the table, his father glared daggers at him.

Rhys ignored it, dropping into the empty seat that had been left for him. "I hope I didn't miss anything interesting."

He kept the smirk plastered on his face, even as his father pushed past his shields to speak mind-to-mind. We'll discuss this later. For now, get through this meeting without embarrassing me further. That's an order.

Rhys made a mental note to let Mor know he'd likely have to cancel their plans to go to the theater that night.

One of the merchants—Rhys had met him before but had forgotten his name—gave him a cold smile and said, "We were just discussing economic policy."

"Carry on, then," Rhys said.

As the meeting droned on, Rhys forced himself to focus, even if the subject matter was painfully dry. One day, he'd be High Lord, and if he wanted to be the sort of ruler the Night Court deserved, one who made things better, he needed to be knowledgeable and willing to listen.

But even then, he wasn't immune to letting his mind wander. At some point, he'd found himself thinking about how the sunlight had brought out the gold in Feyre's hair, when the sound of his name brought him crashing back down to reality.

"…but you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, Rhysand?" one of the merchants was saying, the sneer in his voice obvious.

Rhys felt his father's eyes boring into him, and it was clear this was some sort of test. He was supposed to be handling something, and Rhys didn't want to think about what sort of punishment might be in store for him if he made it obvious he'd stopped paying attention.

"Would I?" Rhys said, arching a brow in a way that he hoped looked imperious.

"With how many headlines you've been the subject of? I think by now you'd know a thing or two about what sells papers. If it weren't for you, we'd have gone under after the War."

Rhys's hands curled into fists under the table as he recalled exactly who this merchant was—Pulitzer, a newspaper magnate, the one who'd been complaining that circulation was down since the Treaty had been signed. Peace, apparently, was boring.

Peace that Rhys had bled for, had nearly died for when he'd been captured by Amarantha's army. Not that any of that mattered when profits were down.

"Then a bit more gratitude is in order," Rhys said, his voice low and deadly and all command, sounding every inch the future High Lord he was. It was so brief that Rhys nearly missed it, but his father's lips quirked up in approval. "If you have a request, I suggest you word it carefully."

It quickly became clear that Pulitzer and the rest of the owners of Velaris's major newspapers had come to grovel. Even if Rhys couldn't bring himself to care, it was true that the Night Court's newspaper industry was bringing in less money since the end of the war. They'd come to petition his father for assistance.

And to Rhys's relief, the High Lord's answer had been a quick and resounding no.

Of course, Rhys knew his father's answer had been more about safeguarding the Night Court's wealth more than anything else. That much was obvious when so many of their citizens were struggling, even in Velaris. It was something that Rhys vowed to change one day.

But Rhys's relief didn't last much longer. His father had told the newspaper moguls to figure it out themselves, and they'd quickly agreed that to fix their bottom line, they'd raise the price for the newsies who bought the papers to distribute each morning.

Newsies who were barely getting by as it was. Newsies who were already going hungry and sleeping outdoors even as the weather got colder. Newsies who'd been orphaned or disabled after the war and couldn't find decent work.

Newsies like his mate, and Rhysand certainly wouldn't stand for that.

#feysand #acotar secret santa #Love at First Sight's For Suckers

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fearfully-fiction · 1 year

Text

Instead- Colby Brock x Reader

word count:1409

warnings: slight angst, unrequited love, a bit of fluff, like 2 curse words.

summary: you've been dating Colby since your senior year of high school, but it just so happened that someone you were closest to has hidden feelings for you. (rewrite of witches pond section of Dracula's Castle)

(gif not mine!)

You had been friends with the boys for as long as you could remember. Colby asked you out in your senior year of high school and of course, you said yes. A small yet significant detail you missed was that there was someone else who loved you too. Someone who you were immensely close to. Someone you confided in when you needed the best secret keeper you knew. Someone you told everything to, the person who introduced you to Sam and Colby. Nate Hardy.

Now he had never told you this obviously, he was very good at hiding it. Nate was the first person you told when Colby asked you out, and to say his heart broke was an understatement. He knew his chances were gone, and it broke his heart that he was too late. But seeing the joy and excitement on your features when you told him gave him enough courage to keep it all to himself.

Still, years later, he looked at you and felt his heart clench. He had had girlfriends, but none he loved like you. So seeing you now was something he loved but dreaded each time.

It just so happened that you were now in Romania, with the boys about to go investigate Dracula’s Castle. Before you got to the castle you were going to find Witches Pond.

The venture was into the forest of course, where else would it be? You were in one of Colby’s sweaters and a pair of jeans along with your favorite pair of vans. Nothing special but Nate thought you looked beautiful.

“You know I love you guys but sometimes you make me want to hit you because of the crazy shit you do,” you said and shook your head. “But you do love us?” Sam questioned and you chuckled. “Yes, I do,” you spoke up again. Nate fell into step with you and tossed an arm around your shoulder. “But I’m your favorite right?” he asked quietly and you laughed. “Always have been,” you said and nudged his side. He smile down at you and squeezed your shoulder, and you smiled back at him. He could’ve melted at the sight of you smiling so fondly at him.

“Do you guys really think Vlad was killed at this pond?” Nate asked and everyone turned to face you two. “I mean it’s a possibility, you know, I don’t think that everything is impossible. So, I think there’s a chance,” you shrugged. “Yeah, I mean like she said it’s not impossible to think,” Colby followed up as he fell into step with you. You carefully twisted your arm around his and tangled your fingers together. He smiled down at you and kissed your head. Nate had removed his arm from around you and walked ahead to catch up with Sam.

Sam looked over at Nate and sighed, “I’m sorry man,” Sam told him. Nate looked over at him in confusion.” What for?” he asked. “You love her,” Sam said and Nate’s eyes widened. “No I don’t, what are you talking about?” he asked and shook his head. “It’s ok, I won’t tell anyone. I just see how much it affects you,” Sam told him and Nate sighed heavily. “Just don’t say anything,” he said quietly. “Like, I said. I won’t say anything,” Sam said and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re nervous,” Colby said quietly. “A bit,” you said and leaned into him. He let go of your hand and placed his arm around you, you reached up to once again tangle your fingers with his. “We’ll be fine baby, we always are. Nothing will hurt you I promise,” he said and you nodded your head. “It’s not me I worry about,” you said and looked up at him. “Nothing will happen to us ok, nothing will happen to me,” He assured you. You softly nodded your head, “Ok,” you took his assurance.

You leaned up on your toes to press a kiss on his cheek.

“Now how about we find this pond huh?” he asked with a small smile and you once again nodded, smiling back at him. He pulled you to a halt and slightly crouched down in front of you. “What are you doing?” you laughed softly. At the sound of your laughter, the other two boys came to a stop. They turned to look at you and Colby. “Hop on, I’ll carry you,” he said and your eyes widened in surprise. “What?” you questioned. “C’mon, I’ll carry you,” he stated again. “Are you sure?” you asked. He stood up straight and turned toward you, placing his hands on your cheeks. “I’m positive,” he said and kissed your head. “Ok,” you said and shook your head with a laugh.

He turned around again and you held onto his shoulders and jumped a bit. He easily caught you and you wrapped your legs around him, with your arms going around him as well. Colby took off down the trail and you held on tighter. You laughed loudly as he went as fast as possible, laughing with you. When he stopped you rested your head on his shoulder and giggled.

Nate looked at you two and couldn’t help but feel his heart sink. The sound of your laughter and the sight of your smile were the most beautiful things to him. He was disappointed that it wasn’t him who would get them from you for the rest of his life.

“You good babe?” Colby asked and you laughed breathlessly before pressing a kiss on his cheek. “I’m just fine,” you said with a bright smile. “It’s disgusting how cute you both are!” Sam called from behind you and you let out another loud laugh. “I’m taking that as a compliment!” you called back and hear him chuckle.

You rested your head in the crook of Colby’s neck and placed a small kiss there. He squeezed your legs and hummed contentedly. Your eyes became heavier as he carried you, but you stayed awake. Keeping soft conversation with him once in a while.

Nate couldn’t help but wish it was him who got to hold you like that.

“How fucking far into the woods is this execution site?” you mumbled and Colby laughed. “Hey, Sam, she wants to know how fucking far into the woods this execution site is,” Colby said and looked over at him. Nate and Sam laughed. “I don’t think we have much longer,” he answered. “I’m not sure about that, we always get lost somehow,” you said and glanced over your shoulder.

“Not always,” Nate tried to defend, and you huffed out a laugh. “Sure,” you dragged out.

But to your surprise, you got there after a few more minutes.

Colby set you down and you gently tugged him down to place a kiss on his lips. “Thank you, love,” you said and he placed another kiss on your lips. “Of course,” he said and smiled.

---

The walk back seemed to go by much quicker, and then you had a three-hour drive to Bran Castle. You got into the car and sat in between Sam and Colby. About an hour into the drive you fell asleep on your boyfriend’s shoulder. “(y/n), you ok?” Nate asked after not hearing you for a while. He looked back at you and his gaze softened at the state of you. Your hair falling in front of your face and your cheek slightly squished by Colby’s shoulder. “She fell asleep a while ago,” Colby spoke softly so as to not wake you. “Right, sorry,” Nate said and turned back around. He looked in the rearview mirror and clenched his eyes shut when you sleepily reached to grab Colby’s arm and hold him closer to you as you hid your face in his shoulder.

Colby kissed your head and let his head rest against yours.

All Nate wanted was you, he wanted to be the one you loved. He wanted to hold you and kiss you goodnight. He wanted to tangle his fingers with yours and let you hide in his chest when you got scared. But he knew you were with Colby and he cared too much to jeopardize that. He would just have to live with the love you gave him despite it not being the love he so desperately wanted. He just couldn’t help but think what it would be like if you loved him instead.

---

Taglist:

@jaziona92

@beautybyfire

@thefandomthings

@kippykasey

@kristin813

@katelynanna

@nyx2021

#colby brock #colby brock one shots #colby brock imagines #sam and colby imagine #sam and colby #colby brock imagine #colby brock fanfic #colby brock blurb #colby brock fluff #colby brock x reader #colby brock x y/n #colby brock x you #colby brock one shot

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jellieland · 5 months

Text

The land around spawn is destroyed. Torn to shreds, full of holes. It's like a warzone.

Martyn leans up against the rocks by the side of the Secret Keeper. It, of course, is pristine. Completely untouched. Unharmed.

Something about that makes him really angry.

He glares up at the massive pillar Joel had jumped off a few weeks ago. Behind it, the sky is bright and clear.

Last week, as Jimmy climbed up it, Martyn had shouted after him. Fly, canary, fly.

Usually he might repeat that to himself, at this point. Laugh wryly, gaze off into the distance dramatically. Maybe make some comment about how letting the canary go free didn't actually keep it safe.

Not this time, though.

He won't laugh about it this time, because everyone else already did.

If he thinks about that, it feels like something is burning in his chest, so he keeps thinking about it.

He's the only red left, after all. He has to really give it everything he's got.

He'll tear them to shreds.

There isn't the same red bloodlust, this time, but he can make his own.

They all banded together. Roped in Jimmy, roped in Mumbo. Slayed the monsters, and congratulated themselves on a job well done, and left Martyn completely alone.

Jimmy had already betrayed him. Tried to punch him into lava. They hadn't really had the chance to resolve that, before he was gone.

It had honestly really stung, which was ridiculous and hypocritical given what he did to Scott last time, but he can't help it, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how much he tells himself that he, of all people, really had no right to feel betrayed.

It's so frustrating when he gets attached. It just makes things so much harder.

"You'd think I would've learned by now," he says, bitter. He looks away from the Secret Keeper, across the torn up ground. "You really would."

Maybe he had just been feeling sentimental, today, for some stupid reason. He'd even thought Tango sounded like—well, it's embarrassing to admit this even to himself, so he won't. Tango, of all people! The guy hates him!

But he'll show them.

He's not sure what, exactly, he'll show them, but he will. He'll make them hurt. He'll make them bleed. No honeyed words, this time.

He'd looted Lizzie's house, earlier, before he'd known quite how this was all going to end up.

He still would have if he'd known, of course—it's not like she was using it. Maybe he would have taken more, actually.

It's better not to think about how she died falling through the void, because when he does he starts to remember what that felt like, and he starts to feel cold, and that's the opposite of what he needs, now.

Mumbo had gone off the rails a bit. He does always seem to do that, when he hits red.

Martyn had still given him the TNT he needed, though, of course.

Mumbo had barely got to do anything. He'd had so little time.

It makes him so, so angry.

"I'm going to kill them," he growls, still staring out and away from the Secret Keeper. "I'm going to kill them. They were so proud of themselves."

He clenches his hands into fists.

He should, probably, be marching back home, planning and gather resources and seething in the shadows.

Looking out over this battlefield is good, though.

It's making him feel how he wants to be feeling.

It would be just wonderful if he could find a way to justify saying here forever, but unfortunately that's beyond even his skill at bending the truth into knots.

He is, unfortunately, going to have to go back to the house, eventually.

The house that Jimmy built, with Jimmy's stuff all along one wall, and the chests they'd been using to measure how many tasks they'd each completed.

He glares straight ahead as the thought crosses his mind.

It's always easier being angry. It's always so, so much easier, being angry.

So he'll keep being angry until he is dead. He'll do what he always does, and scream in the face of sorrow.

Hopefully he'll take a few people down with him.

#secret life spoilers #secret life smp #martyn inthelittlewood #my writing

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teecupangel · 10 months

Text

As ‘Desmond can steal/touch his ancestor when he’s Bleeding’ idea more or less can be seen as gen, I figured this absolutely AltDes version (as I sorta hinted on in the alternate POV) should have its own post instead.

The AltDes version has definitely been started by the wonderful @thedragonqueen1998

Oh, i just imagine Altair waiting for the spirit to return to him after the whole thing with the apple went down, only to never feel him again. Maybe he'd use the apple to get answers? Could defo lead to altdes if you want comfort. ^^

My reply:

Yeessssss. Let's end this with Altaïr finding a way to keep Desmond in his timeline and maybe a big scene of Desmond holding onto Altaïr's red sash for one last time before he dies and Altaïr just grabbing his hand while the Apple glows and dragging him to his timeline

===========================

From @thedragonqueen1998

oh, im just imagining Desmond going up to the Eye and he sees Altaïr standing there, with his back turned and he holds onto the sash before he puts his hand on the device. He doesnt know if hes screaming as theres only the burning pain, the intense heat, the pure whiteness, the.. feel of fine silk in his left hand.

Altaïr has made sure to keep the Apple on him, so that if the spirit returns he could hopefully anchor it. Maybe he could finally ask some questions without it dissapearing? But its been months. Where as the spirit visited every few days, theres been nothing now. Maybe he should finally put it to rest? Hide away the Apple from anyone seeking to use i-

The spirit, its back. He makes sure to make very slow moves to pull out the Apple while the spirit holds his sash.

He cant mess this up, it might be months if not years until he can get another chance to anchor Desmond to him. With the Apple in his hands he tries to link the spirit to him. To communicate with it. Thats when the screaming starts. Altaïr freezes, these arent just screams of pain, its a death call. Is this how it died? He desperatly wants to turn, to comfort the dying creature, but he cant risk it. The Apple says its 47% done with "uploading memory".

What that means, Altaïr does not know, but the Apple has never failed in granting him his wishes, though understanding the information is another matter. He doesnt know if its been seconds, minutes or hours listening to the horrid screams, to smelling burnt flesh, before they stop and the Apple says "Memory Transfer Complete. Starting Body Transfer. Body Damaged By 20%, Repairs Can Be Done. Proceed?" Repairs? Does it mean saving the spirit? If so, "Proceed".

===========================

Addition from me

Malik did not understand this entire ‘spirit’ business that Altaïr has built in his mind. He had never felt anything strange whenever he was with Altaïr. If anything, the bureau in Jerusalem felt more haunted than Altaïr himself but, even if Malik has no real concrete explanation to the disappearing cups and small items in Jerusalem’s bureau, he also wouldn’t be able to stop it from being concluded as being ‘I forgot where I put it’.

Nonetheless, Altaïr stresses that the spirit is real and his obsession with this spirit of his that is named Desmond was simply another facet of Altaïr’s personality at this point. It was his deepest secret, only told in confidence to Malik because he needed a ‘sounding board’ to talk over his theories and plans.

Malik would have suggested he get a cat but he feared that making Altaïr a cat owner would either make a very spoiled and fat cat or a neglected wild cat that would get its treats elsewhere while its owner forget its existence.

So he tried to be this quiet sounding board, even ready to simply look over the reports given to him as part of his duties as Altaïr’s Keeper when he starts to hear all these… tales of a time far beyond them, machineries that Altaïr explains but left Malik reeling and feeling quite foolish for not understanding, of this… Animus.

Malik had thought Altaïr had gone mad. That whatever power had driven Al Mualim mad when he held the Apple had taken hold of Altaïr by tempting him with what he desired more than power itself.

Knowledge…

And a connection beyond what mortals usually have.

Malik had never thought of Altaïr as being a romantic but he was a man who liked to make dramatic entrances and exits. Cyprus would be a testament to that and, really, it was just as well that Altaïr did not do anything too stupid when he went to Cyprus. (Although a temporary alliance with a Templar woman had been risky and Malik was just glad said woman had told Altaïr that she was leaving Levant to travel elsewhere.)

Malik didn’t want to deal with that kind of headache. Malik had been ready to tell Altaïr that perhaps the Apple had been faking it but then Altaïr showed him these… ‘post its’ that Desmond supposedly left and…

The materials themselves were nothing Malik had seen before. The words he used in English were strange but his Arabic was fluent.

And looks eerily like Altaïr’s, both in the way it was written and the words used.

Perhaps that was what made Altaïr snap.

The insinuation that this Desmond didn’t exist. That Altaïr had made up this person, a person who, from Altaïr’s own description and the little papers Malik had seen, looked and sounded like the kind of person that Altaïr would fall in love with.

Kind but as lonely as him, understanding of Altaïr’s own faults and still believing in him…

Malik had feared that Altaïr would do something drastic.

He had plans already written up and was about to start preparations in secret to keep Masyaf and the Brotherhood running while he tries to get into the bottom of this entire Desmond thing.

Altaïr was slowly unraveling because Desmond hadn’t been contacting him. Just quietly visiting, Altaïr had called them.

It felt like this was the prelude to something big in Malik’s eyes.

Make Altaïr desperate for any communication, make him desire to ‘hear’ from Desmond once more… Altaïr was primed to do something stupid and Malik believed that the perpetrator had to be that damn Apple.

So Malik went to Altaïr’s private studies to finally confront him and, if need be, knock him out so he could drag him away from the Apple.

But, when he got there, he found Altaïr holding an unconscious man in his arms.

A man wearing clothes that Malik had never seen before… And a right arm charred and black with golden lines lightly glowing underneath the cracks…

“Malik…”

Malik realized…

“I did it. I anchored Desmond to me.”

… that perhaps that spirit that has been tempting Altaïr this entire time had been one of the olden ones that had created the Apple itself.

===========================

And more ideas from @zero-saito and @thedragonqueen1998

From @thedragonqueen1998

@teecupangel oooh, thats so hood! Malik would be so suspicious of Desmond, thinking hes tricking or manipulating Altaïr, but also cant help but like him. How he makes Maliks tea exactly how he likes it, how he pushes Altaïr into taking breaks and how he treats the novices. How could a being that made the accursed Apple be so pure and good? Did it take the darkness within it and store it into the artifact? Or something else? The being, Desmond, talks very little of it. For what reason does he share such wonderous "future" ideas, but will not tell of where to find more artifacts, of their uses and purpose? Malik can only hope it is for a good reason.

From @zero-saito

@thedragonqueen1998 @teecupangel I love all of this ‘spam’ 😍 this is great!! Yes to suspicious Malik but also Desmond is so sweet he can’t be mad for long. Also altair finally calming down and stop simping over a ghost! Wait! Malik finding out that desmond was haunting the bureau and either asking for the stuff back or an explanation. Desmond having puppy eyes that break Malik like Kadar used to

From @thedragonqueen1998

@zero-saito god yes, Desmonds puppy eyes are lethal! And he feels so guilty cause his hoard didnt travel with him. And he cant help stealing more to build another. He's like a dragon, gotta hoard everything!

From @zero-saito

@thedragonqueen1998 he has to steal things from altair and Malik the old fashioned way but he might still be able to steal from ezio and Connor the usual way. He will miss his family mementos after all

From @thedragonqueen1998

@zero-saito oh, didnt think about him keeping his Bleeds. :O i cant really think of anything else to add though XD im out of ideas here.

===========================

I got you, guys XD

Desmond wasn’t sure how Altaïr had done it and Altaïr himself was still studying it but his reasoning for studying it was more on the side of making sure Desmond stayed anchored to him. Desmond was sure that there was no way for him to return to his time, not when Altaïr had taken him just as he was about to die, his last memory the sound of his own voice telling him in a robotic sounding tone that the Solar Flare has passed and that it was dispersing the remaining 10% of the shield.

Desmond didn’t know if dispersing the shield was even a good thing but he had fate in the Assassins (his friends) that they would figure something out if it didn’t.

Oh, and about Juno too.

But Desmond was going to ask Altaïr’s help on that front too once he was satisfied that Desmond wouldn’t be thrown out of his time at all.

Honestly…

Desmond was sure that only Ezio and Ratonhnhaké:ton would be able to do that anyway since it was highly possible the ones he could connect with were the only ones who could use the Apple that way.

Between the two, Ratonhnhaké:ton wouldn’t even know it was an option because he would throw the Apple into the sea as soon as he received it, knowing the danger that it possessed.

Ezio wouldn’t even think about asking the Apple such things. He had always been wary of the Apple’s power and it took Machiavelli pushing him for weeks for him to even ask the Apple where Cesare was. So… yeah, Ezio was highly unlikely.

And…

Even if they do…

Desmond was sure he and Altaïr would end up trying to contact one another to find a way to bring Desmond back.

It would be nice to see Ezio or Ratonhnhaké:ton. To be able to talk to them and to tell them everything but…

Desmond wanted to stay in this time.

He wanted to stay with Altaïr.

So the moment he saw their backs as another Bleeding Episode hit him, he gave them a letter that explained his situation.

Desmond couldn’t believe he didn’t think of it before.

Not like there were any papers lying around that Desmond could use in any of the hideouts he’d been. They mostly kept everything in their laptops, computers and other gadgets. Any paper lying around would be important that Desmond couldn’t take or part of Shaun’s corkboard which he also couldn’t take unless he wanted Shaun to start slapping his hand like a mother batting her child’s hand before the child could take a cookie.

Here in Masyaf though…

Malik was okay giving him as many pieces of paper as he wished.

He knew Malik was still wary of him and Desmond wasn’t surprised.

Hell.

He’d be more surprised if Malik wasn’t wary of him at all.

Still, Desmond was pretty sure that he was slowly whittling Malik’s suspicion of him since he had been more than forthcoming about everything.

Also…

Malik did see the small treasure hoard that Altaïr’s (and Desmond’s) room had in the corner, filled with a lot of strange items that Desmond was more than happy to explain to Malik.

He would forever miss his hoard back in the 21st century but it was fine. He knew the others wouldn’t mind helping Desmond have a new one.

He… was still not sure if he should laugh or be offended that Malik had thought he was an Isu.

But that was fine.

Masyaf…

This place…

This time…

It was peaceful.

And he knew the pitfalls that would come.

Desmond was confident that Altaïr and Malik would listen to him once he explained it all.

But for now…

He just wants to relax for a bit.

And let himself be consumed by the peace and happiness he felt.

#unless an ask writes something like the pairing name or say ‘whatever pairing you want’ or harem #i always assume they meant it to be gen #anyway #no usual tags because #altdes

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fuckyeahdindjarin · 2 years

Text

II ║ Buckskin

Jack Daniels x f!reader

{ << Part 1: Palomino | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 3: Dapple Grey >> }

Rating: E (18+ only)

Summary: It's an eventful first day on the trail, to say the least.

Warnings: Flirting, yearning, insecurities, sexual tension, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, sexual innuendoes, inappropriate thoughts of a saddle horn (I'm sorry), masturbation (m and f), language, mention of food, mention of breakup, no use of Y/N

Word count: 6.8k

Notes: All of you have literally blown me away with your thirst (affectionate) for cowboy Jack, thank you for encouraging me to be as self-indulgent as I want with this fic 🥰 I hope this was worth the wait, I had a blast writing this part! Picks up immediately after Part 1.

Buckskin: A colour that resembles tanned deerskin. A buckskin horse has a tan or gold coloured coat with black points - mane, tail, and lower legs.

Day 1

‘I hear you were meant to come with someone.’

You arch an eyebrow and quip drily. ‘No secrets on this ranch, huh?’

Jack gives you an apologetic tip of the hat. ‘Sorry, you’ve met Champ - he’s not exactly discreet. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.’

Your fears that you would run out of conversation within the first hour of the day proved unfounded. Jack is an attentive guide, his experience and knowledge of the area obvious as he leads you deeper into the mountains. He tells you about the local geography, points out native trees and flora to you when he notices your gaze lingering in interest, and entertains your questions about the ranch and the people in it.

The morning passes as quickly as the temperature rises, and soon you both shed your jackets, stopping briefly so Jack can affix the loose items to one of Bourbon’s saddle bags. He rolls up the sleeves of his plaid shirt before hopping back into the saddle.

You try not to stare at the way his forearms flex with the movement.

You want to live in the moment and all that crap, but you soon succumb to the temptation and pull out your phone to take panoramic videos of the stupendous vistas. Sweeping from left to right, the camera takes in grassy knolls, patches of wildflowers in full bloom, clear skies and the ever-looming presence of the Bighorn Mountains.

It’s not your fault that Jack just happens to be in the tail end of all your videos. He even turns his head just in time in one of them, granting you a perfect shot of his profile.

If anything, he’s in the way of the views. How dare he.

The timing works out according to Jack’s plans. Just as the heat starts becoming overbearing, a formidable line of trees comes into view after you crest the steepest incline of your journey so far.

The old pine forest envelops you in a balmy coolness, and you sigh at the earthy scent of leaves and bark as Scotch continues sure-footedly on the soft woodland path. Filtered through the treetops, the midday sun loses its harshness, instead throwing dappled beams under the horses’ hooves.

You’re a city girl at heart, but if you’re not careful, you can really get used to this.

After a no-frills lunch - a hearty baguette sandwich stuffed to the brim with ham, cheese and leafy greens, and an apple to finish - you want to press on, but Jack insists on a half-hour break so that you can stretch out your knees and hips, knowing that you would pay for it the next day if you didn’t.

The afternoon leg of the ride has just resumed when Jack brings up the subject.

You realise you’ve fallen quiet a tad too long to be considered comfortable, so you compensate by flashing him a reassuring smile. ‘No, no, it’s fine. My ex-boyfriend and I booked this trip together. It was supposed to be a little getaway for my birthday.’

‘I’m sorry.’

You shake your head. ‘Don’t be. To be honest, it would’ve been boring with him here. He would’ve whinged about the horses smelling and we definitely couldn’t have gone any faster than a trot. He doesn’t ride.’

Jack chuckles. ‘Sounds like a keeper, whatever possessed you to leave him?’

‘I wish I did - he left me.’

‘Pardon my language, but he sounds like a fuckin' idiot.’

Your laugh rings in the quiet of the woods, and he looks pleased at your reaction, his warm eyes resting on you easily. Since it’s only fair that he should share something with you too, you ask conversationally, ‘What about you, cowboy? Do you have some sad sob story that brought you to the Statesman?’

You should’ve guessed, by the way his lips purse, and the smallest dip in his smile. But what comes out of his mouth in a quiet rasp still stuns you.

‘My wife - she died eight and a half years ago.’

The blood literally drains out of your face. Of course - you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t put your big foot into your bigger mouth in front of someone you’re about to spend the next seven days with.

‘I’m sorry, darlin’, I didn’t mean to unsettle you -’

‘Oh god,’ you blurt out, brows knitted together in distress and stumbling over your words. ‘Why are you apologising to me? I’m a complete idiot. I’m so sorry, that was so insensitive of me -’

‘Darlin’ -’

‘I shouldn’t have phrased it that way, I didn’t mean to upset you -’

‘Darlin’, just let me -’

‘- I swear I didn’t mean it, Jack, please forgive me -’

Firm fingers close around your right wrist, and when he calls your name, your eyes snap to his, jolted out of your ramble. A gentle thumb brushes your pulse point and he smiles at you. ‘You run your mouth at a gallop, don’t you?’

‘I’m sorry,’ you answer in a small voice.

‘There's nothin' to apologise for. You didn’t know, and the joke would’ve landed with anyone else,’ he comforts you.

He lets go of you slowly, as if not to spook you, and you duck your head. ‘I’m still so sorry, Jack.’

His knee bumps into yours, startling you, and your stirrup irons clink sweetly when they touch. You didn’t realise he’s pulled in so close into you. It’s oddly intimate, riding this close to someone else - close enough to trade secrets.

‘Please, darlin’, don’t be. Eight and a half years is a very long time ago. I’ve been dating casually for the last few, actually,’ he confides in you with a sheepish smile, which goes a long way to set you at ease. ‘But it’s hard to meet people when there are about five single women who live in a three-hour radius from the ranch.’

‘No Tinder around here?’

His brow furrows below his hat. ‘Tinder - what?’

‘Tinder. The online dating app?’ you repeat. At his shrug, you tease, ‘Not big on technology, are we?’

Winding the reins around the saddle horn, he holds up one finger at you in a silent wait a second, while fishing for something in one of his shirt pockets, which he presents to you with a ta-da.

‘Um, Jack… what’s that?’

‘I’ve been told that it’s an iPhone,’ he replies, turning the last word slowly on his tongue, as if it sits uncomfortably. At your incredulous look, he asks, ‘What’s wrong with it?’

You take it from him, looking it over with a snicker. ‘It’s literally held together by scotch tape. Did you pick it up from the side of the road after it fell out of someone else’s car?’

His fingers brush yours when he takes it back, sticking his nose up imperiously. ‘I don’t need a smartphone, or Tinder. I do things the old-fashioned way.’

You bite your lip, amused. ‘Oh? And what might that be?’

Jack winks at you. ‘I pick up women at a bar - the closest one is two hours’ drive away.’

‘Two hours?’

‘If I don’t pick up anyone, I have to sleep in my car since it’s too far to drive back. It’s a surprisingly effective incentive.’

You study him closely, but you don’t know him well enough to judge if he’s joking or not. ‘You cannot be serious, cowboy.’

‘Gotta keep those time-honoured traditions alive, darlin’,’ he replies, happy keeping you guessing.

‘That’s ridiculous. I’ll teach you how to use Tinder, it’ll be fun!’ you insist. ‘It will also save you a ton of gas money.’

‘How? There’s no signal in the mountains.’

‘What about at the Halfway House?’

He begrudgingly admits, ‘Fine, there is wifi there. And you’re the guest, so technically, I can’t say no to you.’

You don’t hear the ‘you’re the guest’ and ‘technically’ though. Your heart is pounding at this cowboy telling you that he can’t say no to you.

Before you’ve recovered, he asks, ‘What about you? Are you ready to get back into the saddle, so to speak?’

You let your eyes linger over him, and your lips twitch. ‘Yeah - I’m beginning to think that I am.’

In the summer, the Statesman leads pack trips into the mountains every week. Jack and Tequila look after the guests on alternate, usually with a backup rider or two, depending on the size of the groups. While the routes are not set in stone, they set up makeshift campsites at certain spots every summer to make logistics easier, which are dismantled in the fall when tourist season winds down.

Jack glances at his watch as the lakeside camp comes into view. Perfect. There’s still a couple of hours until dinnertime.

This particular camp has a stone fire pit and a pile of already chopped logs kept dry under a tarp. Wooden posts have been hammered into the ground for holding saddles and tack. A bale of hay for the horses has been strung up in a net, hanging from a nearby tree, which was delivered earlier in the day by Tequila.

Your knees protest when your feet hit the ground, and you wince at the tightness in the joints. It doesn’t escape Jack’s notice, and he asks, ‘You alright, darlin’?’

You wave away his concerns. ‘Just a bit stiff, that’s all.’

‘You’ll need to do a lot of stretching tonight, or you’ll really feel it tomorrow.’

You’re distracted, unbuckling Scotch’s girth as you reply offhandedly, ‘Yes, sir.’

Jack’s head whips towards you so quickly he nearly pulls his neck. You’re not paying him any heed though - you’re balancing on your tiptoes to grab the saddle with both hands, your shirt riding up, baring the small of your back. You gently drag the saddle and the sweaty pad underneath off Scotch.

The thud with which the saddle lands on the wooden post shakes Jack out of his thoughts. He clears his throat and busies himself with untacking Whiskey.

‘I was thinking we could have a swim before dinner,’ he suggests, pointing behind him. ‘There’s a lake just beyond the trees, I think we could all do with a cool down and then a shower, including the horses.’

‘They like water?’ you ask, surprised.

Jack joins you on the opposite side of the post with Whiskey’s tack. ‘These three are basically fish, but with more legs and hair.’

You hang Scotch’s bridle on the edge of the post, one hand on your hip, and lament, ‘I didn’t bring a swimsuit, though.’

He really shouldn’t have, but the words come out without going through his brain. ‘Don’t you wear underwear, darlin’?’

You give him a look that has the tips of his ears turning red under his hat. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know, cowboy.’

Jack gapes at you, the rug pulled from underneath his boots too quickly to wrap his head around it. You let him flounder for just a few moments before you put him out of his misery, breaking into a chortle. ‘I’m messing with you - of course I do!’

Jack shakes his head, letting out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. With a chuckle, he watches you walk away to help with unloading Bourbon.

It looks like he will have to keep his wits about him this week.

The grass is long and soft under your bare feet, finally allowed to breathe after more than seven hours in the saddle today. The short walk to the lake is already doing you good, you can feel your back and hip muscles stretching and loosening.

You giggle when the horses spot the lake, and with excited neighs, they start at a canter to race each other to the water, leaving you and Jack behind.

‘They’re ridiculous,’ you say fondly, glancing at Jack, who’s also taken off his boots.

‘They know the good life,’ he quips.

You stop by the edge of the lake, under the shade of a tree with low branches. Jack hangs his towel on one of them, and you follow suit, then your hands waver over the hem of your shirt, fingers curling into your palms. You don’t remember the last time anyone saw you in your underwear other than your ex. Even though you’ve shaved and exfoliated in the comfort of your lodge last night, and you’re actually wearing a matching set of underwear - just in case, you told yourself - you hesitate.

Thankfully, Jack doesn’t seem to pick up on your awkwardness. In fact, he’s not looking your way at all - he’s watching as the horses splash in the shallows.

The hat comes off first. You haven’t seen him without it yet, he was wearing it even at dinner last night. A large hand rakes through the roots of his hair, leaving a dishevelled, sweaty mess in its wake. His dark hair is cropped short, but from the way the stray wisps coil against his forehead, you can tell that it would grow long into thick curls if allowed to do so.

His plaid shirt is next, the small buttons undone in quick succession under his nimble fingers, until it hangs open and loose over a firm chest and soft stomach. With a smooth roll of his shoulders, the sweat-stained shirt falls to the ground and your jaw drops.

You know you’re staring disrespectfully, but mother of god you’d have to fling yourself, fully clothed, into the water to stop yourself, and that would be a tad dramatic - even for you.

He’s tanned all over, his forearms darker, presumably as he usually rides with his sleeves rolled up. His frame is broad - so broad you’d barely be able to wrap your arms around him if you tried. You can see the sweat dotting his skin, salty beads sliding down the contours of his back. The subtle firmness of his body speaks to the physical nature of his job, long hours in the saddle, riding and wrangling over days and years.

You’re suddenly painfully aware of eyes on you. Snapping your mouth shut, you can only bear to briefly glance at Jack with an apologetic half-smile.

Busted.

He winks at you, his big hands hovering over the ridiculous flask-shaped belt buckle you haven’t yet had the chance to quiz him about. The lines of his arms have no business being so defined. Is it just you or is he flexing under your scrutiny?

Finally, he rasps, ‘You’re makin’ me blush, darlin’.’

‘Sorry,’ you squeak, feeling your cheeks burn as you spin around to give him some privacy.

Jack grins to himself, standing taller from the way you’re looking at him. He makes short work of his jeans and heads to the lake in his boxers, leaving you to disrobe. ‘I’ll see you in the water when you’re ready then.’

Diving in, Jack swims into the middle of the lake with easy strokes, sighing deeply as the cold water brings down his body temperature. Breaking the surface, he runs his fingers through his hair to push it back from his face, and takes stock of Bourbon and Whiskey on the other side of the lake, while Scotch rolls on the grassy bank, scratching his back.

He picks up on a quiet ripple of the water behind him, and he wades around at the small yelp you let out. You’re swimming in his direction, a beam lighting up your face. ‘It’s so cold - it feels amazing!’

Jack smiles back, paddling on the spot. ‘It’s the only lake on our route, so you better enjoy it, darlin’.’

You take your time, drifting through the water in a lazy breaststroke, which allows you to admire the views as you swim. The surface of the lake is a perfect mirror of the late afternoon sky, surrounded by lush grass that Scotch and Whiskey are now grazing on. You’re not a particularly strong swimmer, and you become winded after a few laps around the perimeter. Spotting Jack taking a break, you join him.

The slopes of his strong shoulders bob above the waterline, his wet hair slicked back, and he smiles at you. ‘Tired?’

You huff a laugh. ‘Let’s put it this way. The last time I went to the gym, Tinder hadn’t been invented yet.’

‘I couldn’t tell at all. You’ve done well, darlin’,’ he compliments you.

His praise goes straight to your head like champagne on an empty stomach, and you hope it doesn’t show. You shrug nonchalantly and jest, ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, cowboy. The real test is whether I can get up tomorrow.’

Kicking your legs, you propel yourself upwards, your eyes slipping close as you come to float weightlessly on your back, soothing the ache in your muscles. The sun is warm on your skin, and you leisurely glide your arms and feet through the water to stay adrift. Your ears submerged, it drowns out the noises of the mountains - the birdsong, the rustle of trees, the horses. You listen to your own breathing and the trickle of moving water.

It’s strangely still. Has Jack swum off?

You tilt your face to the right, the water cool on your cheek, and open your eyes to find him looking straight at you.

‘What?’ you ask, somewhat self-consciously.

His gaze skims not so subtly across your floating form, before returning to your face. He shrugs casually, ‘Nothing, you just look very - comfortable.’

The way the word rolls off his tongue sends a shiver down your spine.

Not that he’s interested in you. You have to be real with yourself - he can’t be. He’s way out of your league, and then by some distance. A man who looks like that doesn’t go for girls like you. He’s just been flirting with you because that’s what cowboys do. It’s part of the dude ranch experience, how they get customers coming back - you know how it is.

You swallow thickly, and you don’t miss the way it catches his stare. The tension that had flared up during the hat fitting yesterday rears its head again. Your lips part in anticipation as he drifts closer to you -

- when something heavy knocks hard into your left leg, throwing you off balance and sending you plummeting into the water.

‘Oh my god what was that?’ you screech, flailing about in panic, rubbing water from your eyes.

Jack almost looks amused at your reaction. ‘Don’t worry, darlin’, it was probably just a fish.’

You watch the lake for signs of life, but you cannot see beyond the dark surface. ‘Probably a fish? What do you mean by probably?’

Even the horses are watching the commotion. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Bourbon standing on the edge of the lake, water dripping from his mouth as you disturbed him mid-drink, ears pricked forward in curiosity.

You feel another powerful underwater current of disturbance near your feet as you paddle, and in genuine fear, you scream and splash clumsily in Jack’s direction until you’ve clambered onto him, your legs curling around his waist instinctively. He sinks briefly from the sudden weight of you before he regains his composure, treading water to keep you both above the water, hands gripping your hips to steady you.

‘Whoa, easy there, darlin’ - you ok?’

‘How did the fish get into the lake?’

Jack’s mouth opens and shuts, and opens again in absolute bewilderment. ‘I beg your pardon?’

You ask louder. ‘How did the fish get into the lake?’

Jack is torn. Are you really asking him about fish when you’re crowded up against him, all wet and slippery curves? Your nails digging into the meat of his shoulders, your breasts - barely contained in a lacy black bra - so soft on his chest?

You seem completely oblivious to your physical proximity to him, pressing on, ‘Did it walk into the lake from the nearest river? Did it fly? How could there be fish in a lake that is completely surrounded by dry land? And that felt bigger than a fish. If it’s not a fish, what is it? It’s preposterous -’

Reaching up, Jack slips one hand behind your head, fingers burrowing into your hair, thumb brushing your cheek to get your attention. ‘Darlin’!’

You stop abruptly, blinking at him as your alarm recedes, chest rising and falling rapidly.

‘It was just a fish, I promise,’ he breaks the silence with a reassuring smile. ‘They don’t bite.’

Oh god. You’ve been ranting about fish - out of all things - like a stark raving lunatic.

You wince, realisation dawning on you that you've basically sunk your claws into his broad shoulders. You slowly release your grip, and despite his best attempt to hide it, you catch the small flinch that flickers across his face.

‘I’m so sorry, you must think I’m insane,’ you say finally, biting your bottom lip in embarrassment.

Jack grinds his teeth as his stare drops to your mouth, when you suddenly slip in his grasp. His hands catch you by the upper thighs to keep you above the water, his cock fucking twitching as one of your small hands grabs the back of his neck on reflex to right yourself, the other landing on his chest. Your noses knock together, and he prays that you don’t feel his heart beating out of his rib cage under your palm.

His words come out in such a husky slur that they’re barely intelligible. ‘You know I don’t think that, darlin’.’

He feels your fingers curl into the nape of his neck, your eyes unguarded as you watch him in surprise. ‘Oh?’

Jesus Christ. You have no poker face whatsoever. He’s not proud of it but that fucking turns him on. There’s something so open and untouched about your honesty, which he doesn’t deserve -

‘Jack?’

He clears his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘Yes, darlin’?’

‘Can you get me out of the water? Please?’

He smiles - and he hopes you don’t see the strain in it. ‘Alright, hang on tight, now.’

It’s not easy to swim with his arms full of you, one hand on your middle to secure you in place so he doesn’t give away his throbbing erection. But by some miracle, he makes it, and when the water is waist-high, he releases you carefully to ensure you don’t brush against his front. He swallows dryly as you wade towards the bank, your bare skin emerging from the lake, inch by inch.

Crossing your arms, you give him a small smile. ‘I hope I didn't completely freak you out, cowboy.’

If only you knew how far from the truth that is.

Jack tries his best to keep his focus on your face, resisting the urge to follow the droplets of water sliding down your body when you shift your weight from one leg to another, the lovely swell of your hip popping.

He needs to calm the fuck down.

So he tries to winks at you, though it probably comes across as a grimace. ‘Don’t worry your pretty head about it, darlin’. I’ll just - do some swimming and I’ll be right back.’

You turn to leave, one last look tossed over your shoulder, and he has to snap himself out of it, plunging back into the water so he doesn’t watch you go like some deviant.

He swims lengths, from one end of the lake to the other, for Christ knows how long until his mind clears and the strain in his boxers eases. Judging by the position of the sun, he should fill up the portable shower for you and head back to camp so you can clean up while he makes a start with dinner.

Scrubbing himself dry with his towel, Jack grabs the portable shower - essentially a bag with a handle so it can be hung from a tree, fitted with a detachable shower head - and dunks it into the water until it’s full. His clothes in one hand, the shower bag in his other, he whistles for the horses to follow him, walking back to camp with his towel slung low on his waist.

When it comes into view, he calls out, ‘Alright, darlin’, it’s shower time -’

He looks up and his words die on his tongue.

You haven’t bothered changing into clean clothes - the shirt you were wearing is now tied around your waist like a sarong, and he can see your soaked bra through the white tank top you were wearing underneath the shirt during the day. You’re standing at the wooden post hovering over Scotch’s saddle, gently running a washcloth over the seat to clean the sweat and grime from the leather -

And your other hand is wrapped firmly around the base of the saddle horn.

His cock fucking lurches at the sight.

You choose that moment to meet his eyes and ask, ‘Did you have a good swim?’

He has to physically dislodge his tongue, stuck to the roof of his mouth, to answer you, ‘It was fine. You want to take a shower now, or -?’

‘Yes sure, once I finish cleaning the saddle.’

Dropping his clothes in a pile on the ground, he reminds you, ‘I told you, darlin’, you really don’t have to -’

You cut him off with a smile. ‘And I told you - I want to.’

He swallows at the word want. ‘You’re the most impervious guest I’ve had the pleasure of meeting, ma’am.’

You shoot him a cheeky grin, and it only makes him harder.

He usually doesn’t bother with the portable shower in the mountains, preferring a quick scrub in the river instead, but he needs an excuse to get away from you right now. Scratching the back of his neck, he stammers, ‘I’m - uh - I’m going to take a shower first then, if you don’t mind.’

The look of surprise you send his way has him hesitating. ‘Oh, but Ginger said that you -’

‘What?’ he prompts when you stop abruptly.

You shake your head and turn back to your task at hand. ‘Never mind. Enjoy, cowboy.’

If only you knew.

He grabs a bar of soap from a saddle bag and practically sprints out of the campsite and into the forest, deep enough that he can no longer see or hear you and the horses. Finding a private spot surrounded by bushes, he hangs up the portable shower and secures the shower head by slotting it into a fork of a branch, then he turns the valve to get the water flowing.

Towel and boxers hitting the ground, his hard cock springs free, and he steps underneath the weak water stream, finally wrapping his hand around himself with a low gasp.

It’s been too fucking long.

Lathering the soap between his rough palms, he starts working his fist over his cock, the other hand flat on the rough tree bark, steadying himself as he hunches over, gritting his teeth to stop from groaning aloud. He can’t remember the last time he even bothered seeking out pleasure - alone or with anyone else.

It was supposed to be another week on the job. A rowdy trip with old regulars and typical Kingsman hijinks. Heavy drinking, all-night poker games and painful hangovers. Safe, predictable.

It wasn’t supposed to be you, with your wicked sense of humour and soft curves and just a bit of hurt lurking under the surface of your easy smile. The way you look at him - he’s forgotten how his blood could thrum under his skin and roar in his ears.

It doesn’t take long - embarrassing really - before he feels his balls draw up and his whole body pull taut in tension. He thinks of your small hand wrapped around the leather saddle horn when he lets go, a deep moan in his chest, cum spurting thick and fast over his fingers, panting as he watches it drip slowly down his wrist and forearm.

He runs his other hand down his face. Fuck. It’s going to be a long week.

The portable shower is a surprisingly nice way to end the day. By the time you’ve shampooed and washed off the smell of horses and leather from your skin, the sun has dipped and the evening chill is creeping in. You rub your hair dry as best as you can without the creature comforts of a hairdryer, shimmy into cozy sweatpants and a hoodie, then make your way back to camp.

The sky is turning violet, the sparse clouds glowing pink on the underside. The horses are tucking into their supper, and you check if they’ve dried their coats in the sun, in case they need a towelling down. Satisfied that they don’t, you bid them good night and carry on towards the warmth of the fire pit.

At the sound of your footsteps, Jack looks up, the golden flames softening his features. He’s sitting on a log, a chopping board balanced on his lap as he cuts up mushrooms. A frying pan sits on a grill over the pit, the smell of caramelising onion sweet in the air.

‘I hope you like omelette,’ he says.

‘Perfect,’ you sigh when you take a seat on the log that he left out for you, your feet needing the rest. ‘Anything I can help with?’

Jack gives you a playful scowl, leaning forward to scrape the mushrooms into the frying pan. ‘Now, what did I say about guests helping with things?’

‘That you like it?’ you poke fun with a shrug.

‘Such insolence,’ he teases, stirring the vegetables with a wooden spoon. ‘If you must, you can help slice and butter the bread, we’ll toast it in the pan later.’

The quiet lull between you is comfortable, punctuated by the snap of burning logs and the sizzle of the pan. You cut the baguette in neat diagonals and try not to overthink it, but you can’t help being conscious of the fact that you’re basically wearing pyjamas, with not a stitch of makeup on, in the presence of someone as handsome as this cowboy. You cast your eyes over him briefly. He looks comfortable in a fresh pair of jeans and a sweater, his hair still wet from his shower.

He catches you staring - how many times has it been today? - and he smiles at you like he doesn’t see anything wrong with you.

The omelette is deliciously cooked, barely wobbly in the middle, seasoned just right and topped with fresh parsley. The toasted bread, which Jack tops with tomatoes and basil, fills the hole in your belly left by the day’s long ride.

Over the course of the dinner, the sky loses all colour. The darkness consumes everything but the immediate circle of the pit, warded off by the flickering fire. Save for the dizzying starscape that looks like it’s been carelessly splattered onto black canvas by a silver-dipped paintbrush, all is cloaked in the cover of night, even the horses are just distant sounds in the dim.

You try to take the dirty plates and cutlery, but Jack jumps onto his feet and physically restrains you by pushing you down into your seat. You don’t have to look to know his big palms easily span your entire shoulders, his fingers grazing your collarbone as he chides, ‘Don’t you dare, darlin’. But if you don’t mind, you could lay out the bedding while I wash up.’

Keen to move about at least a little bit after the big dinner, you find the plushly padded sleeping bags in a neat pile, and after a moment’s consideration, you roll out one on each side of the pit. There are also two camping pillows already inflated, and an extra blanket each. You roll the log you were sitting on right up against your sleeping bag as a backrest - you can use the support. You’re making a nest for yourself when Jack comes back and lays out the clean plates to dry.

He chuckles at the comfortable sight you make. ‘You look ready for bed. Or would you like a nightcap?’

You grin. ‘Nightcap sounds good.’

‘You like whiskey?’

‘Only if it’s Statesman brewed,’ you wink.

‘Flattery will get you everywhere, darlin’,’ he laughs and grabs the whiskey from a saddle bag. The cork pops with a velvety echo, and Jack makes a face of satisfaction at the sound. ‘I don’t have glasses, do you mind if we share the bottle?’

You shake your head and pat the space next to you on your sleeping bag. He takes a seat on the other end, a respectable distance between you, legs bent at the knees. He hands you the bottle. ‘Ladies first.’

You don’t know a lot about whiskey, but this one goes down smoothly and pools warmly in your full belly. Relaxation seeps into your bones as the alcohol works its way through your system. You pass it to Jack as you sag against the log.

‘So, how would you rate your first day?’ asks Jack casually, taking a sip.

‘What, like, out of ten?’ you quip.

‘If you like,’ he chuckles.

‘Don’t let it get to your head, cowboy - but it’s pretty close to ten.’

Jack blows a low whistle. ‘I’m afraid it’s all downhill from here, darlin’. I exhausted all my tricks today.’

You laugh, which echoes loudly in the stillness of the night, when he gives the bottle to you again. ‘You know, it’s so quiet out here I can hear it. It’s not an absence of sound, I can actually hear it.’

‘Hard to come by in the city, huh?’

Tilting your face upwards, you marvel at how big the sky is here. ‘You don’t really see stars in the city either.’

‘Do you know your constellations?’

‘Can’t say I do.’

He takes the bottle when you offer it to him. ‘There’s a telescope at the Halfway House, we can really get into it there.’

You peer at him. ‘You’re just a nerd under that dashing cowboy exterior, aren’t you?’

‘Can’t say I’ve been called a nerd before,’ he chuckles, then sends a roguish grin your way. ‘So you think I’m dashing?’

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. ‘Don’t fish for compliments, cowboy. It’s unbecoming.’

‘I think you’re drunk, darlin’. I should stop you now.’

You grab the bottle by the neck and take a swig. ‘Shut up, I’m not.’

‘You don’t want to be hungover tomorrow. We’ll be riding through some of the best views of the trip,’ warns Jack. ‘Did you bring a proper camera, or are you an Instagram kinda girl?’

You cock your head to one side. ‘You’ve heard of Instagram? I’m impressed.’

‘I don’t use it, but I take photos for the Statesman Instagram account. Tequila does the uploading and hashtags.’ He makes a face at the last word, like it tastes funny.

‘How? The camera lens on your phone is cracked!’

‘I use a real camera,’ he retorts in jest.

‘Fancy,’ you tease. ‘Can I look through your photos?’

He shrugs a bit reluctantly. ‘They’re nothin' special.’

You nudge him in the side with your elbow. ‘C’mon cowboy, don’t be shy.’

Peering at you from under his dark lashes, he gives you a lopsided smile. ‘As I said, can’t say no to you, darlin’.’

The heat that flashes across your face has nothing to do with the fire or the whiskey.

Rummaging through one of the saddle bags, Jack pulls out a bulky digital SLR camera and hands it to you before sitting down again, this time closer to you, shoulder to shoulder. You can almost taste the whiskey on his exhale as he watches you switch on the camera and start flipping through the photos on the small screen.

As if to manage your expectations, he says almost bashfully, ‘It’s just a secondhand camera I bought off a guest a few years back. Never took lessons or anything, it’s mostly point and shoot.’

His insecurity is endearing. You give him a pat on the knee and a playful smirk. ‘My bark is worse than my bite. I’ll be gentle with you, cowboy.’

Jack watches over your shoulder, scooting in as you go deeper into the archives, his arm on the log behind you so that you feel his chest against your back. When you stop to take a closer look at a photo, he chimes in to tell you something about the shot, fingers brushing aside yours to zoom in, pointing out details not immediately obvious. The well-composed pictures are mostly of scenery and guests, and you can tell that he has a particular knack for shooting in tricky lighting. Your breath catches at a shot of Whiskey, a magnificent sunset in the backdrop.

You turn towards him. He’s so close that you can see every soft line on his face. ‘I actually work in the creative field, and I’m sorry to break it to you, cowboy - your stuff is really good.’

‘You don’t have to say that,’ he huffs, clearly embarrassed, bringing the bottle to his lips.

You wink. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not flattering you or anything. I’m sure your ego doesn’t need any more stroking.’

He chokes suddenly, his body knocking into you, amber drops of whiskey trickling down his chin before he swipes at it with the back of his hand. His eyes are dark, pinning you with a look you can’t quite decipher. His words come out in the deepest, smokiest baritone. ‘I wouldn’t say no if you offered to stroke it, darlin’.’

There it is again. The pendulum that’s been swinging between the two of you since the moment this cowboy knocked on your door. It runs you off your feet one moment and then him the next, neither of you finding solid ground with each other. The back-and-forth has you grasping for straws one minute and him thrown off balance the next.

It shouldn’t excite you this much.

You grab the bottle from him, not caring that your fingers scrape deliberately over his, making him shiver. You take a big gulp, eyes watering at the burn of the alcohol, but you need the liquid courage to deliver your next shot. ‘Are you talking about your ego or something else, Jack?’

You feel rather than see the shudder that runs through him at the sound of his name on your lips. The way his knuckles turn white on his knees, his nostrils flare before taking a sharp intake of air has you holding your breath. His reaction thrills and confounds you at the same time. He can’t possibly want you - can he?

He keeps his gaze on you as he licks his bottom lip and plucks both the bottle and camera from your hands. You jump when he brushes the crook of his index finger under your chin, and you can’t read his suddenly shuttered expression. ‘Get some sleep, darlin’. Tomorrow will be a long day.’

You don’t say another word as you watch him go.

Of course you can’t sleep. You’re thinking about Jack’s body pressed up against yours in the water. The skim of his fingertips when you pass the bottle to and fro. His breath hitting your cheek while he leans in close to point out something on the camera.

Tossing and turning, you don’t know how much time has passed, but Jack eventually makes it back to his sleeping bag, just yards from you. You listen to him getting in quietly, fabrics shifting as he settles, until everything falls still.

You twist around to look behind you. The embers are burning low, barely throwing enough light to see beyond his back, slowly rising and falling. He seems to be sleeping.

You can risk it, right? You’ll be quick. You’ve been wanting release for hours, even before the tipsy, fireside exchange. It’s been months since you’ve even wanted this at all… probably the first time after the breakup.

The whiskey in you makes you reckless.

You slide your hand under the elastic band of your sweatpants and into your panties. You’re already slippery and sensitive, and your mouth parts in a wordless whimper as you trace a finger through your folds. Jack’s all the way on the other side of the fire, but now that you’ve known the weight of him against your side and the scent of whiskey on his lips, it doesn’t matter.

Dipping one finger into your pussy, you smear your clit with your own arousal and rub yourself with two fingers. There’s no time for finesse, it’s messy and desperate. You haven’t touched yourself for even a minute before you cum, back arched and the blanket twisted in your grasp as the tension in your body snaps. The release leaves you both satisfied and not, the whole thing over too quickly for the endorphins to reach your head.

Panting into the crook of your elbow over your lips, you just hope you’ve been quiet enough.

But you haven’t.

As you fall silent, Jack lies wide awake, cock heavy and aching between his legs. He digs his nails into his palms and steels himself for a long, sleepless night.

More notes: I haven't quite decided yet, but I'm thinking of doing one part on each day of the trip, which means there will be at least 6 more parts coming. I haven't sketched out anything beyond the 3rd and 4th parts though, so we'll see! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, comments and reblogs would be very much appreciated as always! I'm always up for a good screeching about cowboy Jack 🥰

Horsey notes (optional reading): It's important to take care of tack, especially leather tack, which can be very expensive, especially if they're custom fit. Tack that isn't cleaned and conditioned properly can easily crack and break. Leather saddles and bridles should be sponge cleaned to remove sweat and dirt, and then saddle soap should be applied to moisturise the leather. I still remember the most dreaded test for me in Pony Club exams was taking the bridle apart for cleaning, then having to reassemble it!

#jack daniels x you #jack daniels fanfic #jack daniels x reader #jack whiskey daniels #jack daniels #jack daniels x fem!reader #jack daniels x f!reader #kingsman golden circle #kingsman fanfiction

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corruptedcaps · 7 months

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Jane’s Ascension

Special thanks to @lsat (discord: thedivergence, Twitter: LSAT1886) for generating the images used here that allowed a long time idea of mine to come to life.

It had nearly been a year since Tarzan and Jane had defeated their nemesis, the cruel and power-hungry Queen La. She was a formidable adversary, known for her dark magic and ruthless ambition. Queen La had ruled over a faction of jungle-dwelling followers, seeking dominion over all living creatures. However, her reign of terror had come to an end when Tarzan, Jane and their friends thwarted her wicked plans, banishing her from their realm.

It was only now that they had decided to explore the ruins of La’s once thriving city of Opar. Jane had always been enamored by the mysteries of the jungle. Her days alongside Tarzan, swinging through the treetops and learning the ways of the wild, had filled her heart with love for both the man she adored and the lush, untamed world around her. She begged Tarzan to bring her back to Opar, to explore its secrets now that the once threat was long gone. Tarzan had been hesitant but he couldn’t say no to his love.

“Tarzan this place is amazing isn’t it? Just think of how bustling and vibrant this place once was. It makes me sad that it all ended when La was defeated.” Jane said with a hint of melancholy. Tarzan did not understand her fascination with a place he could sense held great darkness but looking at her he knew that he would do anything for her.

Unbeknownst to both of them, Jane’s words travelled on the air around the ruined city causing the stone walls to creak and the wind to howl. It was as if her words breathed life into the city and it responded by opening a hidden door to a chamber below. Jane and Tarzan looked at each other confused. Tarzan knew Jane would want to investigate but he felt uneasy. Before he could voice his concerns she was already descending into the hidden chamber.

As they descended they saw in awe the full scoot of the chamber. It aas steeped in a chilling aura of both grandeur and malevolence. The walls were adorned with faded murals that depicted the cruel reign of Queen La, showcasing scenes of conquest, subjugation, and dark rituals.

The chamber's ceiling, supported by ornate stone pillars, bore intricate carvings of jungle creatures and twisted vines, as if nature itself had been subjugated by a twisted will. Shafts of eerie, filtered light penetrated the chamber through narrow cracks, casting eerie shadows upon the cold stone floor.

At the center of the chamber, on an obsidian pedestal, rested a necklace. It glimmered with an unholy radiance, its central red gem catching the scarce light and reflecting it in unsettling patterns. Its beauty was mesmerizing. So much so that Jane, who didn’t want for anything in the world, felt immediately compelled to reach out and touch it.

As her fingers barely brushed against the surface of the gem, an otherworldly sensation coursed through her veins. Her eyes widened in surprise and then immediately vacant. She stood like a statue with her index finger barely touching the necklace the entire time.

However Tarzan was quick to notice his paramour was eerily silent and when he saw her transfixed state he jumped into action pulling her away from the necklace. Jane crumbled in his arms unresponsive, seemingly comatose.

“Jane! Jane! Wake up Jane!,” he said urgently. “Hold on, Jane. I won’t let anything happen to you.” Desperation etched his face as he made a painful decision to leave Jane. He knew there were wise shamans living on the far side of the jungle, keepers of ancient knowledge and medicines that might hold the cure for Jane's mysterious ailment. Without delay, he set out on his perilous journey through the dense, untamed wilderness.

Meanwhile, in the solitude of the chamber, in the depths of her coma, Jane found herself walking amongst the buildings and the people of Opar. However this wasn’t the Opar she knew, all empty and ruined. This was a vibrant, alive grand empire. She followed the flow of people to the central hub, the palace. At the center of this opulent building, was a lone woman, beautiful, powerful, strong. It was Queen La like Jane had never seen her. Jane’s hate for all the valuess that La held faded away as she gazed in awe at the magnificent queen astride her throne.

Up until now no one paid Jane any attention, it was if she were a spectre, floating around unseen but one person now saw her. With a smirk and a gesture to come closer, Jane found herself gravitating towards La. Only once she got closer did she notice that the cocoa skinned Queen was positioned in such a way to show off her glistening bare pussy. The sight stopped Jane in her tracks.

“Come closer Jane, pay tribute to your Queen. Taste royalty so you too may ascend.” La said in a purr. Jane was transfixed, almost hypnotized by La’s words as she knelt in front of La and leaned into the monarch’s most prominent care of regions.

Jane’s tongue gingerly touched the top of La’s clit. As soon as it did it was a revelation for the reserved English scholar. The taste was unlike anything she had known before. It was pleasure personified and Jane wanted more.

Placing her hands on La’s smooth thighs, Jane pulled the Queen closer to her face so she could exploring her depths deeper. La let out a soft moan that Jane took to mean she was equally enjoying the experience.

However as both Jane and La were experiencing pleasure like no other, a voice was breaking through to her. It was Tarzan’s. His voice was acting as her conscious, compelling her to wake up, to reject La’s empty promises. His voice sliced through the trance she was experiencing and she pulled herself away from La.

“Wait this isn’t right, this isn’t who I am.” Jane said unsteadily getting to her feet and wiping away the juices from her lips. However with lightning speed La rose and stood behind her, whispering in her ear.

“And who are you exactly Jane? A sidekick to that muscle bound moron? A damsel in distress always waiting on your prince to save you? Aren’t you tired of that?” La purred in her ear as she place her hands on Jane’s hips.

“Wouldn’t you rather be something more capable? More powerful? More feared? Wouldn’t you like that?” La said as she pulled Jane closer to her, their bodies touching from neck to thigh.

Maybe it was fear that kept Jane from moving but maybe it was La’s tempting words that kept her there. Maybe it was La’s soft breath on her nape that caused Jane to forget about Tarzan in that moment. Maybe it was the promise of beauty and power that made Jane whisper, “More than anything!”

Jane closed her eyes as she felt La’s warm embrace around her sink into her skin. She felt La’s very essence be absorbed into her body in a pleasurable slurping sound. She felt her drab and simple clothing become La’s gloriously revealing regal attire. Gold hooped earrings drip from her ears pairing well with think gold bracelets adorning her arms.

Her skin gradually taking on a deeper, exotic tan, reminiscent of the sun-kissed hues of the jungle. But the changes were far more profound than a mere alteration in complexion and clothing. Her body seemed to ripple with newfound vitality, her curves becoming voluptuous and alluring. Her nails grew long and sharp, like obsidian talons, ready to strike.

Jane's once-ordinary hair thickened and lengthened, cascading down her back in a torrent of glossy, ebony waves. Her breasts swelled with a newfound plumpness, going from a meagre B cup to a commanding double D. Her figure transformed into an embodiment of seduction and power.

Muscles that had once been delicate and feminine now hardened, sculpting her into an athletic and toned form, blending grace and strength in a way that was both sexy and fearsome.

Carnal images and sensations filled her mind, like a vast library of pleasures were getting downloading into her brain. Knowledge of magic spells, hexes and curses invaded her brain and gave her intimate expertise as if she had been a student of the dark arts for decades. It was intoxicating.

Opening her eyes she found herself now awake from her coma, standing back in the chamber alone. The necklace that had started all of this was clung tight to her chest. Her eyes, now shimmering with a malevolent light, reflected the eerie radiance of the cursed gem. In that moment, her transformation was complete, and a dark presence had taken root within her.

She gazed at her reflection in an ancient, cracked mirror within the chamber, and her voice, now dripping with seductive cruelty, echoed in the silence. "Ah, much better," she purred, her own voice sounding both familiar and yet profoundly altered, "I was once so naïve, so kind-hearted. But look at me now."

With a haughty laugh, she envisioned herself ruling over Opar, Queen La's dark legacy reborn in her. "I shall be the new queen of this empire, and the jungle will tremble at the mention of my name. No one can resist the allure of power, especially when it's draped in such beauty."

Her fingers, adorned with long, razor-sharp nails, traced the contours of her transformed body, admiring her newfound allure and power. "The jungle will bow before me," she continued, her voice filled with icy determination. "And Tarzan... oh, Tarzan, he will come to realize the joy of serving me."

Almost as if he had been summoned, Tarzan appeared at the foot of the chamber having descended with a shaman mixture that he believed would reawaken Jane but found it suddenly unneeded.

There, before him, stood Jane, but she was unrecognizable. Her once-kind eyes now glinted with a sinister light, and her body had transformed into a vision of seductive power. She wore the cursed necklace with an air of cruel confidence.

"Jane?" Tarzan's voice quivered with disbelief and desperation as he stepped closer.

She turned to face him, and a wicked smile danced upon her lips. "Oh, Tarzan," she purred, her voice dripping with both familiarity and malevolence, "you've returned."

In that moment, Tarzan realized the depth of the darkness that had taken hold of his beloved Jane. "What has happened to you?" he pleaded, his heart heavy with sorrow.

Her laughter was chilling, a stark contrast to the laughter he once knew. "I've embraced the power that this necklace has given me, Tarzan," she declared. "I am the new queen of Opar, doesn’t royalty suit me perfectly?"

Tarzan's eyes pleaded with Jane, desperate to reach the woman he loved, hidden beneath the darkness that had consumed her. "Jane, please," he implored, his voice filled with anguish, "you must destroy that necklace. It's corrupting you."

But Jane merely chuckled, the sound cold and heartless. "Tarzan, you underestimate me," she said, her voice dripping with scorn. With a swift, mocking gesture, she tore the cursed necklace from her neck.

Tarzan's heart leaped with hope, but it was short-lived. In the palm of her hand, she squeezed the necklace causing it to crumbled to dust, as if it had never existed. Jane's eyes blazed with a newfound malevolence.

"I don't need the necklace to be queen, you fool," she sneered, her gaze locked on Tarzan. "The power is within me now. I am the queen of Opar, and no one can challenge my reign."

A sense of dread washed over Tarzan as he realized the extent of the transformation that had taken place. Jane had become a force of darkness, and there seemed to be no way to reach the woman he had once known.

"In fact, as a show of my power," Jane hissed, her voice filled with a chilling determination. With a casual flick of her wrist, the very vines that had once been their allies came alive. They slithered and twisted through the air, responding to her dark command.

Tarzan's eyes widened with alarm as the sinewy vines snaked around him, their grip growing tighter with each passing moment. His powerful struggles were rendered futile as they constricted, holding him immobile, like a helpless prey ensnared in the jungle's unforgiving embrace.

Jane's eyes bore into his, devoid of the warmth and love he had once known. Instead, they gleamed with an eerie satisfaction, reveling in her newfound dominance.

"Tarzan," she taunted, her voice dripping with cruel delight, "you see, there is no escaping my rule. The jungle is mine to command now, and you are but a mere obstacle."

"But you may be useful to me yet," Jane mused with a sinister smile, her lips curving in a mocking grin. Leaning in, she pressed her lips to Tarzan's with a chilling, calculated tenderness.

As their lips met, a malevolent energy surged from Jane's mouth into Tarzan's, and a darkness seemed to creep through his veins. Agonizing pain wracked his body, and he convulsed as a profound transformation began.

Tarzan's muscles bulged and expanded, his body becoming more impenetrable, like the very stones of the jungle. His once-tanned skin turned an eerie shade of gray, and his eyes, once filled with warmth and life, darkened into abyssal pools of black.

Through the torment, Tarzan's voice turned cold with an eerie subservience as he asked, "What is your bidding, my Queen?"

Jane's malevolent laughter echoed through the chamber as she gazed upon the creature that Tarzan had become, a loyal servant of her dark reign. The jungle had truly fallen under her dominion, and she held the once-mighty Tarzan in her thrall, a grim testament to the extent of her power.

“Come my pet, there is much to do.” She said with a knowing smirk as she released Tarzan from his binds and he followed her obediently.

For another tale of Jane’s corruption check out this fantastic story here by @misseviehyde

#f2f #corruption #bitchification #magic #evil bitch #magic jewelry #corrupted jewellery #evil couple #fanfic #ai image #merged #corrupted couple

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maccreadysbaby · 24 days

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A Hundred Ways to Become a Wayne

batfamily + oc insert

tw: none

wanna read more? here’s the table of contents!

want to read the first fic in the hundred days series so you understand what’s going on here? here it is!

nico is not having a good time right now okay :(

part thirty-four

❝ WINDSTORM ❞

THURSDAY — SEPTEMBER 3 — 3:00AM

ELEVEN DAYS LATER, GOTHAM WAS ODDLY QUIET. Barbara and Alfred had been monitoring the Batcomputer. There had been no metahuman attacks in Batman’s absence, no gangs to bust or mobs to stop — it had all been reduced to petty crime the cops could handle all by themselves, which Bentley found both really strange and really lucky. No one had gone missing. The Secret Keeper hadn’t been seen.

Maybe Davis was able to talk her out of mind control? (Could that happen?) Or maybe he’d… y’know. Used his hands on her? Bentley wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, he was thankful for the momentary peace. (Even though it made him sort of worried about Davis.)

He’d been doing school online for a while now, as had Asten and Nico. None of them were thrilled to go back, especially since Dr. Keene was, according to the classwork and emails Bentley was getting, still working there. Damian had gone back a few days prior.

Nico was getting ahold of his powers; both of them. Sometimes he sent Asten and Bentley videos of him trying stuff out, like the fact that he was so fast he could run up walls and on the ceiling, or that he could do things without people seeing him. The abilities from Dr. Keene, as far as they’d figured out, were air-based. They were harder to get a handle on — he could make the wind blow, even inside (which mostly happened when he was upset) and he’d also taught himself how to make a little tornado in his hand. (Give the asthmatic air powers, haha, how funny, Keene.)

Asten was doing pretty okay, too. Bentley hadn’t heard of anything going on with him — no powers had surfaced, just like none had surfaced for Bentley. It made sense, since Nico was in the Synchronizer the longest.

Bentley had gotten his sling off, and was regaining movement in his shot shoulder. He was (maybe) becoming less of an emotional trainwreck? He wasn’t sure — it was sometimes hard to tell the difference between feeling better and ignoring them.

Life was largely going back to normal; Tim had been better for about a week, and was eating a little more since they still weren’t patrolling, Bentley thought. They’d gone back to having dinner as a family in the dining room. It had taken some time, but Dick started to talk again; maybe not as much as he typically did, but talking. Jason didn’t stop having nightmares, but he stopped screaming about them so much, which Bentley assumed was good? Alfred got Bruce to sleep. Duke made a 1520 on his SAT.

The only thing that was still sort of wrong — besides the entire empire Bentley had built out of lies — was Damian.

He still wasn’t really talking to anyone. He’d fallen into a repetitive, precise routine of school and life. Even Dick was getting the cold shoulder, and they were all pretty clueless as to why.

But Bruce was handling it. Everything would be fine — everything was going to go back to normal, just like Bentley hoped. It had to. Right?

And then came the fateful Thursday night.

Bentley was sound asleep, with two people by his side: the heaviest sleeper he’d ever met, and the lightest sleeper he’d ever met. (Aka, Dick Grayson, who could sleep through a hurricane, sprawled on the foot of the mattress, and Jason Todd, who could wake up from a fly sneeze, situated on the left side of Bentley’s bed.) Of course his phone had to start ringing when the clock struck 3:11am.

Jason stirred immediately, as did Bentley, who fumbled tiredly in the pitch black for at least ten seconds before he found the device on his nightstand. He recoiled when the bright screen hit him in the face, the caller ID reading: Nico.

With a few blinks to rid himself of fatigue and right his mind, Bentley put the phone to his ear and whispered: “Hello?”

“Bentley,” Nico’s voice came through. It was quiet, and sounded soft and thick, like maybe he was about to cry? “I need you.”

Bentley pushed himself up on his elbows. “What’s wrong?” Jason was almost immediately sitting up, watching him, listening.

“It’s Asten,” He replied. “He came to my house… what is today? Thursday? He came to my house on Saturday because he wasn’t feeling good, and Sam is out of town. My parents are in Morocco until Monday, but he said it wasn’t too bad, that he just needed someone to keep track of medicine times and stuff.”

Bentley glanced over, making brief and somewhat-disoriented-from-the-dark eye contact with Jason. Dick was still knocked out on the bottom of the bed.

“He’s so sick, Bentley, he can’t even get up. He’s barely eaten anything since he got here. I basically have to fight him to make him take medicine and drink water, and then he just throws it all up,” Nico explained, voice getting thicker as he spoke. “His fever is a hundred and four, and he isn’t making any sense, and I… I’ve been trying so hard, but I…”

Bentley frowned deeply when Nico sniffled with a soft sob. “I can’t handle it. I don’t want to be alone. Every time he falls asleep I’m afraid he won't wake up.”

Bentley flinched a little when Jason’s hand landed on his arm. He met his blue eyes in the dark, blinking a few times to adjust to the light. “I’ll drive over there to get them. You stay and help Alfred get ready.”

Bentley didn’t have it in him to argue.

“Jasons going to come get you,” Bentley said into the phone, swinging his legs off of his bed. “It’ll be okay — just remember to breathe. Do you want me to stay on the phone?”

Nico sucked in a deep breath, and then let out a shuddery one. “No… it’s okay. I’ll have to get our stuff together.”

Bentley nodded as he flicked his lamp on. Jason was already out of the bed, muttering quietly to an only half-awake Dick. “Jason’ll be there in just a few minutes. Don’t worry.”

“Okay…” Nico muttered. “Okay. Um, actually, I do want you on the phone, just in case?”

“Okay,” Was Bentley’s response.

Now, Nico was famous for being a little bit dramatic every now and then, so Bentley wasn’t really sure what to expect. Not that he assumed Nico was lying, just that he may have been blowing it a little bit out of proportion.

So, after he’d helped prepare a guest room and collected several of the sickness supplies most recently used on Tim, he really hadn’t expected for Asten to look so… so…

Bad.

His heart fell into his toes when Jason, Asten, and Nico came through the front door. Jason was carrying Asten, who looked suddenly very, very small. He was paler than a sheet of paper and coated with a sheen of sweat, shivering despite wearing a large black hoodie and gray sweatpants. His expression was contorted into one of discomfort, eyes shut tightly, but he didn’t seem awake enough to comprehend anything. He seemed… out of it. Like Tim had been.

Nico was also in a state of distress. His blonde hair was a mess, and he was wearing a t-shirt and pajama pants that looked like they might’ve been newly stained. (Bentley didn’t want to know what it was.) The whites of his blue eyes were bloodshot, and his ears, nose, and cheeks were red and splotchy from lots of crying. He had two bags — his own school bag on his left shoulder, and Asten’s on his right.

Bentley, who had been at the top of the stairs, thudded down to them. “The guest room next to yours is ready.” He said to Jason, who kept moving, heading up the stairs with a quiet thanks.

When Nico made it within four feet of Bentley, he looked like he was going to cry again.

“Hey…” Bentley tried, grabbing Asten’s bag from Nico’s arms. For a split second, it looked like Nico might’ve tried to hug him, but he stopped himself at the last second and followed Jason up the stairs.

“Thank you,” Was his short reply, his voice thick and muffled just like it had been on the phone. He never looked at Bentley.

“You’re welcome,” The redhead replied, following behind him. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Define okay,” Nico muttered, shaking his head lightly. “Chances are, no. Not at all. But I’m not sick, if that’s what you meant.”

Bentley said nothing.

Bruce and Dick and Alfred were at the ready when they arrived — they had Asten situated in the guest bedroom and were checking things like his blood pressure and temperature before Bentley could even fully comprehend what was going on. He and Nico just put the bags in the bedroom floor and stood on the sidelines. Alfred suggested that Asten needed a drip. Jason ran and got it. Bruce called Nico’s parents. Dick got a cold washcloth and a puke bucket. Alfred kept asking Nico a bunch of detailed questions. Jason called Asten’s uncle. Dick checked Nico’s temperature. (It was fine.)

Everyone was moving and talking and doing things, and it was so chaotic that no one but Bentley really noticed when the wind started to blow inside the Manor.

He glanced over at Nico, who had taken up residence next to the open guest room door. He had his fists clenched really tightly by his sides, so tightly his knuckles were paling. His breathing was a ragged mess, and his eyes — his irises were white.

Oh no.

Bentley, who sent a panicked glance to the family members in the room (thankfully no one was looking at them), wasted no time whisking Nico into the hallway and shutting the door quietly behind them.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay, he’s going to be okay,” Bentley tried. Nico started to pace as soon as they made it out of the room, the breeze following them as they moved. His hands — no, his whole body — seemed to be shaking vigorously, and he was starting to cry again. That type of crying where you can’t really breathe.

“I hate this,” He wept, seeming to purposefully position himself facing away from Bentley, a few paces in front of him, too. “I hate everything. I hate life.”

“Nico-“

“My parents don’t even try to talk to me anymore. Which I did to myself, I know, but it still hurts,” He explained, bringing his arms up to hide his face even though he was facing away. “I haven’t slept in three whole days trying to help Asten, but of course it isn’t working. Why would it? I can't keep up with everything that’s happening to me and I already need a refill on my inhaler which sucks because you’re only supposed to use one a year so now my parents think I need to go to therapy for my anxiety and… and I feel so terrible and sad and alone. I’m so lonely, Bentley. I’m not good at being alone.”

Bentley sighed lightly, empathy bubbling up inside of him. He knew so vividly what Nico was going through that it wasn’t even funny.

“You’re not alone,” Bentley said softly, daring to step closer, echoing what Jason told him in the library. The wind was whipping his hair and tugging at his clothes. “You have me.”

“Don’t get closer,” Nico turned and threw a hand out toward Bentley, hiccuping a spluttering pitifully. His irises were very white, glowing white even beneath all the tears. “I might hurt you. I… I can take the air out of your lungs without even meaning to. I’m dangerous. I can't let you near me.”

Bentley furrowed his brow. “Why not?”

“Because… if you hug me I’m gonna break. And if I break now I might… I might kill you. I might kill all of you. I can’t control this.”

As if on queue, the wind blew and howled down the hall so violently that Bentley literally stumbled from the force, catching himself only by thumping into the wall. (They were going to wake up the whole house.)

“I shouldn’t have come. I have to go,” Nico muttered, wiping at his eyes, then he turned on his heel and made for the stairs.

“Nico!” Bentley tried, following behind him despite the strong wind that was trying to push him the other way. “Please don’t leave. You said you’re not good at being alone, and now you’re going to go be alone?”

“I don’t want to be alone. I have to be alone so I don’t hurt you,” He hiccuped, thudding down the foyer stairs toward the door. Bentley paused momentarily when Nico’s feet, his shoes began to crackle with yellow lightning. Was he about to run?

“Please don’t leave,” Bentley tried again, following him down the staircase. “Please. It’ll be okay — you can control it. You’ll learn.”

“How many people will die before I get it? Eight? Ten? Fifty?” Nico whipped the front door open and shook his hands out by his sides. “I have to go. I can't be here.”

Bentley opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He took a breath but nothing came in. His lungs, hic chest began to constrict painfully, like all of the air had been vacuumed out of him. He brought a hand up to rest on his shirt, tugging at it to no avail. Don’t panic. Panicking would make it worse.

A glance up toward Nico, and Bentley saw his own deep brown eyes glowing white in the reflection of the window next to the door.

Okay, so panic. He really was going to die, wasn’t he? He tried his best to gasp and wheeze for air but nothing moved. His whole chest started to burn like it was on fire and he couldn’t speak to get Nico’s attention. He frantically tried to gasp in air that never came, and his eyes began to water — maybe from fear, maybe from the fact that his chest felt like it might explode, maybe both. He didn’t even realize Nico had seen him until his voice came:

“Bentley! No, hey, no, this can’t be happening!”

Through his panic and the black that was beginning to creep into the edges of his vision, Bentley managed to comprehend that Nico’s white eyes were now very close to him, and his hands were resting on either side of his face. “No, stop it, breathe! Please breathe, please, please, please, please-“

Bentley’s lungs were burning like he’d breathed in a gallon of water and his heart was pounding out of his chest. Nico looked around desperately for help but, even in a Manor that housed a dozen on a good day, found none. Was this what it felt like to drown?

“I can’t make it stop, I can’t…” Nico cried, lurching forward and engulfing Bentley in a hug. “Please, please, please, please, please, please, please… Please, stop it. Please, stop it!”

Bentley was starting to feel more like a wet noodle than an actual person, and it was getting difficult to hold up his weight. Not to mention that the black in his vision was getting bigger. Was this really going to be the end of him? For real? He wasn’t even eleven yet. He couldn’t die before he’d made up with Damian.

“Please stop,” Nico begged. He was practically the only thing keeping Bentley from hitting the floor. Everything seemed to be buzzing, and he was really heavy, and his head and chest were so tight and on fire and burning.

Was he really going to die at Nico’s hand?

“Please stop,” Nico begged, and it seemed like he was talking to the torrential wind that was whipping the foyer’s curtains around — Bentley hadn’t even noticed how hard it was howling until then. How was no one else hearing it? “Please stop.”

Bentley’s vision was shot. His hearing was fading into a dull ring. He felt Nico’s arms tight around him, and he was dying.

“Stop it. Stop it, stop it, stop it!” Nico sobbed violently. He breathed in deep and groaned frustratedly, then shouted, loud enough that the whole house could probably hear him: “Stop it!”

And just like that, the wind stopped, and Bentley gasped.

Breathing air had never felt so good — his gasps slowly put out the fires that had erupted throughout his body and eased the tightness and pain in his chest. It felt like a whole new sensation, like the air was personally warding off the blackness in his vision and the ring in his ears. He choked on nothing and fell into a violent coughing fit as his body came back online.

“Oh my God!” Nico said, pulling back and examining Bentley to make sure he was actually, literally breathing. He was still sobbing, probably harder now, and had an iron grip on Bentley’s shoulders. “Oh my God. I almost… I almost…”

“It’s okay,” Bentley wheezed, coughing so hard he thought his lungs would splat on the floor. “It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.”

Nico let go when he determined Bentley was stable enough, taking a few steps back and drawing his inhaler from a pocket in his pajama pants. “I almost killed you.” His dull blue eyes were trained on the floor, almost like he was dazed. “I almost killed you.”

“But you didn’t. You controlled it,” Bentley tried, still heaving and breathing heavily to replenish the oxygen in his body.

“But what happens next time? If I can’t?” Nico questioned, shaking and sucking on his inhaler a few times. His hands were shaking vigorously. Tears were still streaming down his face in an uncontrollable manner.

“You will. It’ll get easier,” He said. “Just… please stay.”

Nico put his inhaler away and wrapped his arms around himself, his whole body shaking with his sobs. “What if it doesn’t stop next time?”

“It will,” Bentley reassured. “Please — you said you needed me. I’m right here.”

He attempted a Bruce-move by opening his arms invitingly. “I trust you. Powers can't change that.”

Nico just sort of stared at him for a solid ten seconds. Bentley was about to call it quits and back down, but then Nico threw himself at him, wrapping his arms around his neck, sinking into it and crying like he hadn’t had a hug in weeks. (Little did Bentley know, he really hadn’t.)

They never realized that, despite the yelling and windstorm, absolutely no one else in the Manor had heard a thing.

—

dedicated to @sassenashsworld 💚

—

tag list! (If you want me to remove or add you, ask in comments!)

@fleur-alise @sarcopterygiian @flyrobinflyy @skylathescholar @gayboss-too-close-to-the-sun @xiaonothere

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holylulusworld · 8 months

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Brother's keeper (1)

Summary: She would do anything to protect her brother.

Pairing: Royal!Tony Stark x Princess!Reader

Warnings: mentions of marriage, love-hate relationship, feisty/bratty reader, enemies to lovers, arguments, royal au, dystopian au, banter, sexual tension, betrayal (not Tony)

This series takes place in the Two kings (Arc1) & Not a queen (Arc 2) universe, at the same time. I recommend reading these stories first to understand this universe better.

You can find all arcs here: Of Kings and Queens Arcs

Brother’s keeper masterlist

<<Brother’s keeper - Prologue

AN: Square filled for Navy and Roo’s slumber party presents bingo @the-slumberparty: Arranged Marriage

“You can’t be serious, brother!” You throw your hands up. You can’t believe it was your brother letting the truth slip. “How can you tell Tony Stark out of all people that you are my twin, not our elder brother? We swore on Mother’s grave that we would never tell a soul that our elder brother died after we were born. It was perfect.”

“I had enough of being the second son, the man walking in your shadow. First, our brother was the one who was meant to ascend the throne, and after he died, father wanted you to reign,” your brother bites back. “I knew Stark would use the information to get you.”

“I never wanted to reign, brother! You know that!” You shake your head. “Stark forces my hand in marriage because of your foolish mistake. I got no other choice than marrying a man I despise!”

“Can you for once not be selfish! Stark is a strong ally. If you marry him, you’ll be queen one day, and I can ascend the throne, just like I always wanted.”

You gape at your brother. It’s no secret that he changed after your mother’s death. Always staring at the throne like he’s about to claim it any time.

He dares to call you selfish after he made sure you must marry a man you hate. All your life you kept his secret and took care of him. You were the one protecting your younger brother, only for him to stab you in the back.

You cup his face with both hands to look at him but find no regret in his eyes.

“Oh brother, what have you done,” you hold back the tears as you whisper in his ear. “If only you would’ve waited a few weeks longer. Father wanted to announce his resignation. The throne would’ve been yours in less than a year.

You kiss his cheek, lips lingering for a moment. Closing your eyes, you silently say goodbye to the brother you used to know. It’s there and then that you decide to not play his protector any longer.

“I’m going to marry Stark. Not because you want me to, but to get away as far as possible from you.”

You step away, tears in your eyes as you look at your brother, and a stranger looks back at you.

“I’ll be gone soon enough, brother. I hope the throne was worth betraying me,” you bitterly say. “I guess Tony Stark was not the worst man I ever met after all. At least he doesn’t pretend to be a better man than he is.”

Holding your head high you walk away. Your heart is heavy but hope blooms in your chest.

Maybe if you stop being your brother’s keeper, you’ll find a new meaning in life.

“Courting? You want me to court you?” Tony hiccups as you only smirk darkly in return. “We have a deal, Colibri.”

“The deal is still on,” you coo. “But I’m a princess and deserve better treatment. What will people think about me if I’m not courted properly?”

You enjoy the struggle on Tony’s face. He’s used to always getting his will, but you won’t have it.

“What do you want me to do?” He grumbles. “I won’t let you order me around, woman!”

“I want flowers, jewelry, and a caring fiancé. Maybe we can take long walks, and show everyone how much we are in love,” he chuckles at your words. “Don’t believe for one minute that I’ll allow you to stray. If you stick your dick in some other bitch’s pussy, I’ll castrate you.”

“Aw, she’s jealous,” he grabs your hand to lead you along the endless hallways at the castle. “Believe me. I don’t have time for another woman with you around. I need to keep a close eye on you, Colibri.”

“Did you know that my brother was plotting against me?” You question while walking next to him. “I protected him all my life. How can he do this to me?”

“You know.” Tony sighs deeply. He wanted to make you believe he's the villain in your story.

“Yeah, I know. I’m not stupid, Stark,” you snap at Tony. “I was foolish enough to believe that men can be trusted. I was wrong. My father denied me the throne, and my younger brother betrayed me in the worst way possible.”

“Why do you still keep your word?” Tony stops walking to look at you. “Y/N?”

You exhale sharply. “He’s still my brother, and I need to keep him safe. I think it’s for the better that I leave my kingdom. He would’ve only ever felt like second best with me around. And giving you hell for the rest of your life is a challenging task.”

He smirks. “It’s an honor to be part of your plans, darling. We will make a perfect pair.” Tony grabs your hand to bring it to his lips. “I bet we will have a hell of a wedding night.”

You snort. “As if I’ll let your pest-infested dick get anywhere near me, my prince. It will be only you and your hand during our wedding night.”

“Oh, Colibri,” he purrs and cups your face. “I will use my hand to make you lose your mind. I bet,” he licks his lips, “you’ll cum with only one of my fingers inside of you…”

Part 2

#tony stark #tony stark x reader #tony stark x y/n #tony stark x you #royal!tony stark x princess!reader #royal au #dystopian au #prince!tony stark #Brother's keeper (1)

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soulofapatrick · 1 year

Text

Revealing Secrets - Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Y/N tells Joel and Ellie the truth about the cure, expecting a hideous fall out but Joel’s response is unexpected

Words: 3.5k

Warnings: Smut (p in v): fingering; lots of fluff; angst with Ellie

NOTES: Part 6 of Let Me Save You

Y/N’S POV

The food court area Maria’s made out of an old barn is warm and full of life, conversations floating around and the sound of laughter making the building brighter. There’s fairy lights strung up in the rafters, acting as lights and they just add to the homey feeling the building gives. Ellie’s sat between me and Joel, eating like she’s never eaten a proper meal which actually… thinking about it she probably hasn’t.

“There’s more if you need it.” Maria speaks up, amusement dancing across her face as she watches Ellie scarf down the food. Joel hasn’t noticed the closeness between her and Tommy, the way they’re sitting angled towards each other and I bet their feet are probably touching under the table.

“Thank you ma’am.” Joel’s tone is polite and nothing like what I’ve heard from him before. He may have used it once or twice when they first visited Bill and Frank but he’s usually a lot more roughly spoken, a scowl usually on his features, “It’s been a while since we’ve had a proper meal.”

“Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever had a proper meal. This is fucking amazing,” Ellie speaks around a mouthful of potatoes, sending Tommy and Maria a smile. It has me wanting to face palm as she’s so blunt and brash with her words, it’s very Joel-like. Joel’s cheeks heat up with embarrassment, glancing at Ellie with his eyebrows quirked before turning back to Maria and apologising for her. Ellie’s not listening to them, her eyes on a girl watching us from behind one of the wooden pillars. All I can do is watch the way Ellie’s clover eyes narrow, she swallows and is snapping, “What?” The girl’s face falls slack in shock and she’s scurrying out of the barn, daring a quick glance back at us before she’s gone.

“What is wrong with you?” I steel her with a stern look and she just rolls her eyes.

“She was just curious. Kids around here don’t usually look or talk like you.” Maria explains and Ellie’s nodding then snapping that she wants her gun back but Maria seems unfazed by her attitude, “They also aren’t armed.” Ellie just glares back at Maria, Joel catching my gaze over the kids head and I just shrug lightly as there’s nothing I can do to make Ellie behave. His eyes flick down to my lips before he’s turning back around.

“You know what? I think maybe ya’ll got a little off on the wrong foot.” Tommy’s shifting in his seat,“Well, we gotta be real careful about who we let in this place. But it’s all bark. We’re just trying to scare off those who might wanna try us is all.” He’s trying to keep the peace but it doesn’t work because Ellie is quick with a retort that has me smacking her shoulder.

“Well you got a couple of ninety-year-olds who shitting themselves out there. They say that you leave dead bodies around?” She snaps back, stabbing the last bits of food on her plate before glancing up at me, as if to gauge my reaction and see if she went too far. She did go to far and I should be telling her off for it except I’m also curious about what they say in return to it.

Maria replies, “Those are the people who tried us.” And Tommy is quick to add, “A bad reputation doesn’t mean you’re bad.” He seems to be the peace keeper of the two but my blood boils in my veins when Maria turns her attention to Joel, a look I know so well on her face. It’s not quite hatred but it’s the look most get when they hear about everything Joel’s had to do to survive the last 20 years. It makes me so fucking mad because it’s not like others haven’t done worse and Joel… he did a lot of it to protect me and Tess from others like Robert and the FEDRA soldiers who found amusement in raping and murdering anyone they could, the power going to their heads.

“Not always, at least.” Maria says, voice full of ice and my chair is scraping across the ground as I jump up, wanting to defend Joel but said man grabs my arm. His honey eyes full of guilt and pain but he’s shaking his head lightly, those eyes flickering down to where my pocketknife is in my hand. Oh. I slowly sit back down, still glaring at Maria and beginning to dislike her for her judgemental nature. I know you have to be ruthless in a world like this but she has no right to call Joel a bad person.

“Ma’am… we’re grateful for your hospitality and all. But it’d be nice to have a moment here, maybe just for family.” Joel’s voice is tight and his hand in mine behind Ellie’s chair tightens when Tommy takes Maria’s hand in his and tells Joel that Maria is family. I get it. Tommy went off the radio months ago, for us to find him with a wife and a life while Joel dragged himself across the country to find him and make sure he was safe. I rub my thumb across his knuckles as he stays there, stuck staring at their intertwined hands while Ellie sends them her congrats. The smile slipping off her face when she glances between me and Joel, noticing how angry we both her. I heard Tommy on the radio with Joel for months then he stopped responding to Joel’s prompts and I watched Joel tear himself apart, getting into fights and doing stupidly ridiculously smuggle runs despite my pleas for him to be careful. Tess and I could only sit back and watch, patching him up when he came home battered and broken. He broke down one night after coming back from a fight, head on my shoulder as I carded my fingers through those salt and pepper locks, his shoulders shaking and Tommy’s name falling from his lips in a broken sob. I want to punch Tommy there and then but we need a place to stay for the night and here is the best place,

“How ‘bout a tour.” Tommy stands up and I do the same, drawing Joel up with me. He keeps his hand in mine, pulling close to his side as Ellie and Maria follow us behind Tommy. The town is beautiful, especially decorated for Christmas. Joel’s tensing up at the sight of the giant Christmas tree in the town centre so I just squeeze his hand tighter, trying to ground him to the present before he goes down a downward spiral of Sarah. Tommy doesn’t seem to notice or if he does he ignores it, “I still got my 700, but I found a variable power scope. Sub MOA. Can headshot any infected from half a mile out.”

“Can you teach me how?” Ellie grins at him.

“No he cannot.” I interject before Tommy can reply and Tommy just sends her a sheepish shrug while Maria points to different buildings and explains what they are. There’s so much here for seven years worth of work: schools; places of worship; laundry; jail and they have hot water and electricity which I’m guessing is from the dam which is why they cornered us when we got too close to their source of all power. There’s a farm of sheep which has Ellie bounding ahead excitedly, making sheep sounds and giggling to herself.

“Everything you see in our town… greenhouses, livestock, all shared. Collective ownership,” Maria tells us as we watch Ellie sprint over to the stables, eyes lighting up as she has always had a love of horses.

“So communism?” Joel finally speaks, glancing at Tommy with a satisfied smirk when he tries to explain it’s not communism but Maria cuts him off and says that it is communism. I have to bury my face in Joel’s shoulder to stifle my laugh as Joel had told me ages ago that Tommy was once in the military… fighting against communism. Seems Tommy has an awakening then as he just stares at us as Joel leads me after Ellie with a smirk gracing his face. I watch as Ellie pets the foal, cooing at the tiny animal and feeding it hay that’s fallen from the stable.

“Well I’ll take Y/N and Ellie to the house if you two wanna catch up.” Maria speaks and Ellie spins around, panic on her face at Joel telling Maria and Tommy that I stay with him. Ellie whispers our names but I tell her she’ll be okay and it seems to be enough as she nods once and doesn’t protest when Tommy leads me and Joel away.

“Joel. I need to talk to you about Ellie.” I say when we’re sat at the bar, a whiskey in the Miller brothers hands while I opted for something no alcoholic. Joel asked me if he could tell Tommy about Ellie and I agreed but he needs to know Ellie can’t go to the fireflies. He needs to know they plan on killing her to try and make a vaccine despite people even before the outbreak of the cordyceps saying a vaccine isn’t possible.

“So the kid?” Tommy asks, glancing between us and I just nudge Joel slightly.

“She’s immune.” Tommy straightens up, probably about to tell us that’s not a funny joke but Joel continues, “I saw her get bit and she didn’t get sick. We’re taking her to the Fireflies,” Something crosses Tommy’s face at that, having been part of the fireflies not too long ago. Oh. He must have heard the rumours, “They think she’s the answer to a cure.”

“She’s not.” My mouth feels dry as I speak before Tommy can respond to Joel and both of them are turning to me. I have to down my drink to even be able to try and speak again, confusion on Joel’s face, “I’ve seen the interviews from before the outbreak. A cure is not possible. The fireflies are too stubborn to understand this and if they were to try and take the mutation from Ellie…” I’m trailing off, rubbing the back of my neck and not meeting either of their eyes.

“Ellie has to die?” Joel’s voice is strained and I nod, feeling a lump swelling in my throat and my vision is blurring slightly, “How long has you known?”

“W-when we left.” My voice is barely a whisper and I expect the shattering of the glass from Joel. He’d be throwing the glass if we were back in the QZ, yelling about how I could be so stupid, letting me put us in so much danger and keeping such vital information from him but nothing like that happens. A gruff sigh is exhaled before the glass hits the table with force but then hands are yanking me from my stool and into his broad chest. Joel’s strong arms wrap around me and I slide my hands under the back of his shirt, burying my face in his chest and just breathing in everything Joel. The comforting smell of burnt coffee; woodsy musk and something citrusy has me dizzy with safety and want and… love? The soft press of his lips against my forehead has me whimpering out a soft, “Are you mad?”

“No, I just wish you had trusted me enough to tell me earlier,” He murmurs, no anger in his voice at all and his lips are ghosting over my forehead, “You mean everything to me, you can trust me.”

“I do trust you,” I pull back enough to see his face, features soft and open, leaning into my touch when I brush my knuckles over his cheek, honey eyes fluttering shut before I remember Tommy’s still here. He’s moved away from us to give us privacy but I can feel him watching, catching the smile as he cleans glasses, “I’ll leave you two to catch up. I should check and see if Ellie and Maria are being civil.”

“Yeah that’s a good idea.” He hums in agreement, sending a quick glance at Tommy who has his back to us suddenly and it’s enough for Joel to surge down, pressing a quick kiss to my lips. It draws a shocked gasp from me, not expecting the urgency, “I’ll find you.”

“I’ll talk to Ellie.”

“WHAT?! YOU KNEW?!” Ellie screams, tears glazing her clover eyes as she stands opposite me, chest heaving with anger.

“Ellie…” I reach for her but stop halfway, not wanting to push her, “I can’t watch you die.”

“That’s not your choice to make.”

“There’s proof a cure can’t be made Ellie!” I can’t keep my voice steady, hearing the door open and close below us, “I’m not going to let you die for nothing!”

“There’s proof?” She calms down a little.

“Yes. I asked Maria if she could find the tapes. Go find Maria. If you still want to go after… fine, we’ll take you but if not… there’s a place here for us.” I sigh and she nods once, shouldering past me and down the stairs, the front door slamming shut behind her and I just let my knees go. I’m crying, everything from the last few months crashing down on me like a tonne of bricks. Tess’ death, saying goodbye to Bill and Frank, watching Sam and Henry die and now this… Ellie walking away from me with anger and hatred.

“Hey, there you are sweet girl.” Joel’s surrounding me, arms around me and he’s pulling me into his chest. He doesn’t speak, just holds me and lets me cry, hands carding through my hair and lips ghosting over my cheek as I let everything out. The ache in my chest loosening with each passing second until I’m just curled in his lap, head on his shoulder and his lips peppering sweet kisses across my face before he’s kissing me properly. Lips meeting like old friends, soft and delicate, his large hands gripping my hips strong and tight as I’ll slip away, “Come on, they have hot water.”

I just let him guide me to my feet, leading me from Ellie’s room and down the corridor to the bathroom where towels, clothes and other necessities are ready waiting as if Joel knew it’s what I would need. He probably heard us yelling, knowing Ellie wouldn’t go quietly with the information and he was right. I watch as Joel turns the shower on before coming back to me, his fingertip ghosting down my sides until they’re fiddling with the hem of my shirt, honey eyes searching for consent which of course I’m going to give him. He’s slow and gentle with his movements, pulling the shirt over my head and making sure it doesn��t catch on my hair before hands move to my jeans. His eyes stay on mine the whole time he’s sliding them down my legs, taking my underwear with them so I’m just stood in front of him in my bra. His next moves surprise me, he’s pulling his shirt over his own head and shimmying his jeans down his thick thighs. His boxers slide down next, the air stolen from my lips as he’s huge and he’s not even erect. It has my thighs trembling slightly, trying hard to not imagining how he’d practically split me apart and how he seems the type to praise-

The rough pads of his fingers are fiddling with the clasp of my bra and I’m shivering when it falls to the floor, Joel’s hands in mine as he leads me into the shower. It’s sweet and soft, making sure the water isn’t too hot and that I’m comfortable with this. He doesn’t speak but shows me how much I truly mean to him with every gentle brush of the wash cloth against my skin or way he massages my scalp when washing my hair. Every brush elites a fire in my gut and I’m wanting him but I don’t want to misread anything and push him away so I take the first risk, leaning back against his chest. His arms instinctively wrap around my waist, lips on my shoulder and my hand is coming back to tangle in his hair and it’s like he understands what I want. His teeth nip at the sensitive skin on my neck, just below my jaw, while his right hand slides lower, fingers brushing over my clit. The hand in his hair tightening and a chuckles rumbles in his chest as he continues, sliding two fingers along my wet folds until he’s plunging one into my aching heat. A mewl is ripped from my throat, my back arching down into the intrusion and I’m guiding him into a messy kiss as he begins to move. It’s hot and passionate and everything I’ve always wanted in Joel, his teeth catching my bottom lip between his teeth when he adds a second finger and my thighs are trembling, the feeling of bliss coming closer and closer.

“I’ve got you sweet girl,” He murmurs against my cheek, nose brushing lightly over it as his fingers curl one final time, “That’s it, come on, let go.” I’m crying his name, pressing my ass against his twitching erection as I roll my hips down onto his fingers, my mind whiting out as it washes through me, “That’s it baby girl, I’m so proud of you.” He coos as my legs give way, his from grip on my waist holding me up as he pulls his fingers out. I think my eyes roll back into my head when he brings them up to his own lips and sucking them clean, honey eyes on me the whole time.

“J-Joel,” My voice is shaky, “Joel, I need you.”

“Fuck.” He groans into my neck before stepping away from me. He’s turning the shower off and leading me out, grabbing one of the towels and taking his time to dry me. He trails kisses after the towel, eyes darkening with want and love as I can’t keep the small sounds to myself. He haphazardly dries himself off before he’s gripping my hand and we’re practically stumbling into the bedroom opposite the bathroom.

I’m laying back on the bed, Joel climbing over me, glancing up at me as the swollen and weeping head brushes over my folds. He’s asking for permission even after I just told him I need him. Fuck, I love this man so fucking much. I’m wrapping my legs around his waist, pulling him inside and it tears a sound from me as he’s so big. It’s a beautiful pain, Joel drawing me into a kiss and my hands tugging at his salt and pepper locks while he wraps me up in his strong and safe arms. Joel had always seemed the type to have sex, not make love but the way he’s taking his time drawing long and deep strokes with his hips, the head catching that sweet spot with every in thrust has me realising otherwise. It’s slow and full of love, as if he’s trying to show me how much I mean to him and it just adds to everything.

“Joel,” His name is dragged from my lips when he sits back on his heels, arms wrapping around my thighs and pulling himself deeper and closer than I imagined possible, tip brushing my cervix as his thrusts are becoming erratic and he’s getting closer and closer, dragging me with him, my walls fluttering around him with every drag. It’s hot and that building of pleasure is right there, a hand finding Joel’s around my thighs as the other grips the sheets when he brings his other hand to rub circles into my clit. That’s all it takes for me to come, my back arching into him and walls clamping, trying to keep him pressed up against that sweet spot and he’s not far behind. A guttural moan ripped from him as he lurches forwards, capturing me into a kiss as he fills me up both of us laying there, panting and trying to regain some form of normalcy.

“You mean everything to me.” He’s murmuring, pulling out and flopping next to me, head turning to me. His honey eyes are full of sincerity, hair fluffed and messy against his forehead, softness taking years from his weather worn skin and all I can feel is one word… Love.

“I love you Joel.” It comes tumbling out before I can stop it and he stops. It’s a minute before he’s turning onto his side to face me properly, hand cupping my cheek and thumb rubbing over my cheekbone, eyes soft and they’re slightly glazed as if he’s going to cry.

“I’m not good for much you know,” He moves his thumb to my lips when go to retort that he is good, “But I want you love you and take care of you if you’ll let me. Ellie too.”

“I would love that.”

“I love you.”

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Chapter One ⇢ Save Who You Can Save

Chapter Two ⇢ Stitches

Chapter Three ⇢ Keep You Safe

Chapter Four ⇢ Escape Kansas City

Chapter Five ⇢ Finding Tommy

Chapter Six ⇢

Chapter Seven ⇢ Crossed Paths

Chapter Eight ⇢ Finding Family

Chapter Nine ⇢ Two Become One

Chapter Ten ⇢ Coming Soon

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