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netherfeildren · 11 months

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Kiss, Kiss, Kill, Kill!

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Joel is a long haul truck driver. One day he finds a pretty girl in a diner and decides he’d like to keep her.

Murder and sex ensue!

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No outbreak; Graphic depictions of violence; Murder; Blood; Gore; Threat of SA; Impotence; Unprotected sex; Creampie; Loss of virginity; Virginity kink; Breeding kink; Spit kink; Rough sex; Pussy slapping; Dark!Joel; Mean!Joel (also kinda crazy and pathetic); Obsessive behavior; Possessive behavior; Discussions of suicidal ideations; Unreliable narrators; Alcoholism; Consensual non consent kind of (But not previously discussed - they're both into it tho); Use of misogynistic language; Grief

A/N: Hi :) Another one just bc I have no self control.

Parts of the narrative read a little disjointed and/or confusing. This is intentional. I was kind of trying something weird out here, I guess.

Word Count: 9.7K

Read on AO3

The first time Joel sees you, it’s a Thursday. His least hated day of the week, but not his favorite, for he doesn’t really have any favorite things anymore. Your eyes’d stunned him at that first look. They sparkled as if dusted with frost – speared him with an intensity that burned.

But no… that was a lie, and Joel is trying not to be such a liar anymore. He does have one favorite thing now. This middle-of-nowhere diner, this place where’d he’d found you.

The first time he’d actually talked to you, you’d interrupted his own stubborn, sour silence with a silence of your own. Different, agonizing, compared to your usual persistent fishing for his attention.

“What’re you doin’ out here in this wasteland, sweetheart?” Because you look sweet as that cherry pie you’re always trying to push on him.

“Been here my whole life.” It’s verging on evening, the sky gone to melancholy, and there’s a young girl with dark hair weeping on the shoulder of an older woman in the booth over. He wants to snap at her, demand to know what the fuck she could possibly have to cry over? He’s sure she mustn’t have a dead daughter like him, and so there really seems to be no reason for tears.

“No plans to leave?”

You shake your head, hum a little, set the coffee pot down on the edge of the table to pop a hip out and think on your answer. “Guess you could say I’m a little bit weak or scared, don’t know.”

“Doubt that,” a surprised laugh forced out of him. Entirely improbable, he knows this just by looking at you. “You’ve got eyes that seem as if they’ve never held fear within them in your entire life.” And he makes you laugh at that, head thrown back, throat rippling. The sound like the tolling of the bell indicating the start of the rest of his life.

When you’re done gifting him your laughter, you ask, “What about you? Why are you here?”

“My daughter died.” Plain.

Your eyes seem to shutter or flicker, something like a chimera about them, “When?”

“Two years ago.” He watches the crying girl and the old woman get up to go. And then the two of you are alone. You move to sit in the booth across from him. He’d been coming in here to see you for more than half that time since, and now, the first time the two of you are having an actual conversation, and this is what he’s decided to open with. But really, it’s the only story he has to tell anymore. He watches you watch him for a long moment, as though you’re searching for something within him, or mulling over what it is you want to say to him, the shift of your jaw from side to side as you chew on your words. He feels easily frightened now – fragile – and yet vibrantly malignant, at the same time. A juxtaposition on two opposite ends of the spectrum of good and not so good, or perhaps, verging on very, terribly bad, in the grocery store line of human morality. Two Joel’s at the start and end of the queue who could not seem to come to terms with one another. Enemies – they were enemies of each other. A Joel who’d once had a daughter, and a Joel who now did not. A Joel who’d pulled a trigger at his own temple, and one who’d never even considered such a thing. He draws his finger along the line of scar tissue at his temple.

For a long time he’d wanted to tear a hole in his world and escape, but he was no master of inventiveness. On the contrary, he found his attempt rather miserly – had short changed himself at the last moment and flinched. But perhaps, it had been for this reason – for you, to find you. He wishes he could peer inside your mind, crack open your skull and read everything you’re hiding away from him inside there. A violent thought, but you make him feel slightly violent, or – no, that’s not it – for Joel is already a violent man. It’s more that you pull a specific hue of violence out of him, incite it, like he needs to move, to howl, to claw at something, at you, scream and scream and scream to keep your undivided attention on him forever.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you say finally, voice quiet. “How old was she?”

His loss. That was a funny way of putting it. It had never felt like a loss. The word was too small. Four letters was not enough to describe what it really was. There was no word for what it felt like. An emaciation of his very self until he simply ceased to exist. Something that had sucked his soul, his heart, his brain out of his body, but they didnt feel lost. They felt destroyed, decimated, or like they had never existed. Sometimes the feeling left him confused, disoriented – this strange purgatory he’d been relegated to, it was like it had never happened in his mind sometimes, or like it had happened to a different man. Like that life with that beautiful little girl with the green eyes who’d had a father who loved her, who’d then died, had happened to someone else. Someone who wasn’t Joel. Like a war that had raged and raged for centuries, and now nothing was left in its wake. Only that terribly fraught reminder of a violence too grotesque for a human mind to conceive.

How could he miss something, wish for something so, so, so fucking desperately he’d peel his very skin from his body himself to get it back, but also feel like it didn’t belong to him anymore? Like it had never happened to him, like he remembered it out of his own body? A dream that belonged to someone else, and Joel’d only been told of it second hand. His mind was fractured now, he knew this. He wasn't right – broken or glued together the wrong way. His bones didn’t fit in his joints the way they were supposed to anymore. He was all wrong and ugly and fucked.

“She was twelve.”

“My whole family’s dead,” you say it almost casually, with a half shrug of your shoulders. “Is that why you started driving? To get away?”

He’s been a long haul truck driver for going on two years now. Started just after Sarah – needed to get away, to get lost. He didn’t enjoy it – he does not enjoy it. Not because the work is bad or boring or what have you, but because he doesn’t enjoy anything anymore. But it’s productive and pays well and… well, he does appreciate the solitude. There is that, at least. He’d been on the route from New Mexico to Washington for several months now, and it was fine. Occasionally, he’d head up to the Dakotas – not so fine, longer, harder trek, but he managed it. He preferred this one, preferred the darkness of the north west corner of the country. He never went further south than New Mexico, though. Absolutely never into Texas. He’d never go back there again.

“Sure… to get away.” He couldn’t be there anymore afterwards, had nothing left. “My neighbor, Anna, she’s got a teenager, Ellie. Sweet kid. Weird kid,” he laughs fondly, remembering the two of them. “The kid was friends with my daughter, Sarah. And after everything– well, after everything, Anna made sure they both stuck around. Didn’t let me shut myself away the way I wanted to,” ill-shaven recluse, confused, fractured, “They’re good people. You’d like them, I think. They’re… they’re my friends.” They were another reason he kept doing the driving, he liked to send money back to Anna and Ellie. He knew they didn’t need it, didn’t want it, but he had to. He needed to feel like he was still taking care of someone, contributing to someone’s well being. It was just part of who he was.

“I’m sure I would.”

He watches your silent enrapture as you listen to him tell you of his pseudo life. After a while he’d realized that was all he’d started doing, making his way back to you, to this diner where you work. A sad place for ugly men to stop in on a pause from their interminable journeys and lay eyes on an angel. He hadn’t even really realized that’s what he was purposely doing or that it’d become a pattern. He just needed something to see at the end of the tunnel, a light to look towards when he was lost in the darkness. That’s what you are, a single flickering light in the abyss of darkness he exists in now.

You’re small – tiny compared to Joel’s own hulking size. He thinks he could break you, easily, if he isn’t careful, if he so felt like it. And you were – you are so fucking pretty. He thinks of you so often. Almost as often as he thinks of his dead daughter which might seem wrong or strange, but it’s really nothing more than the two opposite ends of a spectrum of perfect beauty that he’s known within his lifetime that now he cannot reach either end of. Sarah – dead, forever out of reach. And you. Too perfect for consideration, too beautiful and good for these monstrous hands of his. The thing he’s become in his grief is not worthy of a gorgeous creature like you. His existence post Sarah’s death had become some sort of apocalyptic dysphoria where the only monster here was Joel. But he does like to watch, and he does like to think of you. To come to your diner and sit and watch you serve coffee to your customers – the scum that muddles through here isn’t worthy of laying eyes on you – men like him. Sometimes, when he sits here silently, pretending to ignore you and not be entirely beguiled by you, he feels as if he has a purpose again, like the money for Anna and Ellie, getting to inconspicuously watch over you, make sure no one gives you a hard time gives him purpose. And when he goes, even though he never really wants to, he takes you with him in his mind through the long stretches of his hauls. When there are nothing but ghosts to keep him company. When thoughts of Sarah and that dead life become too overwhelming, he calls you to mind, plans his routes to make his way back to you.

You’re also fucking persistent – not giving him the chance to wallow away in his silence and brooding. He was rude at first, gruff and unresponsive and wouldn’t ever acknowledge your queries of, How’s it going today, and, Oh, back again I see. Sometimes he wanted to snap and just spit the truth at you, ‘course, I’m fuckin’ back, I’m here to see you, I’m obsessed with you. And rounds and rounds of, Can I get you another cup of coffee? The same as usual? You’d memorized his order. Pestered and pestered and pestered for his name until he’d finally ceded it to you, and, How ‘bout some cherry pie this time? After a while you’d gotten sick of his recalcitrant bullshit and just dropped off the piece of pie, slipping it onto the edge of the table and sliding away without a word or a half look back at him. He’d eaten the whole damn thing, savored it, and caught your sassy, little smirk after he’d finished. He’d wanted to bend you over the counter and spank your ass until you cried after that. He bets you’d taste as sweet as that pie, that if he slapped your cunt enough times he could get it red as a cherry. He bets you’d like that – that you’d like it a little rough, a little dirty, a little mean. You might look like an angel, but Joel’s seen the way you look at him, the way you follow him with your eyes, leaning against the counter, chin cupped in your small palm watching him eat his eggs and drink his coffee.

You want him.

But Joel is frightened – frightened and cowardly and not right, and as much as you look like an angel, he also worries you might have the ability to entice him into very, very bad things – to provoke him into depravity, even. There is a part of him, large or small given the day and the mood and the weather that he walks in here on, that has the rotten half of his mind whispering at the not-so-rotten half that he wants to defile and debase you, and that he’s pretty sure you’d like it if he did. He wants to fuck you full of his come and then watch it leak out of your used, gaping hole. Then he wants to lick you clean, kiss it all better so that he can do it all over again.

The first few times he’d stopped at your diner, he’d pretended he hadn’t even noticed you, would lie to himself in his mind and tell himself that he had no interest in a little thing like you. He had no interest in women, in making connections, in having conversations. Occasionally… well– no, not occasionally. Twice, it had happened twice now, when the urge had struck, the itch had become too persistent, and his hand not enough, he’d gotten a hooker. The first time he’d shut down completely, lost his hard on and not been able to finish. The second time… he’d finished. He might’ve even made the woman come, he hadn’t bothered to ask, but he thought he might have. Then he’d gone back to his truck and cried great heaving sobs. Like he’d said… not right, he wasn’t right anymore. Couldn’t even fuck a whore without blubbering like a baby. He’d wondered if perhaps his grief had made him impotent. That’d be funny. That type of funny thing that is also a humiliation… you know the sort?

But after a while, the lie had become too much of a farce, even for his own mind. He knew, from that first moment he’d walked in, and you’d spun around, a bright smile and chirpy, little voice telling him to sit anywhere you’d like, be right with you, mister, that he’d taken notice. More than notice. He’d put you in his pocket that day and had carried you with him in some way since. Like a stone chosen off the beach, washed up by the tide and deposited in the sand just for him to come across, or maybe like a fucking infection, like the plague, for he did not want this. He did not want to think of you. He did not want to think of anyone or anything. He wanted to be alone and without anything or anyone for the rest of his life. If he did not have anyone, if he remained alone, then he could never again experience that loss which was not truly a loss, but something much worse and devastating, and even, perhaps, a little hilarious, in that way that a hilarious thing can also sometimes be humiliating and shameful… there it is. A loss that is not a loss for it is a thing so devastating it becomes something else entirely. A humiliation to one’s very existence, a decimation, emaciation, all the things, all the things, and nothing at the same time.

His mind was wont to ramblings, on occasion now. Perhaps, incoherence, was the better word. Anxiety, as well, panic, tears. Couldn’t even fuck a hooker without weeping, howling, a few sobs.

He had wandered so far, and sometimes he thought, I want to go home, but of course, that home no longer existed. It had been put in the ground two years ago and lost forever. The dissatisfaction of constant ennui. He could, perhaps, return to the geographical place, but nothing familiar would remain. He couldn’t live with the memory, he couldn’t live away from it. It was like it had simply ceased to exist that day that she’d died, and every moment since that moment was just a series of moments filled with a yearning for some place that no longer existed. He didn’t think he’d ever again feel at home anywhere.

And yet…

He turns back to look at you.

“How did they die? Your family.”

“Home invasion – murdered. He never found me, hid in the boiler closet.”

“Little rabbit.”

“Hmm,” a huff of a laugh, “Maybe. Someone once said I was lucky. Pretty fucked up, no?”

“Do you feel lucky?”

“Never. Angry – that I’d been left behind.”

“Yeah…”

“Alone.”

“Are you alone?”

You turn back to him. Inspect him. He watches the slant of your eyes take in his hair, his face, wrinkled, haggard, his chest, his arms – he feels a flush flare beneath his ribs, then back up to his eyes. He wonders if you’ve ever been fucked before. You’re young – but he can’t imagine how you wouldn’t have been. He thinks he’d do anything in this moment to get between your thighs, but also, he hopes you haven’t, hopes you could be all his, only his, his his. Mine.

He hopes he won’t cry if he gets the chance.

“Entirely,” you say finally.

“I had– have– ” shakes his head, “I have, I guess, a brother. Tommy. But the last time I saw him… I was horrible.” They seldom saw each other now – lie – they never saw each other now. Truth, Joel. We’re telling the truth now.

You laugh lightly, shrug, “Happens.”

“Sure…”

“What’d you do to him?”

“Ah, just couldn’t get a handle on myself after everything. Things got bad enough eventually, and we fought… a lot. Violently. I was violent. One morning I got out of hand, terrible – one of my biggest regrets. We hurt each other with our words and our fists, and in that way only two people who know each other too well can. He cracked my ribs, gave me half his orange in the evening, afterwards – said our apologies. He was gone the next day. Haven’t heard from him since. I just got to be too much for him,” he says again, needs to reiterate it, make sure you understand that he is too much and too dark, too unmanageable – ugly. That you should not be sat here with him. That he has a violence within him, and that you should probably run as fast and as far as you can, but that he cannot promise he will not follow. “I had…” he is ashamed of this part, surprising for he sometimes wonders if he still possesses the heart to feel shame, “I had a problem with drink for a while – not anymore, though,” he says quickly. “I promise, not anymore.” He should not be promising you anything. “I got control of it – knew it was making it all worse rather than better. Felt like I was trapped underwater with my damn ghosts – that … What's that thing called when – when sick people get like – like trapped inside themselves or somethin’? You ever heard’a that?”

“Locked-in syndrome.”

“Yeah– yeah. I read about that once or heard it somewhere – that’s what it felt like when I was drinkin’ – fuckin’ terrible. Let it go after a while… but by that time… Tommy was gone, done with me. I was – dunno… like some sort of demon or somethin’ – somethin’ bad.” He huffs a small, derisive laugh, looks at you with that ridiculously charming, crooked half smile.

That laugh sparks a kindling of anger inside of you for him. This is a broken, angry, creature of a man, you think. Something fractured – not whole, and he must be handled with care and gentleness. “How could he just leave you?

“Didn't give him a choice. Sometimes people deserve to be left.”

“I wouldn’t have.” That sobers him, wipes the smile right off his handsome face. You think of the invisible giants hurting this man in some unimaginable fashion; of the endless tenderness coiled up inside of him and how the crushing of that tenderness – the death of it – has given way to what may be considered madness. Because after all these months of watching him, of him watching you, you can see it, recognize that tenderness for what it is, but also the madness, for it is impossible to ignore if you’re really looking. Soft marrow at the center of a hard man.

“I did other things… worse things.”

“Try me.”

“I tried to kill myself.”

You whistle, long and low. You actually had not been expecting that one, at least, not the admittance of it, “You’re just full of truths,” for looking at him – the sort of man he’s built as, the thought that he could be felled by anything, even his own hand, is a little hard to believe.

“Feels like a sort of confessional in this–”

“Shithole–”

“Diner–”

Your voices overlap. You both laugh. You think you quite like the sound of your voices intermingling one on top of the other.

“What happened?”

“Flinched–”

“I flinch all the time.”

“Have you ever thought about killing yourself?”

You hum, tilt your head side to side on your neck as if you’re letting the thought slide from ear to ear within your skull. “Perhaps only the peripheral idea of it, but never with much imagination or dedication. I don’t think I have that much to kill myself over, you know?”

“Your family?”

“Not really – it’s sort of become just this… this thing that happened once. I don’t feel much ownership over it anymore. Don’t know why, exactly.”

“Sure, that’s how I feel about it sometimes too. That belongs to a different man now – like– like some actor or a facsimile, and I just look in on it as if from a distance. Enjoy the sight of someone else's suffering…” He shakes his head, “That doesn’t make sense.”

“No, no, I understand. Something to do in the way that a tragedy can be compelling to watch. You can let go, let go of your awareness of yourself and experience it in a way you’d never do so in the present moment.”

“A dissociation.”

“Yes. Why would you want to go and relive the basest parts of yourself all alone, over and over again? Not likely.”

“But it was me.”

“A dissociation,” you repeat, smile.

“Yeah,” he pauses, turns the coffee cup round and round with the slow spin of his wrist as if to dissolve the remains of the grounds you know the shitty machine has left deposited at the bottom. There is a small dusting of golden brown hair covering his wrist and disappearing up his forearm beneath his flannel. You want to taste it, follow the trail to places unknown. “Not so well adjusted, us two,” And he laughs then. A real laugh. He lets you have a real laugh of his, and it is powerful – special.

“Well… no.” Of course not. “I don’t think either of us could ever claim that.”

“Bet you’ve never been bad a single day in your life, have you?”

You cock your head, let your eyes slide from him to peer out the dark window. His lonely semi is parked under the single flare of light out there. The evening has sunk into a deep blue, the hue of mourning, of melancholy, and the pavement is wet with evening rainfall.

You'd heard that some trucks had spaces behind the seats where truckers could put a bed, have a place to rest. You wonder if he’ll take you back there and fuck you in his little bunk. And honesty is a fickle thing when discussing a topic like this, isn't it? There’s a depravity about him, and you can’t tell if the truth or the lie would placate him – incite him – more. To be similar in such a way as that which he’s imagining. A little bit of both, then. After all, intent holds weight – imagination, desire, it has a mass to it that can, if enough pressure is exerted upon it, be transformed into something else.

“Not yet,” you tell him, sliding your gaze back to meet his, “Haven’t had a chance – but there’s still time.”

“What would you like to do?” He wants to take a bite out of that soft flesh you’re encased in, draw blood.

“Something depraved?” You’re taunting him – trying to provoke. It makes him slightly angry, but also hard. You should know what it is you’re toying with here.

He frowns at you, at the lilting song of your words trying to beguile him into doing whatever it is you think you want him to do to you. “What is it that you think you want here? You don’t know what I was, how I lived. Shouldn’t be sat here with me, little girl,” he scoffs. “I was– was not– I don’t fucking know, not a man. I’m not, I’m not. Not a person anymore, just this thing that continues to exist. I should not have been expected to survive. This should mean something to you too. You also have no one. You’re alone too. You’re alone in the world. You know what it feels like to only live in the winter.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, and then you say: “I think I’ve come to quite like the winter.” And at that he knows he’s taking you for himself, whether you agree in the end or not. You’re going to be his.

But he knows he must also let this roiling anger, this depraved hunger settle before he lays hands on you. Like this, in this state, he’d be too rough, break you, nothing compunctious about him or his jaggedness. He excuses himself for a smoke, your only response simply more of that inciting silence – more thoughts of cracked skulls and a cherry red cunt and tears after failed trysts with someone who doesn’t even know his name. He’s fucking embarrassing. What would Tommy say if he knew Joel couldn’t even get it up for a paid fuck anymore? He’d laugh in his face, never let him live it down. He misses his brother very much. He misses lots of things.

He’s sucking on his Red under the awning of the diner’s entrance, imagining what it’ll be like to suck on your little clit, when he hears them.

“She’s usually out about midnight. We’ll snag her then.” Grating, guttural voice.

“But I get to fuck ‘er first. This was my idea so I go first.”

“Yeah, whatever. S’only happenin’ ‘cause of me. Too fuckin’ stupid to see the plan through after all these months of watchin’ ‘er.”

“Fuck off.” Silence, and then almost with giddy elation: “We gonna kill her too?” Something cold and terrifying settles within Joel.

A beat, “Should we?”

“Dunno, man. Might be fun, huh? Never done it before.”

“She’s fuckin’ pretty,” the voice draws the vowel out in a high pitched, sacharine whine. “Got the face of an angel.” Joel’s angel, his, his, only his.

He’s got his Bowie in a sheath on the back of his belt. Perhaps, this would be a useful exercise in release. After he’s dispelled his excess energy he can come back and touch you, take you.

“Can’t wait to taste that cunt.” His cunt.

“Seen her tits, man? Fucking round and bouncy. Wanna make ‘em bleed.” And there’s only one avenue of consequence after that. After all, this is not the first time Joel’s done this.

His most well kept secret.

Sometimes, when the itch cannot be eased, abated, by his hand or a fuck or a drink or any of the other readily available vices, he turns to this. Only when the straits were dire. Only when he saw no other recourse. Only after his daughter was dead and in the ground and his brother gone away from him

But sometimes… sometimes it’s just fun. Sometimes it’s useful for a man to do that thing that he really feels he wants to do, if only to enjoy himself, if only to let go of some of that suffocating tension. If only to keep vermin like this away from an angel like you.

“We’ll chill in the woods for a while, wait the little thing out, yeah?” Joel edges his way towards the edge of the building closer to them, peeks a lone eye around the corner. Two men, middle aged. Not a problem. Not for a man like him.

He waits for them to make their way to the edge of the tree-line, watches them disappear into the gloom. He looks back into the diner through the murky windows. The warm glow of the overhead lamps washing you in a hue of golden light that brings out all the warm goodness in you he’ll take for himself once he’s snuffed out this issue.

No one’s going to touch you but him. No one’s going to hurt you but him.

As he rounds the corner of the diner there’s a piece of metal pipe propped up against the building by the dumpsters. Very nice.

He goes after them.

At the edge of the tree-line, under a swaying, low hanging branch, there is a tiny unfledged bird, helplessly twitching its way towards death in a puddle. He pauses to watch its struggle, gathers his skin about him, tightens his seams – prepares to gorge. He watches the inch by inch pilgrimage towards its last breath, then stillness. He feels so much older than his years, like he’s lived a thousand terrible years, watched a thousand terrible deaths. But there is a buoyancy about him, as well. Filled with a saccharine sweet fizz of sticky anticipation. He’s going to taste your cunt after this is done.

He moves into the gloom. He’s going to kill them for you, and his cock is hard at the thought.

Stepping beneath the canopy of the trees, into that cold, damp darkness, he sees the absolute truth of the world. On the heels of two men who’d do you harm, he knows that he’d failed to save someone he cared about once, he’d not be bested by failure a second time. Darkness implacable, the crushing black vacuum of their overheard words buzzing in his head like flies, of the harm they’d do you. Two hunted animals moving away from a creature much darker than they could even imagine, scurrying on borrowed time. What most moves him is that the things they’d do to you are not so dissimilar to the things he plans to do to you, as well. The only difference being that after he’s done defiling you, he’ll keep you for himself, with all the care and gentleness a little thing like you so deserves.

You press your ear to the cracked open door leading to the back of the building. It’s not the first time those two’ve talked their filth regarding you. The murdering is new, though. You’d not thought they were smart or inventive enough to come up with an actual kill plot. Rape enough of a hardball for minds as shallow and small as those two’ve got.

You’d never really considered them much of a threat. Or maybe you’d just never really cared enough to pay them much attention. But as you watch the broad, rippling expanse of Joel’s muscled back stalk after them, his pause at the tree-line to look down at something on the ground, you think he must be more in the vein of taking a stupid man’s shit talk to heart than you’ve ever been.

He has a thick, forearms-length of steel pipe gripped in his huge fist, and there’s a wicked looking knife strapped to his belt on the back of his hip.

Interesting.

You look back at the empty diner, the lonely parking lot beyond the glass of the windows, only Joel’s semi still taking up residence on the wet pavement. You turn back to follow after the three men.

One you want, two you’re interested to see what fate awaits them.

For some reason, when you step outside, you’re expecting there to be snow on the ground, but there is none.

You move across the pavement towards the forest-line, and the pilgrimage towards the verdant darkness feels very much like your one-way ticket out of this forlornness you’ve been trapped in your whole life. You’ve been stuck in this small town for so long, for too long. One man had already tried to forcibly evict you, had taken your entire family with him, maybe this one, maybe Joel, would do so in a way you’d more likely enjoy.

There’s been a steady, faint drizzle all day long, and the puddles of rain look like holes in the dark pavement, apertures into some other realm that glide past underground. You wonder if you stepped through if you’d disappear below into some other place. You wonder if he’d be able to find you even in that unknown other.

You cross the line into darkness.

The familiar terror of silence – you don’t seem to find it here. There is only the sound of your rushing blood, the cadence of his voice rumbling through your psyche, firing your neurons up into a frenzy. There is a twisting heat low in your pelvis, dampness between your thighs. What’s he going to do? Why’s he going to do it?Is it for me? Is it for me? It’s for you.

You let out a low whistle between your teeth and move beyond the trees. There is a giddiness about the darkness of the wood – the motley of shadows, the aroma of mushroom rot.

The familiar terror of silence. Perhaps, that is what they are experiencing now. The great horror of being set upon by a beast more terrifying than anything they could have ever conjured up on their own.

That infinite tenderness from before, that acute madness – it coalesces in the gap in the trees as you come upon the three men.

Joel has already started on the first. He murders almost tenderly. With great care, but infused with an aroma of agitated frenzy that seems flavored in the same notes of erotic buzzing that hums beneath your own skin. There is blood and viscera splattered on his face and clothes, in his hair. That great hunting knife embedded in the throat of the first man. The body lays facing you now, eyes open, shocked at his own death. Funny. Perhaps, that’s how they would have liked you to have ended up once they were through with you.

Oh, how the tune changes when the monster is on your side.

What are you? Be a creature. Be a creature. Be a creature!

You take Joel in. Thick, massive frame. You love his hair, it was one of the first things you’d noticed, thick dark curls streaked with the silver veins of his age and experience. Something that promised of care and knowledge and patience. His patchy beard with the heart shaped gap in it, you’re going to write your name into that space. His powerful arms, muscles coiled tight, his shirt stretched tight across his broad shoulders as he brings the steel pipe up above his head, pauses to look down at his next victim.

“We won’t bother her anymore, never again – p– please, please, I swear,” the man on the ground begs and cries. There are tears and snot bubbling down his ruddy, pocketed face.

Joel is silent and terrifying and glorious above him, and then a small nod: “That’s alright… I believe you.” The metal comes down in a whistling arc, makes contact.

Flesh and blood splatter, the sound of it is pulpy and wet and vindicating. He starts with the man’s knees, then his head, caved in like the shell of an egg, the yolk spilling out like vermilion drool.

He heaves silently above the man that would have done you harm. Makes the threat go away.

You step forward, cunt pulsing and wet and eager for him. When he’s gotten his fill of bludgeoning he turns slowly back towards you, as if he’d known the entire time that you’d been stood there watching.

And the look on his face, it makes something electrifying and sticky buzz up your spine and ooze down your veins. You shift back on your heels

He shakes his head, his eyes are huge, pupils blown wide. “Don’t run,” he says slowly. If you hadn’t just watched him murder two men in cold blood – no, in your defense, he saved you, he protected you, fizzy heart full of satisfaction – you’d say he almost looks a little doe eyed.

A hollow pounding begins in his heart, as if it had remained silent for the past two years and was only now taking notice of its own silence. His cock, hard enough to burst, angry and throbbing beneath the confines of his blood soaked jeans. Fuck this scum laying on the ground beside him, look at what he has infront of him. Nothing else matters but you. A goddamned angel. Damned for he’s found you now and nothing good can come of this. He takes a step towards you, and you match him with one backwards, away from him, his blood starts to howl in his veins. Different to the humming frenzy that had filled him as he did his murdering. This is hot and viscous and ravenous, and he knows he’ll get to keep his catch once he’s gorged himself on it. He knows he’ll get to keep you once he’s caught you.

You take two more nervous little, quick steps away from him. Your eyes are slightly manic, face flushed, frame jittery, excited. A rabbit that knows it’s about to be caught. He watches the pause of your limbs as they fill with coiled energy, getting ready to make the bound and leap towards escape. He lunges, goes in for the kill, teeth bared, talons brandished.

Faster than you can even comprehend, he lunges, takes you to the ground with one massive, powerful shoulder to the vulnerable, soft of your belly, one huge paw cradled at the back of your skull to protect you from the hard ground. Your spine hits the cold, wet earth, the breath knocked out of you. You think you let out an animal noise, high pitched and supplicant. A thing that knows it’s been caught and is soon to be devoured. Your limbs scramble against the dirt, heels digging into the ground for purchase, you feel the loss of one of your shoes, as you try to get away or to crawl closer, who can be sure. A spider caught in the web or a larger, hungrier arachnid. He sets the huge heaviness of his muscular weight over your much smaller frame, one strong hand caged around the column of your throat, the other pushing your chest into the earth as he shoves his hips into the cradle of your own, forcing your thighs apart and your skirt to pool at your waist. You feel the stretch of the center plaque of your tights as his wide breadth settles between your legs, making room to take you for himself. You bring your own hands up to the wrist holding your throat and dig your nails into the skin there. You can feel the light smattering of hair covering his forearm beneath your soft palms, the cold, wet dirt beneath you, the searing stretch of the inner muscles of your thighs spread wide for him, the damp of the air surrounding the two of you. He leans forwards, pressing you down into the ground, and you have the fleeting thought that you want to transfuse yourself into the earth, into him.

He pauses then to look down at you, appreciating the gloriousness of his catch. “Caught ya.” And he’s filled with an exuberance, a sort of victory. Look at what he’s snared – all for himself.

You try and struggle again, if only to see the flare of annoyance in his eyes. It makes your cunt tight and achy. Even more than it already is. There’s a part of you that thinks you want him slightly angry – rough or mean. That you might like it even more if it hurts. Be kind enough to be cruel about it, you want to beg him. He leans forward to press his nose to your cheek, drags the cold vermillioned flush of it along your jaw, down the line of your throat, bites harsh and painful at your collarbone then over the peak of your breast.

“Are you a virgin?” He whispers into your skin. It sounds very much like a threat.

“Yes.”

“Saved this cunt all for me.” And it is not a question. Yes, you moan anyways. Let him know. Let him know that this defiling is a gift you’re granting him. He sits up on his haunches between your thighs, his hands sliding down to press on your lower belly and digs his fingers into the center of your tights and pulls, ripping a hold in them for his pillaging. You try and press your knees shut at the feel of the frigid air on your sensitive inner thighs, dig your nails into the ground above your head to try and drag yourself away from him.

He digs his own fingers harshly into your flesh, his nails biting painfully into the soft skin of your thighs and ass and brings you back towards him. There’ll be streaks of pain left in his wake after this. Bad little rabbit. He smacks the inside of your thigh, watches the smooth flesh ripple for him. You let out a warbled, angry screech, little nails still trying to claw yourself away from him. He laughs then, a little mean, condescending. “Fight harder, little baby. This is pretty pathetic.” He rips your thighs apart, keep your fuckin’ legs open for me, his hands slick with the blood of his victims slide up the back of your thighs, anchoring his palms beneath the damp creases of your knees to press you open and wide for him, slaps your cunt, hard, over the soaking gusset of your panties.

“Who the fuck’re you wearin’ this tiny little thong for?” he growls. It’s white lace, with a sweet, little pink bow adorning the front. “Me? Wrapped yourself up all nice and pretty for me?” Your little foot sneaks up under his armpit and tries to push with, what he’s sure is all your valiant might, at his chest, trying to unseat him from his conquering position above you, but he takes your ankle in a vice like grip, bites harshly into the meat of your calf so that an animal squeal of pain is clawed out of your throat at the same time that he slots his fingers under the damp center of your panties. “Sing as loud as you want, sweetheart. No one’s gonna hear you out here.” He can feel the soaking wet seam of your cunt against the backs of his knuckles, and he rips them clean off you. The sound of the last remaining barrier of protection of your cunt against his ravaging being decimated has you going shock still – prey that knows it’s caught and has decided to give up. Good, this is how he wants you. Your big, wet eyes look up at him as he flings the lace towards the still steaming dead bodies. That’s all they’ll get of you. The rest is only his. Mine, mine, fucking mine.

You let your arms go limp above your head, soft and pliant and ready for ravaging, melting into the earth.

He presses your knees back and up, letting the red blossom of your wet cunt bloom for him. It’s slick and swollen, and he knows when he shoves his cock inside it’ll be burning hot. “Look at this gorgeous virgin pussy, baby. All for me. Only for me…” he murmurs, hypnotized, mesmerized. He drags the back of his knuckles over your slit, uses his thumbs to spread your lips apart, admires the swollen nub of your clit. You’re just as hungry for him as he is for you. Messy, eager little whore. He moves to undo his belt and free his aching length. Huge and brutish, thick veins pulsing just beneath the thin skin. He’s going to split you in half, break you, mold you in his image.

He spits right onto your soaked folds, watches the thick glob of saliva slide down to mingle with your own leaking slick. He’s not even going to make you come first. Little virgin cunt and he’s not going to even bother getting you ready – just gonna shove the whole, unforgiving length of himself inside of you. Force you to take it. He fists his thick fist around himself, jacks his cock once, twice, squeezing at the bulbous head so that a trickle of precum seeps out of the slit. He presses his head to your clit, slides down to give you a small threat of pressure at your opening. When he looks back up at your face your eyes flutter shut, a look of pure contented submission washing over the gorgeous planes of you.

“Not gonna be gentle, baby. Don’t got it in me.” He notches the fat head at the slick mouth of your entrance and crams his cock inside of you in one go, meets that thin barrier that says you still belong to yourself and rips through it. Mine now. No reprieve, no respite. And God, the feel of it, cleaved in half, scorching hot, filled to the brim and never deep enough. He is a rabid, snarling beast of a man as he hits the very end of you, grinds his cockhead at the mouth of your womb. You let out a warbled, pained moan, little fingers coming up to claw at his throat and chest with kitten-strength, down to dig into his thick thighs as he pins you down, and you tilt your hips to let him in deeper or escape him, he doesn't know. He doesn't care. He pulls his hips back and forces himself back in, too thick cock wedged into the too tight space. “Christ, goddamn tight fuckin’ pussy – made for me,” he grits through bared teeth.

He fucks you raw and cruel, and he needs you to just lay limp and still and take it.

And you do. And he does not cry this time.

He sets a brutal pace, throbs deep in your belly at every pause as he grinds at your cervix. It must be painful for you, perhaps, but the flush in your cheeks, the fever in your eyes, the ripple of your cunt around his driving length tells him you also like it. “What a good girl, taking my big cock,” he coos. You preen, tilt your hips this time in supplication he’s sure, hitch your feet higher along his sides. There are tears running back down your temples and into your hairline. His cock makes you cry. If he could, he’d split your throat and drink, he would. But he cannot, so he’ll split your cunt instead. He thrusts into the hilt, complete negligence for care, for gentleness lost in the dark wood, for the desperate necessity of feeling your virgins blood coating his cock. Your protestations lost to the louder song for more, for harder, for deeper

Joel, Joel, Joel.

He’s going to listen to you sing his name for the rest of his life.

He feels unhinged, a thread picked at too many times, spun loose, unraveled and frayed. That edge that separates good and evil – his bloody fingers clamp down hard on the edge of your jaw, forces you to open for him, and he spits into your mouth – direct, dirty … warm. “Lemme see…” he rumbles, and you stick your tongue out for his inspection. Once he nods, pleased and smug and conquering, you close and rub the slick of his saliva onto the roof of your mouth with your tongue, savor the taste of him. This was the taste that you’d longed for… that which teaches you what that professed edge really is. Is he good, is he evil – he’d just killed two men, you’d watched him, cunt wet at the sight of it. Albeit to protect you… sure – but does it even matter? You swallow his spit down. Probably not.

He is huge and life altering inside of you. Your virginity scoured away on his invading length.

He leans forward, hand clamped around your jaw to pierce you with his manic gaze, like his cock pierces your cunt. He smells like the forest and sweat and power. “Little fuckin’ tease,” he grits, “Bringing me cherry pie like that all the time – fuckin’ provoking me. You just wanted me to pop your cherry for you. Didn’t you, little girl?” All you can do is nod dumbly and take what he gives you. He hooks one of your knees over his elbow, the other propped over his shoulder, foot bobbing limply at each slam of his hips. He has you bent entirely in half, cunt splayed wide open for him to fuck down into the deep, devastating end of you. Your vision goes blurry, black stars streaking across the back of your eyelids. All you see is him. Perhaps he’s all that exists now. Maybe you’re just as dead as the two bodies laying beside the two of you. You wonder peripherally what the sight of the four of you must look like. Joel’s hulking form fucking you like an animal into the dirt. You open your eyes to look up at him, there’s blood splatter across his face, in his hair. His skin is burning hot against yours. You think that perhaps you’ll have scorch marks in the shape of his fingers in your skin after he’s done with you. Two dead, brutalized bodies cooling beside the place where the two of you are fucking.

“Can feel ya tightening up, baby. Gonna come all over my cock.”

He does something to change the angle, and it fucking hurts. “Too much,” you beg, try to push him back weakly, but your cunt pulls sharp and tight, and then your muscles are rippling around him, womb contracting painfully as your orgasms blinds you with its sudden intensity.

“Don’t care,” he growls back. “Do not fucking push me away.” No, he must not care. Prey doesn’t decide how it’s felled, after all.

He pulls out and back then, suddenly, slaps your cunt harshly, once, twice. You mewl, high and shocked, writhing around in the dirt. He grabs you by the hips and flips you so fast you’re left disoriented, pulling your ass up, up, up.

“Fuck, you’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he croons, bends to bite down on the meat of your asscheek, and then notches back at your gaping, fluttering hole, orgasm still running through you, and pushes back in. You’re soaking wet, slick and fucked open by him and the taking is much easier this time. You feel his thumb press down on your asshole, “Gonna take this too. Gonna have every part of you, every piece. Gonna swallow you whole.” All you do is arch your back further, cheek smushed into the dirt, fingers digging into the cool earth for purchase, for salvation.

The sight of you stretched around his thick base, so slick he feels you dripping down his balls and further below, into the bloody earth. There’s a red tinge of your own blood coating his skin, and he’s going to come. He’s going to fill you up with his spend and fuck it deep into you until it takes. Until no matter how far you want to run, he’ll be with you, always. He lets his head fall back on his neck and stares up at the dark canopy of the trees, groans low and deep.“You’re gonna be my little hole now,” he promises, presses one large palm into the small of your back to deepen the angle and fuck down into you. “Gonna take you with me and fill you up whenever I feel like it. My gorgeous little cumslut.” The ramming of his hips starts to grow sloppy and stuttered, close to the edge now. Victory is so, so near.

You start to claw at the dirt and wiggle again. Little knees chafed raw and scrambling against the hard ground trying to get away. He slaps your ass hard, hopes there’ll be the print of his hand to appreciate later.

“Not inside, not inside – not – no birth control,” you stutter, beg.

“I’m not fuckin’ pulling out.” He twists a cruel and unyielding hand into the back of your hair and presses your face harshly into the ground. Your eyes pinch and tears seep and mingle into the blood and dirt beneath you. “Gonna pump you raw and full. You don’t gotta worry about anythin’ anymore, baby. Gonna take care of you,” he grits and you press yourself harder back into him. There is an existential seesaw inside of you – a volleying of your wants – you want him to hurt you, to force you, to take care of you and keep you, all at the same time.

“Promise – promise me you won’t leave me,” you cry and beg because really, that’s all you want. All you’ve ever wanted. For someone to stay, for someone to never leave, no matter what.

“I promise – fuckin’ swear.” And you go loose and passive again at that – his to do with as he will. Nothing else really matters after all that.

He senses the change. The loosening of your muscles into capitulation. He stops his thrusting and grinds, strums at your clit. “Oh fuck, you want me to fill you up? And what happens if I do? What happens if it takes? Want me to get you fuckin’ pregnant?” Starts to fuck into you again, “I think you do.”

Don’t care, don’t care, don’t care.

“You’re mine. Fucking mine.” He says it again and again and again, yes, yes, yes, lets himself fall forward, anchored above you with one strong arm as he presses as deep as he can physically go and starts to fill your pulsing cunt with his come, the heat of his spend inciting you to roll into one more throbbing orgasm. He brings his face down close to yours, open your eyes, little thing, lemme see you. The fluttering of your lashes, sweaty, dirt-streaked face, and you are seraphic, the wet crimson heat of your blood pounding beneath the delicate membrane of your skin. Gorgeous, perfect, conquered and his.

“Fucked full’a me now,” he whispers, presses a soft kiss to the tender skin of your eyelid. You nuzzle into him, and then look up at him with the warmest, most vibrant gaze he’s ever seen. Fucking pleased and sated.

“They wanted me, but only you get to have me now,” you whisper. “How does that make you feel?” Provoking, provoking again.

“Like I fucking own you.” He grinds his still spitting cock further, feels the pull of your muscles milk him deeper.

He lets his weight fall partially over you, too heavy for the full mass of himself. You are, after all, a delicate thing, and he must remember to handle you with care, occasionally. He feels the pulsing and quivering of your cunt around his softening cock, and the two of you settle to lay there in the dirt, bodies still dead, virginity scoured and stolen, and stare at each other.

“Have you ever been in love?” you whisper, dragging the tip of one little finger, whisper soft, over the arch of his brow, the slope of his nose.

“I feel a little in love with ya right now,” he confesses, and you press that finger against the seam of his mouth, begging for entrance, and then inside, against the flat of his tongue to inspect the wet gleam of it. It’ll be inside of you soon enough, you should take a look at that which you’ll be writhing against in due time.

“Good. That was my plan all along.” Smug, conniving little creature.

Once it’s full dark, he packs you into his truck, buckles your seatbelt for you, tucks a blanket around your dirty knees and drives off as if he hadn’t just murdered two men and taken your virginity with their blood still hot on his skin. He goes for miles and miles, eventually finds a dark, secluded spot to park the truck for the night. He takes you into the back bunk and fucks you like you’d wanted him to, on your side, one leg slung over his shoulder, hand gripping the lush of your ass to pull you onto his impaling cock, watches your ass bounce against his thrusts. A demanded play with it, lemme see ya push it back in, as he watches himself drip out of your messy hole. Eats your cunt until you cry. Afterwards, the two of you lay, naked and damp, facing each other, tracing the lines of one another in the quiet dark.

Sometimes he’s worried he’s blood hungry – or pain hungry. Starving for something he doesn’t have a name for. But he thinks that, perhaps, he can use your name to fill in the blank space now. He’d always felt as if his devotion was a punishment to the receiver. After all, everyone Joel has ever loved has left him. But as he looks at you, there’s something in your eyes that tells him that perhaps, you’ll remain. Perhaps, he can compel you to, force you to. Perhaps, he can anchor you to himself, and in turn, give you everything.

“Are you a ghost?” he asks.

“No. Are you?”

“Sometimes I think I am.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re like a fuckin’ angel or somethin’. What were you doin’ out here in this wasteland?” He asks you again.

“Maybe I was waiting for you.” This answer he likes.

He’s quiet for a long time after that – taking you in, cataloging you, memorizing you. His fingers ghosting over your face, your hair, strumming the fan of your lashes. Later he asks: How do you remember the memory of someone else? How do you keep them when they’ve gone somewhere entirely unreachable?

“Because you love them,” you tell him.

“That’s enough?”

“Of course. Will you ever forget that you loved her?”

“Never.”

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

#my writing #joel miller #the last of us #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller/you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine

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tenmissedcalls · 11 months

Text

What a Shame

So you’re just friends. Only friends. And you’ve spent months convincing yourself you’re okay with that. (min ho x reader)

wc: 1.4k~

an: so i really didn’t think i would get this invested in this show... but here we are. this is a warmup for a longer fic i might end up posting. enjoy!

You’re starting to regret agreeing to come to this party.

The music is loud, bass pumping in your veins while you down your third mocktail of the evening. You’ve been camped out by the bar this entire evening, and you’re pretty sure the bartender is starting to feel bad for you. But Kitty and Q are nowhere to be seen, and your nerves get the better of you every time you consider joining the crowds on the dance floor.

It doesn’t help that you’re increasingly insecure about getting all dressed up just to sit in the corner all night. Q had absolutely gushed over your outfit when you arrived, but suddenly it feels tight in all the wrong places and it hadn’t even been worth it, not when the guy you’d been hoping to notice you has barely looked your way all evening.

But he certainly noticed Kitty, you think, trying to quell the bitter feelings roiling in your stomach. Not that you blame him. She looks incredible, really, and you’re more than happy for her that she’s starting to move on. You’ve never thought of yourself as the jealous type. It just has your mind turning over itself anxiously and you wave down the bartender for another mocktail to bury your feelings in.

This really isn’t your scene. You’re starting to consider taking the walk back to your dorm, given your curfew has already come and gone. You’re sure your friends wouldn’t mind, wherever they are. So you slide off the bar stool, legs stiff from sitting still for so long, when suddenly a hand grabs yours and you’re pulled face-to-face with a clearly intoxicated Kitty.

“How many drinks have you had?” you ask her, voice raised over the noise. Your mouth pulls itself into a frown when you smell the alcohol on your breath, and you do your best to steer her over to a chair.

“Only… thirteen?” she begins, and the evident panic on your face has her own eyes widening. “No! Thirteen sips, not drinks. Thirteen sips,” she clarifies, and you heave a sigh in relief. You’re not even sure where she’s getting the alcohol from, but you’re sure more than enough students have smuggled in flasks of vodka.

“Are you having fun?” she shouts, louder than she has to, and now your expression is turning back into a frown. It’s not that you’re not trying - you’ve been to more than a few parties, and they’re usually enjoyable enough. But tonight is different, for reasons you can’t really put a finger on.

Kitty notices immediately, even though she’s clearly verging on more than tipsy at this point. Her eyes narrow, and you try to backtrack as quickly as you can by forcing a smile onto your face.

“No! Yes. Yes, I’m having fun,” you blurt out, even though you’re starting to get a headache and the lights on the dance floor suddenly seem far too bright.

Kitty shakes her head. “Don’t lie to me,” she pouts, and you suppress your laughter. “I know how to make you feel better- go find Min Ho,” she says, oblivious to the effect his name has on you.

Suddenly, you’re frozen. Right - he’s the reason you even came to this party in the first place (not that you want to admit it). It’s a strange dichotomy, the way he has you on edge and yet you’ve never felt more at ease than when you’re with him. And almost like it’s fate, you look up and there he is in the crowds.

He looks… good. Far too good. It’s unfair, really, the way he seems to glow in the lights. It’s effortless for him, the way his confidence spills over itself on the dance floor. You think you could lose yourself forever in the cut of his jawline and the spread of his shoulders. You don’t even like the color of the suit he’s wearing and yet he’s pulling it off in a way that makes you weak in the knees. You find yourself wishing for some of the alcohol that Kitty’s been drinking, because your nerves have your stomach twisting itself into knots.

“What do you mean?” you ask Kitty, voice wavering. She rolls her eyes like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it is - you feel like you’ve never been vulnerable than when you look at him.

“You like him, don’t you? Go dance with him,” she says like she’s stating something as undeniable as the fact that the sky is blue. You stare at her, bewildered, for long enough that she physically grabs you and pushes you gently toward the dance floor. You don’t even dance, you think distantly to yourself.

You forget that Kitty has this innate ability to pick up on people’s feelings - not that you’re willing to believe have any for him. Yes, he’s so pretty it makes your chest hurt. Yes, you’ve found yourself laughing at his stupid jokes in chemistry class more than you’d like to admit. Yes, you think that underneath his layers and layers of charm and charisma and defensiveness, he’s sweet and funny and smarter than he gives himself credit for. Yes, maybe you’d like to think that between the lingering glances and the lingering touches and the way he smiles at you, he’s caught feelings too. But you also know he’s not the type for commitment, and you’ve entrenched yourself firmly in the friend zone before he can hurt you. You can’t help but compare yourself to all the others falling over themselves for his attention, either.

So you’re just friends. Only friends. And you’ve spent months convincing yourself you’re okay with that.

And then you’re there, pulled into the mass of people dancing. Whatever song is playing is the kind that’ll be stuck in your head for the next week, and when you suck in a breath it tastes like teenage mistakes and rose-tinted memories. It’s almost overwhelming, and you lose sight of him immediately, until-

“You’re here!”

His hand is on your elbow as he pulls you through the crowd, and the physical contact feels like pure electricity running through your nerves. His mouth curls into a smile at the sight of you, and it’s like it’s just the two of you on the dance floor all of the sudden. You don’t know whether you love or hate the fact that he has this effect on you.

“I couldn’t miss the best party of the year, could I?” you tell him, tilting your head up to look at him.

Oh.

It’s like he’s drinking in the sight of you, eyes dragging up and down your face and lingering far too long on your lips. You wonder how embarrassing it would be if your legs gave out right now.

“You… haven’t had anything to drink, have you?” you ask, voice strained, even though you know he would never, especially at his own party. He laughs.

“Of course not. Why do you ask?” he replies, leaning down ever so slightly, and the sudden eye contact has you flustered beyond belief. “What’s got you so shy all of a sudden? Is it me? I have that effect on people.”

“No! Of course not-” you sputter, although you’re sure he can see right through you. Normally you’d laugh his cockiness off, but something about being in such close proximity to him has your thoughts scrambled. Your mind races to think of an excuse for your jitteriness. “I just - we’re trying to help Kitty have her first kiss, and -”

You slap a hand over your mouth. Bad excuse, you chide yourself mentally. You’re sure Min Ho doesn’t want to hear about it, especially since he’s firmly siding with Dae over the whole issue, and something about the phrase first kiss has you feeling almost nauseous.

“Oh, a first kiss. You too?” Min Ho asks teasingly.

“No, I’m just…” you trail off. The truth is you don’t really know why you’re here, when you really think about it. Yes, Kitty had convinced you to come by mentioning that the party was being thrown by Min Ho. But now that you’re here, you’re more than painfully aware of your feelings for him, and you’re at a loss as to how to deal with them. And now you’re thinking about it - kissing him.

You turn your head back towards him, eyes sticking to the dip of his throat disappearing into his collar.

“What a shame,” he whispers, hand still lingering on your arm and you swear you see stars when he leans in closer. Your hand instinctively reaches up to hold onto his shoulder to steady yourself.

“Come find me if you change your mind.”

And then he’s slipping back into the party with a wink, leaving you completely and utterly breathless.

#xo kitty x reader #min ho x reader #KINDA NERVOUS ABOUT POSTING THIS...#pls im so embarrassed abt the effect this show has had on me /lh #i see all of u asking for min ho content tho. so i am here to hopefully provide #(BTW THIS IS A SELF SHIP BLOG DONT FOLLOW ME FOR FICS)#all my moots pls look away /lh #🎐 my writing

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eddiesghxst · 6 months

Text

PRICE OF FAME (PART 7/12)

AHHH HERE SHE IS, i hope you enjoyyy hehe <3

————

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: rockstar!eddie x journalist!reader

summary: you and eddie are back to square one...maybe

contains: enemies to lovers trope, themes of sexism/misogyny, smoking, drug and alcohol use, sexual themes, some jealous!eddie, brotherhood, mentions of eddie's dad being shitty, mentions of a sick family member (reader's grandfather), flirting, and eddie being a sorry mf <3

word count: 4.2k

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Eddie very rarely finds the time to go to the studio by himself.

With the busy lifestyle he’s now adopted, he mostly gets his writing done on the road or when he can’t sleep. And Eddie can’t sleep tonight. He doesn’t want to sleep tonight. He can’t seem to find it in himself to give his body and mind the few hours of rest they plead for because Eddie— Eddie fucked up.

The studio is quiet— because nobody in their right mind comes to a recording studio at three in the morning— and Eddie begins to wonder why he even came here if he can’t write a single lyric. Every line that crosses his mind is too little, too much, too mundane— it’s all wrong. Everything is wrong, and Eddie wants to scream.

Eddie takes another hit of the burning cigarette, rubs his eyes in exhaustion, and places his used journal to the side in exchange for his guitar.

He sits on the couch, the quiet room filling out the whirlwind of unsaid words in Eddie’s mind. He strums a soft tune on the wooden instrument, eyes closed and legs propped up on the coffee table. It takes Eddie a few moments to open his eyes when he hears the door open, and he has to blink a few times to clear the fog of fatigue from his eyes.

And Eddie doesn’t even have the energy to roll his eyes and scoff at the sight of Gareth.

He keeps the cigarette between his lips and goes back to plucking his guitar strings, ignoring the shuffling sound of Gareth walking over.

Gareth is quiet for a long time until he clears his throat, “This is good.”

Eddie opens his eyes again and glances over at the brown-haired boy. Eddie’s face pinches in confusion before Gareth raises the journal, and Eddie huffs out a laugh. “No, it’s not.”

Gareth shakes his head, “No, it really is. I like this line,” he points to Eddie’s messy handwriting.

“It’s not going anywhere. I’ve been here for almost two hours.” Eddie brushes it off.

Eddie resumes his peaceful strumming, and Gareth— Gareth just can’t let it go. Because he misses his best friend more than anything in the fucking world, and it hurts. This hurts. The quiet and the unsaid— it hurts.

“I’m sorry.”

And Eddie thinks, fuck, not now.

“Man—” “No, Eddie I… I fucked up.” And Eddie glances at Gareth because Gareth sounds… Gareth sounds like he’s on the verge of something, something that Eddie has rarely seen from his friend.

“I really fucked up, man. And you don’t have to forgive me, but I don’t want you thinking I don’t regret it— because I do.” Gareth looks at Eddie. Clear eyes, so wide and full of what Eddie can only imagine to be sorrow. “I should’ve never done that to you, and I sure as hell shouldn’t have told her— especially because I hadn’t told you.”

And Eddie is so tired of being angry. He’s so tired of feeling the gaping and missing piece of his best friend— and sure, he wishes Gareth never went behind his back and fucked his ex, but he mostly just wishes things would return to normal.

Eddie is silent for a moment, and Gareth almost takes it as an answer, but Eddie finally says, “Did you really love her?”

If Gareth is shocked, he does an excellent job of not showing it. He only swallows and shifts in his seat, “I thought I did… I don’t know, maybe?”

He’s being careful, Eddie knows, and he can’t blame him for it.

“Do you still talk?” Eddie can’t help but ask because he needs to know. He needs to know so he can prepare himself for whatever bullshit he’ll go through later if he ever sees Chrissy again.

To Eddie’s relief, Gareth shakes his head, “No. Not since… no.”

Eddie nods and says nothing else while mindlessly playing his soft tune.

Gareth shifts beside him, glances down at the journal in his hands, and hums, “So… you gonna tell me who this is about?”

Eddie jokingly glares at Gareth and leans forward to set his guitar down. “S’nothing.”

“That’s a lie.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow at his friend, and Gareth takes a deep breath. “Look, man,” he places the journal down, “I’ve seen the way you look at her. And Jeff said he saw you—” “That motherfucker.” Gareth softly laughs but shrugs either way.

Eddie drags a hand over his face and sighs, “I don’t know, it’s… complicated.”

Gareth hums, like he doesn’t believe Eddie, “All I’m saying is if you like her as much as I think you do,” he gestures to the journal, “Then you better act quick.”

And Eddie knows Gareth is right— which is annoying, but he thinks he needs to hear it now more than ever.

Eddie’s not sure when he closed his eyes and dozed off, but by the time he opened them, it was the next day, and Jeff was standing over him with a sly grin. Eddie’s face is twisted in morning confusion and annoyance at Jeff’s proximity, and something heavy is leaning on his side and— “I see you and Gare-bear have made up.” Jeff tips his head to the right of Eddie, and Eddie glances over to where he’s motioned to find Gareth fast asleep with his body leaned against Eddie’s side.

Eddie groans and grimaces as he turns his head, a painful pinch resting at the top of his spine as he shoves his hand against Gareth’s shoulder, voice dry and scratchy from sleep as he speaks, “Shut the fuck up.”

Eddie’s arm tingles under the weight of Gareth, and he grunts, pushing harder at his shoulder, “Gareth, get off me, man; I can’t feel my fucking arm,” Eddie grumbles, shoving the boy off of him, grimacing when Gareth grunts in protest.

Jeff snickers and looks around the room; sheets of paper are scattered across the coffee table, empty beer bottles are strewn on the floor, and a guitar with a busted string lies on the other couch. “Jesus, did I miss the party?” Jeff teases, kicking at an empty beer can as he walks over to the sheet of music on the soundboard, picking it up and glancing over the words.

“What’s this?” Jeff wonders aloud. Gareth opens an eye to see what Jeff is talking about and shifts in his seat as he answers, “Eddie’s apology to the journalist.”

Eddie wipes drool from his mouth as he sits up, leaning over to sift through the rubble for his pack of cigarettes, “Birdie.” He mumbles as he shoves a stick between his lips and lights the end. “Yeah, Birdie.” Gareth sleepily mumbles.

Jeff laughs as he reads over the half-assed written letter. “How drunk were you two shitheads?” He wonders, eyebrows raising at one particular sentence. “And what’d you do that made you finally realize you’re an asshole?”

And Eddie thinks Jeff is asking a lot of questions right now, and Eddie doesn’t have the mental capacity to digest any of them. Gareth snickers beside Eddie, shaking his head with a shrug, moving through Eddie’s cloud of smoke to reach for a beer can, shaking it to see if there’s any drink left before sipping on whatever's there before speaking, “What didn’t he do?” He jokes.

Eddie kicks his heel into the brown-haired boy’s shin, ignoring the spew of curses Gareth sends his way. Jeff tosses the paper back onto the soundboard and turns to the two boys, “Does this have anything to do with her trying to drop the article?”

Gareth shrugs, uninterested in whatever Jeff is insinuating, but the question seems to wake Eddie up quicker than the slow-burning stick between his fingers. “What are you talking about?”

Jeff looks at Eddie as if he’s asked him what two plus two is, “You don’t know?”

Eddie tilts his head, a confused look on his face, irritation lingering on his tone, “Know what, Jeff?”

Jeff’s eyebrows raise, and he lifts his hands in surrender, “Look, Naomi and Birdie were talking at breakfast, and she told Naomi that she’s thinking of dropping the article.” “What do you mean dropping the article, Jeff?”

Jeff gazes at Eddie like he’s lost his mind, “Honestly, man, I don’t know why you’re freaking out when this is literally what you wanted ever since she came along.” He points out, calmly sitting in the desk chair by the soundboard. “I mean, yeah,” Eddie stresses, “But that was before— fuck,” Eddie rubs a hand over his face as he plops back into the plush couch with a heavy sigh. “Before?” Jeff wonders aloud.

“Don’t worry about it.” Eddie snaps.

Gareth snickers again, glancing at Eddie’s depleted state before glaring at Jeff, “Before Eddie fell in love.” He childishly giggles. Eddie glares at his friend, finally finding his shoes and hastily shoving them on, “I’m not in love with her, you fucking idiot,” He swats at Gareth, “I just…” Eddie glances between his two friends before sighing, rubbing his hands over his face again and resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s complicated, okay?”

“Didn’t seem that complicated when I walked in on you two.” Jeff points out, to which Gareth’s jaw drops as he turns to Eddie, “No fucking way. You boned the journalist?—” “Birdie.” “—And Jeff walked in on it? You didn’t tell me that last night!” He exclaims.

Eddie grimaces at Gareth’s words and the fact that he won’t just say your name because, for some weird and obnoxious reason, it pisses Eddie off. “Because it wasn’t like that.” Eddie shakes his head. Jeff makes a face, and Eddie rolls his eyes, “It wasn’t,” Eddie repeats, “Not that it’s any of you fucking losers' business.”

Eddie tries so hard not to seem distracted when they start working on their last song of the album. He tries to put his entire mind, body, and soul into the words and the chorus, but he can’t. Eddie’s mind is somewhere else, wasting away trying to find a way to say sorry and get you to change your mind about abandoning your project because, sure, Eddie’s an asshole when he wants to be, but he has some inkling of remorse and human feelings. He has the ability to feel sorry and know when he’s crossed a line, and clearly, Eddie is far beyond the line.

Eddie’s stomach churns when he thinks about the last night: the look on your face and the tone of your voice, the unmistakable sniffle as you wiped away a stray tear. And Eddie really is a jackass, isn’t he?

Making a kind girl like you cry, telling her she’s ruined everything when all she’s done is stay true to her task. It’s Eddie who’s led you astray, who’s tempted you and poked and prodded until you cracked— and, god, Eddie feels sick to his stomach.

Eddie remembers how that feels. To be pushed and shoved to your breaking point, to where someone breaks you down to the point of giving up. Eddie knows that feeling so well; he dealt with it for so long as a kid before Wayne took him in. Eddie remembers how useless he would feel, how his father would tell him he was stupid and naive for thinking he could be something. And it’s difficult to ignore those harsh words when it’s repeated over and over in your ear, and Eddie can’t believe he let himself do that to you.

Eddie’s kind of frantic when he walks up to you at rehearsals.

He’s fidgety, and he’s aching for a cigarette, and his heart is racing in his chest because Eddie’s not the best at apologies, but he’s also not very fond of the idea of you not being here anymore. As much as Eddie hates to admit it, he likes you being here— because watching you, hearing you, and seeing how you move about a room is addicting. It’s a movie, a show that gets better with every episode, and Eddie has tried so hard to lie and say he can’t stand the show, but fuck, he’s hooked.

You look tired today, uncharacteristically quiet and reserved, making Eddie all the more nervous to break the slight trance you seem to be in. Your lashes flutter as you blink up at him when he approaches you in the backstage hallway, “Can we uh— can we talk?”

You don’t seem eager when he asks, and you don’t sound it either when your eyebrows furrow in distress, and you shake your head, “Honestly, Eddie, I’m not in the mood—” Eddie shakes his head, tone sincere and eyes holding no trace of mischief, “No, I promise it’s not…” Eddie trails off, and you raise your eyebrow, growing impatient with his hesitance.

“It’s about the magazine.” He rushes out. You look confused and unconvinced— and there’s so much going on in the background; staff calling out demands, crew members scrambling to get things done, and Eddie just can’t fucking think. “Well, it’s about you, but it’s also about the magazine— can we step outside?”

Eddie looks away in embarrassment because Eddie doesn’t get flustered very easily these days— there’s not much to get flustered over when you’ve seen it all— but again, Eddie doesn’t do this often— and his neck is heating up, and he knows his cheeks are turning an embarrassing shade of red because you’re looking at him like he’s the biggest idiot known to man.

Eddie drags in a steady breath, teeth digging into his bottom lip, and he grumbles lowly enough for you to hear, thumb brushing the tip of his nose once before speaking, “Come on, don’t make me beg.”

You scoff at that, arms crossing over your chest as you push past him and storm towards the exit, and Eddie follows with a shaky breath.

When Eddie steps out into the alleyway of the venue, you’re leaning against the wall with a deep frown etched across your lips, and Eddie’s fingers twitch for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. You glare at him, “What’s wrong with you?” You snap. Eddie looks at you silently for a moment, confusion written across his face as he speaks, “Huh?”

You glare as you speak, “You’re being weird.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and clears his throat, shifting on his feet before he starts, “Listen, I uh,” he scratches the back of his neck, “I know we don’t get along and shit but just…” Eddie ignores it when you roll your eyes, “Don’t drop the magazine because of me.”

You’re silent then, for much longer than Eddie would like you to be, and Eddie is thoroughly confused when you scoff, “Excuse me?”

Eddie stuffs his hands in his pockets and glances around the empty alleyway, “Look— believe it or not, we actually kind of need this, and the boys will fucking kill me if I screw it all up, so just… I’m sorry, okay?”

And technically, it’s the truth. It might not be the whole truth as to why Eddie has pulled you aside, but at least there’s some truth to it… right?

You don’t seem too appeased with Eddie’s half-assed apology, considering the way your face doesn't even flinch for what seems like decades. “Well, for starters, I’m not dropping out of the magazine,” and Eddie doesn’t want to unpack the reasoning behind why the tension in his shoulders eased, “And the only reason why I had even debated doing so is because my grandfather is sick, not because some douchebag artist pissed me off.” You snap.

Eddie feels like an ass.

No, he feels worse than an ass, whatever that may be. Eddie feels like he’ll maybe just go back to the hotel and sew his mouth shut because the one time that Eddie tries to fix things, his tongue flaps and spews out bullshit, and then he’s further in the ground than he was, to begin with.

Eddie’s not sure what to do or say because, honestly, he didn’t even think of the possibility that he’s not the reason for you dropping the magazine, and Eddie only then realizes how selfish of a mistake this was. “Can I be honest with you, Eddie?”

Even though you sound and look like you could stab him right now, Eddie thinks you’re absolutely breathtaking. Your eyes are so alive beneath the light of day, and a gentle breeze carries your scent to wrap around Eddie in a dizzying manner. His heart races, and Eddie feels… small.

He hasn’t felt this way in a long time, like he’s damaged things to the point of no return, and it’s all his fault— and usually, it never actually was Eddie’s fault, but this… Eddie can wholeheartedly admit he’s at fault for the agitated look you’re giving him— and Eddie doesn’t know what to do.

Still, Eddie nods— because what else can he do?

“I think we should keep the one-on-ones to a minimum. Better yet, let’s just stop it as a whole.”

“What?”

You take a deep breath, gaze dancing away, seemingly anxious to flee the scene as you speak, “I don’t think this is benefiting either of us— this back and forth. I have work to get done, and honestly, there’s nothing more that I need from you aside from when I interview the band as a group— and seeing as you hate me and I hate you, why don’t we just make our lives easier and stay out of each other's way?”

This isn’t how Eddie imagined things going.

Eddie imagined he would say sorry, and you would give him a pretty smile, and things would go back to… well, not normal, but perhaps something a little better than normal. This is worse than normal. This is so left field of what Eddie had imagined, and Eddie can’t bring himself to say anything.

So, instead, Eddie nods, mumbles a quick agreement, and says nothing more as you leave.

Days pass slower than usual, and you find ways to get busy outside of drafting the magazine. You take frequent walks in Central Park to clear your mind and spend many nights talking to your family over the phone.

Your grandfather is old, and it’s no surprise to the family that he’ll soon see the end of his days, but your mom immediately told you no when you said you would be coming home after getting word of his current state. You weren’t particularly close to your grandfather; you really only saw him once a year around holidays, but you felt the need to be there for your mother, to offer her a shoulder to cry on. However, your mother, ever the sweet lady she is, insisted she would be more than okay with the support of your father and younger sister and demanded that you stay in New York to finish your project.

Still, even though you called home every night, you felt the distance with each goodbye. It ached to be so far from your family at such a time, but the world won’t stop just for you, and time is of the essence in your line of work.

Despite the somewhat gloomy past days you’ve had, each show has given you a moment to breathe and take your mind off the stresses of life. There are two shows of the residency left now, and the boys of Corroded Coffin seem more pumped than ever for the two big nights.

You usually spend time before the show loitering in the green room or waiting out in the crowd, but today, you’ve chosen to have front-row tickets to the chaos that is Corroded Coffin’s dressing room.

There’s a thick fog of smoke dancing through the room; tobacco, weed, and alcohol drenching the walls with their smell as the boys and crew members share drinks and blunts and jokes. You, Jeff, Gareth, and James are gathered in front of the vanity— away from most of the chaos to enjoy light conversation— with Jeff and James sitting in the tall vanity chairs while you and Gareth stand between them both.

“I think we should play something off the new record tonight,” Jeff suggests. Gareth, who’s busy messing with his hair in the mirror, finds the time to respond, “I kind of wanted to do something old. Maybe even a cover?”

James raises an eyebrow, reaching forward onto the vanity desk for a black eyeliner pencil, “You guys are on in like fifteen, man. The stage crew is not gonna be happy about that.” James points out, inspecting the small item before popping the cap off. Gareth snickers as James attempts to apply the eyeliner, “When are they ever happy? Poor guys have to put up with our bullshit every day.”

Naomi comes to stand behind Jeff, draping her arms around his shoulders and resting her chin atop his head. Jeff smirks at her through the mirror, and she smiles, “You agree, right? We should play something new tonight?” Jeff asks his girlfriend, to which she shrugs and glances at both band members, “I don’t see why not. It’s the second to last show, and I’m sure the fans would love it.”

You look over to James as he curses to himself when the pencil tip breaks off. You snicker, not thinking twice, when you step forward to place a hand on his shoulder, “You’re pressing too hard.” You mumble as you gently grab the pencil from him. James watches as you turn to grab the pencil sharpener, shaving off the empty end of the stick until you can see the soft pencil again, “Aw, you’re gonna help me out?” He presses a hand to his chest as you roll your eyes. Whatever conversation Jeff, Gareth, and Naomi are having, you pay no mind to it anymore. “Shut up, take a seat.” You nod to the vanity chair.

James takes a seat, and you shake your head as you step forward, tipping his head back for a good angle as you say, “Remind me again how you’re an artist and still don’t know how to apply eyeliner correctly?” You mumble as you begin softly applying the makeup to his bottom lashline. James smirks, “I can’t be good at everything.” He jokes. You roll your eyes, “Yeah, yeah. Just look up at the ceiling, please.”

And in the corner of your eye, you catch him— Eddie.

He’s watching you and James with the sharpest gaze you’ve ever seen— angry and daring, and it only falters when you turn to look at him. You don’t know why, but your heart seems to rise to your throat, and there is an annoying twist in your stomach when you see how his jaw ticks in anger. You don’t notice it until Eddie’s gaze flickers down, and you suddenly feel the warm heat of James' hand pressed against your waist.

Your body heats at the attention, and you shy away from Eddie’s accusing gaze, returning to your task. Your eyebrows are furrowed in concentration as you apply the makeup, and you try desperately hard to ignore the way James is gazing up at you or the gentle squeezes he gives you when you shift. What’s even harder to ignore is the hole Eddie is burning through your head— and god, why do you feel like this?

Why do you, for some odd reason, wish it was Eddie beneath you? Why do you wish it was Eddie’s hands touching you? Why do you wish Eddie’s brown eyes were gazing at you? Why do you wish it was Eddie’s warm skin beneath your fingertips?

Your body and heart want Eddie for selfish reasons, but deep down, you and Eddie both know it’s best not to venture down the short path you’d started. But that doesn’t mean you don’t think about it. That doesn’t mean you don’t think about what it would be like to have Eddie in all the sinful ways you’d both tasted.

You don’t hear James the first time, but your attention snaps back to him when he gently squeezes your hip, “Huh?” You blink.

James chuckles as you pause your task and gaze down at him. His gaze dances all around your face for a moment, pearly white teeth digging into his smile before he speaks again, “What are you doing tonight after the show?”

And god, why the fuck is James looking at you like that?

You shrug, “Um, I— I don’t know why?” You ask, finishing the last few touches on his makeup. James shrugs, watching as you stand up straight and put the cap back onto the pencil, “I was thinking maybe I can take you out? Like a date?”

You almost choke at that. Your eyes are wide as you blink at James, heart racing and mind a whirlwind of thoughts— and Eddie is still watching you.

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can say anything, Richie bursts through the door with a grin and an exclamation of two words.

Show time.

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part eight

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a/n: ANNNDDD HERE WE ARE, if you've made it to the end and see this, thank you for reading, ilysm and i appreciate any for of feedback, i love to here ur funny, sweet, and smutty thots <3 ALSO A BIG THANK YOU TO @siennamagee FOR THE IDEA OF THE SCENE WITH JAMES, ILY STINK <3 LET THE GROVELING BEGIN !!

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cutie lil taglist: @mastermindmiko @whataboutbibi @ryanmxrie @ihatepeanutss @tlclick73 @motherfckerrr @emxxblog @jesssssmaybankk @eddiesguitarskills @bibieddiesgf @chloe-6123 @micheledawn1975 @demxnicprxncess @emma77645 @sidthedollface2

@daddyhetfield @s-u-t @hereforshmut @mmunson86 @welcometohellsock @lma1986 @birdsinmywalls @animechick555 @sheneedsrocknroll92 @spideydreams00 @lorosette @prestinalove @sirensleepingsoundly @nabiiturner

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danikamariewrites · 7 months

Note

Hi! Could I request an angsty fic where reader has some trauma and she’s fighting with Cassian and he does something that makes her flinch and Cassian’s horrified and comforts her?

Flinch

Cassian x reader

A/n: Cassian would be so apologetic omg he’d never think of hurting you 😭

Warnings: mentions of past trauma and abuse, hurt/comfort

You pinch the bridge of your nose letting out a sigh. You and Cassian have been talking in circles for the last fifteen minutes and he just wasn’t understanding why you were upset. “I just needed you here.”

It was his turn to sigh, “I told you I couldn’t be.” “But Cass, you never said that.” You were trying hard to keep your voice even. You hated yelling and fighting with him. Your parents fought all the time.

In your early years it was only verbal. But one day your father just snapped and hot your mother over such a small matter. Weeks later, after more unwarranted abuse, your mother took you and fled to a different village where your father wouldn’t find you.

It’s why you were so sensitive every time you and Cassian had a fight. The two of you didn’t fight often or for long. When you did you were always on the verge of tears. You were currently trying to keep it together right now.

“We both do this sometimes. You think you say something but you don’t actually talk to me.” Cassian threw his arms up in frustration and you flinched. You turned your head letting out a small cry and pressing yourself into the wall.

Cassian stilled, horrified that you even thought he would lay hands on you. Everything you had just been fighting about just went out the window. His instinct as your mate kicked in and the need to comfort you took over.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly. Approaching you carefully so you wouldn’t think Cassian would hurt you. When you opened your eyes silent tears escaped and Cassian swore he heard his heart break in two. “I’m not going to hurt you, sweets. I swear it.” He breathed out.

You saw the genuine look in his eyes and buried your face in his chest letting out a broken sob. You cling to Cassian as he picks you up and brings you over to the couch.

Cassian cradles you to his chest, rubbing up and down your spine. He whispers comforting words as you calm down. You sit up in his lap pressing your palms into your eyes. “I don’t want to fight anymore. Please.” You plead with him. Your voice still breaking. “Of course. I’m so sorry, y/n. I would never, ever hurt you like that.”

You nod, feeling guilty for having reacted the way you did. “It wasn’t you. Just something I haven’t thought about in a while.” “Do you want to talk about it?” You shake your head. “Not to night. Tomorrow though. Can we please just go to bed?”

“Of course.” Cassian kisses your temple. He lifts you off the couch to bring you to bed. There’s a lot you two need to talk about. He especially wants to know who hurt you to make you react like that.

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar reader fic #acotar reader imagine #acotar imagine #cassian acotar #cassian #cassian imagine #cassian fanfic #cassian angst #cassian x you #cassian x reader #cassian acotar x reader #cassian acotar x you #cassian acosf

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yournextbimbogf · 1 month

Text

I heard this soundgasm audio about a friend! Bartender x listener and i cant help but to think about it being Miguel ૮꒰ ˊᗜˋ ꒱ა

“What can i get for you today?—” Said miguel when he used his almost robotic tone. He had a smile plastered on this face as he cleans a empty beer glass. Suddenly at the sight of you he grins at the sight of you sitting infront of him.

“Ahh its just you.” he says in a sarcastic tone yet again, you were his best friend since Highschool yet ever since he got this job he has seen you as more.

“Don’t gotta use your fake voice all the time you know?” You argued back holding back a chuckle. Suddenly his hands fly up as he’s quick to defend himself.

“Hey! It’s not my fault i thought i saw a new costumer” he belted out in a defending tone, after all you were his best friend and his best costumer.

“Like your not excited to see me.” you say in a teasing tone back at him. Before he can even reply back he pours you a shot of tequila before sliding the glass across the wooden table. As the glass touches your hand you instantly drink it as you shake your head from the usual sour taste. Miguel finishes cleaning up the dirty glasses as he places them into the sink.

“Hey i saw you on that dance floor and i promise you were bending your back like there’s no tomorrow.” He says while chuckling slightly, all though it was cute seeing the way you danced and laughed. He sees you covering your face in embarrassment as you giggle too. He knew he wasn’t the one to talk, he couldn’t admit he was Atleast staring at your body for a good minute.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t like it though.” You blurted out without a thought in mind. You immediately back track your words before your eyes widen.

“But i did though so what now?” Miguel blurted back. All you personally wanted to was just grab his uniform and kiss him, you didn’t know if it was the alcohol talking or yourself. So you decided to pass the silence by doing what you always wanted to do. You grab his collar and kiss him, a couple of moments later he pulls back before saying.

“Look, if you want to do this i want you to tell me that you do.” He sees you nod your head and sighs yet again.

“I’m serious, i care for you and i don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.” He insisted. He didn’t want you to feel any sorts of uncomfortable.

“Yes Miguel i want to do this.” you say this with a smirk.

Now here were you two. Panting and sweating like there’s no tomorrow. The sweet smell of sex is clouding the room as he kisses all the way to your neck til he stops at your pussy.

“May i?” He chimed before taking off your panties and licking your clit. His fingers slip inside you as you can feel a big wave of pleasure hitting your body. You feel yourself on the verge of cumming

“Mi Reina, cum for me.” After he said that, that instantly sets you over the edge and you moan loudly. He smiles genuinely before standing up. He can tell by the look on your face that your hiding something that you want to say, so he tilts his head in confusion.

“It’s nothing i jus’ wanted..you know?” You say gesturing that you wanted to have his cock too. He unzips his pants and lets out his cock. Your eyes slightly open at the length.

“This is what you wanted?” He spoke in a almost mocking tone. He comes closer to you and slaps the tip onto your pussy before sliding it in. Right away he groans at the sight of your cunt hugging him like a glove. He starts to move and kiss you. He bucks his hips into yours while his tongue finds his way inside your mouth. He pulls back and kisses your neck, he starts to make hickeys on your neck while he’s still inside you.

“F-fuck, oh god miguel! I’m cumming” you stammer out in pleasure, as you do you feel a hand rubbing your clit. Miguel’s eyes shut as he feels your pussy tighten around his base. He instantly cums inside your pussy leaving you with a full feeling. He pulls out his cock and he watches the sight of your pussy dripping with his cum. He smiles before telling you something.

“I know i can’t believe i’m saying this but..I’ve had feelings for you since i got this job as a bartender. I love your smile, your hair, your eyes, i love everything about you.” He finally tells you after keeping it a secret. He sees you smile as you spoke in a soft tone.

“Miguel you could’ve taken me out first?! i’m playing but I’ve liked you too.” He grunts in fake annoyance before plopping down next to you and pressing your head into his chest and sighing.

“You are the most perfect one aren’t you?”

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writers-hes · 8 months

Text

Borrowed Time

SYNOPSIS: You always knew Tommy as the cheerful boy who took care of you. He always knew you as the smart girl that he visited by the docks. The daughter of a prostitute, the son of a deadbeat father; a soldier who protected his country; a whore who protected him; a gangster who controlled Brimingham; and now, a wife. War changes people, you just didn't realize that war could change you both. (angst, abuse, canon-typical themes, death, war)

Chapter synopsis: The end of the story.

AN: Don’t look at the comments / reblogs if you don’t want spoilers!! But please discuss what you think once you’re done reading 🤍

LONDON, 1921

Tommy sits in his chair, unmoving. Dying becomes an issue to him if it affected you this way. Ever since the war, he thought that he was living for free. It didn’t matter if he died now since he was on the verge of dying every day in France but…was this a physical manifestation of what you felt every single day for the four years that he was gone?

“I only have less than three hours left,” you mumbled, eyebrows furrowing on the teacup on the table. “I’m not-I’m not supposed to be here, Tommy…he will kill you if he catches me here.” you whispered, afraid to let the whole world know about how terrible Simon truly was.

“Hey, you’re alright,” his voice soothes you; the raspiness sending shivers down your spine. He was sitting beside you now, a hand on your bouncing knee. “I made sure you’re alright,”

“Tommy, I know that you hate me,” you sobbed, shaking your head. “I’m sorry for what-what I did but I…we had these plans together of—of living in a future where it’s just us and—”

“It’s alright,” he says. Seeing you risk everything just to warn him was already enough proof that you were sorry. “I’m sorry for all of the things that I said that night,”

“You’ve-you’ve got to believe me when I tell you that I…I sent you letters every week,” you pleaded. “I know that you might think that I forgot about you, but I never forgot about you, Tom. I’m sorry for believing that you’d think I was replaceable…that I didn’t matter to you,” you whispered the last part, hands on your lap forming into fists.

Would now be a wrong time to tell you that he loves you?

“How do you…” he coughs, trying to veer away from the road where you were going. He couldn’t do this now, not when everything’s slowly set in motion. “How did you get the information?”

You fished for the paper in your clutch, showing it to him.

“I received this during a charity dinner in London,” you said. “I tried everything to put Simon away from you…but I couldn’t. I failed and now…now he’s out to kill you,”

“He’s not going to kill me,” he replied. “It was Alfie’s men who put that there,”

“But he will!” you exclaimed, looking up at him. “He knows Alfie Solomons…”

“So do I,” he calmly says. “Alfie Solomons and I have an agreement,”

“He killed Johnny,” you warned him, but he was looking at you blankly and you feel despondent. “Alfie Solomons…killed Johnny. Has he not?”

“It was Darby Sabini who killed Johnny. To retaliate, I infiltrated the Eden Club. Alfie Solomons’ men were in charge of security and protection but Darby Sabini’s in charge of whatever dirty work Simon wanted to get done. Their dealings started recently with Johnny’s death,” he says. “It’s not—I,” he sighs, not finding the right words to say.

“Tommy…”

“Whatever happens to me isn’t your fault, Y/N.” He means it, you could tell but a small part of you still couldn’t quite grasp the measures that Simon will undertake to keep you close. “Y/N, love, it’s alright,”

“No- I…I can still try to persuade Simon. I’ll give that-that heir he wants so bad just please don’t…” you heaved, choking on your own tears. The way Tommy said it…like he knew that he was dying soon made you feel cold. You've come so far, would you really let Simon kill Tommy that easily? Tommy's hand on your knee tightens momentarily but he lets it go.

“You will do nothing of that sort,” his throat constricts. “You won’t have to do things you don’t want to anymore. I’m—I’m here now. I want you to be happy and I’ll do everything to make sure that you are but if an heir with him is something that you—“

“I don’t want to carry his child,” you shook your head. “Tommy, can’t you see? I just want you to live and be—be happy. We both changed since you left. The war took so, so much from you, Tom. We’ve both said things we cannot take back but God, Tommy. I want us to be happy and I want you to rest,”

“We can rest together…be happy together,” he proposes. “Our future isn’t that far away if—“

“How?” you asked, voice small and eyes full of tears. “How?”

“No more running away. I have a plan,” he tells you, but he didn’t want to divulge the details. His blue eyes stare directly into you. His face was blank, but his body was leaning towards you, gentle hand still on your knee. “Hey,” he says, putting his hands on top of yours. You started to pick on your nail beds again. He interlocks his fingers with yours and you smile slightly. Just like when you were kids.

“Sorry,”

“Y/N,” he stops himself. Why did you have to apologize for everything?. “I…I wrote to you,”

“Tommy—“

“I did. I waited for your letter everyday. I-I would be the first one to be there when letters were being sent but I sent them to Watery Lane,” he says. “I can’t go on with this without you knowing that I waited for you. I don’t want you to think that I’ve abandoned you because I don’t. I could never.”

He didn’t know where his courage was coming from. Maybe it was because he could feel the end coming soon. He was so scared to die without letting you know about what he truly felt for you, no matter how selfish that sounded. He wouldn’t die until he tells you about how much he loved you, about how deep this love ran through him.

“I know…Arthur told me,” you nodded. You blink away the tears that threatened to fall. “It’s me who didn’t wait for you and I-I regret it every day, you know? Not waiting…because I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t be here if I did and—I’ve always believed in your promises, Tommy. I knew that you were going to keep them but I—“

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he soothes you, he’d be asking Arthur about that sometime. “I’m not angry. I’m alright, you’re alright, we’re alright,” You didn’t believe him though and neither did he.

“Tommy?” you asked. “Do you know who tried to stop the letters?”

“I do,” he replied.

“You don’t want to tell me?”

He hums.

“Can you hold me? Instead of telling me?”

Borrowed time, you were on borrowed time and all you wanted was Tommy’s arms around you. Love is a funny thing. The world was ending and all you could ever think of is how Tommy’s hands were made for destruction, but they were also made to hold yours.

The house was dark when you came back. For a house filled with servants, the house was quiet An eerie feeling washes over you and you walked on, looking for anyone. Instead, the fireplace was open, flames roaring while your husband sat. He was looking intently into the fire, smoking his pipe.

“Where did you go?”

“Out and about,” you said, the lie rolling perfectly from your tongue.

“I see,” he nods. “Did you know that Ada Shelby was abducted today?”

You stopped, ice creeping up your spine.

“Tommy Shelby captured the Eden Club owned by Sabini and then, Sabini abducted Ada Shelby.” he says it like it was nothing. “I wonder why Tommy Shelby captured the Eden Club. Do you happen to know why?”

“No, Simon,” you shakily replied. “Why…?”

“Because Darby Sabini killed Big Johnny. Do you know why?” he asked. “You don’t because you’re a fucking idiot, but I’ll lay it down for you. Nice and simple so you can understand. I ordered the death of Big Johnny to punish you for hiding who Tommy Shelby was. I ordered Ada’s abduction because you went to see Tommy Shelby today. I ordered for the death of all the Shelbys—even the children so you would never have to worry about them. I tried to be reasonable, but you wouldn’t listen. Maybe you’d listen to me once all of those Birmingham rats are dead, hm? You’ll have to carry the weight of their deaths in your shoulder because you wouldn’t listen. It’s your fault they’re dying. It’s your fault that Johnny died. I liked him and you killed him,”

“I gave you everything. I love you with all of me and all that I have but you…you still love someone else. What do I have to do for you to love me like you love him?” he asked. He wasn’t looking at you, he was just unmoving…smoking his pipe like he was telling you about today’s weather. You were shaking, afraid for them and for your life.

“Stop crying,” he orders you, but you couldn’t stop. How could you? He just revealed all of his plans—all the things that he wanted to do to them. “Go to our room and stop fucking crying!”

“Well, you look like shit,” Polly says, seeing Tommy on the hospital bed. “What did you do this time?”

“Sabini’s men took me and beat me up,”

“They wouldn’t beat you up without anything. They wouldn’t abduct Ada without reason. I heard that someonedecided to drop by. What did you talk about?”

“Nothing that I don’t already know,” he shrugs. “Can you pass me a cigarette?”

“You want me to help you but you’re not fucking telling me anything,” Polly says, tossing the pack to Tommy’s chest. “What is it, Tommy?”

“Poll—“

“Tom,” she asserts sternly. “You tell me now or I will get it out of her,”

“Fuck,” he groans, head falling back. “Simon killed Johnny and ordered Sabini to kill all of us. They know that I was staying at Ada’s and saw her enter Ada’s house and got us to where we are now,”

“Fuck…but we’re talking about our lives here, Tom.” Polly stresses. “Do you think that you get to have a say on whether or not we’re dying just because of a promise you made when you were young and naive?”

“I think it’s better if you all leave me to deal with this whole…thing,” Tommy says. “You’re right. Your life is on the line and I’m not really accomplishing anything if you all fucking die because of me. It’s not Y/N’s fault. It’s…that fucking husband of hers! If you really want to know, Polly…since you did give her away, yeah? Simon’s out to get all of us, even Y/N.”

Polly feels her throat tighten. This…this is what she gave you away for. Her nephew on the brink of dying, Ada with multiple fucking bruises, the threat of death, and then, the receiver of all anger…you.

“That girl is like my daughter,” Polly says. “I will help you, Tom but you have to promise me that—that you will be honest with me. Don’t keep us in the fucking dark. It’s not your own problem anymore. It’s ours,”

“Alright,”

“I know you have a plan. What is it?” Polly asked, inhaling. “Honesty, Tom,”

“I…I made a deal with Alfie Solomons. We are alliances. He works with Simon for Y/N’s security and I allowed a few of his bookies to be in the racetracks in exchange of ensuring…well, Y/N’s safety,” It was half the truth. The other details, Tommy had to omit to ensure the execution—

“Stop fucking hiding,” Poll warns. “Tommy, you have to tell me,”

“Fuck—“ he coughs. “Everything is set in motion, Poll…there’s nothing else,” Polly looks at Tommy, there was no way for him to let up anything. Tommy was just staring at her, uninterested. He held her gaze, but she knew that there was nothing else. Tommy made up his mind about something; she just wished that it would turn out alright.

“I’d like to stroll around the garden today,” you told one of the servants. Life at home had been back to the way things were. Simon was back to the old Simon that you knew but somehow, you felt like your every move was watched.

“I’m sorry, miss but Mr. Coventry told us that you can only go to the garden with him,” she replied. “We can call on Mr. Coventry to ask…”

“What-what do you mean?” you asked. “I thought I was allowed to go…”

“Mr. Coventry told us that you can only go out of the house with him and that, if he isn’t around, you’re only allowed to be inside the house,” she repeated. You swallowed the constriction in your throat, unable to form any sentence. “We were also instructed to be with you at every single moment, miss,”

“What?” you asked, frowning. “I don’t need to be tended to every minute of the day,”

“But miss—“

“You may leave. I’ll go to the garden alone and you can just tell Simon that I insisted on it,” you told her, walking away but she grabs your arm. “I didn’t tell you that you can touch me,” you spit. You’ll feel bad about it later but for now, you need to go out. The house was suffocating, and you felt like you were being watched.

“Miss—“

“Leave me alone,” you scowled. “I want to go to the garden,”

“Oh, darling but you can’t,” Simon says, mocking you. “I told the servants to follow my orders. With the stunts that you’ve been pulling lately, I think it’s just fine to have you close and protected, hm?” he asked, walking over to you.

“Simon, this isn’t right,” you begged. “I’ve been cooped in the house for too long. I need-I want to go out,”

“I wish you could, but I have to go attend a meeting with Alfie Solomons. Did you know that I had your old driver killed? It’s all because of you,” he chuckles. He dismisses the servants with a wave of his hand. “You have to understand that I…I’m doing it for our family. You can hate me,” he states, walking a step closer to you. “Or push me away…” he adds, a tendril of your hair swirling in his fingertips. “You can even try to kill me,” he chuckles, his breath on your ear. “But you’re still mine. You’re my wife. You’re my fucking wife!”

You shuddered, pushing him away.

“You’re taking everything away from me, Simon,”

“I’m just taking back what I gave you,”

“My…my freedom. You took away my freedom,” you cried. “You took Johnny away from me! You took the Shelby’s away from me,”

A slap echoes in the halls.

“Don’t you dare fucking say that I took the Shelbys away from you. They were taking you away from me!” he roared, chest heaving. “What—you didn’t think I would feel magically alright when you visited Tommy Shelby the other day? You didn’t think I wouldn’t know about that fucking locket that you lied to me about? We were having a wedding and you still had Tommy Shelby on you! You think I’d be happy about that? I love you and I…I gave you everything! But I still have to try to read your mind. Tommy doesn’t. You…you’d rather live in the sewers with that fucking criminal than be here with me,”

He caresses the stinging on your cheek, wiping your tears away.

“What does he have that I don’t?”

You were locked inside your bedroom, your heart aching. He loves you…but he hurts you. He’s cruel and controlling and full of wrath but he’s dependent and loving and kind. You hated to admit it, but you understood his fears, his anger, and him.

What if you stole one of the cars right now? You could drive down to Birmingham and stay there or…or you could leave, find a place to stay in Ireland and never be heard of again. Will Simon shoot down the car? Will he shoot you, too? Or will he forbid you to even set your foot in England ever again?

Simon enters your room, disregarding you completely before sitting on the bed with you.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his hand covering yours. “I didn’t mean to…to do that,”

Right.

“Simon…”

“I’m sorry, please,” he says, coming closer to you but you only feel cold and repulsed. “Please, darling… I don’t want to do these things to you. Do you think it doesn’t hurt me when I have to take things away from you? I just can’t…not until I’m sure that I can trust you.”

You closed your eyes, tears falling on the hands that connected you to your husband.

“I’m so tired, Simon,” you whispered. “You…you taunt me and-and you turn my freedom into your weapon. I understand that you’re angry but to do that…to do the things that your father did to your mother…when you told me before that you hated him for it…what does that make you?” you asked. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree…was that supposed to be your excuse every time he does something horrible?

“I—I…”

“I married you not because I know that you can give all these things to me. I married you because you told me you loved me. You told me that I was important to you…but is this what love is? Is love supposed to be painful? Is love supposed to bruise? Is this what love is supposed to be like?” you asked. You removed your hand from his, standing up and walking away. If this is what love bruises you like peaches, you wanted no part of it.

Simon has given you the wings to fly but he likes to cut them whenever you fly too close to the sun.

When you lay in bed that night, Simon’s arm draped on your figure, you only felt cold. You laid on the softest bed in the world, unmoving…unblinking.

Maybe you'll be free another time.

“I’m sorry for what I did,” he says, setting his utensils down on the dining table. “You have…you have every reason to be mad at me,”

“Simon,” you sighed. You’ve been playing with your food for a while. “You…you can’t just say sorry every time you decide to…hurt me. I want to be able to love you without fearing for my life,”

“It’s just…Tommy Shelby.”

“I don’t have him anymore,” you told him. “Tommy and I…are nothing but childhood friends. His father used to frequent the brothel when my mother was still alive. He—and I grew up together and he was all I had until he left. Now, I only have you,” you said. “My relationship with the Shelbys is nothing but familial. They took care of me, they took me under their wing,”

“But he loves you,” he replied. “He loves you, Y/N and he wants to take you away from me! Do you not appreciate my efforts to ensure that our marriage is preserved?”

“What preservation?” you asked, standing up. “What—what preservation? You killed Johnny and you expect me to be alright with it. You took away my friends, my freedom…and you—you expect me to be the same!” You chuckled. “Preservation? You’re the only one killing this marriage, Simon. I love you but no matter how much I show it…it will never be enough,”

“Then, kill Tommy Shelby!” his voice booms. “You want me to trust you? You want me to see your love? Kill him! We have more than enough money to have one of Alfie’s men or Sabini’s men to kill him. Kill him!”

Your face pinches in anger, eyes turning into slits.

“What? You can’t be serious,” you scoffed. Simon takes your arm harshly and you flinched. He grips it in his hand, forcing you to stay immobile.

“Kill him,” he spits. “Your love means nothing to me if you won’t,”

“And you think I’ll continue to love you when you’re forcing me to kill my friend?” you asked, shaking your head. “Let me go!”

“No!” his voice booms. He drags you to his office, your legs stumbling behind him. “You have to decide if you’ll kill for me. I’ll kill for you, don’t you know that?” he asked, throwing you on the couch in his study. “I’ll kill for you…”

You stand up to leave but he pushes you down.

“I don’t care if you don’t love me right now. You will love me again. You’ve been obedient for Tommy’s sake…that’s the greatest love of all and I—I don’t have it,” he whispers. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted and I don’t have it.” He shakes his head, watching your husband turn into the cruel man that you learned to hate. He walks towards the door and exits. You run after him but he forces the door closed from the other side.

“Make sure that Mrs. Coventry is taken care of,” he tells his security. “Only maids are allowed to be inside but don’t let anyone near the door until I leave. She will remain in this room until I arrive in the evening.”

You were rattling the door but to no avail. Your tears were freely flowing, trying to get the door open by slamming your body on it. You could hear the quiet murmur outside but they were all ignoring you.

“Let me out, Simon!” you sobbed. “Let me out! Let me out…please!” you cried, slamming your body harder but it couldn’t fucking open. Your fall on the floor, consoling yourself from the coldness and the darkness of Simon’s office. If your mother saw you today, would she be proud of you?

Time passes in Tommy’s eyes, his eyes blank. Alfie Solomons told him to wait but he couldn’t. Their men surrounded the mansion, pretending to be your security but they’ve been planning the seeds, telling Tommy that you weren’t allowed to be out of the house with your husband anymore. He heard some of the men joke that you were a ghost that sat on the window because they have never even seen you.

“Tommy,” Alfie called, a young man trailing after him. “I’ve got someone useful for you. One of my men in Coventry’s fucking mansion. Go on, David. Tell Mr. Shelby here about the fucking horrors in that big, big mansion,”

David nods, his resolve dissolving upon seeing Tommy’s icy stare directed at him.

“My name is David and I’m assigned to the security of the house. Mrs. Coventry is currently locked in Mr. Coventry’s house—“

“Ah, fuck, mate. Just say Y/N and Simon. These fucking names really…” Alfie interjected. He nods.

“Um—Simon laid a hand on Y/N yesterday,” his eyes looking away from Tommy. “She’s not allowed to-to go out of Simon’s study…after Y/N refused to have Mr. Shelby killed”

“What about the driver that brought her to me?”

“He’s dead. Darby Sabini’s men killed him,” Alfie shrugged. He dismisses David with a wave of his hand. “Be honest with me, Tommy. Who is she? Because it’s quite absurd, innit? Here is a man with a wife and then another man who vows to what? Take her back? If I was Simon Coventry…I would be mad too, is what I’m saying. Did you know the tenth commandment, mate? Thou shall not covet thy neighbor’s wife…did you know that?”

“No one,” was Tommy’s laconic reply, standing up to walk away. Alfie chuckles.

“No one!” he exclaimed, slamming his hand on the table. “This no one cost me a man. A poor lad who decided to follow your Y/N’s orders for what? A few pounds and a fucking—a fucking night with you. Is that it, Tom? No one. Fucking no one and I’m letting my men run around after your fucking whims!”

“A fucking night? My fucking whims?” Tommy spits.

“What? Is it not true?” he asked, “You’re fucking…obsessed, mate. That’s what you are! She is married. The more you act the more she gets…fucking hurt. You think that’s alright?”

“He’s using her!” Tommy shouts over. “He’s hurting her no matter what I do or not do. Did you fucking know that? You’re not doing anything!” he asked, eyes teary.

“Then, don’t fucking do anything! It wouldn’t matter anyway; you said it yourself. As damned as I am, Tommy, don’t fucking do anything,”

Tommy shoves Alfie, shaking his head. No fucking difference?

“What the fuck? Tommy!” Alfie shouts. “What’s the matter? You’re fucking angry, eh?”

“Yes, I’m fucking angry!” he says, pointing a gun to Alfie.

“Oh, you’re going to kill me?” he taunts. “You’re going to fucking kill me when your anger is un-fucking-justified! So, what, Simon has your woman, eh? He has her? You’re angry at me but fucking hell, Tommy! How many men do I have to sacrifice for this little fucking protection project you got going on? How many fathers will you fucking kill? You think you’re better than Simon Coventry? You’re going straight to fucking hell, Tommy! Straight to fucking hell! Just like me and Simon! You come to me to get closer to Simon Coventry and…you stand there, talking about not doing anything when it’s my men that have to go through the other end of the barrel. Kill me and pull that trigger for some fucking honorable reason. Like an honorable man and not like—not like some fucking civilian that does not understand the wicked way of our world, mate,” he spits. Tommy stares at him blankly.

“Look, mate—Tommy. I will fucking help you but you have to be fucking patient. The races at Sabini’s tracks are happening soon. You just have to be patient.”

Tommy shoves Alfie away from him. He wouldn’t understand—he’d never understand. Time was ticking and if he didn’t move now, he’ll get killed.

“I think it would be much better to wear the green,” Simon says, looking at the dress that you have on for the races. “Wear it,”

“Oh, but it would be such a waste,” you told him, twirling to show him the way the fabric draped beautifully on you. “Don’t you think so? Besides, it’s going to be so hot at the races today. I don’t want to sweat,”

Simon pinches his nose.

“I suppose so,” he agrees, striding over you and laying his hand on your waist. “You do look ravishing, darling. I already can’t wait to take you home, hm?”

“We have to make sure our horse wins first,” you tell him, laying your head on his chest while you let his eyes rake over your body. “Simon, can-can you kiss me?”

“Why so sudden?” he asked, turning you around. “Is everything alright, darling?”

“Of course,” you smiled at him, studying his face. This was the Simon tha you loved; the kind Simon that you rarely see these days. “I just want you to kiss me, my love. Can’t you kiss your darling wife?” He smiles a small smile, taking your chin with his gentle fingers and kissing you.

“I love you, Y/N,”

“I love you too, Simon.” you told him, pecking his lips once more before a knock breaks you away.

“Looks like we’re ready to go,” he tells you.

“Of course, you can go ahead. Let me just fix my hair and we can go,” you replied, turning away from him. He was so warm…so, so, so, warm. Simon leaves you with a kiss on your forehead. You’ve been good lately, no Tommy Shelby…no requests…no anything. You could tell that he loves it; that you were obedient but if you didn’t want a repeat of what happened, you had to play your cards right. You fix your hair one last time and double-check the contents of your purse. It felt heavy, it felt right.

You had to get this right; you were living on borrowed time after all.

Your car stops at one of Darby Sabini’s tracks in London. Simon requested privacy and privacy he’ll get. No one knows that the Coventry’s are present in the race except for Alfie, Sabini, and the men who ushered you to the private room. No word was supposed to be out that you were both here. Simon forbade it. You let Simon walk in front of you with his hand clasped around yours. The room you were in had whisky, rum, and other items that you knew were not for the general public. When you arrived, a man with a hat was waiting.

“Darling, I’d like for you to meet Alfie Solomons,” Simon tells you, removing his hand from yours to shake Alfie Solomons’ hand. “He’s been the one supplying us with security. Sabini will get here in a while, but I think that it’s better for you to meet Mr. Solomons first.”

“Good…day, Mrs. Coventry,” Alfie greets, a polite bow sent to your way.

“Good day, Mr. Solomons. I’ve heard so much about you from my husband,” you offered, smiling at him.

“Good things, I hope?” he asked. “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. Mr. Coventry, Darby Sabini’s been looking for you. Something about your dealings. I don’t really keep track, you know?”

“Of course,” Simon nods. He kisses your head. “Will it be alright to leave you with Mr. Solomons for the meantime, my love?”

“Sure, darling,” you said, your hand tightening on the beaded purse in your hand. He smiles at you before leaving, looking for Darby Sabini. You watched the door close and you were about to sit down when Alfie Solomons spoke.

“You know, love,” Alfie starts, walking to you closer. He stops right beside your ear. “If you wanted to hide that gun better, you’d have to loosen your grip on your purse. I can see the outline of the barrel from where I was standing.” he says before leaving you in the room. “Darby Sabini’s not here but he is somewhere by the racetracks,” he hints.

“What do you want?” you asked, following him. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Let’s just say I’m a friend of Tommy Shelby,” he nods to himself. Your blood runs cold, and your face turns pale. “Go,” he urges. “Do whatever you want,”

You exited the special room with haste. Blood was ringing in your ears and you couldn’t breathe properly. You were stumbling with adrenaline, with hope, with…every single emotion that you never thought you could feel and comprehend. Nobody else was in the corridors leading to the room marked with an unassuming planter box beside it. You cautiously entered and Simon turned around immediately. His face tenses with alarm when he sees you.

“Darling, what are you doing here? You should go back with Mr. Solomons before Darby Sabini sees you. I told our men to all leave so he and I could have some privacy,” he warns, eyes darting everywhere.

“He’s not…he’s not here,” you tell him, unloading the gun from your purse with shaky hands.

“What—what is this about?” Simon asks, looking pointedly at the gun that Tommy gave you long ago. You weren’t even sure if it was still working. You point the gun at him, straight to his face. “You’re going to kill me? Is that it?” he asked, anger taking over his features. “You’re going to kill me when I’ve given you everything! I gave you your fucking life, Y/N. Put that gun down and-and we’ll pretend like this never happened,”

“No! You—you took everything away from me, Simon. You took my family away. You took Johnny away from me and you still—you still expect me to love you? You took me away and weaponized my freedom. You think—you think that I can still love you? I wake up every day counting to ten if you’d hit me. If you’d shove me down and slap me and kick me. This isn’t love, Simon! This is prison,” you enraged, your gun shaking. “You told me that…you told me that the only way out is if I kill you,” you heaved.

“Y/N…you’re being callous right now, love. You’re not you…you’re angry,” he tries, walking towards you but you just shook your head. “You’re being stupid!”

“Stop! Simon, stop!” you shouted, the volume of your voice raisins. “I can never be smart for you. I’ll always be a property in your eyes and I—and I’ll never ever be your equal,” you sobbed. “This is something that I need to do. You broke me,” you cried, tears falling in your eyes. “You broke me, and you still expect me to love you,”

“I love you, Y/N,” he sobs. “I love you—“

The coiled spring that wrung your heart explodes.

A manicured hand pulls the trigger, and your husband falls to the ground along with the gun that you held. Your hands shake and you fall on the floor, wailing. Now that the job was done, who else would you have? You crawled towards him, your dress was getting dirty, but you didn’t care. Who thought you’d finally use the gun that Tommy bought you for protection?

You lay your head down on his chest, there was no heartbeat. He was dead, Simon was dead. The trembling of your hands, hold what you could. The blood trails down your arm and you just lay there. He was dead. Simon was dead, you killed him. You killed Simon. You killed the man who loves you.

“There’s no use crying over spilled milk,” a gruff voice that belonged to Alfie Solomons says behind you. “You’re more capable than what Tommy painted you out to be,”

“Where is he?” you asked. It was odd, you thought you’d be crying by now. “Where’s Tommy?”

“Sabini’s men took him,” Alfie shrugged. “Simon ordered Sabini to kill Tommy today. You did well,”

“I killed my husband,” you told him. The waver in your voice couldn’t be pinpointed to one single emotion. “I just…I just killed my husband,”

“I see that,” he replied. “This wasn’t Tommy’s plan really. He was supposed to kill Simon and I was supposed to guard you while this all happens but…I guess Simon was quite intelligent too,” he says, pushing Simon’s limp arm with his cane. “You’re a good shot,”

“Mr. Solomons, I’ll buy your silence for five thousand pounds. I’ll let your men take care of this scene for ten thousand more. Make sure that none of this is blamed on me or on Tommy,” you negotiated, pulling yourself away from your husband. You were still trembling and Alfie could see how hard you tried to supress yourself from revealing too much.

“You just landed yourself millions. I don’t think a few thousand more will be burdensome on your pockets?” he asked, looming over you. He extends his hand for you to take, and you do, hauling yourself to meet him at eye level. You swallowed.

“Blame this all on Darby Sabini,” you told him. You stand up straighter, looking him in the eye. “And I’ll make sure that the cash is ready for you after the funeral. I’m sure you’d want very powerful friends on the inside?”

Alfie nods, a smirk forming on his face. Looks like you never needed Tommy in the first place.

The police found you wailing on the scene of the crime, the weapon nowhere to be found. Alfie Solomons testified that you were with him the whole time when one of his men ran to tell you that Sabini’s men shot him in the head. He had someone testify on it too.The funeral was private and quick, you decided to bury him with his parents in the mausoleum with ‘COVENTRY’ written in gold. Simon bequeathed every property to your name in his will. You were free; you were finally, finally, free.

BIRMINGHAM, 1922

After selling your mansion in London, you moved back to Birmingham. You bought a house that was big enough to have guests over but still not as massive as your mansion in London. You haven’t talked to Shelby’s in a year, even though they did lend a hand with what happened to Simon. Apparently, it was Polly who arranged a meeting between some Lizzie Stark and Sabini. Tommy and Alfie connived to kill Simon, but Sabini’s men took Tommy away to some far away place before anything could happen. You couldn’t face them yet, not with the freshness of your wound…not with the guilt that clawed its way deep into you.

You’ve been with Simon for such a long time that you almost forgot what it was like to be yourself.

You looked at the garden outside your window, feeling nostalgic because this was the same garden where Tommy used to take you all those years ago. You were only kids back then…how time flies. Does he know thatnyou moved back to Birmingham? Is he giving you space?

You watched the rain fall from the French windows, appreciating the breeze and the calm that the pitter patter gave you. You looked on, a single figure walking towards your house and you smiled. For the first time since your life started, you were finally free.

A/N: It’s done! It’s finally done…actually, it isn’t. I will be uploading an epilogue sometime soon and then, I will be doing a Q&A afterwards which by the way, I’m already accepting question submissions! I will be posting all of the questions in one post and I hope you guys send in some questions about the story. I want to thank every one of you for loving the story of Y/N and Tommy and it has been such a ride. I can’t write anything about a final author’s not yet…I still don’t know how to feel to finally be able to finish this story…but maybe soon? Thank you so much for waiting and thank you so much for the overwhelming love and support! As always, don’t forget to like, reblog, comment, or maybe all… to show your appreciation! Thank you so much.

TAGLIST: @shelbydelrey @runnning-outof-time @duckybird101 @thenattitude @swordofawriter @litteltourtius @trixie23 @everythingelseisextra @majesticcmey @liveat1am @dumb-wh @denabp16 @yvonna-chan @goldensunflowe-r @therosabel @hunnibearrr @dazecrea @daddyslittleattentionwhore @the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf @dang-shawty-okay @dasia21 @tsenthusiast1920 @aces-tattooartist @panda-luminary @ttaechi @spencerrxids @i-heart-food @fudge13 @affabletimelady @heartcereql @ce1iat @notalxx @1800-queen-trash @sweetwanderlust05 @globetrotter28 @thebestandworstdayofjune @reggxe-a @verreuckteli @vampireluck @zoexme @liter4ti @quixscentsposts @homosexualjohnwayne @charli123456789 @Maria_elizabeth21

#tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby #tommy shelby angst #cillian murphy #tommy shelby fluff #thomas shelby x reader #peaky blinders #peaky blinders x reader #hurt/comfort #thomas shelby ansgt

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princessbrunette · 3 months

Note

love ur blog SO much could scroll thru it for hours and hours <3

for jj (if you want!): dealer!jj and reader who has a crush on him comes to buy weed for the first time? in my head she smokes by herself, gets super high & then panics and comes back to jj’s and confesses LOL bc that would be some shit I would do!!!

thank u so much !! and yes,, i love this idea hehe ◝(ᵔᵕᵔ)◜ ‹𝟹

⊹ . ⁺ 🐰🎀⋅˚₊𐙚

the first half of your weed purchasing experience went fairly smoothly, well — as smoothly as it can for someone who has no idea what they’re talking about.

you’d shown up just a little after 4 in the prettiest skirt and your lashes extra long, coated in black. you couldn’t believe you’d worked up the courage to wind up buying weed from the guy you’d had a crush on since you were little (who seemed too chaotic to ever pay attention to little old you!) but it was soon you were stood in his house, having him talk you through each strain — and you had to try extra hard to focus because he looked so good and his hands were so big and —

“i’mma take a shot in the dark and say you’re fairly new to this right? in that case i’d prooobably suggest this, s’on the milder side, just chills you out a bunch.” he slides a packet towards you, eyes flickering up to you to catch you already looking at him.

“how’d you know i’m new to this?” you start digging in your purse for the wad of cash you brought to avoid looking at him.

“oh jus’ vibes.” he shrugs, smiling when you look back up at him, cash in hand. “its cute though, i dig it anyway.” he takes the notes from you and you swallow a love confession. “want me to roll it for you?”

he rolls the joints for you, and you try not to stare like a creep before you’re out the door in no time, breathing in the balmy late afternoon air and riding off on your bike to your empty house, family away for the weekend, to smoke your maybank special.

the second half of your experience, not so smooth.

you chaotically steer your little bike with a basket up to his house not even two hours later, paranoid and practically crashing the vehicle onto the grass as you hop off it, hands shaking at your side. jj, embarrassingly is already on the porch, stroking a stray cat with a cigarette in his mouth.

when he spots you frantically moving towards him he stands slowly, tossing the end of his cigarette aside. “ohhhh boy.” he speaks to himself like he knew what was coming.

“hey, hi, uhm.” you pant, violently struggling for breath as you clench and unclench your hands at your sides.

“you good?” he frowns, stepping towards you.

“i just— i’m so sorry to bother you but i — i smoked it alone for my first time and i don’t think i did it right or maybe it’s just reacting with me super bad and now i’m shaking and i feel really weird and i didn’t know who to go to — i— i just was wondering if there was a way to become un-high, cos i — i didn’t really wanna do it in the first place i just came to buy weed from you because i have this ridiculously huge crush on you and i thought hey what the hell—”

“heeeey, hey. breathe, okay? deep breath in girlie, look at me, right here.” he places his hands on your shoulders, face right infront of yours and for a moment you’re stunned. not only because you said all of that out loud, but because his hands were on you. “thats right, now breathe out.” he puffs his cheeks out, blowing out himself like he was encouraging a baby and you copy him, wide glassy eyes fixated on him like he was your life line.

“sorry.” you whisper and he smiles, adorable dimples indenting his cheeks.

“for what? come in, you look like you need some water.” he guides you inside his house, closing the door behind you as you try your best to stay calm. your brain felt slow and fast at the same time and all your nerve endings felt alight, constantly on the verge of a panic attack. “here, sit down— yeah? mi casa es su casa, or whatever. i never took french.” he ushers you to the couch, clumsily tripping over an empty beer can before kicking it aside and skidding off to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water.

“you ride your bike here?” he realises, sitting beside you as he hands you your drink.

“y—yeah.” you release a shaky exhale, bringing the glass to your lips.

“drink that nice n’slow, atta girl. see? you’re alright!” he makes an effort to keep his voice gentle, looking like he was going to reach out to put a hand on your arm but decided against it. you put the glass aside, palm coming to rub uncomfortably over the skin on your chest where your heart was. “heart feel a little fast?”

“mhm.” you mewl pathetically, mortified. you must have fumbled it, there was nothing sexy about winding up on your crushes couch having a panic attack.

“thats pretty normal, yeah. just gotta breathe n’shit.” he nods, resting his elbows on his knees as he watches you. “it’ll feel better when you just let it do what it needs to do, trust me.”

you try and follow his advice, sitting quietly for a few minutes as you lean back and relax into his couch, taking deep breaths and letting the high run its natural course. after a little while, you feel a giggle bubble up.

“uh-oh, there she is.” you hear the smile in his voice and he’s already looking at you.

“i totally freaked, m’sorry.” you’re all blissed out now, finally relaxed.

“oh you’re good— uh, yeah. what even happened? like—how much did you smoke?”

“the whole joint.” you shrug, snickering again.

“yeah that… probably was a lot for your first time, huh?” he grins, shaking his head. “if i knew you were this clueless about this shit, no offence, i would have offered to smoke with you, ‘ya know? be your guide. your ganja guru, if you will.”

“maybe you can teach me the right way to do it next time?” you try, feeling braver under the influence. his eyes flutter with something unrecognisable in your state and he nods.

“y—yeah. yeah for sure. totally.”

“unless i kinda ruined the vibes with that whole embarrassing confession outside.” you groan, lifting a hand to smush against your warm cheek. his eyes widen and he shakes his head.

“no! no, it was cute… i had no idea man, i would’ve closed. you crushing on me? c’mon man i’d be all over that.” he chuckles awkwardly, watching your face melt into the softest and sweetest smile he’d ever seen.

“really? you mean that?”

“hey, it’s not everyday i got a pretty girl on my couch needing me to save her, okay— this is big for me.” he teases.

you spend the rest of the evening riding out your high, before sleepily riding out your dealer beneath the glow of the television. he’ll consider it payment.

⊹ . ⁺ 🐰🎀⋅˚₊𐙚

#anon #dealer!jj #jj maybank prompt

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crazyk-imagine · 6 months

Text

Running for your Love

Pairing: Damon Salvatore x Vampire!reader

Characters: Vampire!reader, Damon Salvatore, Katherine Pierce (Katerina Petrova)

Warnings: Blood, half blood sharing, hunters, stakes, almost dying, Damon being Damon, surprise Katherine appearance bc why not, Damon snapping someone's neck, classis oblivious mystic falls residents

Word Count: 793

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You roll your eyes, slamming the glass down on the bar top, tired of his attitude. “You know it may not matter to you, but it matters to me you ass,” you say, walking out of the Mystic Grill.

Damon rolls his eyes, knowing you’re right (and he’s just being an ass) so he continues to drink his bourbon.

“You know you could be a little nicer seeing as you love her and all,” the female says, sitting beside him.

He doesn’t have to turn to see who it is, the voice is enough. “What the hell do you want Katherine?”

She shrugs. “Nothing. I got all I needed from that.”

“Are you here to tell me how pathetic I’m being?”

“No,” she starts off. “I’m here to tell you to get off your ass and go after her.”

“Really?” He turns in his seat, needing to see her face as she talks. “You care about my love life? I find that hard to believe.”

She lets out a quiet chuckle and shakes her head. “Not yours. Hers.”

“Why?”

“We were friends once upon a time, believe it or not. I’d like to think that’s still true even if everyone thinks I’m a bitch.”

“Aren’t you?”

She smirks. “I’m not disagreeing with you, but you should think hard about go after her.”

He pushes himself off the stool and rushes out the door, searching for you. He turns the corner at the sound of someone struggling and finds you in a fight with a hunter.

He rushes closer and pulls the guy off you, snapping his neck. He sighs before rushing to you. “Are you okay?” Damon cups your cheeks, checking you over, wanting to make sure you’re okay.

Your face scrunches in pain as the small piece of wood travels closer and closer to your heart. “No.”

“What is it?”

“It,” your head bounces against the brick wall. You lose your breath. “A piece of his stake is moving and I-” You don’t think you can describe it anymore, the pain becoming more and more unbearable. He nods, hands stopping on your shoulders.

“Okay, okay. Where is it right now?”

You clench your jaw, shaking your head.

“Hey, hey.” He places his hands on your back your cheeks, forcing you to focus on something other than your pain. “I know it hurts, I know it does but I need you to focus on this and tell me where it is so I can help.”

You take a deep breath, “just- it’s close to my heart. I need you to get it.”

“I know, I am but I need you to do something for me.”

“What?” You groan.

“Don’t scream.”

You open your mouth to ask why but he covers it as his other hand slowly inches into your chest.

It takes him a few tries but eventually he gets it. “It’s out. It’s out, I got it.” He tosses it to the side, checking you over once more. “Are you okay?”

“Better now that I’m not on the verge of dying, for real this time.”

“We’re joking now?”

“Oh, so you can almost die like a million times and be sarcastic, but I can’t this one time.”

“I’m not- I don’t do that.” You scoff, attempting to take a step forward, only to almost fall.

“Hey, hey. Woah, woah.” He catches you, adjusting his hold on you so his arm is around your waist to keep you upright. “Did you drink anything today?”

You don’t respond.

“I told you if you ever run out, all you need to do is call me and I’ll be there.”

“I’m fine.”

“If collapsing from lack of blood is fine, then you’re it.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, geez.”

He bites his wrist and offers it to you.

You push him away. “No.”

“It’s better than you pass out, just- work with me.”

“Damon, I’m not drinking your blood. That’s a sacred thing. I can’t.”

“That’s blood sharing and it’s fine. If I had anything in my car, I’d offer it, but I don’t.” He sighs, “please just-”

“Fine, it’ll make you happy.”

He smirks before biting his wrist, inching it closer to you.

You gently grab it and sink your fangs into his wrist.

He closes his eyes until the pain settles and returns his attention to you.

Once you feel better, you shove his wrist away before the temptation becomes stronger. “Thanks,” you wipe your chin using the back of your hand.

“Don’t let this happen again.”

You roll your eyes and start walking away. “Okay.”

He follows after you and wraps his arm around your waist, leading you to the car.

"Is this a blood bag?"

"Nope, don't know what that is."

"Damon!"

Taglist

@casa-boiardi @kmc1989

#vampire diaries #the vampire diaries #the vampire diaries imagines #the vampire diaries imagine #the vampire diaires fanfiction #the vampire diaries fanfic #damon salvatore imagine #damon salvatore imagines #damon salvatore #damon salvatore fanfiction #damon salvatore fanfic #damon salvatore x reader #damon salvatore x you #damon salvatore x vampire reader #damon salvatore x vampire!reader #crazyk-imagine

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montammil · 1 year

Text

CW: Intimate caretaker, insecurity (of scars on face), hurt/comfort, panic attack, just some wholesome fluff

When Caretaker hears a scream echo through the halls, they’ve never ran so fast, their first thought being, Whumpee is hurt, or worse... Whumper is back, trying to take them again.

They barge in the bathroom without a second thought, to find Whumpee is alone and doesn’t seem to be injured (more than they already were, anyway), but they look like they’re on the verge of a panic attack, clutching their knees and violently shaking in the corner of the room.

Jaw clenched tightly, Caretaker makes sure not to make any sudden movements while they assess the situation. “Whumpee... I’m going to sit in front of you, okay?”

Whumpee just cries out in reply, shaking their head.

“You don’t want me to come near you?”

“N-no! I just-- I’m sorry--”

“Hey, it’s okay, shh, I won’t come near you if you don’t want me to. I’m not offended. Can you just tell me if you’re hurt?”

Whumpee sniffs, and buries their head deeper into their arms. “No...”

Mouth still pursed, Caretaker considers what to do next. They can’t just leave them alone like this, and they don’t even know if Whumpee is telling the truth. They know how much Whumpee tries hiding their injuries.

“Okay. Do we need to practice breathing?”

“No, I-I’m fine.” Whumpee’s tone suggests otherwise, and they still won’t lift their face from their knees.

Caretaker leans against the doorframe. “I’m right here, Whumpee. Talk to me when you’re ready. Or you don’t have to. If you just want to have a lazy day, I’m not opposed to that, either.” They try to make every day a lazy day for Whumpee. It’s what they deserve after... everything they went through.

After around five minutes of silence, Whumpee says hoarsely, “You never told me I looked like... like this?”

“Oh, baby, is that what this is about?” Caretaker curses themself for not realizing sooner, seeing as this is the first time Whumpee has been near a mirror.

“I look like a mon--”

“No. No, don’t say that. You do not look like a monster. You look like Whumpee. My amazing, kind, beautiful Whumpee. Not a monster.”

Nostrils flaring, Whumpee stares at the ground, looking more miserable than ever. “That’s not true. I look like half of my face is... is missing!” They start sobbing again.

“Sweetheart...” Now Caretaker feels like crying, too. “Can I please hug you?”

Whumpee sobs again and opens their arms, letting Caretaker practically fall to their knees to gather them in their arms. They press kisses to their hair, rocking them back and forth, once again basking in silence for a little longer.

“Can you look at me?” Caretaker asks once Whumpee’s cries soften. “Please?”

Sobs turn into sniffles before they finally meet Caretaker’s eyes. They’re red and puffy, and they keep blinking as if to clear away tears.

“There you are,” Caretaker laughs softly. They cup their mostly injured cheek, and run their thumb gently across their skin, careful not to hurt them. “You see a monster, but you know what I see? I see the bravest, most stunning person I know.”

Whumpee shakes their head. “You’re just saying that...”

“That’s where you’re wrong. You still have those beautiful eyes, you still have your gorgeous hair, and you still have the most kissable face!” They press multiple pecks to Whumpee’s forehead and cheeks, causing them to laugh. “Oh, and how could I forget to mention that adorable laugh?”

“Stoooop,” Whumpee chuckles.

They smile. “And even if you didn’t have all those amazing things, it wouldn’t change a single thing in my eyes. You’re still the same Whumpee I always loved. Okay?”

“Okay.” Whumpee smiles, letting Caretaker wipe the rest of their tears with their thumb.

“I’m glad we can finally come to an agreement. Why don’t I make your favorite tonight? Along with your favorite movie?”

“And cuddles?”

“You’re insane if you think I’d forget cuddles.” They help Whumpee to their feet, and kiss the top of their head again. “I love you, Whumpee. Nothing can or will ever change that.” They look them in the eyes without a shred of disgust or disapproval.

It’s nice to finally be home.

#whump #hurt/comfort #caretaker x whumpee #whumpee x caretaker #intimate caretaker #whump comfort #protective caretaker #worried caretaker #caretaker #whumpee #tw panic attack #whump fluff #whump scenario

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unformula1 · 3 months

Text

in that kind of way (ft. AA23, LS2, OP81 & LN4)

valentines day series - valentines’ day countdown: D-DAY!!

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synopsis: you talk to a bunch of people about your single-ness.

You sit next to Logan in his driver's room. It’s been a few minutes since you self-invited yourself into his room and laid on the floor, staring at the ceiling.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

pairing: -

featured: alex albon (740 words), logan sargeant (531 words), oscar piastri (468 words) & lando norris (630 words)

word count: 2369 (wow that's long)

a/n: no relationships in here just buncha amazing friends!! also ft. my 4 fav drivers vroom vroom. if yall want a part 2 🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hi!” He says with a smile, even though you know it’s 8pm and he is on the verge of just falling on the ground and sleeping.

“Alex!” You cheer and invite him in, letting him sit on the couch.

He takes a seat and leans back, but keeping his posture well like a gentleman would. He’s such a gentleman. You sit down next to him throwing your feet onto the couch and crossing your legs, turning to face Alex while hugging a pillow.

“You know what day is coming up?” You ask him.

Alex thinks for a while, “Don’t… know.”

“Valentines Day.” You say.

“Oh! Yea.” He replies, “What about it? You got someone this year?”

“Haha.” You deadpan, “That’s the problem.”

“You… don’t have someone?” Alex connects the dots.

“Mhm, and I know you don’t relate but being this single is painfully tiring.” You tell him, letting out a loud groan as you say it.

“It is?” Alex asks.

“Yes. Very much so.” You tell him, putting on a sarcastic smile.

“Well I don’t think there’s much I can do to help-”

You interject, “I’m just gonna vent, so-” You do some weird motions with your hands, “If you wanna leave do it now.”

He purses his lips and nods, “Go ahead.”

“This is why I chose you!” You let out a thankful sounding sigh.

You take a deep breath, “Seeing couples out on the street being such adorable lovebirds and having the most perfect romance is going to send me jumping off a cliff one day; I am resisting the strong urge to throw rocks at them when I see them.”

“Wait- You’ve thought about throwing rocks at couples?” Alex asks, his face looking slightly shocked.

You nod in response.

“Couples like me and Lily?”

“Oh- No…no…” You shake your head and hold up your hands, “Not you two, you two are the exception.”

Alex chuckles and nods his head, “Okay.”

“Anyways! It’s starting to get to my head because what if I stay single for life and I’m stuck being this sad and lonely person who just takes care of cats all the time!”

“Sounds like a pretty good life.” Alex comments, shrugging as he does so.

“Okay- it kinda does but my point is I don’t want to be single for life!”

“You’re not going to be single for life.” Alex assures, patting your shoulder.

“How would you know?” You shove a finger into his chest.

He grabs ahold of your hand, patting it and reassuring you, “Because you’re an amazing person and there is 100% someone out there for you, you just haven’t found them yet.”

“Mhm and what if there isn’t anyone for me and I’m just destined to be single?” You question, throwing yourself into the backrest of the couch, hugging a pillow a bit too tightly.

“Highly doubt that.” Alex says.

You shove your head into a pillow and scream before looking back up.

“There’s definitely one person out there for you.” Alex says, patting your shoulder.

You pout, “Definitely?”

“Mhm.”

“Doubt that!” You say kicking your feet out.

“I think you deserve someone so perfect and someone that is absolutely gorgeous. Trust me. You deserve the world from your perfect love. Just wait.”

A slight smile forms on your face.

“Thanks Alex.”

He pats your shoulder and pulls you in for a tight hug. You hug him back.

“This usually ends up with me in tears but I guess not this time.” You say while hugging him.

“Oh really? Who have you been consulting?” He asks you.

“Logan.”

“I would think Logan would be pretty good at this?” Alex asks

“Yes. He is, the tears are happy.”

“So you’re calling me… bad at listening.”

“No! Stop twisting my words, you’re good in your own way!”

He lets out a gasp and you playfully punch his shoulder.

Maybe you were destined to be single, you would never know. You probably might take a while to find someone but at least you had people to make it less tortuous.

You think Alex is pretty cute.

Not in an 'i love you' kind of way.

But in the way which would let you could cling onto him forever

In a way which would make you feel like you could sit by him forever and nothing would change about your friendship with him.

Like a stuffed animal kind of way.

In that kind of way.

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

You sit next to Logan in his driver's room. It’s been a few minutes since you self-invited yourself into his room and laid on the floor, staring at the ceiling. You laid out on the floor, like a starfish and stared into the white ceiling. Logan sat on the cushioned bench with his hands on his lap. He tapped his foot while you laid there, motionless.

“Are you alive?” Logan asked.

You replied with a noise you didn’t know you were capable of making.

“I’m so lonely, UGH.” You kicked up your feet and punched the ground.

“Don’t do that. You might hurt yourself.” Logan says, shifting himself to sit on the floor next to you.

You lazily roll over to get closer to where Logan was sitting.

A smile forms on your face as you chuckle, “You’re too nice.”

He smiles too, and his smile is like a cat, “Thanks.”

You cover your face with your hands and let out a loud groan before rubbing the temples of your forehead.

“This is too much for me to handle. I’m running on hopes and prayers.” You complain again, slamming your fist into the floor and kicking your feet up and down like a child.

“I’m serious, stop doing that or I’ll tie your hands to your body.” Logan says, sounding dead serious.

You let out a laugh, “Too nice, as usual.”

“What would you suggest I do?... For this Valentine’s Day?” You ask him, turning your head finally to look at him.

“What would you usually do?”

“Throw rocks at couples or cry in bed.” You deadpan.

Logan covers his mouth to hold back a laugh.

“Rude-” You feign offence as you sit up.

“Sorry. That’s just pretty funny.”

“My suffering is funny.” You nonchalantly reply.

“No! 100% not!” Logan quickly responded.

“Okay! Then what should I do?”

“Go out with friends?” Logan suggests.

“Friends?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Yea, sometimes friends mean a lot too. They can be super helpful when it comes to managing your feelings, you know?” Logan does those weird hand motions with his hand as he speaks.

“Mhm.”

“Like for me, personally, I would rather have an amazing and sweet little friendship than a million romantic loves.” He shrugs.

You make an unintelligible noise; it sounds like a laugh but you would never laugh at Logan…ever.

“Seriously!” Logan says, a chuckle escaping, “Sometimes friends can be so great!”

“Friends like you.” You say, cheekily smiling.

“Awww, you’re too sweet.” Logan says, touching his heart.

“You’re really sweet. Like a little cat.” You smile and point to him.

“I would say Oscar’s more of a cat, but that’s cool.” Logan replies.

“Fair.”

Logan had a pretty great point, your friends meant a lot to you and they were one hell of a group of people to be around, you wouldn’t trade them for the world, like ever.

Logan made your heart warm.

Not in the way which would make you fall in love with him.

In a way which would let you feel at home with him, wherever, whenever.

In a way which you knew he would always be there for you.

In that kind of way.

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

You see Oscar sitting down on a chair, scrolling through his phone and tapping his feet, humming a simple melody. He looks like he’s in a peaceful state, which means you have to disrupt it, of course.

“I don’t understand how you do it.” You say, sliding into the chair opposite him.

“Do what?” Oscar raises an eyebrow, placing down his phone and looking at you.

“Get laid.” You were pretty straightforward.

“Woah.” Oscar said, raising his hands up, “Slow down there.”

“I’m being genuine. How does it even work?” Your hands support your chin as you lean closer to Oscar.

“Be nice?” Oscar says, “Don’t be a dick.”

“So… not my thing then?”

“Well you’ll find someone that suits you.” Oscar shrugs.

“You sure???” You lean closer into Oscar, who doesn’t bother shifting away from you.

“Yes. Very sure.” He says, unfazed by your unpredictable next action as you scan his face, looking him up and down.

You fall back into your chair, “Right.”

“And if it all fails, you still have your friends.” He adds.

“Friends.” You chuckle.

“Excuse me?” Oscar says, faking an offended look.

“What friends?” You laugh harder at your own joke.

“Excuse me? What am I? A roach??” Oscar says, doing a fake eye roll while he’s at it.

“You’re more like a dad!” You compliment, or at least you think you compliment.

“Was that supposed to be a compliment?” Oscar asks you.

“Yes. Did it sound rude?”

“Kinda.”

“Well rest assured, it’s a compliment. I’m calling you wise.”

“And old.”

“Pick your poison.” You scoff, leaning back, almost falling off.

Your chair tilting back a bit too much causes your life to flash before your eyes as you let out a shriek, pulling the chair back. This sends Oscar into laughs and giggles.

“What a douchebag. Laughing at me almost dying.” You give him a dissatisfied look.

“You’re like Lando. A small child.” Oscar remarks.

“I agree with both of your points.”

Before Oscar can say anything his phone rings and it’s Lily. He looks at the contact name then back up at you.

“You should pick that up, I’ll b on my way!” You point to his phone, which is still ringing and vibrating.

“I’ll see you around.” He says, picking up the phone.

You swiftly get up, wave goodbye to Oscar and run off.

Oscar’s pretty sweet. You like that. He’s someone you can always talk to and you love that.

He’s not sweet like a way which would make you want to be his Valentine’s.

But in the kind of way which you would probably be fine with him seeing you cry.

In the kind of way you wouldn’t hesitate calling him at 3am if he needed you, or if you needed him

In that kind of way.

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

“LANDO!” You shout from the level above him.

He spins his head in different directions before finding you and giving you a big wave. He then gestures for you to come down and join him.

“COMING!” You shout before sprinting for the stairs.

You run down the stairs and toward Lando. You pick up speed as you close in on Lando.

“Wait no I’m not read-” Lando tries to warn you but it’s too late.

You lunge yourself at him and crash into him, he fails to catch you and falls backward. You land on top of Lando, both of you laughing.

“Jeez. One way to say hi.” Lando smirks.

You get off Lando and help him up. He gets back on his two feet and does a weird back cracking thing.

“Old.” You say which gets you a gasp and a shocked look from Lando.

“Well now we’re not friends anymore.” He says and does a sassy little hair flip.

“So be it!” You say back.

“Kiss me already.” He says, raising his eyebrow and scoffs.

“At least take me out to dinner first.” You reply, leaning on one leg and returning him the raised eyebrow.

“Can’t do that if you don’t confess first.” Lando says back.

“Touche.” You pout your lips and pat his shoulder.

“So, what brings you around?” Lando says, smouldering slightly before posing as if there’s a camera somewhere, “A perfect man like me?”

“Out of all the people I’ve approached, you’re the furthest from perfect.”

“Lies. Slander.” He shakes his head and punches your shoulder.

“Are you sad you don’t have a valentine this year?” You ask him.

“I have the car.”

“Doesn’t count.”

“Does count.”

“Does not.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“I disagree.”

“Well I disagree with your disagreement.”

Lando lets out a hmph before crossing his arms and looking away from you.

“If you’re lonely you can just say so… I am too.” You tell him, giving him a little bit of sass.

“I have plenty of choices.”

“Like?”

“Don’t question me.”

You chuckle and pull Lando in for a hug. You don’t know why, it just came over you in the moment and it felt necessary. Lando mattered a lot to you.

“Okay. So if you’re lonely, I have evidence now.” Lando insults but he still hugs you back, and even tighter than your hug.

You almost struggle to breathe at one point before he releases your hug.

You dramatically pant and take deep breaths, to which Lando gives you a glare.

“Even if your love language is physical touch, that was both too physical and too touchy.” You say in between over dramatised breaths.

“Can’t help it. You’re too huggable.” Lando shrugs and looks at with innocent eyes, like a child.

“Right… Go unleash your hugging energy on Oscar or something.”

“You dislike my hugs?” Lando’s jaw drops.

“No- Did not say that.” You cross your arms.

“YES YOU DID!” Lando says, giving you that look as if he’s about to break out in tears.

“DID NOT.” You argue back.

“Prove it!” He says, crossing his arms and pouting at you.

“Or what?” You taunt.

“I’ll cry.” Lando says, looking at you like a child who just got told ‘no’ to ice cream.

“No you won’t.”

“Yes I will.”

“Won’t.”

He looks at you with those large doe eyes.

He’s not actually going to cry right?

Right?

“Asshole.” You say before hugging him.

He smiles and lets out a little cheer before hugging you back and squeezing you tighter.

You love Lando.

Not in a romantic way.

In a way where you would probably jump in front of a bullet for him.

In a way where you wouldn’t be afraid to hug him in public

In that kind of way.

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