#helen sharpe x reader | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

punkshort · 4 months

Text

somewhere to run | 6. the confession

Pairing: sheriff!Joel x f!reader

Chapter Summary: Joel finds out the truth and convinces you to press charges.

Chapter Warnings: language, angst, PTSD type symptoms, mutual pining, domestic violence and SA (discussed after the fact), mental and physical abuse, detailed conversations about DV and SA (I didn't get too descriptive about the SA but I do use the R word a couple times) please let me know if I missed anything because there is a lot going on here

WC: 9K

A/N: as the title implies, we are going to get more details about what happened to reader in this one so once again, please heed the warnings and don't read if you think it will be triggering for you. I tried not to be too graphic.

Series Masterlist

Joel could hardly sleep that night. Instead of going to the station, he headed home so he could be with Sarah. She wondered why he got home so early from his date, but he dodged the question and the two of them worked together in silence - Sarah on her homework, Joel on his incident report. When she asked him why he was working from home, he just shook his head and said something came up. She was a smart girl. She knew something was bothering him, but she didn't push it and he was grateful.

He tossed and turned all night, his mind reeling while he looked at his phone every few minutes. He checked the volume, he made sure do not disturb was off, wondering if you would reach out, but you never did. Maybe it wasn't unusual for Patrick to not come home. Or maybe you heard what happened and you were mad at Joel. That worried him the most. The fear that his actions might have destroyed what fragile relationship he had left with you ate him up as he stared blankly at his ceiling.

Morning came too quickly and too slowly all at once. He rubbed his tired eyes as he dragged himself into the bathroom. When he leaned forward to turn the water on, he was met with a sharp pain in his chest. He glanced down, rubbing the area tenderly and realized a large bruise was forming from his fight the night before. He winced when he pressed on a particularly sensitive spot and tried his best to avoid the area during his shower.

After he dropped Sarah off at school, he headed into work, his heart beginning to beat faster the closer he got to the station. He had no doubt in his mind the whole town knew what happened last night, but he was too tired and too overwhelmed to care about their curious questions and senseless gossip.

When he walked in, he breezed right past Helen's desk with a curt nod, doing his best to avoid all eye contact until he was within the safety of his office. He booted up his ancient computer and waited, his thumb rubbing mindlessly against his lower lip as he stared out his window.

He would go to the diner today. He already decided he had to see you. The radio silence was killing him and he needed to make sure you were okay. He was embarrassed about the Facebook messages, even more so that you weren't the one to read them, but Patrick was right. They were not innocent. The words held more weight than they appeared, but he had to come to terms with the fact that you were not his, and then maybe with some closure, he would be able to move on.

The morning dragged on slowly. Bobby caught him at the coffee maker, already working on his third cup, depending solely on the caffeine to help keep him going.

"Hey, boss. You look like shit, but not as bad as him," Bobby said, pouring himself more coffee and jutting his chin to the back of the building where the holding cells were located.

"Feel like shit," Joel mumbled, leaning against the counter and taking a sip from his mug.

"Think you broke his nose," Bobby added, finally looking up at him. "Called the doc but turns out he's real busy this mornin', won't be able to come by til after hours. Such a damn shame," he said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. Joel understood what he was saying without him having to say it. The people in this town looked out for one another and didn't take kindly to a stranger hurting one of their own. They were leaving Patrick to deal with his injuries longer than necessary.

"I don't think I broke anythin', he did that all on his own chargin' into that table," Joel said, but Bobby shook his head.

"Not the way he tells it," he replied with a chuckle. "You'd think you nearly killed him, the way he's been whinin' back there."

"No doubt lookin' for a lawsuit," Joel said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Don't worry, boss. You got a bar full'a witnesses. Hank already offered to give a statement and he was probably the only sober one there."

"Yeah, good. Thanks," Joel replied, pushing off the counter to head back to his office, trying to ignore the sideways glances of the men watching him from the bullpen. He shook his mouse and grimaced when he saw an email from the mayor looking to set up a meeting with him that week to discuss the incident. He knew he did nothing wrong, but the more attention this brought him, the worse he felt. Eventually, all of that talk would make its way back to you and Sarah, the truth most likely getting distorted along the way. He made a mental note to have a talk with his daughter that night as he slowly typed out a response to the mayor.

He swore he would try to get some actual work done, but he ended up spending more time staring out the window or at his phone, watching the minutes tick by til it was lunchtime and he could see you. Maybe he could pull you aside and talk to you in private. Maybe he could fix this.

The moment the clock read a reasonable hour, he jumped up from his seat and snatched his blazer from the coat hook, rolling his shoulders as he walked and put it on, then stifling a grunt when he felt a muscle in his chest pull from the effort.

He kept his head down as he walked down the street towards the diner, only glancing up once when he passed the pizza place. Your curtains were still drawn, no lights on that he could see, no sign of life.

A few people called out to him as he passed, but all he could muster was a tight smile and quick wave, not in the mood to get wrapped up into any conversations.

When he swung the door open, his eyes immediately went to the counter, searching you out but only finding Betty. Before he had a chance to look around the dining room, he heard María greet him.

"Where the hell were you last week?"

"I was here Friday," he muttered, looking around and avoiding her eyes.

"Yeah, with Nikki. Heard some stuff about that-"

"Is she here?" Joel asked, finally dragging his gaze to meet Maria's. She frowned and shook her head.

"No, she called in sick," Maria said, watching him carefully. "Joel, what's going on with you two? People are saying stuff about you and her husband, and-"

"She's sick?" Joel repeated, panic beginning to bubble to the surface. Maria nodded and shrugged.

"Yeah, people get sick, Joel. Hey! Where are you going?"

Joel didn't reply, he just hurried out the doors, nearly knocking down a middle aged couple as they were about to walk inside. He mumbled an apology as he jogged down the street towards your place.

Something was wrong.

Your eye cracked open when you heard the doorbell, the heavy thudding in your head making you immediately nauseous. You groaned and squeezed your eyes shut, rolling back under the covers. Maybe if you were quiet, Patrick would think you were at work and he would leave. But the bell kept ringing, the sound pinging around in your brain making the headache you already had so much worse.

When he began pounding on the door and shouting from the street, you dragged yourself out of bed and wrapped yourself in a thin robe. You knew your body couldn't take much more, but letting him in would be better than allowing him to make a scene in front of the whole town, so you forced your feet forward, still limping from the day before.

You had to pause in the doorway to catch your breath as you clutched your side, wincing in pain as you tried to gingerly walk down the steps, but you were taking too long and he just kept pounding and shouting and the all noise was making you sick.

"Stop," you called out weakly, not convinced he would even hear you, but miraculously he did because the noise finally ceased, and you sighed a small breath of relief.

Shakily, you reached out to grip the doorknob, your fingers fumbling with the locks until you finally managed to twist the brass handle, opening the door just a sliver, worried people walking by would see your face. Then, unexpectedly, you heard Joel's voice instead of Patrick's say your name softly and before you could peer around the door, you went to quickly shut it with no success. His hand gripped the door tightly, but you held firm, hiding behind the wood.

"You shouldn't be here," you told him, your voice weak and broken.

"I know you're mad at me but I gotta talk to you 'bout what happened," he said from the other side. "Please let me in."

Unbeknownst to you both, you were talking about two different things.

"If he finds you here... no, you have to leave," you said, pushing the door again, but he didn't budge.

"Patrick?" he questioned, sounding confused.

"Yes, Patrick," you rasped, getting dizzy from exerting so much energy in your weakened state. "Please just go."

"He's in jail, did - no one told you?" he asked quietly, trying to keep his voice down.

"Jail?" you repeated, and your grip on the door loosened in surprise. Joel felt it and took the opportunity to open it further. You stepped back quickly, wrapping the robe around you tighter and trying to fidget with your hair to hide the marks, but you knew it was pointless the moment you saw his face after closing the door behind him.

"What the fuck?" he whispered, his jaw dropping as his eyes slowly raked over your face, neck and arms. Your lip was swollen and cut, the scab breaking open and beginning to weep the more you spoke. Your cheekbone had a light purple bruise blooming under your skin, as did your jaw. There was a small gash near your hairline and what looked like scratch marks down your neck, leading past your collar bone and below your robe. When you shakily brought your hands up to cover your face in shame, he saw the dark bruises on your wrists.

"Oh my god," he whispered, unable to bring his voice any louder. When he reached out, you flinched away and he felt like he had been stabbed in the chest.

"You should go," you said quietly, your eyes pinned to the ground.

"I can't," he said in utter disbelief. "I can't... why didn't you call me?"

You looked like you were about to reply but decided against it and instead still kept your gaze averted.

"C'mon, lemme take you upstairs and get a look at you," he said, reaching out again, but you stumbled backwards, nearly falling onto the steps.

"Please don't touch me," you told him, holding up a hand, and he nodded.

"Okay, I won't touch you," he said, trying to remain calm while his heart was breaking. "Let's just go upstairs, alright?"

Reluctantly, you agreed and slowly ascended the steps, Joel following dutifully behind. He ushered you over to the couch, making sure you were seated before he went to your bathroom, rummaging around in your medicine cabinet while you sat there, your face buried in your palms and trying not to cry.

He came back into the living room, trying not to make you feel worse by hiding his reaction, but it was hard. He swallowed and dropped his eyes to the assortment of first aid items in his hands.

"Did you take anything for the pain?" he asked, his voice thick, his throat tight.

"Not today, no," you admitted softly. He nodded and shook out two white pills from a bottle and handed them to you before getting you some water. While safely in the kitchen where you couldn't see him, he let out a shaky breath and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to calm himself down. How could this happen? How didn't he see it? He should have checked on you earlier. He never should have fucking let you leave with Patrick yesterday. Guilt racked his brain as he exhaled slowly and went back to you in the living room.

"Here," he said, handing you the bottle of water. You took it and popped the pills in your mouth, wincing as you swallowed them down.

He sat down on the couch next to you but was sure to give you your space as he picked up the antiseptic and some gauze.

"Will you let me?" he asked, holding up the items in his hand. You paused and looked at them, then him. His eyes were wide and soft and shiny with unshed tears. Slowly, you nodded and watched as he twisted off the cap and put some of the antiseptic on the gauze, first pressing it gently against the gash on your forehead, then making a fresh one for your lip.

At first, he dabbed at the cut gently, ghosting over your skin as if he were afraid. But then he brought his other hand up to caress your chin, his fingers feather-like and so careful that it made your eyes flutter shut, his touch unlike anything you were used to. When you finally opened your eyes again, his hands were gone and he was staring at you, the look in his eyes morphing from sadness to one you were much more familiar with.

"I'm gonna fuckin' kill him," he said menacingly, sending a shiver down your spine.

"Don't," you said, shaking your head, but his eyes darkened and his jaw was set.

"Why didn't you tell me, sweetheart? I could've done somethin'. I could've-"

"What? What could you have done, Joel? I've heard it all before," you told him, your lip trembling. "I've tried. Believe me, I've tried. And it never works. Nothing ever changes and it just gets worse."

Joel shook his head, still not understanding.

"I'm a cop, I coulda protected you. There's laws in place for this kinda thing."

"I've gone to the cops, Joel! More than once! And they all told me the same shit!" you exclaimed, getting worked up now. "Then I go home, and magically my statement goes missing, or my medical exam report, and I'm in worse shape than before because guess what? It makes him really fucking mad when his buddies on the force find out what he does to his wife at home."

Joel's lips parted as he watched your chest heave for breath, the energy quickly draining from your frail body.

"I... I'm so sorry," was all he could say. He couldn't blame you for not trusting anyone, especially him, now that he finally knew the truth. Everything was starting to make sense. His guilt was pulling him down and he felt like he was drowning in it. So many things he should have done. Should have seen. He should have helped you but instead he trotted Nikki in front of you to make you feel even worse.

"I can really help you, though. I ain't like that," he said, scooting a little closer to you.

"I've heard that before, too," you said sadly, dropping your gaze to the ground. "There's no getting out of this. I thought by running I could try to start over, but it's clear now he will never let me go." You closed your eyes as two tears fell down your cheeks. You wiped them away angrily, hating yourself for being so weak all the time.

Joel felt his chest squeeze, his heart breaking as he watched you fall apart. He needed to do something. He couldn't let you down. You needed to get out of this, or else it could cost you your life.

"Look at me," he said, waiting until your tears slowed and you forced your eyes open. "I promise I'll help you. I fuckin' promise you, alright? You ain't in Pennsylvania, I ain't his buddy, and I will do whatever I gotta do to keep you safe."

You searched his face, eyes all wide and your heart sliced open, lying on the table between you. You've been let down so many times, it was so hard to tell when anyone was being truthful anymore, but you couldn't deny what you felt for him. And what he felt for you. You knew something was there, something real and honest and pure. He wouldn't have any reason to lie to you at this point, so after a moment, you nodded.

"Okay," you whispered, and you could see the relief flood his face.

He sat back on the couch and rubbed his chin in thought, staring at the TV screen across from him that wasn't even on while the gears in his tired head worked overtime.

"Alright," he finally said, slapping his knees and standing up from the couch. "First things first: you gotta get to a doctor."

You immediately recoiled and shook your head.

"Absolutely not."

"I'm sorry, but you have to. I gotta..." he trailed off and chewed the inside of his cheek before pushing onward. "I gotta have a doctor take pictures."

Your face instantly crumpled and you buried your face in your hands once again.

"I'm sorry," he whispered for what felt like the hundredth time, getting down on one knee to be eye level with you. "But in order for this to work, they gotta record evidence, okay?"

"Joel, I can't," you whimpered, your face still covered, but he nodded and caressed the side of your head with his palm.

"Yes, you can. I'll be right there, okay? Unless you don't want me there, but I'll go with you if you want. Or I'll wait outside the door. Whatever you need, I'll do it. I'm gonna get you outta this."

You sniffled and finally dropped your hands to your lap, your gaze finding his.

"This is the last time, I promise you," he said, staring deep into your eyes. "I'll never let him near you again."

You thought his words over for a moment, the two of you sitting in silence, looking at the other. One trying to earn trust, the other trying to give it. Finally, you closed your eyes and nodded, giving your consent for what was to come.

"Okay," Joel said softly, dropping his hand from your face and standing up to pull out his phone.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm lookin' up the number of a doctor I trust. She's a woman, too. She's real nice and sensitive. I've used her for a couple cases in the past," he said, finding the number and dialing it, bringing the phone up to his ear. Cases. You couldn't help but feel like just another victim the way he said it, even though he didn't mean it that way. You listened as he spoke to her over the phone in a hushed tone, not giving too much of your information away but insisting it was an urgent matter. When he hung up, he turned to you with a weak smile.

"She can see you this afternoon."

"Oh," you said, glancing down at your appearance. You weren't expecting to leave the house that day and you weren't sure what to do.

"It's okay," he said, sitting down next to you again and resting his hand on your knee. "I'll take you through the backdoor of her office, no one'll see you. She'll be fast."

You nodded and looked up at him.

"Maybe I should shower," you said. He paused and shifted his gaze away.

"You, uh," he cleared his throat and rubbed his forehead with the pads of his fingers. He knew this would come up, one way or another. "I don't mean to get into too much detail, but if he..." Joel trailed off, finding it difficult to finish his sentence. "If he did more than hit you, you shouldn't shower," he finally choked out, unable to look you in the eye.

You froze, finally understanding what he meant. He kept his eyes fixed on the wall, his neck tensing, his nostrils flaring, as he waited for your response.

"I won't shower, then," you finally said, your voice strained.

His eyes slid shut and he dropped his chin to his chest. Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He pinched the bridge of his nose while he tried to steady his breathing.

"I'll just go change," you mumbled, standing up while he nodded, still trying to breathe.

He did his best to collect himself while you were out of the room, but he could feel himself spiraling. What was he doing when it happened? Was he watching a movie with Sarah? Was he eating dinner? Was he getting ready for his fucking date with Nikki?

He could feel the tears welling up but he quickly wiped them away. You needed him to be strong. You needed someone to help you, to take care of you. He couldn't afford to be weak right now. He would let himself feel it later, when he was all alone at home and Sarah was asleep. When nobody needed him and he could just let the guilt and shame and sorrow wash over him.

"Jesus, Joel," Carol muttered as she left the exam room. Joel jumped up from his seat, anxiously waiting for it to be over. He rubbed his palms against his pants, trying to wipe the sweat away. She sighed and looked up at him, taking off her glasses.

"So?"

"So?" she repeated, shaking her head. "So, I have your evidence."

Joel nodded, waiting for her to continue.

"She's been through a lot," Carol said softly, walking him down to her office for privacy. She closed the door but he didn't sit down.

"She's gonna be lookin' for me," he explained, jutting his thumb over his shoulder.

"I'll be quick," she said, sitting down at her desk with a sigh. "There was significant scarring and healed bones, detailing years of abuse, and definitely evidence of some most recently."

"Yeah, I imagine anyone can see that by just lookin' at her face," he replied, but she shook her head.

"I didn't mean her face."

Joel felt his breath get caught in his throat.

"Right," he finally said, his voice cracking.

"She said her husband is a cop?" Carol asked, flipping open a yellow file on her desk. Joel nodded.

"Got him in lockup right now for swingin' on me at Hank's," he explained.

Carol's eyes glanced up at his and she quirked an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I heard something about that," she said, lacing her fingers together and looking at him closely. "Can I give you some advice, Joel?"

He shifted his weight, not sure where she was going with it, but nodded anyway.

"Don't take her statement yourself. Have someone else do it, alright?"

"Why?" he asked quickly, and she gave him a knowing look.

"Because it'll be gruesome, and you're too involved."

Joel frowned.

"Too-"

"Don't care what you've got going on with her, I'm just giving you some friendly advice. Let someone else do it," she said, her eyes softening. "Besides, you got into it with her husband last night. You don't want some hot shot lawyer tossing out her testimony in court because he can link together some personal relationship between you two."

Joel considered her words for a moment and reluctantly nodded. She was right. He was having a hard time keeping things separate, and he appreciated the clarity. He couldn't fuck this up for you. Not now.

"Anythin' else?"

She leaned back in her chair and shook her head.

"You'll have my report in the morning," she said. He nodded, thanking her again for seeing you on such short notice before exiting the room. He turned the corner just as you were opening the exam room door clutching a worn hoodie around yourself and looking around frantically before your eyes fell on him and you visibly relaxed.

"Hey, sorry. You alright?" he asked, his hands gently coming up to your shoulders to guide you towards the back exit. You gulped and nodded.

"Wasn't so bad," you said.

"Good. You did the right thing," he said as he held open the door for you and led you back to his truck.

Once you were comfortably seated and Joel merged back into traffic, you shot him a sideways glance and asked him the question that had been weighing on your mind since he came over that morning.

"Joel?"

"Hm?" he said, twisting his head to the side to change lanes.

"Why is Patrick in jail?"

Joel's grip on the steering wheel tightened and there was an uncomfortable pause before he sighed.

"He came at me last night. We happened to both be at a bar at the same time, he was drunk and swung on me."

"What?!" you exclaimed, twisting around in your seat to look at him.

"I thought you knew since he didn't come home last night. Thought you were avoidin' me by callin' off work," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the road.

"No, I had no idea. He hasn't been staying at my apartment, he has a motel room somewhere," you said, peering at his face, then dropping your gaze to his hands where you could see now his knuckles were a little red.

"Are you okay?" you asked after a beat, and he scoffed.

"Am I okay?" he repeated with a shake of his head. He looked at you in shock, the corner of his mouth turning up into a half smirk. "I'm fine. Can't believe you'd be worried 'bout me after what you went through."

"Of course I worry about you," you said softly, and he felt his heart melt. Why did you have to be so sweet? After everything you've been through, after everyone in your life has let you down, you were still so fucking sweet.

He wanted to say more. He wanted to say so much more, but he couldn't. He couldn't put that kind of stress on you. It would be selfish to tell you how much he thinks about you, how much he wished you were his, how he hasn't been able to get you out of his head since the moment he laid eyes on you. No, that would be wrong. It wasn't the right time, so he swallowed the words back from the tip of his tongue and focused on the road.

"What's next?" you asked him as he walked you up to your front door. Mercifully, the weather was threatening to downpour so the streets were quiet.

"Well, next you'll have to come down to the station and give your statement so we can formally press additional charges," he said, knowing you wouldn't want to hear it but he was surprised when you simply nodded your head.

"Okay. When?"

"Tomorrow?" he offered, and you nodded again as you unlocked your door.

"I'll have to call off work or come by after," you told him, stepping inside and turning to look at him.

"Listen, 'bout that," Joel began, and you frowned. "I gotta tell Tommy."

"No!" you cried, your eyes going wide with worry, but he shushed you and shook his head.

"I gotta tell him so he can keep an eye on things, alright? I won't be able to keep him in lockup for much longer and I can't be with you all the time to protect you, d'you understand?"

"Joel..." you whimpered, burying your face in your hands. He had to physically restrain himself from pulling you into his arms. He fucking hated seeing you like this.

"We can file a restraining order tomorrow but a piece of paper won't necessarily keep him away, and I can't risk it," Joel explained, his heart breaking for you.

"Okay," you sniffled, finally coming to terms with it. If you were going to do this, you had to trust him.

"Okay," Joel repeated. "Tommy served in the Army, he knows what he's doin', I promise. I'll tell him to keep it quiet, alright?"

"Yeah," you whispered, rubbing your nose with the back of your hand.

"And no more walkin' back from work in the dark. Take your car or get a ride. If I can, I'll drive you - " Joel pulled out his phone to look at his calendar, but you stopped him.

"I can manage, but thank you."

You looked at one another for a moment, both of you unsure what else to say. You were thankful for what he was doing but you weren't sure you had the words to properly express your gratitude. Everything you wanted to say felt so small, so insignificant. So instead of attempting to cobble together some sentence that wouldn't do your feelings justice, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around his waist, burying your face against his warm chest. He quickly brought his arms up around you in return, gently placing his hands on your head and back as he held you carefully against him, as if he was worried you would break. He was absolutely certain you could feel how hard his heart was thumping in his chest, but he didn't care. He just wanted to feel you, to hold you, to keep you safe.

"It's gonna be okay," he told you, his voice heavy, and he felt you nod against him before pulling back, his chest suddenly feeling so empty.

"Thank you," you whispered, then spared him one more glance before heading inside, the door clicking shut softly behind you.

Later that evening, after you had forced yourself to eat some soup and drink some water, you were settling in on your couch when you heard a soft knock at your door. You muted your TV and strained your ears to listen. It didn't sound like a familiar knock, not one filled with anger or urgency. You glanced down at your phone, wondering if Joel had sent you a text that you missed, but nothing was there.

Hesitantly, you made your way down the steps. Your fingers brushed the doorknob, but before you opened it, you spoke through the door.

"Who's there?"

"It's me," Maria's voice drifted through the wood, and you breathed a sigh of relief. You unlocked the door and met her eyes. She tried to hold back the wince upon seeing your face, but you still caught it.

"Heard you might need some help," she said, holding up a small plastic bag. You frowned, confused, until she tilted it open for you to look inside. There, you found a variety of makeup bottles and powders in shades that looked pretty close to your skin tone.

You opened the door and let her in. You could tell you were able to take the stairs a little quicker than the morning, and you hoped that meant you were healing because you really couldn't afford to miss more time at work.

"Cute place," she said, glancing around before following you into your living room.

"Thanks," you murmured, turning the volume back on the TV as she settled into the couch next to you.

"I hope you don't mind," she said, motioning towards the bag. "Joel called and told Tommy what happened... I'm so sorry, I wish you would've called us, we could've helped you."

"Thanks," you said with a shrug. "I guess I'm just used to dealing with it on my own."

"Well if you're ever scared of staying alone, we have a spare bedroom, so please don't hesitate to ask."

You gave her a small smile, hoping she could tell how grateful you were. With the exception of one cousin back home, nobody had tried to stand up for you before. Not even your own parents. The whole concept was so foreign to you, you weren't sure how to respond.

Maria seemed to sense this and she changed the subject, leaning forward to sift through the contents of the drugstore bag, pulling out item after item and holding it up against your arm to decide which shade would work best. She spent the next hour helping you cover your cuts and bruises, and by the time you were done, you didn't look half bad.

"How are you feeling?" she asked as she packed up her things and shoved her sneakers back on.

"A little less sore," you admitted. "I should be able to work tomorrow."

"Why don't you take one more day? Joel said you're going down to the station tomorrow, it might take more out of you than you expect."

You thought it over for a moment before reluctantly agreeing. Money was a concern, but you could wait one more day, and maybe you could pick up an extra shift over the weekend.

You thanked her as she headed down the steps and she reminded you again to call her and Tommy if you ever needed anything, and you promised you would.

When you were finally on your own again, you sat in silence, thinking about these people who barely knew you, who you essentially lied to, banding together to help you out. It was unlike anything you were used to, and you were beginning to think you may have finally found your home.

The next morning, you paced around your living room, anxiously nibbling at your nails as you waited for Joel to ring the bell. He had insisted on picking you up. He said he could swing by after he dropped Sarah off at school, that it wouldn't be a problem and he passed by your apartment anyway. You didn't understand why he was so insistent: the walk was less than ten minutes, but you didn't feel like arguing.

You were checking your makeup job in the mirror for the fifth time when the bell rang. With a deep sigh, you pulled on your sneakers, slung your purse over your shoulder and headed down the steps. When you opened the door, he was standing with his back to you under a brown blazer and his arms crossed, trying to appear casual for anybody who might be walking by, but when he heard you step through the door he swiveled around quickly.

"Good morning," you said to him with a small smile after you were sure the door was locked tight.

"Mornin'. You ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," you said as he led you to his truck parked a little ways down the street.

"You really didn't have to do this, you know," you said again, glancing around to see if anyone was watching.

"I know," was all he said before opening the passenger door for you and giving you a hand to step up into the cab.

The quick ride to the station was quiet, only the hum from his radio filling the air as your fingers fidgeted in your lap. When he parked the truck and you made a move to open the door, he held a hand out.

"Wait a minute, I gotta talk to you before we go in there."

You dropped your hand to your lap and looked at him expectantly.

"I can't take your statement today, I'm gonna have another officer do it," he said, his words rushed like he knew you wouldn't take the news well. And you didn't.

"What?!" you cried out softly, anxiety already creeping up and squeezing your chest.

"I'm sorry, I can't," he said, taking a deep breath and glancing out the windshield before looking back at you. "There's a conflict of interest. Patrick assaulted me, and if I go and take your statement, it won't look good to a judge."

"Oh my god," you mumbled, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your hands.

"It'll be okay. I'll be right there the whole time. Right on the other side of the glass, okay? I promise, I won't leave."

He watched you for a minute, waiting for you to say something, and when you didn't he began to question himself.

"Unless you don't want me to hear, I don't have to-"

"No, I'd prefer you be there," you said quickly.

He nodded and took a deep breath in.

"I asked a female officer to do it. Her name's Beth. She's real nice, she's dealt with... situations like this in the past."

"Okay," you said softly, reaching for the handle, but once again he stopped you.

"One more thing. I gotta cut him loose tomorrow."

You squeezed your eyes shut. You knew this would happen, but it didn't stop you from feeling the overwhelming sense of dread that crept up your spine.

"It'll be fine. I'll file the restraining order today. If he comes within fifty feet of you, he's goin' right back to jail, okay?" he said, his hand coming up to rest assuringly on your knee.

"Okay," you whispered, finally opening your eyes to look at him.

"You can do this. I know you can."

You had to hold back the tears that sprung up when his words hit your ears. Nobody has ever believed in you, listened to you, took care of you the way he did, and he hardly even knew you. People who have been in your life for years, your own family didn't encourage you the way Joel did. On one hand, it was depressing to realize it took this long for someone to give a shit, but on the other hand, you were so, so relieved someone finally did.

As Joel led you into the station, he kept his head held high, ignoring the glances shot your way and you did your best to do the same. You followed him towards the back, and you hesitated a brief moment before entering the interrogation room, pushing all the bad memories to the back of your mind and focusing on the present.

You needed to put an end to this, once and for all.

You were doing okay. It was half an hour into giving your statement to Beth, and Joel was right. She seemed very kind and patient, and you relaxed after speaking with her for just a few minutes. Or maybe it was because you knew Joel was just a few feet away, watching from the other side of the glass, just like he promised. Whatever it was, you were doing better than you expected.

You had gotten through the bullet points of your history with Patrick. You had detailed how you met after you graduated from high school, how he had just gotten back from basic training with the Marines and was applying to join the Philadelphia police department. You explained how at first, things were great. He was loving and kind, for the most part, but you had been inexperienced and didn't recognize the red flags when you saw them. Like when he got overly possessive at house parties, and especially so when he started drinking. At first, you had thought it was sweet, but then he started getting a little rough. You explained at the time, he would apologize the next day and promise not to do it again, but a few weeks later, he would inevitably go back on his word. The cycle repeated itself over and over for a year, until he proposed one night in front of your entire family, and you had felt pressured to say yes. You had hoped it was just nerves, that eventually you would be excited about marrying him, but it never came. He had rushed you into planning the ceremony and you were only engaged for a few short months. And again, you fooled yourself into thinking everything was just happening so fast, that it was so stressful planning a wedding and that one day, you would be happy.

You couldn't remember the argument that caused him to first hit you. To really hit you, enough to leave a nasty bruise, but you remembered the shock, and you remembered the pain and the fear. And once again, he had apologized the following day, and you forgave him. Because you were weak and scared and confused.

"Did anybody in your life notice?" Beth asked, her eyes filled with what appeared to be genuine concern.

"I hid it at first, but eventually, yes, people noticed," you admitted, fidgeting with the edge of your shirt.

"Did they offer to help you?"

"My cousin," you said, looking down at your hands. "She helped me... she helped me find a clinic so I wouldn't get pregnant."

"Did Patrick know you were on birth control?" Beth asked gently while scratching away with her pen on paper.

"No, I didn't think he would like that."

"Why not?"

"He's made comments to me in the past about wanting a big family, and I was afraid to tell him no. I was afraid he would hurt our children, too," you said, still staring down at your hands.

"Has he raped you?" Beth asked bluntly, and you visibly balked.

"Oh, um," you faltered, the word for whatever reason sending shockwaves through you. You knew the answer, but you just hated admitting it.

"Yes," you finally said, your voice cracking, so you cleared your throat and took a sip of water.

"I'm sorry," Beth said quietly, catching your gaze and giving you a sympathetic look. "I won't ask too much today, but you need to know if this goes to trial, a judge will ask for a lot more detail. You can get a lawyer and they will help walk you through it when the time comes." She reached out across the table to place her hand on top of yours, her thumb rubbing over your knuckles. You nodded, wordlessly telling her to keep going.

"When did it start?"

"Right after we got married, I think."

"How often?" she asked, pulling her hand back so she could focus on writing.

"A few times a week, I guess? I mean, I don't know what counts. A lot of the times I wouldn't be in the mood and he would pressure me, other times were more... deliberate." You swallowed and glanced quickly at the mirror behind Beth, suddenly regretting asking Joel to listen.

"Did you tell your parents?" Beth asked, glancing up at you.

"I told my mom, yes."

"And what did she say?"

"She told me it was a wife's duty to... be available to her husband. She didn't think it was rape." You spit the last word out like it was poison on your tongue. Beth winced but tried to hide it by looking down at her notes.

"And when would he hit you?"

"It varied. Most of the time it was when he was drunk or high. He promised me all the time he would get help, but he never stuck with it."

"Did you ever have to go to the hospital?"

"Yes. A few times. He's broken my arm twice, fractured my hip, and I've had a few concussions. On one occasion, he strangled me until I lost consciousness. I had to be admitted for a bruised trachea." You absentmindedly rubbed your arm and neck as you spoke, your fingers gliding over the old wounds.

"And you've gone to the police before?" she asked.

"Yes, a couple times, but -" you could feel your resolve breaking, and you bit your lower lip to keep it from trembling. "But he always did something to make it go away, and then he would get really mad. One time when I went to file a complaint, he had a cop friend of his lock me in a room just like this one for a whole day. To teach me a lesson." You twirled your finger around the sparse room, tears glistening in your eyes. "They didn't let me out, I couldn't use the bathroom, I didn't have anything to eat or drink. I was all alone."

You stopped talking and tucked your chin against your chest, trying desperately to keep the tears at bay. You wiped a shaky palm against your cheek, drying the tears that fell before you looked back up.

"There were times he would be gone for two or three days at a time and come back, all strung out and crazy... those were the times, the times I went to the police, that I ended up in the hospital. So I stopped asking cops for help."

She nodded as she wrote, giving you a minute to collect yourself before her next question. You glanced up at the mirror again and wondered what Joel was thinking. Did he leave? Or was he still there? You almost hoped he had left. You were feeling too vulnerable as it was, but the thought of him looking at you with pity after this was over made your stomach turn.

"I've done this before," you said suddenly, pulling her attention off the page. "And it always ends up the same. Please tell me this will be different."

"It will be different," she said immediately, her jaw set. She put her pen down on her pad and laced her fingers together. "I'm so sorry the justice system as failed you so tremendously, but we will do everything we can for you now that you're here."

You nodded and wiped more of your tears away before she handed you a box of tissues from a small cabinet in the corner of the room. Taking a deep, shaky breath, you met her gaze once again.

"What else?"

"I think that's enough for today," she said, flipping the pages closed on her legal pad. "We got your doctor's report this morning, and combined with this statement we will start the process of formally pressing charges. After that, if he pleads not guilty, it will go before a judge. But let's take it one step at a time, okay?"

"Okay," you said quietly, gathering your purse and following her out of the room. Your eyes immediately drifted around the hallway and then the bullpen, searching for Joel, but he was nowhere to be found. You frowned as Beth led you towards the front lobby, prepared to walk home, when you heard his voice call your name just as you were opening the door.

"I'll take you home," he said. His face looked hardened and his eyes looked distant.

"You don't have to," you began, but he just shook his head and gingerly cupped your elbow, directing you out the door and into the parking lot.

The ride back was silent. He didn't even have the radio on. You glanced out your window nervously, trying not to read too much into it, but when he dropped you off with barely a comforting word or any acknowledgement of what you confessed, you were convinced your greatest fear had come true. Now that he knew it all, now that he finally heard the truth, he couldn't look at you the same.

You were glad Maria had the foresight to tell you to stay home that day. You were mentally exhausted. Rehashing everything and then Joel's reaction put you in an awful mood. By 4pm, after lounging around watching mindless television and checking your phone constantly for any sign of life from Joel, you decided to just make yourself an early dinner, take a shower and then go to bed early.

As you were stepping out of the shower, the water finally turned off and all of the day's makeup covering your wounds down the drain, you heard your doorbell ringing incessantly. Repeatedly. Urgently.

A jolt of dread shot down your spine, but you remembered Joel said Patrick wouldn't be let out until tomorrow. But what if he got out early? What if he made a phone call and Joel was forced to release him?

Wrapped in a robe, your hair dripping down and soaking the thin material, you jogged to the living room and checked your phone. Surely, if Patrick was released, Joel would have warned you, but you didn't have any missed calls or texts. Then the pounding on the door started, making you jump out of your skin.

Slowly, you crept down the stairs, your hand gripping the doorknob tightly, your fingers hovering over the lock.

"Who is it?"

"It's me," you heard Joel's voice say from the other side, and your eyes widened in shock. You glanced down at your robe, little streaks and drops of wetness trailing down the shiny material.

"Uh, can you -"

"Please open up, people are startin' to look at me like I'm crazy."

With a sigh, you unlocked the door and stepped back, clutching your robe tightly against your chest. Joel squeezed inside and shut the door quickly behind him before turning around, his eyes raking quickly up and down your body before looking you in the eye.

"You were in the shower."

"Yeah," you said, glancing around anxiously before looking up the stairs. "Did you want to come up or something?" He just nodded slowly, his eyes flitting down once again as you led him up the steps.

"I got worried, I was ringin' the bell but I guess you couldn't hear it," he explained, taking off his shoes and shrugging off his blazer.

"What were you worried about? He's still in jail, right?" you asked, handing him some water before sitting down on the couch.

"Yeah, I just... I shouldn'tve left you alone earlier. I shoulda stayed." He stood there, a glass of water in his hand, the other rubbing over his mouth nervously.

You stared at one another for a moment, both trying to figure the other one out. He was breathing faster than normal, his chest rising and falling rapidly under his white button down shirt.

"Why are you here, Joel?" you finally asked, your heart starting to beat faster. "Because if it's out of pity, I don't want it."

"It's not -" he cut himself off and shifted his weight before setting the water down. "It's not pity." He took two steps and sunk down into your couch, his elbows on his knees as he stared at the floor, trying to figure out what to say.

"It's not fair," he finally said quietly. So quietly, you almost didn't hear him. "Everything that's happened. It's not fuckin' fair."

You scrunched your nose, confused, as you looked at him still staring down at the floor. You were about to open your mouth and ask him what he meant when he spoke again.

"I never shoulda let you leave with him that day. Somethin' felt off, I felt it in my gut-" he sat back to press his hand against his stomach for emphasis. "But I let you go. And he -"

He couldn't finish his sentence, his throat closing up as he fought to blink the tears away.

"It's not your fault, Joel," you told him, resting a hand on his broad shoulder but he stood up quickly to pace around the room.

"I'll never let it happen again," he muttered. "Never gonna let him near you again. I'll fuckin' kill him if I have to, he's never comin' here again." His voice was rising as he spoke, his breath coming in short stutters as he rubbed his forehead with the pads of his fingers, eyes wide and crazed as the panic seized him.

So it wasn't pity. It was guilt that brought him to you.

"Joel, calm down," you said, standing up to reach out to him, but he kept pacing.

"Oh fuck, I'm never gonna forgive myself," he whispered, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

"You didn't do this to me, he did," you assured him, trying to get him to stop moving. "You're helping me, Joel. You're the only one who ever really tried to help me. There's nothing to forgive."

He finally paused and glanced at you, his breath a little shallow as the panic began to subside.

"I'm gonna get you outta this, I promise," he said, his voice sounding more steady.

"I know," you replied, nodding your head.

He took a deep breath in through his nose and tore his eyes away from you to glance at his watch.

"I better go," he said regrettably, looking back up at you again.

"Okay," you said, following him to the door and leaning against the wall as he put his shoes back on.

"D'you need anythin'? Did you eat? I can -"

"I ate, I'm fine," you told him with a small smile. "Thank you, though."

"Alright," he said after a moment, then forced himself to open the door. Before he stepped through, he looked back at you over his shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'm working dinner tomorrow," you told him, suddenly feeling crestfallen you wouldn't see him for lunch.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he repeated, more firm this time. You slowly nodded and wrapped your arms around yourself, hoping he couldn't see through your robe.

You listened sadly as his heavy footsteps descended the stairs and the door shut softly behind him. You knew him well enough at this point that he would have turned the lock on the knob before he left but you still wanted to peek down the steps to check. Your eyes widened when, to your surprise, he was still standing there at the bottom of your stairs, his back leaning up against the door. His eyes flicked up to meet yours when he noticed movement, and you saw Adam’s apple bob in his throat before he spoke.

"I can't leave."

You looked at one another for a long moment, your heart slamming in your chest, knowing what this meant. You were sick and tired of always trying to do the right thing. Where did it get you? How could you even fool yourself into thinking you had any obligation to Patrick anymore? Joel knew everything now. He knew what he was doing, so you said the words that were on the tip of your tongue. The words that you knew would open the door for something both of you wanted so desperately, you could taste it.

"Then stay."

Taglist: @harriedandharassed@merz-8@sarap-77@nandan11@anoverwhelmingdin@fandomscollide@survivingandenduring@honeyedmiller@pedropascalsbbg@southernbe@pedrosfanny@gobaaby-blog-blog @eloquentdreamer @yomiyasxx @mrsparknuts@missladym1981@spacedoutdaydreamer @cosmic006533-blog @prettyinpunk85@maried01 @sunnyskyapplepie @sawymredfox@gobaaby-blog-blog@stevie75@mxtokko@sleepylunarwolf@lizzie-cakes@laurrrra@annieispunk@here4thedilfs @navystandardheatingoilcap @slugz-writes-shit@devilbat@ashleyfilm@scp116@tragerlover@iveseenstrangerthings50 @yvonneeeee @brittmb115@lulawantmula@abbysgirlll@ro-nahime-things

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel the last of us #joel miller smut #joel miller fluff #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller angst #joel miller series #joel miller x reader #sheriff!joel #STR fic #the last of us hbo #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal

953 notes · View notes

zepskies · 7 days

Text

Wake Me Up - Part 2

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x F. Reader

Summary: A few weeks after you and Ben celebrate your first Christmas together, Ben is returning from another mission with the Supe Affairs team. When he discovers that you’ve been taken, he’ll do whatever it takes to find you. And then, to help you heal.

AN: Thank you so much for your lovely responses on Part 1! Last week's angst was very physical. Now let's get into emotional...

Song Inspo: “I Can Read Your Mind” by the Doobie Brothers.

Word Count: 6.4K

Tags/Warnings: Angst, PSTD, hurt/comfort, medical trauma and injuries…and a bit of Nurse Benjamin? lol

💚 Wake Me Up Masterlist || Break Me Down Masterlist

Part 2: “All in Your Eyes”

At first, it was all shapeless color.

It felt like a small eternity before your vision cleared, and you dimly became aware of being in a hospital room. Your steady heartbeat clipped away on the monitor.

You had an IV in your hand and wires suction-cupped to your chest. Your raggedy clothes had been replaced with a blue paper gown, hidden under the blankets keeping you warm.

It was a slow process, and it hurt, but you managed to turn your head. You saw a man sitting in the corner with a laptop balanced on his lap. He typed with two fingers at a time, which reminded you of your grandfather. His brown hair fell over his furrowed brows, but his beard was well-trimmed.

His head soon rose, possibly feeling the weight of your gaze. His eyes widened a fraction, and he hastily closed the laptop and set it down on his seat before he went to you. You frowned when he came to sit at your bedside, and even touched your cheek with a gentle hand.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said. His voice was deep and smooth. “How’re you feeling?”

You didn’t have the energy to lean away from his hand, but you did give him a look of weary confusion.

“I…I don’t…who are you?” you asked.

His green eyes went blank for a moment. His hand fell from your cheek.

Then he chuckled in disbelief.

“Eyes are barely open, and already you’re fucking around,” he said.

That confused you even more. You were saved from answering, however, when there came a knock at the door. A blonde young woman peeked in. She brightened with a shocked, but happy smile when she saw you were awake.

“Hey! Oh my God, you’re awake,” she whispered in excitement. She went to your bed on the other side and picked up your hand. It took you a moment to remember her name, but you did recognize her.

“A-Annie? What…what happened?” you asked. You didn’t recognize the roughness in your own voice.

Annie shared a sobered look with the man sitting beside you, and she looked down at you again.

“Oh, hun. What do you remember?” she said.

You tried hard to think…but you couldn’t. It was all blurry and muddled in your mind.

Then, it was incredibly painful. A sharp, piercing pain that permeated through your skull and rattled down your spine, waking up the rest of your body in the worst of ways.

You whimpered, and the monitor began to beep more incessantly as your heart rate began to climb. You uttered a cry of pain while you held your aching head. You felt the gauze wrapped across your temples, forehead, and under your chin, half-covering your face.

The man turned to Annie with an angry frown.

“Get the goddamn doctor!” he snapped. But he reached for your closest hand and held it gently. He met your tearful eyes. Part of him didn’t know quite how to comfort you though. His eyes flit over your pained face, the way you were gripping your head with one hand.

He brushed his thumb over the one he held.

“…It’s okay, I got you,” he said eventually. “Just breathe.”

You couldn’t respond. There was too much pain, too much confusion. The last thing you saw was the worry in his eyes, before your head fell back against your pillow.

Your world faded away once again.

Dr. Helen Jeong, the neurologist Grace hired specifically to attend you, had been with you for a while. When she came out, Ben, Annie, your mother Marie, your sister Louisa, and the rest of the team (except for Butcher) were in the waiting room. All of them wanted to hear how you were doing, as well as the doctor’s prognosis.

Ben stood with his arms crossed, and Marie and Louisa followed suit. Technically, Marie was your next of kin, considering you and Ben weren’t married. She was close to tears again, but Louisa was supporting her.

“She’ll need a few more tests to confirm, but it looks like dissociative amnesia,” said Dr. Jeong. “It could be selective. Meaning, she remembers parts of her life, but not others, specifically tied to the past few days and the past year.”

“And me,” said Ben. He was frowning angrily. “Why doesn’t she remember me?”

She gave him a patient look.

“Her skull is fractured, but she’s also gone through an emotional trauma, as well as a physical one," she said. "The memories she’s lost are likely linked to that trauma, and so, her brain is trying to block out anything related to that painful time. It’s the body’s way of coping.”

Somehow, that explanation didn’t make it any better. Something dark and unfamiliar had been churning in Ben’s gut for days, but now he was forced to reckon with it.

It was guilt, and it was eating at his insides, clawing up to his throat. He covered it up with a hot layer of anger.

“Aside from time to heal from her injuries, it’s important that she be taken care of in a familiar, low-stress environment,” said Dr. Jeong. She aimed that last bit at Ben.

“How long until she’s better?” Louisa asked. “Will her memories come back at all?”

Ben shot her a dark look for even asking that question, but the doctor bobbed her head.

“It may take a while. Weeks, or even months, but have patience with her. As she heals, and with therapy, her memories should come back eventually,” she said. She gave Ben in particular a more reassuring glance.

He wasn’t interested in being reassured. He wanted results.

The doctor moved on so she could schedule an MRI for you, among other tests. Annie went over and laid a tentative hand on Ben’s arm. He glared at her touch and slid his gaze over to her.

“Look, we’re here for her…and for you,” she said. Even though she withdrew her hand, she looked sincere. “Whatever she needs, just let us know.”

Hughie was just behind her with a sympathetic look of agreement. M.M., Kimiko, and Frenchie were quietly supportive, if somber. You’d recognized Annie and Hughie earlier, but the others were strangers to you as well—likely because you’d met the other two at Supe Affairs, before you took on one fateful mission that would lead you to Ben. And him to you.

He let out a breath and gave Annie a minimal nod.

She smiled a little, and she and Hughie went back into your room to say goodbye for now. They promised to come back and visit, along with the others.

Meanwhile, Marie and Louisa were talking quietly. Ben’s ears perked up to it.

“I think she should come stay with you, Mom, until she’s better,” Louisa said.

When Ben heard that, he approached them. His darker frown was back in place.

“She’s coming home with me,” he said, in a tone that boded no argument. He should have remembered that your sister was too much like you sometimes. Fucking stubborn.

“If she doesn’t know you, she’s not going to be comfortable with you,” Louisa pointed out.

Marie gave her daughter a look, one that said she could’ve had a little more tact there.

“The best way for her to get her memories back is for her to stay with me, in a familiar place. In her home,” Ben said, his voice terse and shoulders tense.

“But trying to remember is hurting her,” Louisa said. “She needs to heal from her injuries first. And oh, how about this? No one will even tell us how the hell this happened in the first place!”

Ben’s frown deepened. Your younger sister had been warming up to him a bit more since the Christmas holiday you all spent together last month, but it seemed she was just as protective of you as you were of her.

Fine. Ben understood it, but Louisa was just a college student, not even old enough to order a fucking beer. He wouldn’t have this little girl telling him what was best for you.

However, as he glanced at your mother, he also couldn’t bring himself to answer Louisa’s non-question. At least, not with the whole truth.

“It was retaliation,” he replied, “for a supe we put away a while back.”

Louisa sighed heavily. Her lower lip trembled as tears welled up in her eyes, and she bit her lip and shared a look with her mother.

“Why did they want her though?” Louisa asked Ben, sniffling.

He held the tremor of unease deep inside, and he thought fast.

“He had connections in the CIA. She was the only part of the team here at the base, so he singled her out,” he said. The lie rolled off his tongue without much effort, even though part of it did add to the dark churning in his gut. His gaze fell beyond them.

“All of this is a moot fucking point,” he said. “All she needs is my blood, and she’ll be just fine.”

Louisa wiped under her wet eyes and scoffed.

“You think she’s going to accept a blood transfusion from a supe? Look, I’m sorry, but she’s not the person you know right now—”

“All the more reason to fix this sack of bullshit,” Ben snapped.

He turned on his heel and headed for your room. By now, Annie, Hughie, and the rest of them had cleared out. You were dozing, it seemed, but your eyes opened when Ben thundered in, followed closely by Marie and Louisa.

“Ben,” Louisa warned.

“What’s going on?” you asked weakly.

Ben shook his head and went to your bedside. He took up your hand and didn’t notice (or ignored) the apprehension in your eyes.

“Look, I know you think you don’t know me. You’ve been through…a lot,” he said. He paused when he considered the hell you’d probably endured the past few days. His gut began to roil again, but he pushed forward.

“Last year, you got hurt. Bad enough that you were going to need surgery,” he explained. “But I gave you some of my blood, and you healed right up. I’m gonna do the same for you now.”

You saw that he was serious, that he probably believed he was telling the truth. You just didn’t know this man—this supe that they’d told you was actually Soldier Boy. Instinctively you tried to pull your hand out of his grasp.

“No thanks,” you said, trying to hide your nerves. “I think I’m good healing on my own.”

Ben frowned. He held your hand a fraction tighter.

“Look—”

“No, you look,” you said in frustration, and a frisson of wariness. “I know you think I’m your…girlfriend or life partner or whatever the fuck, but I don’t know you.”

Just as the words left your lips, something sharp and painful flashed in your skull.

You can’t. You can’t. You can’t.

“But you do. You fucking know me!” Ben insisted. His grip on your hand tightened enough to make you flinch, a whimper sounding in your throat.

“Hey!” Louisa snapped at him.

“Ben,” Marie said, more gently, but not without urgency.

He realized what he was doing, and he forced himself to relax his grip. He watched you take your hand back and look at him like he was some kind of animal. He also realized then that you were scared. Scared of him.

Fuck me…

By degrees, he relented. Heaving a sigh, he carded a hand through his hair and gave a short nod.

“All right,” he said, and he met your eyes. “I’m, uh…I’m sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

He held your wary gaze until you nodded in acceptance. He took in your face, bruised, and still stained pink from the blood that had been cleaned away with antiseptic wipes. Your neck, arms, and chest were the same; your other wounds were stitched up and bandaged.

According to the first doctor who evaluated you after you came out of emergency surgery (Ben had already forgotten the broad’s name), you’d also sustained broken ribs and a fractured cheekbone, aside from your other injuries.

“And…what about the rest of it?” Ben had asked. He spoke alone with the doctor, just outside your room. Marie and Louisa were in there with you now in the ICU.

The doctor shook her head, offering a look of professional reassurance.

“No. There’s no evidence of sexual trauma,” she said.

Ben took that information in with a nod. Inside his chest, however, the clenching around his heart eased a great deal.

But even with that relief, just your battered face, and the way you were looking at him now…it was all too much.

Ben ignored the voice deep inside that said this was what he deserved.

He stood up, and he left you with your family.

While Louisa had to go back to her dorm for school tomorrow, Marie stayed with you that night. You zoned in and out while New Girl played on the little TV on the wall.

Marie caressed your hair gently, though she was mindful of the way most of your head was wrapped after surgery to fix your skull. If only they could fix your mind too.

“That man…” you trailed. “Um, Soldier Boy. All that crazy shit he was saying…was it true?”

Marie gave you a look for your use of language, but she nodded gravely, and with sadness.

“Yes, Ben was telling the truth,” she said. “He’s the one who saved you. Believe me, he’s very upset that you’re hurt like this.”

You tried to process that as you frowned in contemplation. He’d certainly been…pushy. And determined, like he could actually heal you.

It didn’t matter though. You weren’t about to let a supe feed you his blood like a damn vampire, or whatever Compound V-tainted shit he tried to give you. You weren’t Bella Swan, and this wasn’t fucking Twilight.

“Ben” was rough, and demanding, and gave off a real assholish exterior. Just before he left, though, you also saw his upset. He had taken in your injuries like he was angry, just at the state of you. Like he was mad that he hadn’t been able to prevent it.

“I guess he went home,” you said. Marie shook her head.

“No, he’s still here.”

Your brows knitted together. “What?”

“He’s in the waiting room downstairs,” she explained. “Grace made sure he had a special pass so he could stay with us in the hospital, just in case…”

“In case of what?” you asked. Marie smiled and continued to brush your hair back.

“In case we need him,” she said. “For protection, he said.”

Her eyes shone with sadness again, like she knew something you didn’t. It made you suspicious, but you were surprised that he was still here, despite what you’d said to him.

…Huh, you thought.

Thanks to the (fucking awesome) power of morphine, you fell asleep shortly after.

A week later, you were still recovering in the hospital. The shitty fact of it was, between the medication for your injuries and the risk of pulling your stitches, you could barely move. Dr. Burke was pleased that you at least had feeling in your extremities. One of her main concerns for you had been mobility issues.

Well, you still had to use a bedpan, and sometimes you missed your mouth when you ate pudding, but at least you could feel your feet.

Marie took the whole work week off from her job in order to stay with you. Louisa visited you every day she could after her classes, but she had a recital coming up, and you didn’t want her to lose focus. You encouraged her to only come if and when she finished getting in all the practice she needed.

And Ben…well, he came often. Mostly when you were sleeping. And every time you woke up, you saw something new from him: a beautiful bouquet of flowers, imported chocolates, a snack from the deli down the street from the hospital, a good breakfast from your favorite café in the city, or even several orders of takeout for you, him, and Marie.

You also noticed how your mother doted on him almost as much as she did on you, offering to grab him cups of coffee, or laying her blanket over him while he napped in the big lounge chair close to your bedside.

The guy just refused to leave. So you didn’t say anything about it. You just watched him whenever you were lucid enough to notice he was there.

As it became easier for you to stay awake, and to observe his quiet, but solid presence, the more your wariness of Ben bled away.

You soon began to realize that you were curious about him. If you really had been with him before, how had you two met? And what had made you get with a supe, let alone the original supe Vought ever introduced to America?

You considered him now while he dozed in that uncomfortable looking chair. His brown locks had once again swept over his brows, almost obscuring his eyes. Part of you itched to lean over and brush it all away from his face. If only you were close enough.

You could admit, if just within the safety of your mind, that he was a damn fine specimen of a man. Between the cut of that bearded jaw, the broadness of his arms and chest, the length of those widespread legs…

“Keep staring at me and you’ll wear a damn hole in my face,” he muttered.

You inhaled sharply, and his eyes cracked open. A small smirk raised his lips in amusement. You smiled as well, more in embarrassment at being caught.

Ben let out a long breath and rolled the cracks out of his neck, confirming your assumption that the chair was even more uncomfortable than it looked. You felt a bit bad for him, that he was putting himself through all that for your sake…for someone who didn’t remember him.

He turned to you in askance. “How’re you holding up?”

You shrugged.

“Okay. Pain meds are finally kicking in, at least for the hour.”

He nodded, dragging a hand over his beard. He knew that you’d eaten lunch with your second dose of the day not too long ago.

“You still hungry?” he asked. “I don’t know how they could give you that shit. What was that, some poor fucking excuse for baby food?”

“Whatever it was, it wasn’t pleasant,” you agreed, but the doctor had requested something you could easily digest, with all the medication you were on.

Ben shook his head and rocked onto his feet. He’d get you a candy bar or something. He knew Twix was your favorite.

“Um…Ben,” you said, halting his steps. He turned to you with a raise of his brows. You pointed over to the folded quilt at the foot of your bed. Your mom had brought it from home.

“Would you give me that blanket over there?” you asked. “I’m a little cold.”

You’d get it yourself, but it pained you to fold yourself over. Ben was gracious enough to go over and get the blanket for you. He even opened it up and covered your body up to your chest. His face was stoic, more or less, but there was care in his hands. You found yourself staring up at his face. He leaned against the guardrail of your bed and met your eyes.

“Thank you,” you said, in a near whisper. “And, um…my water?”

You pointed to the plastic cup and jug on the rolling tray to his left. He shot you a look, but he did as you asked, pouring some fresh water into the cup and handing it to you. His fingers brushed with yours on the pass, but you tried not to focus on the warmth of his hand. Instead, you took a few sips from the cup and handed it back to him. He set it back on the tray for you.

“What’d I do to get the hot nurse?” you couldn’t help but tease.

Ben’s brows rose again, somewhat incredulous this time. Then, he was unable to restrain a cocky smile.

“Hmm, I’m a let that one go, since you’re laid up,” he said.

His gaze roamed your face. He noted that your purplish bruises were easing up somewhat, to green and yellow. Your lacerations were beginning to heal. And before, where there had been wariness, he now saw curiosity in your eyes.

“Can I ask you something?” you drew enough courage to ask.

His lips twitching to one corner, he lowered the guardrail and sat down on the edge of your bed. He gave you an expectant look. You sucked in a breath to steel yourself.

“How long have we been a…a thing?” you asked, pointing between the both of you.

Ben quirked a brow. “About a year now.”

You nodded, though your eyes were wide in surprise. You actually began to blush.

Ben smirked. He reached for the phone in his pocket and handed it over to you, after scrolling to find his photo album.

“Does that look like we don’t know each other?” he asked.

You shot him a wry glance, but you took the phone and started looking through the album. Many of the pictures that featured both of you looked like ones you’d taken, just from the angle. One picture was rather innocuous of him sitting on a couch, presumably watching TV, while you rested on his shoulder and smiled at the camera. His arm was wrapped around your waist.

Another was of you glaring at him in surprise, mid-bite on a large chili hot dog. He wore a Cheshire grin while leaning in close to your cheek.

There were several more than you flipped through, but each one made you sting with the unfamiliarity of it all. You couldn’t remember any of this, but it was undeniable what you and Ben were to each other.

Then you happened on a picture of just you, fresh out of the shower with a towel barely wrapped around you. You looked annoyed, but by the evidence of your smile, also amused that he’d surprised you with the picture.

Your blush intensified as you scrolled past that one. Then you encountered more pictures of you and him, each position filled with more bare flesh—and even more compromising than the next. You refused to press play on any of the videos.

“Oookay,” you said with a full flush heating your face and neck, and the tips of your ears. You minimized the album and all but tossed the phone back at him.

Ben’s smirk had deepened the longer he watched you peruse through the pictures. Now he chuckled and pocketed his phone.

“Like what you see, huh, sweetheart?” he couldn’t help but tease.

Frankly, you were adorable, getting all embarrassed, crossing your arms and pulling the blanket up to your neck. You shot him a look of warning.

What, you could eye him like a honey-glazed ham, flirt with him even, but you couldn’t take a little on the return side?

Ben chuckled some more and reached for your hand, to uncross your arms. You allowed it with a thinly veiled wariness. You weren’t afraid of him…anymore. But that didn’t mean there was no reason to keep your guard up around this guy.

Meanwhile, Ben actually struggled to figure out what he wanted to say to you. Something that wouldn’t put you off, or come off too strong. This was just too fucking strange…

He met your gaze with a heavy exhale.

“You’re going to be let out of here soon enough,” he said. “You don’t need to be scared of me. I’m not gonna hurt you. Matter of fact, I saved you.”

I’ve saved you more times than I can fucking count at this point, he thought wryly.

You stared back at him in contemplation. He sensed you were listening, really trying to hear him.

“You do care about me, don’t you?” you asked, almost in wonder.

Ben didn’t answer you right away. Your question took him off guard a bit, but he also found himself meeting your gaze.

“I think that’s pretty fucking obvious,” he said. You frowned at him then.

“Not entirely," you said. "Not if you don’t say it, Romeo.”

Ben stilled. Against his will, he remembered the last real words he’d said to you before this nightmare began.

“I love you,” you’d said. He could hear your pretty smile through the phone. “Just wanted to make sure you knew that.”

“Mhmm,” Ben replied, smiling himself. “I’ll see you soon, baby doll.”

He could also hear your disappointment, there in your brief silence.

“Come on, say it,” you implored.

Ben restrained a sigh. He cast a subtle look from the corner of his eye, watching Butcher, M.M., and Kimiko loading the car with their weapons, along with the supe they’d captured. They were all too close for comfort.

“Say what?” Ben asked, feigning ignorance. Your sigh reached him, stinging him.

“You know exactly what,” you replied.

He knew what you wanted, but he still didn’t give it to you.

He didn’t allow himself.

Now, he brushed a thumb over the back of your hand, and he sighed. Sometimes, regret weighed just as bad as guilt, even if you couldn’t admit to either one.

His gaze now slid up to yours.

“Well, I do… I care about you,” Ben said.

You’re fucking mine, his selfish heart added. He just didn’t think you’d react well to that admission.

“What do you say about coming home with me?” he asked. “I think being around all your stuff will help you…get better.”

You debated his proposition, and you realized his idea made sense. If this man was really your boyfriend, and you’d been living with him for a year…then maybe you could trust him.

Just not entirely.

“I want my mom to come too,” you said.

Ben smiled. It was a small, but true smile, and it took you by surprise. But you only felt your face getting warm again when he pressed his lips to the back of your hand.

“Yeah, she can come help me take care of you, ‘til you’re feeling better,” he said.

You regarded him for a moment, still wondering if you could trust him. The longer you stared into his eyes, the more you found yourself relenting.

“Okay,” you agreed. “I’ll go with you.”

After you were finally discharged from the hospital, Ben drove you and Marie out of the city to his apartment in Scarsdale. Technically, it was your apartment too.

He promised that it had been fitted with a much better security system, now with motion cameras around the apartment, and sensors on the roof. (You didn’t know that Hughie would have to explain to Ben how all that shit worked on his phone.)

The apartment itself was familiar to you, but it felt fuzzy in your mind. Like you had a dream of being here, living a life that wasn’t yours.

Thanks to the stairs, Ben left your bags at the foot of them, before he carefully maneuvered you into his arms without pressing on any of your stitches. You sucked in a shaky breath and held onto his shoulders, squeezing your eyes tight for a moment as the movement jostled your sense of equilibrium.

“You okay?” he asked. You blinked your eyes open and met his. His brows were furrowed in concern, but it was the intensity of his eyes that stole your breath. Part of you wanted to smile, half out of nerves, but you tempered it.

“Peachy,” you replied.

His lips twitched. He then moved carefully up the stairs.

He set you back down on your feet once he reached the top, at your insistence. Marie came in from behind with her suitcase and your forearm crutch, but Ben still kept a supporting arm around your waist.

“I’ve got it,” you told him, a bit nervous and hasty to escape his hold.

He released you, and reluctantly watched you head further into the apartment on your own two feet (and crutch). You wandered into each room like you were looking for a damn portal into Narnia.

It was hard for Ben to watch you like this. With a sigh, he went back downstairs to grab the rest of your things. He set them down in the living room while you ambled off into the guest room. Marie touched his arm in comfort.

“It’ll be okay, honey,” she said.

She’d developed a soft spot for Ben not too long after meeting him. And though he’d never admitted it, the sentiment was reciprocated.

He didn’t answer her, but after a moment, he nodded. She rubbed his arm with a faint smile and went to check on you.

Marie soon found you in the office you and Ben shared. It didn’t look like he used this room often, while your desk was covered in papers and files. It did, however, smell like his cologne in here.

Or, well, the scent was masculine and woodsy—like sandalwood and spice (and a hint of weed, as evidenced from the ashtray on his desk). You had to assume the scent belonged to him, even though you didn’t think he’d worn cologne at all in the hospital. Or maybe you just inherently recognized it as his.

Huh. Smell is the strongest sense, you mused to yourself.

The thought of you remembering anything at all from what you’d lost had you the slightest bit excited, and nervous. Dr. Jeong said you’d been through a terrible trauma. The evidence of it now littered your body and had nearly broken you. So you were fairly certain that there were things you didn’t want to remember.

The touch of your mother’s hand on your shoulder had you jolting. You breathed in relief when you saw her. Her eyes widened and she held up placating hands.

“Oh! I’m sorry,” she said. “You okay?”

You nodded, though you continued to take in your surroundings with a small frown. She helped you sit in one of the office chairs, as your strength was already waning.

“It seems like everything he said was true. It’s just…it’s a lot,” you said.

“Of course it is,” said Marie. “But if it helps, you seemed very happy here. You were just glowing all night with him at the Christmas party.”

Great, yet another event that was entirely blank in your mind. If you couldn’t remember celebrating your favorite holiday, then what was the point? You huffed.

“I just find it hard to believe that I’d end up with a supe,” you admitted. You worked at Supe Affairs for God’s sake.

Marie only laughed and rubbed your back.

“Well, you found a good one,” she said.

A good one, huh? you shook your head in true wonder.

Now that was food for thought.

When you first arrived, Ben had led you to the master bedroom and said it was your room. So why the fuck was he climbing into bed with you?

“Excuse me,” you frowned at him, drawing the blankets closer over your body. You only had on a large shirt over your underwear. It was how you preferred to dress for bed, and it was easier than pulling a pair of shorts over the healing scars on your legs.

Ben had on a gray shirt and some plaid pajama pants. He’d shucked off his old man loafers before making the right side of the bed dip with his weight. He raised a brow at you.

“What?” he asked.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you asked.

“Going to bed, sweetheart. Been a long fucking week,” he retorted.

“I thought this was my bed,” you said.

“It’s our bed,” he corrected. He grabbed the edge of the blanket to pull some of it towards him, but you pulled it tighter against you.

“Look,” you said flatly. “I agreed to come here and stay with you, but I didn’t agree to this kind of close quarters.”

Ben stared back at you in annoyance and willed his temper not to snap. So fucking what if he shared the bed with you? It was a California king. The odds of your bodies even touching were slim to none.

However, he saw that stubborn look in your eyes. It was all too familiar.

Christ on a cross. He forgot how goddamn difficult you were in the beginning.

And really, you two were at the beginning, all over again. He’d gotten you to trust him, slightly, but he knew the rest would take time.

Is this really fucking worth it? came an insidious thought deep inside. The selfish part that had ruled for most of his life.

Then, he spied the silver Rolex on his nightstand—the one you’d gifted him for Christmas, along with the photo album that you’d put together for him. It included the only pictures he kept of his mother, and new ones you’d made with him. They were pictures you’d collected and captured of your life together so far.

With a deep sigh, Ben wordlessly got out of bed. He grabbed up his pillow and a throw blanket that had slid to the floor, and he made his way to the living room. Marie was taking up the only guest bedroom, so he supposed he was relegated to the couch in his own home. How the fuck did that happen?

He sat down heavily in the middle of the couch and had to take some deep breaths. His head slowly fell into his hands, elbows resting on his knees. With both hands, he tried to rub the exhaustion and frustration from his face.

There were words he couldn’t say. However, within the safety of his mind, he was forced to reckon with it.

This was his fault. He knew it, down to his bones.

It was all really his fucking fault.

He should’ve gotten you a protective security detail from the beginning. He just didn’t think anyone would have the balls to…

Ben breathed past the tightness in his chest that was once again clawing at his throat.

Well, this fucking blows like a cheap whore, he thought.

And as you might expect, he slept fitfully that night.

The next morning, you winced at the ache in your head that was now customary for you. You had practically drowned in this giant-ass bed, but the reality was, you’d barely slept. You just couldn’t get comfortable enough to stay asleep.

You didn’t know if it was because it was an unfamiliar place, or because you now had a lower dose of pain meds than you’d been given in the hospital, or if it was because there was just something missing here.

You sighed and hauled yourself out of bed to freshen up. Really, you should’ve waited for your mother or Ben to help you out of bed, but you weren’t used to being incapacitated like this. And even when you were down, it had been ingrained in you (through your father’s special brand of “parenting”) to play through the pain.

So you grabbed your crutch from beside the bed, and somehow you managed to make it to the bathroom by yourself.

After dressing in sweatpants, a bra, and a tank top, you padded out into the hall. Your mom was still sleeping, but you found Ben in the living room.

He was sprawled out across the couch. Half the covers had slipped off his body and pooled on the floor. Again, you tried not to admire the length and broadness of his form, and the way that shirt stretched across his chest and arms.

His arm was curled across his closed eyes, but he lowered it when he heard you approaching.

His eyes were a bit red and bleary. It didn’t look like he’d slept very well either. You felt bad for that, as you leaned on the back of the couch to greet him.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” you teased him a little. “You slept like shit out here, didn’t you?”

“What was your first damn clue?” he groused. You had a feeling he was grumpy in the morning, regardless of how well he slept.

“Okay, I’m sorry about that,” you said. Even though you had every right to sleep alone, you still felt bad for making him sleep out here. “How about I make us some coffee?”

He nodded with a grunt. You smiled and teetered only slightly on your way to the kitchen. Ben frowned as he realized it.

“You shouldn’t be walking around like that yet,” he called after you.

He forced himself to get off the couch, rolling to his feet. You shot him a stubborn look.

“I’m fine,” you said.

Ben’s frown deepened with annoyance.

…Right. Okay, you weren’t exactly fine.

You were still exhausted. Still felt like utter crap, as stiffness pulled at your muscles and pain at your stitches and broken ribs. And, oh yes, your head was still broken.

But, this was the most mobile you’d been in a few weeks. You were determined to do at least one normal, productive thing today. Even if it was just making coffee, then you were going to count that as a win.

By the time Ben joined you, the coffee was done percolating and you handed him a mug. He took a sip before he remembered to tell you…no cream.

He looked into the mug in wonder. You’d actually made his coffee with sugar, no cream. Just like he liked it.

Noticing the look on his face, you paused.

“Oh, sorry. I forgot to ask how you take it.”

“No,” he said, sitting across from you at the breakfast bar. “It’s just right.”

You blinked in surprise, but then you shrugged and sipped at your own cup of coffee, which had both cream and sugar. While you were preoccupied with brainstorming where to order in for breakfast, Ben allowed himself to smile a little.

You were in there, somewhere.

He just needed to help you come out.

AN: See? I promise, there's hope. 💚

(But there's also still drama ahead...)

Next Time:

“We’re not gonna have this discussion again. You need to fucking eat,” he said. “I could feed you, though I promise you’re not gonna like it.”

His surly, frowning face was annoying you. His deep voice was annoying you. His tall, ridiculous wall-of-man body in your line of vision was annoying you, clothed in a rumpled shirt and the sweatpants he’d slept in.

Everything about him annoyed you right now.

But that could also have something to do with the pounding ache in the back of your skull, radiating forward and between your eyes.

“Bro, I’m on like, three kinds of medication,” you replied in weary irritation. “With what appetite do you expect me to eat?”

Bro? His eyebrow twitched.

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 3

Ko-Fi Me ☕

Break Me Down Masterlist

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Main Masterlist

BMD/Series Tag List (Part 1):

@deans-spinster-witch @this-is-me19 @waynes-multiverse @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @spalady26

@spnwoman @syrma-sensei @wirdbeimaufhebengebunden @muhahaha303 @123passwort

@mrsjenniferwinchester @lyarr24 @xoxovienna @lollag0w0 @globetrotter28

@nancymcl @ashbatz @secretdreamlandmentality @kristophalis @wonderland2022

@emily-winchester @shelh93 @sl33pylilbunny @spoonmynoodle @chernayawidow

@buckybarnes-1917 @asgardprincess97 @sometimes-i-sing @itsyellow @theonlymaninthesky

@kimberleymjw @is-this-a-febreze-commercial @iamsapphine @sanscas @se-fucking-hun

@lassie-bird @jessjad @yepimthatperson @fromcaintodean @stoneyggirl2

@spnfamily-j2 @im-a-slut-for-fluff @lacilou @venicesem @mimaria420

@tearsfortheyouth @agalliasi @chriszgirl92 @kazsrm67 @deansbbyx

199 notes · View notes

milkycarnations · 2 months

Text

I've been bored and can only write for shit when I want to impress someone. Since y'all are putting out good shit all the time, I think y'all deserve to read good shit while you're busy working on your book. This is your fault for making me realize I have a knife thing via Helen. Enjoy my monarchs: @itsabee @13tinysocks

Here's a link if you want to read on Ao3, otherwise it's under the cut!

Brian x afab!Reader | Whet Your Appetite | 5k words

one-shot masterlist | mdni | cw: consensual as always, knife and bloodplay, gunplay but only briefly mentioned, exhibitionism but just a threat, cunnilingus, fear play, missionary, creampie, begging, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, sexual tension

Thursday nights forced you into a nasty habit.

Perhaps “nasty” was a bit too strong; too harsh. Thursday nights grew into something shameful. Embarrassing. Your spontaneous behavior evolved into a habit you kept to yourself - because if anyone found out you’d simply die. Brian cooked on Thursdays for as long as you can remember, but everything started roughly two weeks ago. Two whole weeks of being far too horny for your own good.

That night, you sat across from Brian and watched him intently. From your seat at the kitchen bar, you eyed him as he wielded the knife. That was what killed you. It was a simple chef’s knife with a lengthy steel blade, perfect for sharp, quick slices. Over the couple of weeks that you watched him, it became clear that Brian was skilled. You watched as he diced an onion into perfectly uniform cubes. Now, after washing his hands, he was busy peeling carrots before cutting them into coins.

At first, you were only impressed at how fast he moved, slicing each coin precisely without hurting himself. That interest swelled until you became fixated.

Shifting your weight on the barstool, you leaned forward as you watched him prep.

Why did it feel so wrong to find it attractive - Brian cutting fucking produce? It made no sense in your mind, leaving you heavily embarrassed at how much it turned you on. He cooked again that Saturday. Again, on Monday. You had never given it much attention before, but now every time he pulled out the green plastic cutting board and the knife you were there looking on from the sidelines. Brian certainly noticed the change, but you were sure he had no clue as to why. It wasn’t like you could explain it to him. There was no way you could tell him the way he chopped up that red cabbage last night was sexy. Regardless, he accepted your company and sometimes chose to chat with you while he cooked.

After a while of trying to cope and pretending you didn’t like it, you came to a conclusion. It was all in his arms and the way his hand gripped the handle of the knife. It made his forearms flex and his biceps bulge out under his shirt. Once that first week ended, you only got worse. You were down bad and it was horrible.

That second Thursday, the four of you got lucky and ended up with some extra cash to spare. These days, it wasn’t often that you found someone with six hundred dollars cash in their wallet. You treated yourselves and Brian wanted quality beef cuts for dinner. He chose a stir-fry. Tim requested cold beers.

There, you sat pathetically as Brian cubed the raw meat, a light layer of blood speckling his hands and the knife and pooling onto the cutting board. It was fair to say you had become desensitized over the years - you had both killed people, oftentimes together. However, it had not clicked into your head until now that you enjoyed watching Brian cut into things. The blood was a bonus. You had realized that you’d never witnessed Brian do such a thing before. To be fair, wasn’t his style. Blades were more of a Toby thing.

That revelation made you even more confused because it forced you to come to terms with your attraction to Brian. You didn’t feel this way watching Toby do the same. You tested it and nothing came up.

On a mission with Toby two days later, you kept your eyes on him like a hawk. Enamored with the scene, he sliced and hacked away at the flesh with those hatchets. Skin and muscle split. Blood spilled and coated everything in vibrant, slippery red. There was nothing. Sure, you were full of adrenaline and the adrenaline always left you a bit tingly for hours after, but you decided that it did not relate to Toby. Sure enough, when Brian cooked that Saturday night - a quick meal hours after - it happened all over again. You could only feel so intensely needy with Brian in front of you and a knife in his hand.

From there on, you were obsessed. You ate dinner, scooping the pasta with freshly minced garlic into your mouth, and only thought of him. You took your second shower of the day that night and in the steam-filled bathroom, only thought of him. You lay in your bed, tucked under the covers, and only thought of him as you slipped your hand into your shorts. Holding back from moaning his name, you fingered yourself desperately with a heavy ache in your stomach.

It was your most shameful orgasm yet, cumming to a man who was sleeping in the next room over who had no clue about your weird attraction to him. Strangely enough, the whole situation was the first thing in years that made you feel depraved, and you had done some sick shit. You slept well through the night but woke the next morning with an obvious wet spot in your shorts. This time, you couldn’t fall asleep to ignore your racing thoughts.

As if a conversation with him weren’t awkward enough, now that you’d masturbated to the thought of him, you could barely stand to look him in the eyes. It was impossible to hide how strange you’d been acting and everyone was catching onto you. Toby gave you way too much space, practically avoiding you at all costs. He recognized how you were avoiding Brian and assumed you needed a break from everything going on in the house, including himself. Tim got way too close, assuming you needed help. Though he never asked outwardly if you were depressed, it became obvious when you found a plate of fruit cut carefully into stars and your favorite snack. Tim looked out for you more than before.

Brian knew that the attention was fixed only on himself, even though the others hadn’t noticed. However, he hadn’t quite pinned why. All he gathered was that it was between you and him. That led to today.

Exactly two weeks and three days after it all started. You had done the same thing nearly every night in a row, each time growing needier and downright lustful. In the morning, you showered in an attempt to wash off the thoughts from the previous night, which did nothing to help. The afternoon was quaint: nobody had plans, which made for a relaxing Sunday evening. You were lying in your room, the door cracked open, daydreaming about nothing in particular and enjoying the rare silence.

A knock rapped on your door.

“Come in!” you called as you sat up on the mattress.

Brian pushed the door in and shut it closed behind him. You hadn’t expected to see him, instead anticipating Tim to come in with a tray of snacks again. It didn’t take long for you to grow nervous. Brian walked up to the bed, his socked feet pattering softly against the hardwood floors. He paused right in front of the bed.

“Can I sit?” he asked, his hands hidden in the pockets of his sweatpants.

“Sure,” you managed to choke the words out and shifted to hang your legs off the side of the bed. Brian sat down beside you.

“Did I do something to upset you?”

Brian’s words hurt. It was obvious that he’d assume he did something wrong - you were avoiding him like the plague. Though, it was far from the truth and it wasn’t fair for him to believe it. Still, you couldn’t get yourself to tell him everything.

“No. You’re okay,” you spoke.

Brian shuffled for a moment beside you, “Then what’d I do? Tim said you’re acting fine around him and Toby hasn’t brought anything up. So I know it’s just me,”

You sighed. Was there a point in bringing up silly little lies to save your ass? You valued your relationship with Brian far too much to hurt his feelings over a crush, but you felt like a schoolgirl admitting it. Brian sat in silence with you the entire time, waiting patiently for you to respond. He was never a nervous person at all, but you could see him grow almost desperate as you thought of what to say. The right words never found you, so you spoke with little filter. Brian sat up a little bit straighter as you started.

“I think I’m attracted to you, Brian.”

The words fell foreign off your tongue. Brian didn’t respond. He hardly moved, but you gathered the courage to look him in the eyes. A wide smile spread across his face. Your face flushed with heat until your cheeks turned blistering hot. Brian either didn’t notice or refused to comment on it.

“You think?” he asked.

The tension broke once he talked. You breathed out a chuckle and let the anxiety shed away.

“Yes, I think,”

No hesitation.

“Do you want me to help you find out?”

You wanted to scream. You wanted to squirm in your seat and kick your feet in the air, but you tried to play it off. Though you were mentally losing it, you simply smiled and looked away.

“I think I would like that,” you admitted.

Brian’s hand came out to touch you lightly on the knee, pulling your attention back to him. You looked his way to catch the hungry gaze in his eyes. Heart thumping in your chest, you glanced down at the way his hand flexed around you. It brought you back to the kitchen with that dumb knife in his hand. Between your legs, you grew more excited and could tell you were becoming wet. It made you ache - he hadn’t even touched you there yet and you wanted him.

“Is that why you’ve been watching me cook all of a sudden?” Brian smirked and gently squeezed.

It wasn’t why, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Sure,” you muttered, trying to subtly rub your legs together.

“That’s cute. I felt like you were a bit too interested. But I thought, hey, maybe you were bored.”

“You’re a good cook,” you complimented him back, trying to ignore what he said. You were too interested in what he did, but he didn’t have to know why.

“I’m curious, then. When did it happen?” he asked you, smirking.

You tried not to panic. You didn’t want him to find out the real reason why, maybe sometime in the future, but not now.

“I don’t know exactly when,” you lied. It was odd lying to Brian. He was an excellent liar and that set you on edge. It was obvious you weren’t telling the truth and it was evident he caught you in the way his eyebrows lifted as he smiled.

“You’re not so sure of yourself, you know.”

Quieting, you paused next to him as his hand trailed slightly higher. It made your stomach tighten.

“I wanna know what you were thinking when you were looking at me like that. Be honest.”

Brian’s words poured like honey. When you managed to meet his eyes, they stared deep into yours. He was an intimidating, coercive man and it was strange being on the other side of it. You froze in his touch, but he waited for you to speak. Outside the room, the sound of Tim starting dinner could be heard: pots and pans were moved and water was running in the sink.

“I was impressed,” you admitted. Brian pried further.

“Impressed with what? ‘Cuz it wasn’t the food. I saw you at the dinner table with your head in the clouds. Should’ve known something was up. What were you thinking about?” he repeated.

The pressure he pushed onto you was intense. You could only imagine what it was like to be on Brian’s bad side - a victim being threatened by him.

“I was thinking about the knife,” you finally came clean. This piqued Brian’s interest and his stare grew into something different. His hand now rested on your upper thigh and his body moved to face towards you.

“Keep going. Help me find out what this knife has to do with me.”

“I liked the way you held it.”

Brian chuckled at your response. Though he had caught on, he played along and continued to pry. It was clear he wanted you to say it out loud.

“What’s so special about me holding a knife?”

You were sure it was the thing with his arms and hands; the way he looked so powerful with it, but that was hard to explain without monologuing the past 2 weeks. You thought carefully about what to say and how to make sense to him.

“I guess the way you did it was just attractive to me,”

Brian took a big breath in. He had a way about him that was good at appearing disinterested, but the way he gripped onto your thigh was a major tell. He was into this as much as you were. He wanted it as much as you did. You thought about how much frustration you could’ve saved yourself from if you were ballsy enough to tell him earlier.

“You’re very special, you know that?” Brian’s face seemed to fluster pink down his neck.

Embarrassed with how he spoke to you, you shouted out, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, you’re into dangerous men. Especially dangerous men holding weapons, and you didn’t even notice. How long have you gone along feeling this way? If I knew you’d be ogling at me, I’d have teased you a bit more on our last mission.”

“Only recently,” you told him, “But the guns they don’t really do it for me.”

Brian looked down at you. It made you wish he were easier to read.

“How interesting. Perhaps it’s cause you want something a little more hands-on. Everyone knows that guns are cheating. Too impersonal, huh?” you silently nodded along, “But I like that. The fear of a gun doesn’t do it for you, you need the threat of a knife. Delicate when you want, but just as deadly when you let it touch the right places.”

Something thumped in your ears, the sound of your heartbeat, and the blood rushing to your head. You could feel your slick pooling in your panties and your legs slightly parted. Sweat dripped down your back, making you shiver harder as his hand traveled to your hip.

“But it’s my turn to be honest. I want to fuck you. So tell me, you okay getting a bit more personal?”

“Yes, please. Keep going,” you were shaking and your words came out as whispers.

Outside of the room, you heard Toby join the chatter and turn on the television. Though you thought Brian would shove you over and take you right there, he remained beside you and reached into the pocket of his jeans. As he pulled out his hand, you noticed the small pocket knife. He held it out in front of you and pressed a small button. The knife folded open with a click. It wasn’t anything fancy and it was a far cry from the eight-inch chef’s knife in the kitchen. It was black (including the two-inch blade) and it was clean - but it wasn’t like you could die of tetanus regardless.

“And do you mind if I use this?” Brian whispered to you, now closer than before. His breath was hot and it only made you more antsy underneath him. You had no idea he kept the knife on him, but it made sense. It looked more for utility than stabbing anyway.

You shook your head.

“Tell me,” Brian urged you.

“No, I don’t mind,”

As Brian pulled the knife closer for you to look at it, you realized you’d never felt so dizzy beside him before. You were now throbbing as you waited, desperate enough to skip foreplay entirely.

“You like it?” he asked.

“It looks sharp,” it was true. The pocket knife had a more serrated edge than the chef’s knife, which came to a whetted edge across the entirety of the blade. The tiny black knife looked like it could saw into things.

Brian nodded in agreement, “You wanna see how sharp it is?” he said, running his thumb perpendicular across the blade. It made a chime as the metal ran across his thumbpad.

“Okay,” your face burned.

“Lay down,” he ordered you. You turned and swung your legs back onto the mattress and laid back to rest your head against the pillow. Stiff, you lay there with your legs pushed together and your hands resting on your stomach. Brian crawled over to you, the bed squeaking slightly under his weight. Breathing heavily, he sat above your legs and straddled you. At that moment, you felt like prey beneath him, but you knew he wouldn’t do anything you didn’t ask for.

A finger hooked your belt loop.

“You like this pair?” he asked you.

Confused, you looked down. Your shorts? They were stolen, but they were nice and fit you perfectly.

“They’re my favorite,”

With the knife still in his right hand, he unbuttoned your shorts and tugged them down. You helped him pull them past your ass and kick them out from your legs. Truthfully, you were still sheepish about being in your underwear in front of him. His fingers traced up your leg and danced along the waistband of your panties.

“What about this one?” he questioned.

“They’re old-” before you could finish your sentence, Brian eased the knife between your right thigh and the fabric of the panties. He swiftly pulled up and sliced the fabric. Tugging down the ripped cloth, he did the same to the other side, this time sliding in the knife from the top of the garment and slicing laterally just above your hip bone. He pulled the shreds of fabric off of you and tossed the destroyed pair onto the floor.

Closing your legs, you squirmed underneath him. The knife was held in his hands in a white-knuckled grip and it made the veins in his forearm pop. Your gaze drifted to the very obvious bulge in his pants.

“You like a little more than just me holding a knife, don’t you?”

As he asked, he fiddled with the hem of your shirt. Could you deny it? Both of you knew you had some kind of complex.

“I think so,” you answered.

Brian lifted your shirt to run the blade of the knife across your stomach. With a knife, Brian was capable of many things.

“You like the fear, too. You must, ‘cuz me and you both know how easy it’d be for me to gut you right now. I could get excited and slip. Then it’d all be over until you wake up again a few hours later.”

Moaning out, you felt yourself drip beneath him. That, you didn’t quite ping about yourself. Of course, you’d imagined Brian hurting other people with the knife, but never yourself. You were putting every ounce of trust you had into him. It strangely felt liberating, knowing you could tell him to stop or tell him to go further and he’d do it all for you.

“Don’t you agree?” he called out your name. Maybe he was onto something.

“Does it make you feel that way, too? Scared that you might lose control? Does it make you burn inside?” you turned the question back onto him and watched as he genuinely thought about it for a few moments.

“I’m a sadist. The thought of hurting you only makes me excited, but the thought of breaking your trust is something different. I’ll go as far as you want, but that means you have to say something if it’s too much.”

It could not get more perfect than that. You smiled as Brian pulled your shirt off, tossing it to the floor, and unclasped your bra before slipping it off. Instantly, your nipples hardened after being exposed to the cold bedroom. You felt vulnerable under Brian, still in his jeans and tee shirt. He continued to trace the blade across your chest with care, the chilly flat of the metal gliding over your nipples. Huffing out you clenched your hands into the bedspread.

“What about blood? Everyone in this damn house had a blood kink, but how do you feel about your own. Want me to see it?”

Trembling under his words, you nodded again before remembering to answer him properly.

“I like that. You can cut me a little.”

Brian smiled at this, but simply kept tracing the blade gently. He did so for what felt like many minutes before he shifted the pressure to the tip of the blade. It dug into your skin, but simply poked at you, not drawing any blood. You whined at the sensation as he moved the blade to your stomach, right beneath your breasts. Suddenly, you gasped as he sliced the blade in a small cut. It was swift and he was done before you noticed it had happened. The two of you watched as the blood trickled out. It was light, close to a scratch. You knew he was going easy on you, in case you changed your mind.

A heavy sigh rang out from above you. He enjoyed watching you like this, his cock pressing hard against your leg through his jeans. You doubted it was comfortable. This time, he grunted as he cut your flesh again.

“Why don’t you take your pants off?” you asked him.

“I want to fuck you but I don’t want to do it yet. The foreplay just started. Isn’t this what you’ve been waiting for?” he explained himself.

“Yes it is, but we can do it again - and I’m already wet enough I just need you now. Please.”

Your pleading came out meek and pathetic. You were sure you looked pitiful, but Brian seemed more pleased by your begging than he was before you’d started.

“Don’t worry your head over it. I’ll help you manage… but maybe if you beg a bit more I’ll change my mind.” his voice came soft and sweet but his words were far from it. Left hand pulling down, he reached to play with your clit. Moaning out again, you sounded like a wounded animal as he cut you while he rubbed, this time harder than the last. The slice left a stream of blood that trailed across your waist and met the bedspread.

“This help?” the circular motions of his thumb on your clit were skilled as if you’d taught him exactly how to do it. As perfect as it was, you wanted so much more. “Does it hurt?” he asked when you didn’t respond.

“It’s good,” you mumbled. It was hard to focus on anything but his thumb as he moved from circles to upward stroked, but the knife forced you back each time. His thumb stroked up, and your body bucked, shaking as you waited for him to do it again. Up again, and this time a small nick to the side of your left breast. The whine you let out was strangled and he stopped, leaning in close to you.

“You want everyone to hear you? ‘Cuz if so, I’ll open the door and invite them in. If not, you should be a bit quieter.”

When you whimpered this time, you pressed your lips tight together. You weren’t sure if Brian was serious about it - could that be his dark secret? Instead of playing into it, you shook it off. You’d bug him about it later. Right now, you were too focused on the way he kept snapping his thumb up and the way the knife returned - this time to your thigh. Shifting his weight, Brian moved down your body, his face close to your pussy. He was staring at it intently as he trailed the knife across your thigh and moved it inward.

Breath hitching, you tried not to twitch under his grasp. Yes, toying with the knife along your chest was dangerous, but there were femoral arteries in your thigh and not as much protection. Arteries spray - you’d make a mess on the bed and Tim would certainly get involved when he would inevitably find out you needed stitches from being alone with Brian. That would open a completely new doorway. It forced you back to what Brian said. You didn’t want anyone to know yet, so you sat still as he held the knife tight against your skin.

Instead of snapping up, this time Brian snapped his thumb down, trailing it across your entrance.

“You didn’t lie about being wet. You’re everywhere.”

Holding the knife against your left leg, he played with the slick between his fingers before leaning in, propping your other leg up with his free hand. Teasingly, he took an experimental lick and laughed as your body tensed, but no noise came out.

“Just because we have to be quiet doesn’t mean you have to hide from me,” he said before sucking at your clit.

“I know,” you breathed out, “but I’m scared I’ll fucking lose it.”

Humming against you, he started to eat you out. You were near tears. It was hard not to cry out for him like a slut at this point, so you slapped your arm around your face and muffled your sounds. Brian knew just as well as you, so you also struggled not to shake too hard as he held the knife against your inner thigh. How could he know what you were thinking? How did he know that spot was what you worried about?

He sucked and lapped passionately like a dog, the sounds filling the room. He started moaning into you, each time louder than the last. You panicked. Though you were trying so hard, he was the one who was going to get you caught and he was doing it on purpose. As he moaned again, you pushed your entire body further into the bed and shot your other hand out to shove his face into your cunt. With the sounds he was making, it would be obvious that you were fucking, but he was fucking with you, so he moaned louder.

The vibrations from his mouth made you cry out, the noise muffled by the crook of your arm. Hard, you gripped Brian’s hair and pulled on it. This time, he groaned out, but it felt less purposeful and more accidental. Once more, you tried not to buck your hips into him.

“Okay, really. Stop teasing.” you begged him, but he made no effort to move, “Please, I need you inside me I can’t take it anymore!”

Once the harsh whispers fell off your lips, Brian dropped your right leg onto the mattress and you let go of his hair. At first, you were confused that he still hadn’t pulled away, until he pushed two fingers into you at once. Arching your head back, you gasped. You could easily take one, but both were enough to stretch you a little bit. This far in, you were so wet and needy he could slip in without fingering you. Still, he began to work his fingers in and out.

“That’s not what I mean and you know it. Dammit!”

A tongue flicked across your clit.

“Just making sure you’re ready…”

“Fuck!” you choked out as the pressure built. The pace was quick and steady; you knew it wouldn’t take long. You were panting now and you took both hands to grab his face. Looking him in the eyes you begged again.

“Please, I want you to fuck me! I don’t want to beg for it anymore, I want your cock inside of me.”

Each word came out between gasps. Your entire body felt like a spring coil ready to burst back into place. Brian pulled his fingers out of you and tore the knife away, tossing it beside you. His shirt came off first, followed by his pants - which he barely managed to pull off. Once his boxers were out of the way, his cock sprung up. In the light of the bedroom, you could see the gleam of precum leaking from his tip. Grabbing onto your hips, he yanked you towards him. Without being asked, you bent your knees and held your legs in the air.

Pushing his body in between your thighs, he picked up the knife beside you and flashed it, placing it against your neck just as fast. He didn’t give you time to think about it before he pushed his dick into you. Leaning your head back, you whined; it was much better than two fingers. He set a harsh pace, fucking deep into you as he held the blade to your neck. His other hand grabbed your shoulder and pushed you into the mattress.

You were dizzy all over again. Fear. Your cunt clenched around him and he groaned, hardly able to keep his eyes open, but boy he loved the sight of you.

“Fuck!” you cried as your orgasm crashed around you. Though you felt it building, the release was sudden. With no warning, your pussy fluttered around him uncontrollably.

“Oh shit,” he breathed out panicked, and tossed the knife off the bed, away from your neck. It clattered on the ground and slid across the floor, hitting your desk chair with a ping . Gripping onto you tighter, he set a ruthless pace as he rode out his orgasm, pumping his cum into you.

With the two of you spent Brian collapsed onto you like a human-weighted blanket. Sighing, you closed your eyes. There was no way they hadn’t heard you, but for now, you would ignore it. Brian hadn’t caught his breath, but he was cocky, “So, did you figure it out?”

Smiling, you laughed, “Yeah and we’re gonna do that again.”

Arms wrapped around you and you sunk further.

“I still think you look hot with a knife in your hands.”

“I’m glad. Next time, you can help me figure something else out, huh?”

#creepypasta #ao3 fanfic #hoodie x reader #marble hornets smut #creepypasta smut #🤍 nova's one shots

125 notes · View notes

undercoverpena · 1 year

Text

rattled your bones

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x F!Reader (Helen!Reader) word count: 2.5k summary: It’s instinctive, a direct response, his hand moving to clutch his vest—the space directly above his fucking heart. A pain radiating through him, flooding like wildfire that’s about to choke him from the inside out. an: blood, gun shot, ghost worrying (everyone is fine in the end tho, just pining and worries). for the anon who is desperate for the bullet story 💕 new readers, Helen is a nickname, it’s part of a whole “world” with reader as a medic nicknamed Helen by ghost (read Helen. Simon. for more info)

simon ghost riley masterlist

++++

“Helen.”

“I’m going as quick as I can,” she snaps, almost hissing it out through her teeth.

He watches her. How her eyes scan over the monitor, fingers pausing over the keys.

Ghost hadn’t meant it to come out sharp. Cold. But he couldn’t shake the fact something was wrong. It was too easy, too clean.

That, and the fact she shouldn’t even be here. Should be on the base, or at the Heli. Not here, not downloading information Price had demanded. She should be safe. Away from this shit—as much as he could prevent.

But she wasn’t. Isn’t.

The sound of boots—a pair, at least—filled the air. His eyes look to her, watching her rip out the USB as he removes a knife.

“Hide.”

“Wh—“

His finger over his mask, silencing her, moving to the door. It’s quick, easy—hand over their mouth, two punctures, neck and chest, moving them to the floor.

Ghost wants to think, and hope, it’s just him.

One lone man.

One man checking out this side of the base, but he suspects it isn’t.

Something in the air, something knotting in his stomach.

He spots her head poking up, his eyes stern, I need you alive, Simon, don’t die. Your eyes purposeful, direct, and beautiful—like fucking always.

But, from the worried look she’s giving him, she’s likely hearing them too—boots, more boots. He shows his knife, her hand raising, showing the one he gave her earlier.

Because all she can do is defend.

Part and parcel of being a medic in the field. Something he finds ridiculous and half the reason why she shouldn’t be here. The other being… she’s his.

He can’t lose her.

Keep her safe. Keep Helen safe.

He cracks his neck before he grasps approaching fabric, fist clenching vest as he disposes of one person after the next. His ears tuned in, forcing himself to listen through the grunts and hisses. Almost on top of it, thankful her head hasn’t popped up, almost sure they’d done it—remained undetected.

As in-and-out as two people can be in this situation.

Until he sees a shadow, a flicker of something in the other doorway as more boots approach. Trying to calculate, gripping his knife tighter to dispatch the one closer—making a snap decision he hopes will pay off.

Because it’s clear they’re already fucking compromised.

The four bodies on the floor are evidence of that.

So he stabs, and dispatches—glove soaked with other people's blood as he removes the knife, sliding it through more flesh to be sure.

And he hears it too late.

The sound of a bullet leaving a chamber—a handgun, the specific type coming to mind as he turns, and he sees it.

Sees her.

He hears her small, ‘No’.

There’s nothing he can do. Not a single, fucking thing.

Her body is already launching through the air between him and the man trying to shoot him—straight in his back. All he can do is watch it all happen.

A passenger.

A bystander to the fact the woman he cares about is about to be pierced with a bullet. One meant for him. Watching her take the bullet, hissing before continuing—adrenaline thumping as she attacks. His knife in her hand landing once, twice—just like he taught her. Like he’d shown her, her body slick with sweat, flushed cheeks and body pressed against his on the mat.

This isn’t practice.

This isn’t him showing her how to defend herself.

It’s real and it’s all in slow. slow. slow motion.

The sound of it all reaching his ears way after he’s watched it happen, punctuated by the horrific sound of her gasp. A horrid, fucking sound he’s not sure he’ll be able to scrub from his mind.

And for a moment, he’s lost. Frozen. Stuck. Even his blink is slower, his swallow slower than that.

Then, as though someone flicks a switch, everything rushes back to him. The sounds, the smell, the moment—it’s almost overwhelming.

His hand raising—all instinctive, a direct response—moving to clutch his vest—the space directly above his fucking heart. A pain radiating through him, flooding like wildfire that’s about to choke him from the inside out.

Even if the two of them land with a thud, his focus is on her.

Because it hurts. Almost as though the bullet has gone through him to hit her.

And then.

Like all moments, it shatters. It snaps. It cracks.

And he’s charging. Closing the small gap, grabbing her, lifting her to her feet, feeling her stumble before he holds her close. Her eyes looking down, scarlet blooming around her hip as she tries to smile—tries not to show how much she’s in pain.

Even if the air is tinged with sawdust and the iron of blood, his heart hammering as if he’s been struck with adrenaline himself.

They won’t take you from me.

They cannot have you.

Mine. You’re mine. Only mine.

He doesn’t look, supporting her, pulling her close by her vest, hearing her grumble at the movement as he radios.

Her hand taps her pocket, silently telling him she has the drive—has what matters. As though he even gives a shit.

Pocketing his knife, he shifts his gun into his other hand, trying to take the knife from her fingers, shaking it until she lets go.

“Simon…”

“Keep y’blood in you, Helen. That’s your focus.”

His grip on her tight, so fucking tight.

She says nothing, glancing to see her plugging the hole with one finger, the other clutching him. Tightly. Desperately.

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot,” he groans, “Takin’ a bullet for me.”

The corridors feeling long, too fucking long.

“You’re one ungrateful bastard, you know that?”

Her voice breathless, tinged with something he doesn’t want to linger on. Because it’s clear she’s in pain. Clear that it’s more than a graze from the way she is breathing too.

Each corner they take, half expecting more people, more things requiring a fight—until he hears the distinct sound of an explosion—far away, distant. He almost grins, almost.

It’s not until he kicks open the door they first snuck in through, the sun hitting his eyes does he allow himself a moment to look at her. Seeing her face full of the same determination he’s sharing, the same look he’s seen when she’s assessing which part of someone to begin with first.

“I love you, just so you know.”

It’s not quiet when she says it, her eyes not meeting his either.

It’s purposeful—the same way her hand grips his tighter.

He almost loses it, almost readjusts her so he can see her face—rip her vest and tactical top off to see the damage. But Johnny skids into view, he hears it, hears the noticeable panic of him shouting ‘Doc?’ ‘Lt?’

He almost bites, almost tells him to back the fuck off. But he doesn’t.

He squeezes her hand instead. “None of that, Helen.” Please.

Her head nods, a silent acknowledgement before a slight hiss replaces it—falling from her tongue as Johnny takes her other side.

“Whatcha’ done ‘ere then, Doc?”

He likes that she laughs.

Short. But sweet.

“Took a bullet for our Lieutenant, didn’t I?”

“Sure he appreciated that.”

She laughs, more breathy, more through her teeth. “Y-yeah. He’s been thank-king me ever since.”

+++++

You’ve been hit before.

It comes with the territory of being a combat medic, of being on the field, back turned, in the midst of it.

There’s a scar on your thigh, a graze on your upper arm and a stunning one shoulder too. Ones he’s kissed before, paid attention to purposefully—as though he can will away the memories and pain. In a way he does. And he doesn’t even realise it.

But, this. This is something else.

Your side, from chest to hip, burns with something far worse than pain. It consumes you, it almost swallows you—desperately trying to pull you into its dark depths.

“Talk to me.”

You look at him. Snap your eyes to him.

And then you really look at him.

Read his eyes, the only thing on show, focusing on the way he’s holding your hand still. Having not let go. Not even when evac arrives, not even when the woods begin to fly past the window.

“What-t do you want to t-talk about?”

He leans close, and you wish you could feel his breath on your skin. “Where am I takin’ ya? Next time we’re off?”

You laugh, even if it hurts. Rolling your head against the window, hissing—your lung burning, your side throbbing.

“You like Italian?”

“It’s alright.”

You swallow, trying to take smaller breaths—already having assessed your lung has collapsed. The other needing to work twice as hard.

“You tell me where and I’ll t-tell you what dress I’m wearing-g.”

“You need to live first, Helen.”

You smile, just for him. “Not going anywhere, Simon. Y’need me.”

“I do.”

You blink, watching his eyes drop at the realisation of his words before they land on you—asking you what dress you’re gonna wear.

“Black. Probably.”

“Not red?”

You snort, eyes feeling heavy. “Y’seem like someone who prefers black.”

“Maybe I like red?”

“I know you like red, can tell from how much of it gets soaked into those gloves and mask,” you say, lips feeling dry, skin beginning to feel cold. “Black, though. Silk. Below the knee, a slit. Low cut—give you three things to look at.”

“What’re those then?”

You manage to open your eyes, finding him looking at you with worry—a look you rarely see in his eyes.

Always so confident, so self-assured. A little standoffish—unless behind closed doors when he can remove his mask. When he can unveil the full man you love. A man who has wiggled and fought his way out of situations other men would have died in.

“My smile and m’boobs. You like my boobs.”

“I like your arse too.”

Smiling, you try to squeeze his hand. “Know that. But. Y’Can see that when I turn around.”

“Helen.”

“I’d do it again… take it. The bullet...”

“Helen.”

He sounds distant.

Your throat is dry, chest burning more and more—your breaths harder to find, your hip not hurting as much. “I need Soap…”

Ghost mumbles something.

“Inflate. M’lung,” you manage to grumble, hoping he can hear you. “Bullet… likely fracture… lung. Yeah?”

Your eyes struggling to open, feeling his hand—his bare skin—on your cheek, moving your chin, tilting your face. “Copy.”

You hear him bellow something, likely Soap. Your head almost colliding with the glass, even if you feel his gloved-fingers clutching your skin—desperately trying to root you.

“Love you…”

Hoping the words come out how you intend them to. Hoping they’re not lost in whispers and groans.

You want those to be the words he hears last, not knowing if you’re close or far.

You’re sure he knows.

He has to.

++++++

He’s been pacing, drilling his boots into the wooden floorboards. It doesn’t matter he’s been told to sit down. Doesn’t matter that one of the times he has, had been from Price. He isn’t sitting.

Not when she’s still unconscious, not when he’s watched Soap inflate her lung in the ‘exact way she’s shown him’.

“Fuckin’ hell, Johnny!”

“I’m doing m’best, Lt. Lass is normally barkin’ orders at me.”

They all have basic medical training.

His likely more extensive, having needed it, having required it to be sent on so many solo missions. But, working on her is different. He knows it, Price knows it.

It’s why he imagines it was Soap who was ordered to inflate it, to check for a bullet—even if he’s sure the lung is due to a fracture. The bullet hitting your hip, through and through. He knows that from the blood loss—and from stitching her.

Not trusting Johnny to do it.

“Give it ‘ere,” he’d eventually snapped, taking the needle from him, trying to tell himself this isn’t her.

Isn’t his Helen.

It’s a soldier. Someone who needs him.

It works well, almost convincing himself until he moves from the hole on the back of her side to the one on her front. Seeing the places he’s kissed more frequently, the soft ghostly marks of bruises he knows he’s left from holding her when her thighs are either side of his.

And then he waits.

Waits some more.

Looking even smaller, more fragile than he ever recalls her being as she lays in the bed. The one she’s usually tending to, the one she’s normally rushing around. It’s weird she’s in one of these beds.

He doesn’t move, wringing his hands out as he stares at her—willing her to open her eyes.

And then, her eyelashes flutter. A soft groan. Then, her eyes land on him. It feels like something close between the sun and a spotlight, illuminating him, warming him. For a moment, the two of them sitting in this second that’s all their own.

Until her face shifts, and the hold on his chest lessens.

“Hi,” she whispers.

As if she almost didn’t die on him earlier.

He bites the inside of his mouth as he sighs. “Hi.”

She tries to move, groaning as she does. “How mad are you?”

“Very.”

“Thought so.”

He places his hand on her shoulder—the good side—urging her down. Happy she relents, taking a breath, fingers finding the tube still sticking out her chest.

“Soap did good,” she mumbles, licking her lips before staring at him. “You stitched me though.”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“How’d y’know?”

Swallowing, her eyes glance over his mask—unsure what exactly she’s looking at. “I was sorta awake. For parts. You're gentler than I imagined.”

“Yeah?”

She nods.

He takes her hand, “You shouldn’t have done it… that.”

“Not apologising.”

“Course y’won’t, stubborn—“

“Unless you want me to pop my stitches, I’d swallow that word. Because y’know I’d do it again.”

“You’ve said.”

Sighing, she smiles. “So, let it go.”

“Let it… Helen? That was the stupidest fuckin’ thing you’ve ever done!”

“Cool.”

“Don’t… don’t fucking do that.”

Her fingers turn, sliding between his as she sighs. “Simon, it’s done. You are worth saving—y’hear me. That’s why I did it, why I’d do it again. I need you around too. Did I think? No. But….” I love you.

“I’d have been fine.”

“Just like I am?”

Fuckin’ bitch.

But, fuck, she’s everything. She’s the only person who fights him, fucks him and loves him like she does. And, for the last so many hours, when she wasn’t awake, he’s had a chance to ponder it all.

How he can’t be without her. Ever.

That he wants to go back to that building and burn the entire base down. How he didn’t even slam his knife into the man’s skull, having only focused on her. He forgot the mission—even if it was done, accomplished.

Simon has never, ever done that.

“You passed out.”

It comes out fragile, cracked at the edges.

Her shoulders sinking, the most beautiful smile spreading over her pale face. “People do that sometimes when it’s hard to breathe, Simon. But, other than some stitches, I’m guessing a cracked rib, bruising, a sexy scar in my hip and a temporarily deflated lung, I’m fine. You’re fine.”

“You bled.”

“And yet still, here I am.”

The other words churning on his tongue. Tasting bitter, burning a hole into his mouth as he stares at her, hoping she knows them.

Until they fall from his lips anyway. “You scared me…”

That silenced her.

Just for a moment. “I can’t lose you either… I—“

“I know… I don’t. I don’t need you to say it,” she whispers, looping her fingers between his—and he’s suddenly thankful he’d changed his gloves, clean ones for her clean, soft skin. “I had needed to say it…”

“Just in case?” Her eyes dropping, as he shakes his head. “Fuckin’ hell, Helen. Don’t… don’t fucking do that again.”

“What say it? Or take a bullet for you?”

“Both.”

“I can promise to try and not do one of those things.”

“Tell me it’s the latter.”

“Sorry, Zero.”

“Zero?”

“He’s a ghost dog, from Nightmare before Christmas.”

“Never seen it.”

“I’ll show you one day.”

“Yeah?”

She closes her eyes, fingers playing with his. “Promise.”

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon 'ghost' riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x f!reader #simon ‘ghost’ riley x reader #ghost cod #ghost riley #cod ghost x reader #ghost riley x reader #cod ghost #ghost mw2 #ghost x reader #ghost x helen #simon x helen #simon ghost riley x helen

803 notes · View notes

johnwickb1tsch · 6 months

Text

you’re the worst thing (i’m addicted to)

a john wick x Helen'sSister!Reader fic You are Helen's baby sister. When you meet John Wick at Helen's graveside, he invites you to dinner to celebrate her birthday. Set a few years after the first movie, 2-4 never happened. Use of y/n. Warnings: canon typical violence. Future reference to threat of noncon, (not John! because he's our assassin sweetiepie). Mourning. Smut. Grey areas. Questionable decisions. Sweetheart!John, BAMF!John Depressed!John - If you can handle the movie you should be fine here...

Part 1.

“Hey, Hels.”

There is no answer, only the warbling of a bird in a distant tree. The day is bright and blue, spring has come again in all her glory. It doesn’t seem right, somehow, that the sun should still shine, and the birds should still sing.

Because she is gone.

It’s been two years, but you still haven’t really wrapped your head around it.

You still have your last text message thread with her in your phone. It’s as though you could just punch a few buttons and still talk to her. Always, she would answer you, no matter what she was doing. Sometimes you want to type in I miss you and hit send, just to see what might happen.

But then, maybe it is appropriate, that today should be such a beautiful day. On this day, forty-two years ago, your sister was born. Roughly ten years later, you followed. As a direct result, your mother died of complications in childbirth.

Your father still blamed you, but Helen never did.

In a way, Helen was your mother, more than the woman who bore you.

It makes it all hurt so much more.

“Happy birthday, by the way.”

You look down at the stone, this massive granite behemoth. You find it rather ugly, to be honest, but it will certainly stand the test of time, nuclear war notwithstanding. Loving Wife, reads the epitaph below.

You know it was true.

You know that perhaps John Wick is the only person Helen loved more than you. But the inscription still seems too brief. Short changing her, somehow.

But then, John paid for the stone, so you suppose he got to pick what it said.

You were ensuring her memory lived on in other ways.

“I finally did as you asked,” you tell her. “I’ve used the photos you left me in a painting. We're going to be in a show together. I wish you were here to see it.”

There is a mean part of you that suspects your submission was only accepted because it contained work from the late, great, photographer Helen Morgan-Wick, but you shove that down into the seething pit with all the rest of your fears and doubts. You didn't use them for the attention. You did it to feel close to her, and because she asked you to. One final art project, the note had said. She knew you too well, knew that the only thing that kept you from toeing the line of the abyss was a good artistic obsession.

You knew she’d planned to leave a project for John too. A puppy, she’d said. You’d shared a laugh over it, through tears, the last time you’d been together. You never found out how that had gone. John hadn’t attended a family gathering since Helen passed.

Too painful.

You didn’t blame him one bit.

“I miss you, Hels. I feel so lost without you.”

“Amen.”

The sound of another voice behind you nearly makes you jump out of your skin. You turn to find him, in one of his signature tailored black suits, looking unfairly scrumptious despite the dark circles under his eyes. He hadn't made a sound in his approach. He never did. The man moved like a ghost and looked like a dark dream. You'd always found him insanely attractive.

You'd never done anything about that, of course. But goddamn, you had eyes.

“Hi, John.”

“Hello, y/n.”

You’ve never run into him at the gravesite before, though you have seen the wilted offerings of daisies left by the stone, and you always had assumed they’d come from him. You haven’t seen him since Helen’s funeral. He hasn’t changed much, really, though there is a sharpness to his aspect you’d never noticed when Helen was alive. An edge to his gaze; how can eyes so dark convey so much? Despite yourself, it sends a little thrill down your spine that you absolutely know you should not revel in.

Maybe you haven’t seen him in person after Helen passed, but you’ve gazed at him plenty through Helen’s lens. There had been so many photographs of him in the collection of prints she’d left you. Nothing risqué, but the way he’d looked at her even through the camera had been nothing less than intimate.

There were times, late at night in your studio, when you’d pretended he’d been looking at you that way.

“How…have you been?”

He offers a grim shadow of a smile and a shake of his head that you understand all too well.

“Nice to be with someone you don't have to pretend with.”

“Yeah.”

You both stare down at the grave, meditating on your loss of this woman who touched you both so completely.

“Do you think she can hear us?” you ask, unable to lift your voice above a whisper.

There is a long pause from her widower, the man she left behind.

“Not really.” He lifts his face to the sun, eyes closed, as though maybe he can feel something of her presence. “But you should talk to her anyway. I might be wrong.”

You smile at that.

“Do you ever talk to her?”

“All the time,” he admits with a huff of self-deprecating laughter. “But then, I might just be losing my mind.”

“Ah well. That makes two of us then.”

You gently lay down the bouquet of Gerber daisies you'd brought for her. Helen’s favorite. If you ever have a garden, you will plant some for her. As it is, you have to buy them from the store. You remember the patch of daisies she’d cultivated in the garden of your childhood home. Their cheerful faces and soft petals. They had been your mother’s favorite too. When you were a girl Helen would sing to you and braid them in your thick hair. You couldn’t know at the time, how precious those perfect days had been.

The wave of sorrow hits you like a freight train, the weight of your loss a crushing force. You start to cry, hiding your face in your hands; you would prefer to do this alone, but you cannot stop it.

You feel an arm about your shoulders. It surprises you—John was never a touchy-feely man, never one for hugs, always preferring a wave or a handshake. Only for Helen, did he ever display any sort of affection. They had always been touching, holding hands or sitting hip to hip on the couch, his strong arm slung protectively around her shoulders. You didn’t want to say you’d been envious of that, but…perhaps you’d wondered, what it might be like, to be so cherished.

When he pulls you against him you only manage some token resistance. “I’ll mess up your suit.” You sound pitiful, even to you.

“I have an excellent dry cleaner.”

His dry wit had always amused you. This time, it breaks you, and you give in. He is solid as an oak, and as it turns out, his chest is an excellent place to cry on. Under the shelter of his chin you wring yourself dry, until it feels like you have nothing left inside you. His large hand rests lightly upon the back of your head, shielding you from the world. He is warm, and his cologne is subtle but heavenly. Sandalwood, maybe, and something spiced. Cardamom, perhaps. A hint of pepper.

You don’t particularly want to move, even though you absolutely should. Yet his hold on you has not loosened, and you tell yourself that maybe John Wick needed a hug just as badly as you did.

“People keep telling me that it gets easier, and I just want to punch them in the face,” you sniffle.

A huff of laughter escapes him. You feel it stir your hair on the top of your head. “Yeah. I get that.”

Finally you pull back, though not as far as you should. You’ve never actually been this close to him before, and you look at each other from a foot away. Sometimes proximity can shatter the illusion of someone’s attractiveness—but not this man. The impossible angle of his cheekbones, the soft scruff of his beard…is it just you, or does the edge in his gaze soften a little, when he looks at you? It makes your legs a little weak, and you kind of hate yourself for it.

It has nothing to do with you, stupid, you tell yourself. Where you and Helen weren’t exactly twins, you did resemble each other strongly. In profile, you’d been mistaken for her in public plenty of times before. If anything, it was probably unnerving for this poor man who missed his wife so much, to hold you, a sorry facsimile, in his arms. Out of pity, most likely.

Helen had been the good sister. The upstanding one, the kind one. You? You can be such a twisted little thing.

“Sorry,” you sigh, noticing the smudge of makeup on his lapel.

He doesn’t even glance down, that intense gaze still fixed upon you. “Don’t be.”

Unbidden heat blooms from your cheeks to your toes, finding yourself the subject of that gaze. You’ve got to go, before you really embarrass yourself.

“I'll leave you alone. It was nice to see you, John.”

You turn to go, hugging yourself against the early spring chill. Why did you have to feel so bereft, without his arms around you? You take a few steps before he calls after you, “Y/n?”

You freeze in your tracks, a thrill jetting down your spine. “Yeah?” you dare, turning to half look over your shoulder.

“I…was thinking about going to Helen’s favorite restaurant tonight. Would you like to join me?”

Your heart beats double time in your chest, as you slowly turn to face him. You should say no. There’s a thousand reasons you should say no. This was your sister’s husband. It doesn’t matter that he’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen, and that he’s been kind to you, and that he’s looking at you like he might drown if you say no.

“I would like that,” you answer, and your heartbeat thundering in your ears sounds like the hammering of nails into your own coffin.

Part 2

#john wick x you #john wick #john wick x you fic #john wick x reader #john wick x y/n #keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #im going to hell #john wick fic #title from a black keys song i fucking love them

141 notes · View notes

xiihyunn · 10 months

Text

Knife Play (18+)

Jenna Ortega x fem!reader

warning: murderer jenna, sexual assault, some angst, futile boy, murder, blood, gore, knife play, biting, marking, gagging, praising/degrading kink, rough rough sex, a tiny fingering, riding, carving, more blood, cunnilingus, slapping, a bit of cnc, possessiveness, and obsession.

summary: — everybody loves jenna ortega. the young talented and beautiful actress who wouldn't hurt a fly, and you just somehow love your girlfriend even more. but after what percy did to you, something dark inside of jenna snaps.

word count: 3.2k

> masterlist

a/n: its was a request and tbh kinda shit, but enjoy. finger yourself for me.

3rd person POV

Giggles were heard throughout Jenna’s trailer. Sitting across from each other on her table, you reach for the cup of water near you, as Jenna takes a spoon full of food to her mouth. It was lunch time, and all the actors and actresses for the new series, Wednesday, were currently eating.

The day went by normally, you waking up on Jenna's bed, showering together to 'save water', and went to film. Nothing unusual happened, but it didn't last long.

Before the lunch break, Percy was giving you way too much attention. Ever since you stepped foot into Romania, and met the other casts, he had his eyes on you.

You and Jenna's relationship was public, her fans knew, your fans knew, both of your circle of friends knew, and even the staff on set.

So when Percy asked you out on a date in front of everyone, in front of Jenna, the room was filled with awkward silence. Before you could even reject him nicely, Jenna had snapped at him then dragged you out of his view.

And now you were here laughing at how cute your girlfriend looked being jealous.

"J, calm down okay? You're the one I want, and not him." You smiled at the woman in front of you. Jenna was huffing, avoiding your eye contact.

"Was he fucking blind or something? Hell, even Helen Keller could tell we're dating." Jenna said, as she eats another spoon of her food. You playfully shake your head, "Now don't be rude to our girl Keller, Jen."

You take your plate and place it down on the sink. You turn and walk over to Jenna, she is playing with her food, resting her head on her hand as she rolls the small meatball back and forth on the plate.

Jenna had a mad look on her face, the grip on the fork was fairly noticeable, and her sharp breaths were evident.

Grabbing her cheek, you made her face you. Jenna's eyes finally looked at yours, and her stiff brows finally softened. "I love you, Jen." You whispered.

"I love you too, Y/n." Brushing your thumb across her bottom lip, Jenna's eyes flicker to yours, as she leans in for a kiss.

Meeting each other's lips, you felt Jenna's body relaxing. You chuckled in the kiss, she tasted like the spaghetti you both just ate.

You retreated from the kiss. Once you opened your eyes, you saw a confused looking Jenna staring at your orbs. "Why did you laugh?" Jenna pouts.

"You taste like spaghetti, babe." Jenna's cheeks turn red, as she smiles at you. "My bad," Jenna said.

While Jenna was washing both of your dishes, you on the other hand was preparing her Wednesday uniform. Cleaning her trailer for some time, Jenna was finished.

Wiping her wet hands on her pants, Jenna grabbed and wore her coat. "Baby, I have to buy some snacks for the pantry. I'll be back on 10, wait for me," You hummed in acknowledgement, as you gave Jenna a quick peck on the lips.

"Alright. Stay safe, Jen,"

Jenna gave you one last smile and goodbye, as she opened the trailer door and left.

—

The sound of a door opening caught your attention. It had only been 5 minutes, and honestly you thought Jenna was gonna take much more time than that, knowing the convenience store is like 4 blocks away.

You were scrolling on your phone laying on her bed, you looked up expecting to see your lovely girlfriend, but instead it was Percy.

You were caught off guard by him standing and looking down at you. "Um, hey Perc, do you need anything..?" You say at the edge of Jenna's bed, waiting for him to answer.

Percy smiles at you, and shakes his head. "Oh nothing, I just wanted to see what you were doing." You can't help but to give him a weird look, "Why couldn't you just wait 'till lunch break was over?" You asked him.

His right eye slightly twitches from the tone of your voice, but you caught it. Percy just stood there, smiling at you with his face all red. You bit your lip feeling incredibly uncomfortable, but then Percy started to rub his clothed crotch.

"What are you doing?" Your eyes were wide, looking at him humping his dick in front of you. Percy just smirks, as his eyes roam around your body and specifically your breast.

Percy continued to palm his center area, and it left you baffled. "What the hell Percy, you're fucking insane." You stood up and grabbed him by his arm, pushing him to leave the trailer.

As you were about to push him even more, Percy grabs both of your shoulders and pins you on the near wall. His tall figure pressing your body hard.

You felt his hard on pressing into your pelvis making you slightly gag. "Get off of me!" You shouted at him, as you tried to push his body off of you.

"You women are just meant to be fucked and used by us men, now shut the fuck up and take my dick in you whore."

Just as Percy was about to kiss you, the trailer door slammed open.

"What the fuck!?"

You tilt your head to look at Jenna staring at you, and then at Percy. Jenna saw the displeasure look on your face, and she pushed Percy hard making him stumble to the ground.

"What do you think you're doing to my girlfriend you asshole!" Jenna got on top of the shocked boy, and landed a punch on his nose.

Jenna felt her hand throb in pain, but she didn't care. All of the built up anger and jealousy Jenna had come crashing down, as she fists Percy's collar pulling him close up to her face.

"I'll fucking kill you, Hynes." Jenna saw red. Jaw tensing, nose flaring, and she was losing all her senses of control. Rage was making Jenna sick, the sides of her vision were slowly becoming black and it covered her whole sight.

Even the thought about him even daring to touch what was hers, made Jenna mad. And now he did, and he was going to pay for it.

"Jenna stop!"

Jenna snapped out of her trance, looking at your crying figure holding her arm. You sobbed, pulling her closer to you, Jenna immediately hugged you.

Patting your head, she kissed your ear. "It's alright, baby. I'm here, I'm here." You hugged her neck, tears slowly falling to her shirt. Jenna continued to pat your hair, but then she felt something wet on her hands.

Wet and sticky.

She looked down and saw her bloody hands. It was Percy's blood, but also some of it were hers. Jenna looked over to the side and saw him, Percy was groaning, clutching his bloody and broken nose, as he tried to crawl away from her.

His face looked really bad.

Looking down at her hands again, Jenna felt something inside of her. It was almost tickling her almost, the now dry blood staining her skin felt good. Too good.

Jenna smiles, and continues to comfort your shaken up state.

The blood on her hand felt right. It felt like she was made for this, and it felt like blood was always supposed to be there.

And thought that made Jenna smile even more.

—

It was bright in the streets of Romania despite it being 11pm. Jenna was still on set since the director heard what happened on the trailer, and they were planning to fire Percy.

You wanted to wait for your girlfriend but she told you to go home, and get some sleep after the incident. Knowing Jenna was persistent and hardheaded, you left the set and your manager drived you to Jenna's house.

You told her you wanted to stop by at 711's to get some instant noodles, and some chicken for Jenna to eat when she comes back. Grabbing your plastic back, you went inside the car and drove off once more.

You gave your manager a quick goodbye and thank you, as you opened the gate of Jenna's house. Walking towards her front door, you swiped a card at the card reader, only for it to ding meaning the door was already opened.

Weird. You thought.

We probably forgot to lock it before we left this morning. Shrugging off the feeling, your fingers twist the handle, and there it was.

Something felt wrong, really wrong. The hairs on the back of your shoulders were standing, and every fiber of your being told you not to open the door. A gut wrenching feeling made its way up your throat, as you exhale a cold breath.

Run.

That's what your subconscious told you. Your 6th senses were tingling, and you felt your instincts creeping up.

Oh if this was a scream movie, you'll definitely get killed. Don't you know the rules?

In one big breath you opened the door, and the sight in front of you drained all the blood off your face.

Jenna panted, wiping off the dripping blood off of her face. She stood with confidence, as Percy's body was on the floor bloody, and lifeless.

Adrenaline was coursing in Jenna's veins, looking down at the dead body of Percy Hynes White. The white carpet was now stained in crimson red blood, thick, and almost slimy by the blood clots slowly forming.

The smell of fresh human remains filled your nostrils. Dropping the plastic bag, you covered your nose and mouth with a small shriek.

Jenna's eyes looked back at your frozen state. You didn't look at her, the body on the living room floor caught your attention more.

You held your breath as your eyes finally met Jenna's. Panic visible in your face, you blinked rapidly.

"I-I…" You whispered.

Jenna's eyes were cold, and distant. They looked dead, and empty, but somehow it was still familiar.

Jenna stood there staring at you, her bloody clothes, and her bloody bloody face was deadpan. A tear of blood fell down to her forehead, and onto her jaw, and Jenna clutched her knife in hand.

"Jenna, what did you do..?" Slowly walking towards your bloody girlfriend, you made her body face yours. Holding her forearm, you looked up.

"Baby, let's go clean you up okay? A-And then let's.. let's go to the police.." Jenna's face suddenly changed, her cold stare turned angry.

"Jen—" Jenna tackles you to the ground. Pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, and the other bringing the wet knife up to your throat.

"No one is telling no one shit, darling."

The tip of the knife touching your chin, you gulped and looked at the woman in front of you. Jenna had a smirk on her bloody lips, licking them with her tongue, her eyes flickering to your lips.

You exhaled softly, looking at Jenna's eyes on your lips. Jenna smashes your lips together. Sucking harshly on your flesh, you tasted something metallic making you tear up at the thought of eating Percy's blood.

Jenna angles the knife to your throat and pressed it, you groaned in pain on her lips, as you tried to move your head away.

"Stay fucking still." Jenna muttered, pushing the knife further into your neck, drawing blood. You whined in pain, feeling the burning and stinging sensation.

Jenna forced her tongue inside of your mouth, lapping up your saliva with hers, as she sucks on your hot and wet muscle.

She retreats the knife away from your throat, and places it to her side. Wrapping her hands around your neck like a necklace, her thumb gaze over the open wound, and you hissed in pain once more.

You felt the blood on the carpet being sucked into your clothes. Uncomfortable at the warm feeling on your back, as Jenna disconnected your lips together with a small trail of saliva on each of your lips.

"You're mine. Only fucking mine." Jenna grabs the knife again. Still holding your hands in place, she slides the blade underneath your shirt, and cuts the fabric upward.

Missing your face for a centimeter, the cold wind hits your exposed top. "W-Wait Jenna, I-I don't think it's time for us to be doing this right now…" You plead, in your peripheral vision his body was just next to you.

Tugging your wrists aways from her grip, Jenna laughs. "God killing him felt so, so good, baby," Jenna cut her way through your shorts, and you laid there only in your underwear.

"The way I stabbed, twisted, and stabbed him again and again felt amazing." Cutting your bra and panties, you groan softly at her. You wrapped your legs around Jenna's waist, as she bent down over to your tits.

The angle made your cunt hole open. Jenna's hips rubbing your clit with enough force to make you hold out a moan. It felt so good, but so wrong.

This is so fucking wrong. You thought, as a shooting pleasure made its say to your core when Jenna grinds on your pussy.

"His blood was just squirting everywhere in the room, as I slit his throat. Baby, you should've seen it~" Jenna let go of your wrist, and discarded her own clothes on top of Percy's body.

"And now I'm wondering if I could also make you squirt.."

Jenna's hands groped both of your breasts in her hands, as she took one in her mouth. "Jenna—" A moan escapes your lips. She bit down on your nipple, hard, causing you to tug on her scalp.

Jenna snakes her other hand down to your core. "God Y/n, you're fucking soaked." Jenna muttered on your tits, as she took the other one in, sucking it like milk was going to come out.

She runs her middle and ring finger on your wet slit, coating your whole cunt with your arousal. Jenna's palm occasionally bumping your clit, your nails dug on her arm.

Jenna sat on the floor. Opening both of your legs wide, she grabs the knife. "A little carving won't hurt right, baby?" Your breaths rigid and irregular, you gently shook your head.

"Please don't.." You whisper.

Jenna slaps your pussy. "I didn't hear you, darling. What was it again?" She trails the edge on your inner thighs, and stops on your clit.

The cold metal hit you, as your body started to shake. "P-Please Jenna.. don't," Shaking your head once more, Jenna strikes a toe curling smack on your pussy.

You bucked on your hip at her, biting your bottom lip as a tear fell down your face. "What did you say, Y/n..?" Blood was seeping out of your core's lips, as the small cuts drew blood.

Your pussy was burning, and stinging. Was it from the pain? Or the pleasure? You couldn't tell.

"Fuck Jenna— Yes, yes! Carve your name into my skin, please.." Jenna smirks and slices a huge 'J' on your inner thighs, as she slaps your tits.

"What a fucking whore."

You were about to inhale another set of breaths, but the moment you opened your mouth, Jenna pushed 2 bloody fingers inside and wasted no time to touch the back of your throat.

Gagging at your girlfriend's finger, you hold onto her wrist, as she pushes something inside of you.

It felt weird. It was something hard but it wasn't a dildo, it felt long and textured.

Rolling your eyes back, you looked down to see Jenna holding the sharp part of the knife, her own blood dripping onto the carpet.

"So beautiful.." Jenna slams the handle further inside of you, as you moan on her fingers. You gagged again, but she pounded it inside of you. Your muffled moans fill the room, as your tits rocked back and forth wildly from the rough movements.

Feeling the plastic fucking your insides, you started to meet Jenna's thrust. "That's it, princess. You enjoy me fucking you with a knife right?" Jenna takes the whole thing out, before slamming it back into you, hitting the entrance of your womb.

Saliva was dripping down on your mouth, as Jenna pushed her fingers deeper. She angles the knife upward, and your legs start shaking.

"O-Oh fu-ck. Jenn-a right t-her!" You start choking on your own saliva, and Jenna finally removes her fingers from your mouth only for her to kiss your lips hungrily.

You tightened around the handle, as you felt your orgasm coming. "Be a good little girl and cum, Y/n." Jenna bites your neck. Her teeth sinking deep into your skin, as you moan out juices slipping out of your cunt.

Your orgasm washed over your body like a wave, your hips shaking violently on the handle. "Fuck—!" Jenna licks the surface of your bloody neck, lapping up the dripping vital fluid, and drinking them with a forceful suck.

Taking the handle out, Jenna wraps her legs on yours, making a scissoring position. "Wait!" Jenna's cold and wet cunt touches your clit, making you release a throaty moan.

Jenna's lips curved up into a smirk, as she rested one of your legs onto her shoulder. Rolling her hip, her clit brushes into yours.

Jenna grabs your pairs and squeezed them. Making them a tool to sit up straight, when she thrust into you more. "The amount of time I fingered myself to your tits, imagining them to be my personal little stress ball.."

You closed your eyes intensely, biting back your moans, but Jenna slaps the side of her knife to your cheek. "Open your eyes you slut, look how good I'm fucking your pretty pussy."

Wet slapping noises were getting louder and louder, making you flustered. Jenna trails the knife once more on your stomach and the sharp edge sitting directly on your nipple.

You felt yourself almost at your high. Toe curling, back arching, mouth agape, and overstimulation, as Jenna's hand reached to her back and suddenly pushed through your entrance, with 2 inside, she fingers you.

Grinding her hip, clit to clit, and Jenna's fingers curling inside of you, "I-I'm gonna cum.." You panted. "Fuck, me too baby." Bucking into her fingers once more, as you tightened around her fingers.

"Cum for me, princess."

Your body convulses, as your high comes rolling on your figure. Both of you moaning each other's name, your muscles gave out and went limp.

Your eyes meeting Jenna's. Your body aches in pain, tears swell your eyes, as guilt fills your veins. With a shaky breath, you tried to push your girlfriend away, only for her to slash the knife on your tits.

Blood gushes out of your chest. Moaning and groaning in pain, you throw your head back, feeling the black void consume you fully.

"I said, you're fucking mine."

—

y'all chill, u didn't die

#jenna ortega #jenna marie ortega #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega smuts #jenna ortega x femreader #celebrity #actress #scream #scream smuts #netflix #wattpad #lesbian #lgbtqia #wednesday addams #vada cavell #the fallout #tara carpenter #xiihyun

307 notes · View notes

y2kawaii · 20 days

Text

༊*·˚ The Grieving Husband And Lost Widow — Part Two (John Wick X Fem!Reader)

Summary: (Y/N) had just met John after storming out of your now deceased husband's hospital room, the very room you've spent the last three weeks in to support your dying husband. After a brief introduction between the two, (Y/N) offers to get John a drink at the nearby bar. At the bar, (Y/N) would have a more wild night than you could've ever bargained for. part one, part two, part three (coming soon!) word count: 1,488

Tonight would be (Y/N)'s first evening without your husband, your soulmate. So, what better way to get through the grueling hours by drinking the pain away with the now ex of an old friend of yours, who has also passed? It sounded just like what you needed after crying your heart out for the last few weeks. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ John was walking in long yet calculated strides, his eyes carefully scanning the environment around them. Although John didn't make any mentions of Helen, (Y/N) would be able to see the grief behind his eyes. Not knowing that Helen passed yet, (Y/N) decided to express your concerns for John.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "You lost someone, too, huh?" (Y/N) broke the tense silence between them, laying down each word with care and in a gentle voice that would be meant to soothe John.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Yeah..." John answered, nodding his head slowly while staying vigilant. Although he was at first hesitant to add more, John would briefly glance over at (Y/N) as he noticed that you were taking off the black lace veil that was covering your tear-stained cheeks and red, puffy eyes. A light then went off in John's head, finally recognizing who you were: one of Helen's friends.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "—My wife." Those last two words from John made your heart shatter like glass, instantly piecing together what he had meant by his answer. The memories that you made with Helen over the years made (Y/N) begin to tear up worse than before, but you did your best to stifle them back and maintain your composure. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "I'm sorry," (Y/N) replied with sincerity.

John would pick up on the change of your voice, making him halt in his steps to turn to face towards you. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "You look like you're freezing." He pointed out, making a small gesture of his hand in your direction before he reached both of his hands around his back to take off the coat that he was wearing. "Here, take this,"

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Oh..." You feel your cheeks heat up against the coldness of the rain that was falling onto your face. Although you were initially anxious to accept John's offer as the memory of your husband flashed through your mind once again, you suddenly felt the warm leather wrap around your back and arms.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Thank you."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "It's no problem," John said with a light nod of his head. He then turned back to focus on covering more of the road ahead of the two until they would be able to spend the night at the bar together; hopefully, forgetting about their pain for a at least few hours. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The two continued their walk down the sidewalk with John ensuring that (Y/N) wasn't cold from the rain or in any danger from the risks of walking out in the New York streets late at night. Wanting to learn more about the man you were now walking with, (Y/N) took in a sharp breath and decided on a question that you felt like he would be comfortable with answering. After all, it's an average question that nearly everyone asks each other.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "So...what do you do for work?" (Y/N) asked while keeping your voice calm and gentle as to not possibly strike an unpleasant response out of John. However, John's response was quick and calculated, like he was all too familiar with what his answer would be to the mundane question; one that he always knew he'd be asked often.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "I'm an attorney." John said nonchalantly, even shrugging his shoulders up a bit while making sure each step that he took held purpose, even if that only meant walking to a nearby bar with a friend of his dead wife.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Really? My dad was an attorney." (Y/N) inquired with curiosity, your head tilting slightly to one side while following John along the stretching sidewalk.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "What about you?"

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Huh?" You ask, confused.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "What do you do for work?" John repeated (Y/N)'s question, turning his head in your direction briefly before returning his attention to the sidewalk and crowds ahead.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Oh..." You nervously chuckle, feeling a bit embarrassed. "I'm a travel nurse."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Hm, so you...save people?"

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "I always try my best to."

John appeared to take your words to heart, but his expression suddenly shifted into a more solemn one as a thought crossed his mind. But, as he was about to speak it, you point out to the nearby bar that was bustling with other patrons who were going through the two front doors. Subconsciously, being the kind gentleman he always was with women, John began walking towards the door to open it for (Y/N). ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Upon entering the Red Circle, you would notice how loud and bright it was inside compared to the white and blue walls of the hospital you've practically confined yourself into for the sake of staying with your husband. You get a drink for yourself, and one for John to uphold your offer from earlier.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "To the loves of our lives?" John suggested, raising up the shot glass of whiskey in his hand with a barely noticeable smile - but, it was still there.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "To the loves of our lives."

With that, the night seemingly blurred by the two as they drank the heartbreak away of losing their significant others. However, you were a bit of a lightweight; even only having two or three drinks can lead you to having a wild and unforgettable night. (Y/N) and John stayed with each other throughout the night until you became interested in another man who was attempting to work his charm on you. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The man, who introduced himself to you as "Seth", was charismatic and described himself to be an "ambitious businessman". Using all of the right words, you would eventually snap back into reality with your arm locked into Seth's.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "My, you look lovely tonight, милый (darling)."

That one damned word was all it took for John's ears to perk up and whip his head in (Y/N)'s direction, and that was when he noticed that you were about to leave the bar with Seth. Knowing Seth's history, John jumped into action and sprinted towards the both of you with a determined and fierce glare behind his eyes. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Она со мной." ("She's with me.") John spoke up coldly to Seth as he approached (Y/N)'s side and reached one of his hands out to your shoulder from behind. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Seth didn't have to turn his head around to see who was standing behind him; he already knew just based on John's dangerously dark voice who it was.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Бабай." ("Boogeyman.") Seth hissed with a distinct tone of hatred laced through his voice. Although he didn't make any sudden movements against (Y/N), John would be able to notice his grip tighten around your waist as a warning.

You just stand there, drunk and now more confused than ever. One minute, you were sobbing by the bedside of your dying husband. And now? You're in the local bar with two men seemingly starting an altercation between each other over you. All that you can do then is feel your heartbeat beginning to increase at a rapid rate as your mind raced with questions with the loudest of them all being:

"What the Hell did I just get myself into?"

special mentions: @br-24085

#y2kawaii #tghalw #ff #john wick #the keanuverse #keanuverse #keanu #keanu reeves #fanfiction

36 notes · View notes

pascalscoffin · 3 months

Text

Away From The Devil pt. X

Full Pedro Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Please dont hate me if this is short

Pt. XI

Warning: Minors Go Away I Will Kick You In The Forehead. I just don’t want kiddos here. Reader is around 24, Joel is 56. Reader is female and uses she/her pronouns. Cursing. Joel being lowkey a meanie. Ellie calling Joel an asshole. Reader is a little depresso. Tommy calling Joel a dumbass. Horny old ladies thirsting after Joel. A couple uses of y/n. Readers a little agro

Yes hello I have returned thank you for sticking around I'm sorry this took so long, I hope you enjoy🥹

><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

The next week went like that, one of you going to the bedroom but the other ending up there with them. You’d lay there together, sometimes just looking at eachother, sometimes talking about whatever had bothered the other enough they had to come to the bedroom. Usually it was nightmares, and Joel would mutter something about his back bothering him, but his eyes would glance around, glossing over as he avoided looking at you. You wouldn’t push, he never wanted to talk about it.

Every morning, regardless of who’d ventured into the room the night before, Joel’s side of the bed would be cold and empty by the time you woke up, Joel would be in the kitchen drinking coffee or talking to Ellie. The last couple days, though, Joel hadn’t been in the house when you got up, the bed would be cold and Ellie would usually be alone in the living room or kitchen until you pulled yourself out of bed.

You never asked him why he kept leaving, why he was distant during the day, but not at night when you were alone. To call it up upsetting would be… a gross understatement. You couldn’t describe the dejected feeling you got every morning when you woke up to an empty bed, despite knowing when you went to sleep that he wouldn’t be there when you woke up.

And Maria, Maria still wasn’t letting you go out of Jackson, Joel was going on patrols with Tommy, Ellie was making friends her own age even if she was trying to spend time with you still, and you were stuck inside, catering to whatever Maria wanted. Whenever you asked her why, she’d say something about needing you more inside than she needed you outside but it felt like she was hiding something.

You’d considered cornering her, or cornering Joel, getting answers as to what the hell was going on, why Maria wouldn’t let you go out or why Joel had started acting the way he was acting. But as soon as you’d start to say something you’d chicken out and say something else.

Joel was off with Tommy, you guessed patrol but couldn’t really find a part of you that cared, just as long as you didn’t have to be around him, moved around and talked around like a ghost. It was like when you’d first joined them all over again, but with less puns or no Ellie at all if she was hanging out with Dina. You were happy she was making friends, even if your own loneliness made it difficult.

You were helping do laundry, which was a group chore for some reason, why people couldn’t do their own laundry you couldn’t understand, though you did make sure to have yours, Joel’s, and Ellie’s clothes in your pile. While scrubbing one of Joel’s flannels on the tiny little washboard you’d been offered, you heard some of the older women talking. About Joel, specifically.

“Have you seen him on that horse?” Helen, you think her name was, her voice traveled, it was shrill and sharp and made you want to stab yourself in the fucking ears just so you wouldn’t have to listen to it anymore.

“Oh I bet that horse isn’t the only thing he’s rode hard.” Candance, younger than the other two but still much closer to Joel’s age than you were, a more likely pair. She wasn’t too bad you guessed, which made you hate her more. Her voice was soft and velvety, combatting your own slightly deep, sometimes scratchy voice, her words never got hung up in her throat like yours did. Her features were soft and she didn’t carry that haunted, broken look in her eyes that you knew resided in your own. Her hair was long and soft and properly taken care of, it didn’t frizz when it got hot out and it always seemed to be the perfect amount of wavy. You wondered briefly if Joel ever noticed the differences in the two of you, if he would take Candance up on any offers she might throw his way.

“God with the way he’s built there’s no way he does anything soft and easy.” Helen was rubbing her clavicle now, making you twist your face up in disgust. “Those broad shoulders and big hands?”

“If Robert had a body like that I wouldn’t need to remember what an orgasm was.” Elizabeth was the oldest of the three, at a striking 56, same as Joel, only with a husband that didn’t seem to be good for much other than eating or yelling at community meetings. You weren’t worried about her too much, she was absolutely gorgeous, with long tight curls that reached her waist, dusted with gray hairs and full lips she always painted pink. But she was married, perhaps if it wasn’t for that, if that weren’t a problem for Joel, you’d be worried.

The women laughed amongst themselves as you scrubbed harder at the shirt, until your hand slipped and you cut yourself on a stray piece of metal that apparently no one had noticed. “Fuck!” You snatched your hand from the soapy water and groaned as you held it close, causing them to look over.

Helen and Elizabeth whispered amongst themselves as Candace made her way over to you. Fucking of course it had to be the pretty one that actually stood a fucking chance. “Are you alright, y/n?” You nodded quickly as you stood up, almost knocking over the bucket. “I’m fine. I’m gonna go get this looked at.” You stepped away from her quickly as she frowned.

As you walked out you heard them talking. About you this time.

“Poor thing. Stuck in that house with such a fine piece of meat and she doesn’t stand a chance.” Elizabeth tsked as Candace and Helen giggled. Tears stung as you made your way to the infirmary, not because their words and laughter hurt, which it did, but they only hurt because you knew it was true, you’d never have a shot with Joel, not with these women around.

Later you had three stitches in your hand, frowning deeply as you stepped out of the infirmary to look at the bandage on your palm. That’s when you heard it. Candance’s stupid fucking voice.

“Oh, Joel!” You looked up and saw her running over to where Joel was standing talking to Tommy, holding a laundry basket. The now blood free flannel of Joel’s folded neatly on top. “Here, doll. Silly y/n cut herself before she could finish your laundry.” It wasn’t nearly as fucking heavy as she was making it out to be, shifting it in her hands and propping it up with her knee.

You hid in one of the little alleys between the buildings when Joel looked towards the infirmary, hearing him let out that stupid chuckle. “Right, yeah, kid can be a little clumsy. Thank you. Here. Let me..” he took the laundry basket and held it effortlessly. You could practically smell Candace from the alley, feeling your chest squeeze as the word kid echoed in your head. Tommy looked ecstatic, grin wide like he was about to laugh his ass off as Candace continued.

“Oh, my. You’re so strong~” you started to feel nauseous, shaking your head rapidly as you bolted around the corner, practically sprinting back to the home you shared with Ellie and Joel.

><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

“Uh.. thanks.” Joel cleared his throat and adjusted the laundry in his hands, glancing at Tommy to save him before glaring when he saw the look on his face. He turned back to Candace, polite as ever. “You said she cut herself, right?" "Gosh, yes, so odd I've used that board hundreds of times, poor girl uses it once and practically slices- oh." Joel was walking away from her now, stepping into the infirmary after setting the basket of laundry down to look for you.

When they told him you left he'd groaned and walked out, almost forgetting the laundry before turning around to get it before going home, you had to be home by now. There weren't very many one handed chores around Jackson so at this point there wasn't anything for you to do.

We he got to the house, though, you weren't there and Ellie looked at him like he'd interrupted something- which was just the joke book Joel had found for her the last time he'd gone scavenging. "What did the donkey-" "Where's y/n?" Ellie pouted as her joke was interrupted and shrugged a little. "i don't know. She was on laundry- oh." She pursed her lips when Joel held up the basket of laundry.

"That uh... what's her name? Cadence?" "Candace?" Ellie frowned and Joel snapped at her and nodded his head. "Yes. Candace said she cut her hand or something and I can't find her." "Did you-" "Ask me if I checked the infirmary and I swear you'll be eating through a straw." Ellie made a face. "Jeez, grumpy. What crawled up your ass and died?" Joel set the laundry basket down. "Nothing." He said sharply, turning to go out the door and continue to look for you.

"Ohhhhh i know what it is." Ellie smirked and hopped up off the couch, dropping her joke book on the coffee table you'd begged Joel to fix. "You wanna go check on her hand cause you liiiiiiiiiike her." "I do not- I'm not talking about this. I'm a grown man and you're a child." Ellie rolled her eyes. "Dude- Helen Keller could see you like her." "Do you even know who Helen Keller was?" "The QZ had books, Joel!" Ellie threw her hands up in the air. "She was right, y'know. You do like to dumbify the Crodyceps generation." Joel grunted and glared at her.

"Fine. Fine, I'll drop it." "Thank you." "After I say one more thing." "Oh my- fine. Fine." "If you don't.. tell her, eventually she's gonna give up and throw herself at the first guy that isn't you. And I don't know if you've noticed, but pretty much every guy here wants to date her." Joel scoffed lightly. "Yeah. Date her." Ellie raised a brow but didn't say anything as she watched Joel turn around and stomp out of the house.

She shook her head and sighed, scratching the back of her head before grabbing her joke book and going up to her room, dropping down onto her bed and opening her book. "He's gone."

You emerged from her closet with a sigh. "Thanks, Ellie." You headed for her door. "You know none of those old ladies have a chance with him, right? I mean.. one of thems married, another one sounds like you dropped a fork in a woodchipper, and he doesn't even know Candace's name." "At least he doesn't call her a kid." You scoffed.

Ellie looked at you over her book and rolled her eyes before sighing and looking back down at it. "I'm just saying... if you guys are gonna share a bed at night you could at least talk about your feelings." You snapped your head over to her as she shrugged. "Heard you screaming that first night." She mumbled. "Saw you and Joel go to the bedroom." "You know we-" "What you do in there is none of my business and I'd like to keep it that way." "We didn't do anything, Ellie." You rolled your eyes. "And we aren't going to." You added quickly when she opened her mouth to speak.

She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Whatever.” She looked back down at her book and hummed quietly as you shook your head and walked out of her room. You didn’t know why you hid from Joel, you felt like a kid. Maybe he was right to call you kid all the time. You basically were.

><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

You were sitting in the bar when he finally found you, he sat down next to you, watching you fiddle with the cloth wrapped around your hand. “Been lookin’ all over for you.” You’d looked at him and smiled a little. “You found me.” He frowned a little. “You alright?” He asked softly.

You sighed and nodded. “Of course, Joel. Why wouldn’t I be?” Joel raised a brow. “Well.. for one it feels like you’ve been avoiding me. Two you cut your hand apparently bad enough to bleed all over my shirt.” You scoffed. “It was two fucking drops.” “I’m just telling you what Candace said.”

Your jaw tightened. Fucking Candace. “Candace wouldn’t know bled all over if I stabbed her in the fucking throat.” Joel’s eyes widened. “Jesus-“ he looked around a little. “You can’t just say shit like that.” “Oh god forbid someone say something about precious Candace and her gaggle of sluts.”

Joel made a face. “Okay- are you drunk right now?” “So what if I am? I’m an adult, not a kid.” He rubbed his face and heaved a sigh. “Okay- come on let’s get you to the house.” He grabbed your arm and you jerked away before sliding off your stool. “I can walk on my own.”

He sighed heavily but didn’t say anything and let you walk out on your own, walking close enough behind you that he could catch you if you happened to fall. Of course you weren’t really that drunk, your words weren’t slurred and you didn’t wobble so he wasn’t too worried about it. But he didn’t know what alcohol did to you in the long run so he was keeping a close eye on you.

When you walked into the house you immediately dropped down on the couch and sighed happily. “Why do you keep leaving?” You asked him. Okay, so, that’s not really how you wanted to bring it up, you wanted to ease into it a little but regardless the words were tumbling out before you could stop them.

Joel sighed and sat down slowly. “I have chores around here like you.” You scoffed. “I’m not asleep every time you leave, Joel. You walk out the first chance you get.” “No, I don’t.” “God then Im either really fucking stupid, have a shitty internal clock, or you’re a liar.”

Joel sighed heavily and rubbed his face. “Listen, kid-“ he glanced at you when you scoffed at the nickname but shook his head and didn’t acknowledge it. “I can’t… this can’t…” he motioned between the two of you before shaking his head again and looking at the fireplace with a frown. “We just can’t, alright?”

“Why not?” You mumbled softly. “You know why.” Your jaw tightened as you looked down at your bandage, playing with the frayed edges, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as his words from earlier echoed in your head kid can be a little clumsy.

Kid.

That’s all you were to him a dumb, clumsy little girl he had to keep an eye on.

“So… so I was just.. tricking myself… this entire time.” You mumbled, looking down and wiping your eye quickly when one of the tears tried to slip. “There wasn’t.. you don’t.. want me.”

Joel felt his chest tighten as he looked over at you, frowning deeply. He felt horrible. He knew it would upset you, telling you that nothing could come out of what both of you were feeling, no matter how much he wanted to he couldn’t.

He couldn’t be good for you, couldn’t be what you needed. He wasn’t a good person, how you could even want him after what happened in the hospital he didn’t understand. He figured the best option was to agree, tell you that you were right, he hadn’t felt anything for you and move on from it. But that felt just as wrong as falling into bed with you.

“We just… can’t, darlin’.” He whispered softly. “I’m too old for you. You should be with someone your own age, someone who can keep up, keep you happy.” You scoffed lowly and he frowned, raising a brow at you expectantly. “What?”

“Up until recently I was.” You looked down. “Until we got here.” You scoffed lowly. “Before I was locked in this stupid fucking place with those overeager bitches doing fucking laundry.” You spit the word like it burned your mouth, clenching your jaw tightly.

“What’s wrong with doing laundry?” You looked at Joel and scoffed. “Like you haven’t noticed every desperate horny woman here fawning over you.” You looked down, clenching your jaw tightly. Joel was quiet for a minute and then he chuckled. “You’re jealous?”

You snapped your head towards him and glared. “Fuck you.” You scoffed. “I’m not fucking jealous. Can’t be jealous over something that isn’t mine.” You stood up. “Maybe I don’t wanna sit there and act all sweet while they talk- in graphic detail- how bad they wanna fuck you.” Joel laughed at you- again. “They do not- they’re classy women.” “HAH! Classy- they wouldn’t know fucking classy if they were born with the definition engraved into their skin. And I swear to god, Joel. If you fucking laugh at me again I’ll break your nose.” You growled.

Joel clenched his jaw and the two of you stared at eachother for a moment before he rubbed his face and stood up. “Look- if Maria and Tommy want you to stay inside then you’re staying inside theres nothing I can do about that. Taking it out on innocent people and me is childish.”

“I’m not a fucking child, Joel.” “I really couldn’t tell- I guess your tantrum is blinding me from seeing it.” You press your tongue to the roof of your mouth and curled your fist- except it was the hand you’d cut and you’d dug your fingers into the stitches.

“Ow- shit-“ you lifted your hand quickly, blood flooding the stitches a bit. “Fuck..” you groaned lowly. “Let me see-“ you stepped back and glared at him. “Fuck off.” Joel rolled his eyes and forced you to sit back down before yanking your wrist close to him lightly and unwrapping it. “You didn’t pop any stitches. How the hell did you manage to do this?” He asked, making a face at the gnarly gash in your hand.

“Not sure you’ll believe me. Apparently I’m throwing a tantrum.” “You still are. Just tell me what the hell happened without the damn attitude.” He reached under the couch for the first aid kit you kept there. You sighed heavily and looked down at the stitches, shrugging. “They wouldn’t shut up and it just- distracted me. If it’s not music I like silence when I work and I guess their voices just got to me.”

“They distracted you?” Joel looked at you and raised a brow. You looked at him and blinked a little, shifting. “Yeah, so what?” “What were they talking about that you couldn’t drown out?” “It’s impossible to drown out Helen’s voice.” You mumbled and he chuckled. It made you feel better, but not really. “It is kinda shrill.”

“She talks like an infected screams.” Joel laughed again, cleaning up the blood and wrapping your hand. “Seriously- what were they saying that bothered you?” You sighed. “I don’t wanna talk about it.” You muttered. “Well too bad cause I want you to tell me.” You scoffed. “Unless you plan to torture me to get it out then no luck there.”

Joel was quiet for a minute before he sighed heavily and reached out, turning your head to look at him. You looked up at him hesitantly and furrowed your brows as you shifted. “What?” “Tell me what they were talking about. That’s all you gotta do, kid.” You huffed and jerked your chin from his grasp.

“I’m used to them horning over you. It’s not a fucking surprise anymore. I just.. wish they wouldn’t be so fucking obvious about it. Okay? Just leave me alone, Joel. Let me throw my tantrum in fucking peace.” You glared at the table in front of you, bouncing your leg rapidly. “I’m going to bed.” You stood up quickly. “If your back bothers you then just fucking deal with it on your own.” You told him harshly.

“So you’re gonna run away from the problem?” God why was he fucking following you? Why can’t he just leave you alone. He said his piece. “There is no problem anymore, Joel. You said what you needed to say.” “You’re stomping away from me like-” you spun around and glared at him. “Like what?” You growled lowly. “Like a child?” You remembered to curl your good hand this time.

“Are you that fucking surprised? Isn’t that your favorite nickname for me? Hm? Kid this, kid that. Kid, kid, kid, fuc-king kid.” You swallowing the lump in your throat, choking on your words and that only pissed you off more. “God damnit!” You brought your hands to your face, pressing your nails into your forehead.

“Y/n-“ you flinched away when Joel laid a hand on your shoulder. “Just- leave me alone, Joel. Please. I can’t… do this anymore. If you wanna ignore me then fine. Ignore me. But don’t… crawl into bed with me and disappear as soon as you think I’m asleep. It’s worse than just ignoring me.” It was too much, all of it. Your hand was throbbing and your chest hurt and your stomach felt like it was going to come up out of your throat.

Joel didn’t say anything, he couldn’t disagree with you, beckoning you into bed, crawling in next to you, holding you, making you feel better, making eachother feel better and then leaving before you woke up. It was wrong. He was hurting you. Even if nothing happened between you physically, he was fucking with your head and he knew it, and up until this point he hadn’t even considered how much it was actually hurting you, how little it was benefiting you.

“Okay.” Your eyes filled up again as you turned away from him and muttered a weak goodnight before going into the room and closing the door quickly. He stood there for a second, leaning his forehead against the wall, fist curled and pushing into it but not punching it before he heard a door open. Ellie’s.

“Well… that was fucked.” Joel clenched his jaw and looked at her. “Look- I love you Joel. Like a lot. But I love her too. And you’re being a fucking asshole. I didn’t even know you were leaving like that. Why the hell would-“ “stop it.” Joel mumbled softly. “What?” “Stop it, Ellie. You don’t… know everything. You don’t understand what this is about and for your sake I hope you don’t.”

Ellie scoffed. “I’m old enough to be able to tell when two people love eachother. But if you wanna keep acting this way then fine. Go ahead.“ she went to close her door but stopped and hesitated before saying the next thing. “Maybe you’re right- I mean- if you’re just gonna keep leaving her like that then you might as well tell her to move on.” She shrugged. “Maybe she’ll find a guy with a heart.” She added before closing the door.

She didn’t really mean it. Joel had a huge heart, she knew that, she’d be an idiot if she didn’t. But he was being an asshole to her best friend. And for absolutely no fucking reason. She couldn’t understand what could be so wrong about the two of you getting together, so what if you were younger than him? Who gives a shit? It’s not like you were underage. You were like 24 years old.

Joel stood on the other side of the door for a moment and rubbed his face, glancing between the two doors before going to the couch and laying back on it, staring up at the ceiling as he took a heavy breath in.

He could handle seeing you with someone, right? It’s not like you belonged to him or anything. Hell most of the people here thought you were his fucking daughter and that made him so sick to his stomach he almost threw up in front of everyone while you awkwardly explained you weren’t in fact his daughter.

As long as it wasn’t any of those assholes from the patrol he would be fine, right? He had to be. You were so much younger than him, had so much time to figure out what you wanted, to figure out that he wasn’t what you wanted. Him and his baggage. He’d do more damage than he’d already done.

><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

It's been a week since your fight with Joel, you hadn't talked to him much, opting instead to just ignore him or try to slip out of the house before he was awake. As you opened your eyes, though, the sun shining in and blinding you a bit, you could hear Joel and Ellie's voices in the dining room accompanied by Tommy's.

You wondered for a second if you could just stay in bed, at least wait for Joel to leave, but the blinking 7:30 on the clock told you that you had no choice but to get out of bed and face them. You groaned and closed your eyes before pulling yourself out of bed.

Once you were ready you headed out of the room and into the kitchen to make yourself a cup of coffee and a piece of toast. "Morning, Ellie." You bumped her with your hip as you walked past her and smiled at her and then Tommy. "Morning, Tommy." The two of them said goodmorning before looking awkwardly between you and Joel.

You heard Joel clear his throat and closed your eyes down at your coffee. "Mornin', y/n." Your skin still tingled and your ears still got warm when he said your name and it only stressed you out more. You didn't respond, though, and instead walked straight passed him with your coffee and toast. "I'll see you later, Ellie." You told her, body-checking Joel's shoulder on your way past him.

><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

Tommy raised a brow when you body-checked Joel and watched his brother grunt and clench his jaw before he was looking down at Ellie. "So... what was that about?" "Joel's an asshole." "Ellie." Joel mumbled in warning. "I mean that much is obvious." "Tommy-"

"They've been sharing the bed or whatever but apparently Joel kept leaving like... as soon as she went to sleep or something, so she's super pissed." "Wow, Joel." Joel sighed heavily and rubbed his face rapidly. "I'm a fucking idiot. I get it." He grumbled and put his head down on the table.

Tommy looked at Ellie for a second and cleared his throat. "Ellie, uh... why don't you go on. I'm sure Dina or another one of your friends could use help with their chores." "But-" Tommy raised his brows at her and glanced at Joel and then back at her. She looked between the two for a moment before huffing. "Fine." She stood up and left. She wanted to know what Joel's problem was too!

Once she was gone Tommy looked at Joel and waited for him to talk. "... she's so young, Tommy." Tommy hummed a little and nodded. "Yeah..." "She's not even- Sarah would be older than her." Oh. Oh. So that's what this is about. This isn't about you, it isnt even about Joel. Its about Sarah.

"Yeah... but... you know Sarah would want you to be happy, Joel." Joel looked up at him like he was stupid. "With someone who's 24 years old?" Tommy shrugged and sighed heavily. "If they make you happy. I'm not saying it's not going to be different, or an adjustment for both of you. Cause it will, but... okay its not like she's 18, right? And she grew up in this shit, Joel." "She's thirty-two years younger than me, Tommy. I can't... keep up with her or keep her happy. She needs someone young for that."

Tommy rolled his eyes with a heavy sigh. "She was happy, dumbass. Untill you started acting like a dick." He took a deep breath and licked his lips slowly before he sighed. "Look- I'm just sayin'.. Sarah would want you to be happy, actually happy. You're settled down now, you got somewhere safe to be.. just let yourself be happy."

"And if I fuck it up like last time? And she leaves?" Tommy raised a brow when he said that and scoffed. "You didn't just compare her to Michelle." "I'm not comparing them-" "Michelle was selfish, Joel. That's why she left. She didn't care about you or Sarah, just herself." Tommy leaned his head a bit to catch Joel's eyes. "She's not Michelle. She's practically obsessed with Ellie, they're best friends. And you- if you let her- she'd be good for you. She loves you, anyone could see that. But if you don't get your head out of your ass she's going to jump into the first arms that open up to 'er." Tommy stood up and calpped his hand on Joel's shoulder. "Pretty sure you wouldn't like that."

And with that, Tommy was gone and Joel was alone at the dining table to sit with what he said, looking down at the cup of coffee in his hand with a deep frown on his face before he got up to get ready for patrol... Tommy did have a point. Sarah would want him to be happy, and you were nothing like Michelle.

... maybe he could make it work.

><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

Taglist:

@romanarose @orcasoul @caitlynsixxx @shotgun-shelby @aspecialgreenie @pedropascalsbbg @picketniffler

#pedro pascal #joel miller #the last of us #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #ellie williams #joel tlou #away from the devil #away from the devil part ten #Ellis tlou #Joel miller tlou #Ellie Williams tlou

29 notes · View notes

bogusboxed · 7 months

Text

Boxtobier ⊗ Day 2

"The Big Picture.”

Pairing: Helen Otis X GN!Reader

Theme: “Forbidden Love." & "Family, Friends, Love Ones."

Rating: (PG-15+)

Words: 6k

Trigger Warning(s): Brief Vulgar Language, Minor Mentions Of Criminal Deviance, Depictions Of Gore, and Psychological Disturbance.

This is recommended for ages fifteen and up; reader discretion is advised. The rights to this character, "Bloody Painter," fully belong to DeluCat.

This is a fictional, harmless piece of writing; do not incorporate it into your daily life.

Tom E. Stevens is not a real person, he's fully fictional and only serves as a reference from Bloody Painter’s original story. Any correlation to real victims is NOT intentional.

The breeze was glacial against your warm-blooded skin; it bit your nose with a numbing sharpness. You should’ve worn more layers in this type of climate, but you were in a hurry, which led to skipping a few steps in your typical routine.

Your brass keys jingled around like golden bells attached to a decorative holiday ribbon. They created an off-putting metronome sound when they clattered viciously against the steel buckle.

Your mind adapted to the noise, senselessly focusing on the sparkly ring. But, still, you pulled yourself from it, fighting it.

You tried your best to keep your head straight by prioritizing the need to reach the building because only the vultures knew how dangerous this line of work could be.

You couldn't help but question your choices from months ago because if you knew what you know now, you wouldn’t have signed up for that internship.

Working tirelessly alongside the forensic department had taken a toll on your health unlike anything else. Currently, your body felt like shit, as if every limb had been yanked from its socket, resembling the way taffy is stretched beyond recognition.

You stiffly shifted your back, feeling the aches rise and fall in an agonizing unorganized harmony. You let out a bottomless exhale, the puff of warmth diffusing in the tempered winds.

You hated clocking in earlier than what was ordered, but you also knew the piles of work they had planned out for you. So it’d just be better to get it over with at dawn and have plenty of "free time" during the day.

However, yesterday, you hadn’t been as clever and had to fight the collisions of cars. What was even worse than that was the fact you came in late, barely having the proper time to study the files.

But what was weirder was the number of cases.

Over the months, winter had finally broken out, and when it did, so did the bodies. They practically doubled in the short time frame, heightening, unlike any other season.

But it wasn’t anything you could control; you could only try to prevent it.

It was bleak; your fingers felt lifeless, suffering from the hazardously low temperatures. Your lungs were repressed, taking subtle amounts of polar oxygen inward.

Breathing seemed to only bring a sub-zero chill, dulling your system in a torturous manner.

Your watery eyes caught a detailed glimpse of the illuminated station a few meters away from you. Uniform glass windows lined the front. Icy white spiderwebs seemed to dust the rims, only having the middle of each glass plane defrosted.

The light beige building was around two stories high and was more expansive than a typical station due to housing an accompanying forensic department.

You tilted your head at the closer police cars, which were lined right at the front. The vehicles were predominantly white, marked with bold and contrasting black and blue stripes running along their sides.

A tinge of envy surged through your veins, with the wish you didn’t have an entire marathon to walk each time you went to work. Passing the oversized rides, you followed the guiding light closer to the department.

Powdery snow crunched under your soles, compacting with each movement. Every step sounded high-pitched, squeaking like a dog toy. The wintery molecules had recently fallen, barely printed on by animals or other people.

Unfortunately, though, you were leaving tracks with the way you moved your figure.

You didn’t feel secure being this out in the open, especially with the surrounding area’s reputation. A warm light glowed from the windows, refracting onto the concrete sidewalk you walked on.

Safety was near.

You should’ve been more attentive to your surroundings instead of beelining it straight to base. But you’d rather speed up than patiently get hypothermia from the Alaskan air.

Moving your weight at a timely pace, you soon made quick work of the built-in parking lot. But it wasn’t just the Fahrenheit that made you move this way; it was the added pressure of the latest murders.

The fresh kills from the man on the loose—his existence was blowing up on the internet. Hundreds were prying at the case, no matter how much your local department tried to keep it under wraps.

Of course, it wasn’t uncommon for some thirsty news articles to try to dig too deep. But this instance was different because the officials knew he stayed in one spot, and they didn't need the public to scare him off to another city.

However, in your personal opinion, he’d gotten worse. Not in the way he became clumsier, but in the way he’d gotten smarter. Because now he was starting to grasp the concept of covering up his tracks.

For the past three months, you've seen multiple carcasses.

It wasn’t anything new to see animalistic amounts of chewed-out corpses daily. But these recently submitted physiques always had one horrifying thing in common with one another.

An extended incision two inches right below the jaw.

The likeness of each mark always left an abyssal pang in the roots of your abdomen. Forcing you to churn and gush profusely, like all your acids had come together to form a nauseating butter.

Though it wasn’t like you weren’t prepared for this, you’d trained for months in college, studying what you could. Because essentially, you had sold your soul to the corporations. So in your mind, it was for the best to just stay reticent about your discomfort.

But, still. The imagery of the wounds was haunting. You were sure that if you were asked to recall how the incision appeared, you’d have no trouble.

Because the cut was always the same.

Why did it have to be the same every fucking time, and why couldn’t you get used to it? It was just a slice above the collarbone and below the human mandible.

It wasn’t like their head had been blown to bits.

The repetition, however, was appalling. You couldn’t accept that someone out there liked the fluency and the never-ending pattern left. Did they know how it kept you up at night? Could they ever reflect on how personal each cut felt?

Did they even have the capacity to comprehend the hole they left in the lives of those they harmed? Or maybe this is what they wanted. To make others feel like shit?

You just wished the mercy of the world could spare you and take away this aching remorse. You exhaled, the weight of your thoughts having the same drag of an anchor.

It was difficult to be at ease, though the closure you brought to families seemed to help.

Your dense shoes felt like they were grating against the battered concrete. Every simple scrape seemed ten times more deafening than it was. To say you were on edge would’ve been a heinous understatement.

You kept your digits stuffed in your layered pockets, no longer wanting to contend with the arctic currents. You felt your body at work, trying its best to keep you thawed and snugly toasted.

With preferable timing, you had finally completed your route.

You could feel a different torridity, leaving the parking lot unscathed. Swiftly, you began your brief climb up the compressed staircase.

You swore you didn’t need the handrails, forcing your figure to prance up the case without the added support. In the back of your mind, you knew that if you clutched onto them, you’d only get frostbite or an open, rusty lesion on your palm.

Following the gleaming lights, you hunted down the entrance of the building.

Pastry beige walls and reflective, frosted-tipped windows made most of your peripherals. Your eyes devoured the sight with the knowledge that you wanted nothing else but to be inside.

Silently, you merged, heading to the entrance of the department.

Your plush, silky lanyard bounced with each quick action, and in no time, you found yourself standing in front of the lackluster glass door. Your heated breath fogged up the float glass while you humanly debated whether or not to doodle shapes on the surface.

But you unwillingly compelled yourself to move on to more pressing matters. After a few seconds of inner turmoil, you begrudgingly retracted your hands from your fleece cavities. With your balmy clutches, you invaded the sleek metal door handle.

With an unenthusiastic heave, you hauled open the burdensome door.

A flushed breeze tenderly nuzzled your visage, completely changing your groggy attitude that’d grown from the bitterness of the cold. Taking a few unnoticeable steps inward, you let go of the door.

The heft of the gate automatically sealed the space back up, enclosing the heat from the ruthless outside.

You had no more icy waves to come crashing down on you. So, you felt the lack of need to shield your skin; taking a brief gluttonous puff of well-tempered air, you could faintly taste the macchiato that was lingering.

The smell felt almost stereotypical in the way it reverberated off each wall. You hated to admit just how many of those movies were right about the police.

Getting back on target, you looked around the foyer, and as always, it wasn’t anything special. The room was semi-upper-class, having fancy connecting hallways, an undersized reception desk, and a cramped, cheap waiting room.

Along the barren, pale walls lay a handful of plastic chairs, a box for dropping off prescription drugs, and overly artificial plants. The department strived to make the place look as welcoming as possible, but it mostly came off as out of touch and condescending.

Turning your attention to the cut-off front desk, you saw a distant coworker. Her face was slim, enhanced with sculpture-like features. A rich mixed skin tone painted her and only brightened her overall beautiful complexion.

However, what stood out most was her blinding, superstitious golden badge titling her "Lt Sara."

She currently seemed to be diligently managing inquiries and various calls. Though you’d heard various rumors of what she did before, she joined the department. (Something along the lines of British special forces?)

A dense panel of plexiglass seemed to cage the mid-toned operator inside. She didn’t pay you much mind, keeping to herself; her rich, murky eyes seemed to be glued to her rather expensive work-issued laptop.

You decided not to put your nose where it didn’t belong, ignoring your deepening innocence to ask what she was typing.

Taking a few fleeting steps toward your branch, pitter-patter-like footsteps began to tap throughout the once-muted room. Humbly walking, you were perceptive to the irritating buzzing of the incandescent lightbulb above.

Management should’ve changed it out weeks ago upon regulation, but who could arrest literal law enforcement?

Step by step, the stillness of the fruitless office was betrayed by the sound of parroting taps. The department seemed desolate and liminal in the sense that you were the only one creating any commotion.

It was almost uncanny how much the towering walls were devoid of life.

You kept your posture professional, keeping an unrushed pace down the enclosed hallway. Neutral-colored file cabinets were mindlessly lined, seeming to camouflage with the chipped beige wall. You took your regulated turns, passing by the same identifiable tables, worn-out navy chairs, and other miscellaneous decor.

You could feel a slight burning sensation in your nose, probably caused by the over-the-top cleaning supplies the facility always used.

You wordlessly questioned the janitors on why they put their entire heart into their job, but you only found yourself wishing you could have the same enthusiasm as them.

Your shoes clicked on the polished, stony-colored tiles as your eyes traced down the doors carved on either side. You glazed over multiple shiny labels, all too familiar to you at this point.

You couldn’t count on one hand the number of times you’d seen these signs. The time you spent here seemed to blur together at this point.

Who knew an internship could be this catastrophic?

The walls only seemed to bring you closer and closer to your destination, with every ridge of the painted-over brick wall now recognizable. Pursuing your common area, the doors began to seem to become more robust and excessive compared to the previous.

However, it wasn’t anything too shocking given that all the information locked inside those rooms was highly sought after. However, what was surprising was that interns (college kids) had access to some pretty sensitive records.

Speaking of your rookie classmates, they unfortunately recruited yet another intern, and worse, they were assigned to sit right next to you. Funnily enough, that was one of the reasons you got here so early.

As of right now, your desk looked like the result of a hurricane, and it didn’t help that you used the once-vacant desk next to you for storage. You internally cringed, caught up in the swirly emotion that’d be their initial impression of you.

You let out a swallow exhale upon recollection. Hopefully, they weren’t going to be the verbal bane of your existence, pestering you with lackluster questions all year.

Focusing once more, you reached for your silky, smooth lanyard. Fingers fumbled looking for your QR code identification card, given with the lowest human access possible.

You slouched downward, folding yourself. You took the sturdy card and pressed it against the laser sensor. Having pressed the densely laminated plastic against the puny square-shaped metal box, the door made a short beep.

Your hands briskly moved to the glistening door handle, now heaving it down with no resistance. A click came from the frame, letting you know the hardened lock had finally released its restless hold.

Soon, you wedged yourself inside the room, shutting the high-tech door behind you with a thunderous thump. Luminous fluorescent lighting helped to display the expansive classroom.

The space featured a variety of lengthy, soulless desks, placed as close as they could be to one another. While accompanying cheap plastic chairs were uniformly paired underneath each table. Files seemed to be anchored in stacks close to the windows, which were curtained by opaque sheets.

It was almost childish the amount of priceless work just lazily left out. Your eyes scanned the trivial room again, passing various foreign areas until you shadowed your own.

You paused.

Nothing was missing, and that wasn’t the problem. The problem was the man nonchalantly working between the brochures you left on your previous shift, and if things couldn’t get worse, you recognized him.

This wasn’t just any typical guy, however. This was the college’s award-winning artist, Helen Otis. (Someone whom you found yourself admiring a little too much.)

You’d seen his works plenty of times, each one better than the last. You didn’t know how many art competition trophies he had tucked under his belt, and you didn't know how he had so much room for them.

Sweat was building under your metaphoric shirt collar, leaving you wanting to pull it like a cartoon character. Out of everybody, why'd it have to be him? However, even with the distaste bubbling in your mouth, you could still sense a puppy-like heart race thumping in your chest.

During the years you’d been in school with him, he’d always been a recluse. He had never been the type to do a vast presentation or be among big social groups. But he had been the art kid, inaudibly crafting away in a scenic spot where no one would bother him.

Though it was still surprising, you’d never thought he would be the one to take up this line of work. You always thought he’d do something more along the lines of comical animation or abstract commissions.

But here he was at your doorstep, doing the same thing he always did: wordlessly painting strokes on a page.

Even though he wasn’t paying you any mind, you felt yourself appreciating his personal portrait. You knew neither of you had spoken to the other throughout your college years, but still, some idiotic part of you found his mysterious aura appealing.

From his murky ink tuft of hair to his cerulean stone-shaded eyes, all his facial features seem to drag you further like a fish to a hook, line, and sinker.

If your heart hadn’t been auctioned away for his looks already, his personality had to be the nail in the coffin. He was hushed and polite, always mindful of those around him with a tranquil gaze plastered on his face.

All these things combined made it unfathomable to wonder why he was in such a gruesome line of work. He never did seem capable of harm; at least that’s what you thought.

At the moment, you found yourself fixating on him more than you should’ve, promptly getting lured in by the bait of his serene features. But you hastily shut that down, making it imperative to keep it strictly professional.

All he was was your co-worker who incidentally resided right next to your seat, and it was no big deal; he was just a fresh hire, and that’s all these feelings were. (Keep telling yourself that.)

You shuffled yourself further in. Each step felt like a chain and cannonball attached to your ankle, dragging you down from getting any further. You took an unnoticeable puff before giving in to your sullen movements.

Your shoes barely squeaked on the flat, tiled flooring, efficiently making it to your spot. You did everything in your power to ignore him, which proved difficult when he was now in front of you. Though, thankfully, he didn’t seem to peer up from his current task.

You subtly began taking the diverse portfolios you abandoned the night before and neatly placing them in a lanky stack on your side. Cautiously, you continued to take back your leftovers, hoping he wouldn’t ask any questions about your actions.

Luckily for you, each rustling you made was always covered by either a light tap or an oppressive rub back and forth. Pages of newer and older cases grazed your plushy palms as you needily grabbed them covertly.

The scent of vanilla seemed to leak out of the paper each time you ruffled it onto the stack. Your eyes tracked your borrowed files as you mindlessly counted their shared total.

Once you finally piled all of your belongings onto the corner of your desk, you seized a few files from the top, taking out an oh-so-familiar beige folder. Even with how flimsy the printer paper was, it still managed to send a falling sensation deep into your intestines.

Because the case inside had to be one of the most extreme and unsettling you'd seen in a while.

Taking a hasty breath outward, you knew you had a job to do, and you knew that involved making a move. Your emotions were all wack, both agitated by the folder and anxious by Helen.

But restlessly, you still made a move against the odds.

The chair creaked naturally under the sudden weight, adding even more layers to the need to die. You hate this feeling. You hated that the one person you found interest in was sitting this close to you.

You didn’t know why every breath you took felt like an arrow spearing your heart—was it him? Was it the case? Or was it a mix of both?

Being immobilized by gushy chords, the graphite scratching next to you came to a momentary halt before swiftly returning to its ordinary irregular pattern. The pause left a prickly ache and an immeasurable abyss in your soppy organs.

Snapping out of the abnormal haze, you made it mandatory to remember that, at the end of the day, this was an internship. A job that both of you didn't want, and if you did, neither of you intended to be sociable (specifically him).

You got back on track; your hands glided more rigorously on your pivotal file; delicately, you unfolded the restricted document. The folder had a presentation page, making it seem more personalized and human than it was.

In a blueish-black color, a jagged handwritten name embellished the originally empty soulless template.

“Tom E. (Enzo) Stevens.”

You found yourself drowning in thought on the marked page. He was relatively close in age to you, lived in the same area, and for an unbeknownst reason to you, that title rang a bell. You could’ve sworn you’d heard it before, but yet again, that name wasn’t all that unique.

In regards to his death, it was virtually the same as the rest of the victims. He had the staple of the slit two inches below his jaw, but instead of his corpse being on display for the world to see, he’d been shoved off the sixth floor of an apartment complex (that wasn’t too far from your college).

Tom’s death was rushed in comparison and was not nearly as time-intensive as the others. The report drew it down to the realization of eyewitnesses, and if he had taken any longer, the law would've caught up to him.

Interestingly enough, a few regular drunks had seen the man’s figure on the building minutes before the murder, and due to this, it caused his biggest slip-up yet.

Unfortunately, they all made a few vastly different statements, going from brown to blue hair, then to pale to dark skin.

But there happened to be one consistent variable: they said without a doubt he’d worn a paper-mache mask that'd been laced with a crimson grin.

Flipping the page, you are greeted with degraded photos of distinct items. Each object picture had mini-notes stapled underneath it, indicating what evidence was linked to it.

You examined each sunburnt print systematically, trying to find any correlation between them, but to no avail. You leafed pages. You spent more time thoroughly inspecting each discolored paragraph. Your glistening eyes traced each victim and the corresponding articles that died along with them.

You could feel the air trapped in your throat as you swallowed faintly. The similarities, the rate, and the age ran shivers up your spine.

You were more than a perfect candidate.

You were shaken up by the realization. Your breath was off its typical route; you prevailed and kept a stone-cold demeanor. The chances of you being caught and killed by the murderer were low, (but never zero).

You just had to be strong; you had to be for this field of work. No matter how your hands twitched, you needed to find that strength for the people who couldn’t.

Browsing through the thin pages, you could sense something was off. You were missing something from the case. You skimmed through the entire folder once more before you put your finger on it.

You were missing the composite drawings.

Your mind readily changed from the haunting cases to the fellow peer next to you. Inches away, and you’d get your answer, but you weren’t sure how to ask, considering he shouldn’t have been messing with that folder in the first place.

Your curiosity brushed itself against you like a cat; you needed to know if he had it before, you started to panic. It wasn’t like you were asking for a pencil you’d never return; you were asking for the missing drawings on a report.

This was serious, and you had to take it that way, no matter how accusing it felt. You turned from your desk to his. He smelled of graphite; its earthy and metallic aroma clouded up his station.

He seemed to be completely immersed in his work like he was in an altered reality of his own. The more seconds that flew by, the more you realized how lost in his artistry he was. You considered speaking up, not realizing he’d already noticed you in his peripherals.

As you began to open your mouth, he exhaled, stopping his precise charcoal brushing.

“Yes?”

He kept his voice conservative, not raising his tone above a whisper.

His digits remained intertwined with the slender soot utensils. He began to subtly tap at his wooden desk with the edge point like he was counting the seconds between each of your shared words.

Though he kept his face sharp and still, like an unmarked canvas.

“Do you know where the Bloody Painter composite drawings are? My folder seems to be missing them." You exhaled your words, trying to be as cushy as possible and not seem interrogative.

His melodic clicks ceased, and his clench on the pencil faltered. His pallid features stayed remote, trying to ignore the swift glint that glowed in his somber eyes.

“I took them from your file earlier this morning for reference. I’m sorry, I didn’t know they were confidential.” Tragically enough, you were unperceptive to the inflection in his voice.

He soon turned his wooden pencil horizontally, gently caressing the wood. He dotted his sea creature's eyes with yours. He seemed to search for yours like a pirate on a treasure-ridden island.

“You’re with forensic arts, right?” The second you began to speak, he retracted his vision back down to the smooth, polished floor.

He allowed the conversation to grow dry, mindlessly making his leg bounce his weight. “Mhm.”

You felt your chest being squeezed. You didn’t mean to mess up his art session, but you needed the composite drawings back before you could return the folder to the officials.

Your eyes traveled down from the side of his head, down to his triangular jaw, and then to the papers scattered on his side of the table. A certain sketch, however, stuck out to you; it varied in hues of charcoal and was dented with professional marks.

He looked around his late twenties, having semi-long strands of dark pecan hair framing his face. His eyes were dull, unlit with a murky, mud-like shade.

“Are those the composite drawings?”

An acute exhale came from his side as he now entirely rotated himself from his work to you. He didn’t keep his eyes locked on you, but he seemed more engaged, having a light rose tinted at the height of his cheeks.

He allowed the words to sink in: “Not exactly. They’re only my interpretation.”

You briefly hummed while he spoke, continuing to stare at his overly perfect works of art. It was immaculate. Of course, it didn’t compare much to the other pieces that he had full liberty over, but still, it was unbeatable.

“They look so good, though; you’re extremely talented,” you complimented, not knowing how your eyes sparkled when appreciating the craftsmanship.

Your words were more than honest and the exact thing you were thinking, but you hadn’t taken into account how he’d react to something like that. You silently huffed; he’d probably heard it a million times before, but you couldn’t help it.

Unannounced to you, he’d been gazing at you directly (for once) with no sign of retreat. Helen was taking in your eyes, and the way they glistened was full of reverence. He found himself soaking in it. He’d heard plenty of praise for his arts before, but the way you looked set the sail.

He’d need to sketch that later for better practice. He made some effort to take a detailed mental photo of it.

Stupidly enough, he stayed idly facing you, studying your features. Time passed easily, and you glanced back instinctively. He smoothly flicked his sight right back to his personal (inaccurate) composite drawing.

Unknown to him, his posture recoiled and formed an unhealthy "C," which was odd compared to his typical ruler-straight stance.

“Thank you," he gritted his teeth; like he was offended, the words even dared to come out of his mouth.

A smile found its way to your face. He was grateful that he enjoyed your appreciation, even with how passive-aggressive it seemed. You could see yourself becoming friends (or more) with Helen if he went any further with forensics.

You pulled away from your unusual lovey-dovey behavior, getting back on topic. “You do have the originals, right?”

He seemed taken aback, his once pensive expression leaving you. He tampered with his pencil; he pressed his fingers on the wood. His eyes now seemed fixated on a distant point.

He reformed his gentlemanly persona, trying not to lose concentration on the purpose of this conversation. “I do.”

You didn’t know what to make of his current wreck of emotions, but you decided he was just having a rough morning. Though you didn’t like how his interest fled again, you didn’t mention it, but you just wished he hadn’t deserted the conversation.

Helen moved his figure, reaching toward the feeble stack of paper centimeters away from him. His delicate fingers began flipping through assorted works and notes, trying to track down the originals.

The light of the class-like room reflected on his furrowed expression, highlighting his brow bone. The sound of rustling and separation seemed to recite throughout the room as you patiently waited for results.

He gradually made his way to an inked-out document, his facial features wavering.

You could see a darkly printed facade of someone’s face. It must’ve been the original, going on the new assumption that the department didn’t trust college students to not fuck with the authentic piece. Maybe they were fearful that they’d spill something on it or try to steal it to sell on eBay.

He assertively separated any remaining sticking papers before hastily handing you the official print.

You respectfully put on an artificial professional smile, being polite to the artist. As for rule-breaking, his decision was for unintentionally stealing the reprint; you decided against reporting him to the higher-ups.

He was passionate, with an amiable soul and a gullible desire to redraw composite drawings. Sure, he was naive, putting his nose where it didn’t belong, but you couldn’t fault him.

He was just an overzealous painter, and that was all.

Your sight indeliberately flocked back to his side, mindlessly trying to ensure yourself that you hadn’t forgotten anything else. You glanced over a few pencils, pens, and squishy erasers before seeing a different, tougher sheet of paper featuring a distinctive man's physique.

It was a spot-on illustration of the lengthy description you had received of the Tom S. case. Just how much had he looked into your assigned folder? The peculiar portrait could’ve been compared to his actual face; it was uncanny how close he’d gotten your mental image of Tom on paper.

“That’s a drawing of Tom, right? From Tom Steven's murder?” You found yourself intrigued more and more by his virtuosity.

You speculated on the time Helen had lost to etching out victims from the infamous “Bloody Painter” case. You understood he was a part of the forensics art department, but how much graphic painting could one take? Plus, it seemed out of character for him to drain his morning by willingly outlining something that gruesome.

There was a wordless pause as your eyes watched one of his knees buck up and down at a similar, relentless pace. You could feel a pit of solicitude gush in your lower abdomen as if you had crossed a line. That case must’ve struck a nerve, and having to draw the victim probably made the distaste in his throat more drastic.

He had a short, delayed response to your words, losing his energy to keep this chatter going. “Yeah.”

You tilted your head while studying the image’s graphics further. There seemed to be a vital mistake, leaving the drawing inaccurate and fruitless. While most of it had been on point, even having an abbreviated listing of how he was killed, Helen still managed to miss one important factor.

The constant marking, the slit that was supposed to be under his jaw

You wanted to keep it to yourself; you really did, but something in your soul ticked. You thought it over a few times, but it was futile as your compulsive behaviors made the words leak from your mouth.

“You forgot something. Bloody Painter left a laceration two inches under his jaw before pushing him off."

Like a magnet to a refrigerator, he snapped his sights back to his drawing. His neverending cavern of navy blue eyes thoroughly inspected his graphite marks. His salmon lips parted, charcoal eyebrows pressing against one another.

You knew it could’ve come off tedious and knit-picky, but you couldn’t help that nagging feeling that he’d appreciate your insight.

As you closed the space between you both to provide further aid on the unnecessary addon, he brought his attention to you. His dangerous mako eyes locked onto yours, making you feel stuck in an inescapable trance.

This was the first time he’d made eye contact with you.

He hummed one unnoticeable syllable that resembled a “hm” as he leaned an inch closer with the intent to absorb every word that came out of you. A clear indication of how deeply engaged he was.

Now that the spotlight and praise were on you, you couldn’t seem to do anything like a person getting stage fright in front of an impressive crowd.

You felt your body linger on autopilot. No person could handle this stimulation; at least that's what it felt like due to the chemicals pumping through your body. There was no need to react like this, but here you were at the mercy of his prestigious eyes.

Harboring and pleading your jittery breath away, you failed to take note of his defined hand nonchalantly creeping up on your mandible.

“Something like this?”

His pointer and middle were soon firmly planted against your flesh-covered artery. You could feel the pressure build on your sensitive throat, leaving a valley caused by his callous fingers. By this point, you were sure he could feel the way your pulse battered out of your chest.

The only solution to this was that he must’ve been a visual learner. That was the only viable explanation, but still, you found yourself warm to the touch. The air shared felt solid, palpable, and able to be cut.

But being so intertwined with your own cords of emotions, your brain glossed over the fact that he was pressed precisely where the killer always cut.

“Yeah, something like that." Your words fumbled over one another, not being able to tell if he could sense the tension he inadvertently created.

A mischievous smile was firmly tucked into his features. But before you could even pry into his preceding actions, a heightened beep buzzed from his pocket. He instantly backed his hand away from your neck, letting it rest on his thigh.

His light appearance was brought down by a sudden weight as he withdrew a slick gray phone. You caught a glimpse of the vibrating screen as he haphazardly let it ring.

"Masky. (Ignore if possible.)”

He huffed as his skinny face expeditiously contorted into a solemn deadpan. His leg went right back to a musically animated bounce before leaving your proximity.

He dragged the cellular device to his ear; his sight darted down to you with a velvety expression and whispered, "Sorry– I’ll be back.”

You reverted to your senses, getting back into gear. You affirmed him instantaneously with a nod. His mood was upended by your assuring movement as he departed from your shared space, heading for somewhere more secluded.

Once his presence dissipated, you fully accepted the circumstances. Your breath was still uneven, and you even felt way too comfortable in your once-itchy chair. Your flushed state progressively cleared up; however, you were still bubbly from the previous altercation.

Without much thought, your perception picked up on the Tom Stevens illustration once more. You didn’t notice it previously, but there was a creative liberty added to his special composite.

A tattoo. You didn’t recall the description ever stating he had an emblem on his collarbone.

Especially one with an O and an X.

Written By: Verdana. (bogusbox)

Beta [Alpha] Reader: Sara. (tobyskitten342)

Mentions: @flufftober & @tobyskitten342

A/N: It's been proofread :D

#flufftober2022 #day2 #creepypasta #bloody painter x reader #bloody painter x y/n #bloody painter x you #bloody painter #helen otis x y/n #helen otis x reader #helen otis x you #helen otis #creepypasta x reader #creepypasta x y/n #creepypasta x you #fanfiction #creepypasta oneshot #x reader

53 notes · View notes

girlnextmorgue · 10 months

Text

Helen Otis x Reader: You would sleep with me (if you could do it comfortably)

Hiiii everyone it's me I'm back :P I'm finding that I don't really agree with my past characterizations of these characters but I'm gonna leave my old posts up anyway... anyways here's a Helen oneshot I wrote last night. It's sort of a continuation of the first one I wrote (read that here) but can be read as a standalone. It's crossposted on AO3 (here) and I love getting kudos so please gas it up there if you so choose :P Reader is gender neutral (they/them pronouns) and (Y/N) is used.. It isn't smutty or anything (sorry) but it's kind of romantic. Around 1300ish words (a little less). I hope you enjoy!

edit: pspspsps heyy look theres a 3rd part HERE!!! if u enjoy this go read that ok bye...

The screen door swung shut with a sharp smack. The sound used to make Helen jump, but he’d grown used to it with all the time he’d spent out on the porch. It was early spring now, and sprigs of green were beginning to poke their way out of the ground in the midst of all the brown. A chilly breeze carried all the fresh smells of spring, along with… cigarette smoke?

“Hey, handsome.”

That made Helen jump. His head snapped to his right, and he was graced with the sight of a familiar face leaning against the railing, lit cigarette in hand. The corners of his lips twitched. He was fighting back a smile.

“You’re back.” He said matter-of-factly, trying to seem uncaring, and not as if he had been awaiting their return with bated breath (god, he couldn’t believe it, he was acting like a damsel.) “Where were you?”

“If I told you,” they paused to take a drag (and, Helen suspected, to add dramatic effect), turning to look at the trees as they exhaled, “I’d have to kill you.”

Although there was a playful grin on their face, Helen knew that they were only half joking. The Operator’s proxies were incredibly hush-hush about their missions, and (Y/N) was no exception. Usually, he didn’t mind too much, but Helen had found that he was much more curious than he wanted to be, at least when it came to (Y/N).

“So.” (Y/N) spun around so that their back was now facing the woods. They motioned to the sketchbook in Helen’s hands. “Draw any pretty pictures lately?” They grinned.

Right. Helen had come out here to draw. He unconsciously tightened his grip on the book, averting his eyes. Since that fateful winter afternoon, he had been inspired to draw things other than the trees… (Y/N) in particular had become his unknowing muse.

No way in hell was he showing them that. They’d probably think he was a creepy freak and never speak to him again. As much as Helen hated to admit it to himself, he didn’t think he’d be able to handle that happening.

So instead, he fumbled for words, trying to save himself. “Uh, you know… more of the same, nothing new.” Helen refused to meet (Y/N)’s eyes. He chewed on the inside of his mouth nervously, picking at the edge of his sketchbook. He felt as if he was a child that had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

(Y/N) pursed their lips and then sighed, seeming to decide not to press his buttons about it. Over the course of their blossoming friendship, they’d learned that Helen could be quite protective over his artwork. It was best to leave it be.

So, (Y/N) changed the subject, knowing that Helen wouldn’t do it on his own. “Why don’t we sit, hmm? I’m tired of standing. I feel like I’ve been standing for like, like forever, man.”

“Okay.” Helen said, his shoulders sagging in relief. (Y/N) stubbed their cigarette out on the railing before they moved to plop down on the porch steps, their hiking boots clunking against the stairs as they got situated. Helen took his usual place next to them.

The pair settled into a comfortable silence, just staring out at the wilderness. Helen’s sketchbook lay on the stair, untouched. He couldn’t bring himself to open it in front of them just yet.

Instead, he looked over at (Y/N), trying to remain discreet. Early on in their friendship, Helen had decided that he liked their face (purely from an artistic standpoint, he was sure) and so he had taken it upon himself to memorize it (again, purely for artistic reasons). Not much had changed about them since he’d last seen them. There was a bandaid on their cheek, sure, but other than that they were still the same (Y/N).

Except, they looked so tired. Deep, dark circles rimmed their eyes, and their eyes themselves were completely bloodshot. Helen was all too familiar with this kind of tired, something he experienced after many sleepless nights sitting at his easel. He was shocked that (Y/N) was managing to stay awake in their state.

“Haven’t I told you that it’s rude to stare?” (Y/N) asked suddenly, startling Helen. They turned to him, cocking an eyebrow. Despite how exhausted they seemed, they were still alert as ever. A proxy trait, no doubt. “Do I have something on my face, orrrrr…”

“No, no…” He shook his head, looking forward again. He really wasn’t appreciating what the teasing lilt in their voice was doing to his brain and heart, but his concern for them seemed to outweigh that. God, he hated that he was concerned. What was wrong with him?

“Then what? You like what you see or somethin’?” (Y/N) leaned in expectantly, smirking. What an asshole.

Despite how close (Y/N) had gotten, Helen managed to look them in the eye (though he was practically holding his breath). “You look… tired, (Y/N). Really tired.”

(Y/N)’s smile softened, the mischief in their eyes fading. They moved back slightly, looking back out at the forest.

“Are you… alright?” Helen asked hesitantly, brows furrowed in concern.

(Y/N) sighed, taking a moment to answer. “...Yeah, I’m fine.” They brought a hand up to their face, rubbing one of their eyes absently. “‘S just… you’re right. I’m way tired.”

“...I know.” Helen mumbled, gaze never leaving their face. His hands twitched in his lap, wanting to do something to comfort his weary friend. Instead, he asked, “Rough mission?”

“So rough, ugh.” (Y/N) laughed quietly, as if they were reminiscing about a happy memory. “I got into a crazy fight with this guy – man, he almost killed me. You should’ve seen him though, I messed him up.”

Helen frowned. He knew that they shouldn’t be telling him these things, and he was not a fan of the idea of (Y/N) putting themselves in danger. It was a part of their job, sure, but in his heart he wished it didn’t have to be.

“(Y/N)...” They perked up when he spoke their name and his heart nearly jumped out of his chest. “I think you should go and get some rest.”

(Y/N) huffed, their expression going sour. “Yeah, but… I wanna-” they cut themselves off with a yawn before continuing, “I wanna spend time with you, y’know? It’s been a while. I missed you.”

Helen felt like he was going to die at those words, his heart pounding against his ribcage. “Oh, well, um…” I missed you too, he wanted to say, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

“I have an idea.” (Y/N) said suddenly, scootching toward Helen until their legs were touching and their shoulders were touching and oh god-

And then (Y/N) leaned their head on Helen’s shoulder and all he could smell was lavender shampoo and cigarette smoke and he was going to faint (but he didn’t). Their hair tickled his neck and they were so warm and Helen wished he could wrap his arms around them and pull them closer. Instead, he sat stiff as a board, breath caught in his throat.

(Y/N) either was too tired to notice or didn’t care. “Wake me up if something interesting happens, okay?” Was all they said before knocking out, snoring lightly (oh my god they snore).

They were definitely going to kill him.

#bloody painter #bloody painter x reader #helen otis #helen otis x reader #the bloody painter #the bloody painter x reader #creepypasta #creepypasta oneshot #creepypasta x reader #helen otis oneshot #bloody painter oneshot

110 notes · View notes

north-blue-hearts · 10 months

Text

Famous Last Words

CisFem Reader x Trafalgar Law

CW: Violence, swearing, mature themes, erotic romance, angst, creative use of devil fruits, this story is still in progress, I will add content warnings as needed.

Summary: You're the only person who knows the face of an infamous murderer. The Marines have put you in witness protection while they track down the criminal, and you now exist as Arcadia Helen Mercia - a humble accountant with no ties to the North Blue.

** PLEASE NOTE ** - The reader has a Cover Name, and that is used at the beginning of the story, but you are still (Y/N), and you'll see (F/N) (L/N) and (Y/N) used later in the story. THIS IS NOT AN OC STORY - I needed a "false" name for the fact that you've been given a protective identity.

This is a Band AU & Soul Mate AU - some variables in the story were decided by poll votes on tumblr xD so buckle up.

Chapter 1: Fake Your Death

Your life had been turned upside down when you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Well, as far as the Marines were concerned, you were in the right place at the right time, because you were a key witness to a murder.

You had been lamenting the latest failed relationship of your short life, and had gone on a walk. In your depression you walked an incredible distance from your home, and it took hours for you to get back. By the time you had even gotten anywhere near home the sun had set.

You hadn’t considered a taxi because you didn’t really have any money on you in the first place. The buses were an option, but again, money, and more than that, you didn’t like buses. You were rarely a fan of people as a general rule, and people on buses could be… unique.

When you heard odd sounds coming from an alley you had every intention of not paying attention, but your senses were on edge the minute the sun had set. You heard everything. You heard names that were carved into your heart from the fear that accompanied them. You knew someone was going to be killed for their mistakes, and you were acutely aware that there wasn’t anything you could do to stop it.

After the sharp sounds of silenced shots sliced through the air you had stepped back against the build and tucked yourself into the darkest shadow you could find. It seemed to take the killer forever to come out of the alley, and it was everything you had to keep yourself silent. You willed your breath into nothing, and stilled your heart with a strength you didn’t know you had.

Desperation saved you. Fear froze you - searing every terrible detail into your mind, never to be forgotten.

You didn’t move until you were certain he was gone. You barely allowed yourself to breathe until you were fully convinced that there was no other living thing in the entire city but you. You wanted to bolt to your apartment, but something compelled you to stand at the edge of the alley, and call the Marines.

Minutes later there were a dozen lights, and twice as many people. A tall man with white hair and a gruff disposition had made contact with you first, before handing you off to a subordinate. Officer Tashigi was nice, and calm. She let you cry, and stare off into nothing for as long as you needed, never once rushing you as you gave your statement.

You spent the night at the station, and most of the day asleep in Officer Smoker’s office. Too tired to even try to get home, especially after a long night of paperwork and questions. You still didn’t have money on you, and that’s how you ended up sleeping on the small sofa in his office. Well, that and you were adamantly against leaving Smoker’s side for a few hours.

The marine seemed to understand what you were going through and provided you with a pillow and a blanket, and then woke you up with a cup of bad coffee and a donut.

Your lack of funds, and your trauma response, saved your life.

When Smoker drove you home, you noticed the window was broken in your apartment. He accompanied you inside and found your place had been tossed. Beyond tossed, it was like someone tried to just demolish the entire space. Black ink was smeared everywhere, and in a few places there was a symbol that meant nothing to you, but everything to Smoker.

He pulled you out of the apartment and drove you somewhere safe right then and there. You spent time moving from safe house to safe house; you traveled by boat, carriage, car and cart. You even got to ride on a dirigible, and you couldn’t imagine the cost of that trip. Your identity was changed, so was your appearance – at least superficially.

Hair was dyed, and you had to deal with contacts for a while to have different colored eyes. You had shoes with lifts inside of them, to make you taller, and your clothes were shifted out for a completely different style. It rankled you a bit, but those changes only persisted for a few months as you were bounced around.

Smoker realized that you were the only person that had seen the serial killer’s face, and lived to tell the tale. They needed you alive, and even more than that Smoker promised you would be safe. Keeping you safe meant making you disappear into the sea of people that existed while they tracked down the man you had seen.

Weeks turned to months, months turned into two years.

You had calmed down after the first year. You trusted your instincts, and you no longer nearly leapt out of your skin at every snap or scuffle. You had a job, and your own place. You knew you could be moved away in a blink, but you were settling into a comfortable routine. You’d even made friends with some of the people at work.

You were allowed to live, you just had to be careful. No reacting to your old name. No talking about your hometown. No mentions of anything about your old life. You had to exist as Arcadia Helena Mercia. You almost grumbled you hadn’t even gotten to pick the name, but technically, you hadn’t picked your birthname either.

The only thing making it all easier was that you hadn’t left anyone behind. Your parents had passed away when you were in college, and it was why you hadn’t completed your degree. Arcadia had, however, she had an Associates in mathematics – and sometimes you felt a little sour that one aptitude test by the Marines was enough to effectively earn you a degree.

But (Y/N) didn’t have a degree. It was just another layer to keep you awash in a sea of people. Officially, (Y/N) died in a tragic boating accident, her poor corpse lost at the bottom of the North Blue never to be recovered.

Arcadia existed – born and raised no less – in the West Blue. Went to a school on an academic island, and then attended college in the Grand Line. Afterward she found a job in the East Blue, and that’s where you were now. Three places you only knew briefly as you’d been moved around, and half of what you knew of them had to be provided to you in files.

The irony being that Arcadia was a damn sight better at having a life than (Y/N) had been. Your better job had removed a lot of stress from your life, and the lack of stress made it easier to interact with your coworkers. You made friends, and because you were keeping a low profile you weren’t trying to find any romantic partners anyway. Everything was almost relaxing.

Part of you wasn’t exactly thrilled about the idea of going back to your old life, but you couldn’t worry about tomorrow. It could take the Marines years to find the killer, and as long as you kept up your end of the bargain, you wouldn’t get jerked around all the seas. There was some irony to it all.

“Oi, Dia, are you even listening?” A demanding, but concerned, woman’s voice snapped you out of your waltz down memory lane and you turned toward the source.

“Sorry, Nami, I spaced out. What did you say?” You smile turning toward the orange-haired coworker of yours. Nami was in sales. You, little mathematician that you were, were in accounting. It wasn’t a terribly glorious job, but it was a job that kept your human interactions limited, and kept your refrigerator full of food.

“I got tickets to Your Synthetic Enchantment.” She explains, pulling a few tickets from her pocket. “Vivi, Zoro, Sanji, Luffy and I were going to go. I remember you enjoying their music, you want the last ticket?”

You did, but crowds weren’t really your vibe. “Yes… and no.” You admit with a sheepish smile.

“Look, with Zoro there I promise no one will bother us. He’s got like an aura of intimidation.” She says it with a teasing smile, but you also know she’s not wrong. Zoro scared you the first time you met him, but he’s a solid guy. In more ways than one – he was at least 80% muscle by volume.

“Is it going to be televised?” You question. You’d confided in Nami a little bit about yourself. You had played it off as a seriously persistent stalker ex, and Nami, Vivi and Robin had turned into protective sisters. They even did shopping for you from time to time so you didn’t develop any routines. You cried when they made the offer – it was nice to have people willing to go out on a limb for you, but also some of your tears were guilt.

You wished you could be completely honest, but it would be as bad for them as it would for you.

Shortly after that, Nami introduced you to Sanji, Zoro, Luffy and Franky. She called them the Line Backers. Luffy decided you were friend-shaped almost immediately, and Sanji seemed to be enamored with everyone he ever met. Zoro nearly made you wilt, but once you realized he just had a semi-permanent scowl as his default expression, it was easier to talk to him. Franky was the coolest of the bunch.

He had an old punk kind of vibe and towered over everyone. Franky owned a motorcycle shop, and did a lot of custom work and repairs, but the shop itself was like a fortress. Apparently, he’d outfitted it to be a kind of bunker, for no other reason than sheer boredom.

Nami shakes her head. “I checked three times to be sure.” She assures you. “None of the World Heart Infection tour dates are going to be televised. It’s supposed to be more intimate for the fans I guess?”

“World Heart Infection? Are they hoping to meet their soul mates or something?” You nearly snort.

Nami shrugs. “Maybe? Can you blame them?”

You smile and sigh. “Ah, how could I forget, the lovely Miss Nami has found her soulmate, after all.”

Nami beams. “I’m telling you. You just know.”

“So I’ve heard.” Your smile doesn’t falter. “But the statistics.”

Nami rolls her eyes. “You’re such a math nerd, I swear.”

You laugh. “That’s fair. But, no, I would love to go. I haven’t been to a concert in ages, and I do really like their music. It’d be a treat to see them live.” You admit, taking the offered ticket. “Are we meeting somewhere and going as a group?”

“Of course!” She replies. “I’m not going to drag you to a crowded place without making sure you’re properly protected. We’re meeting up at Franky’s shop a couple hours before the start of it. Sanji’s going to feed everyone, and then we’ll pile into a couple cars and head to the venue.”

“Nami.”

“Yes?”

“Nami, these are backstage passes!” You hiss the words, trying not to shout in surprise.

Nami’s usual cat-like smile turns even more cat-like than you’d ever seen it before. “Luffy’s friends with the lead singer.” She nearly squeals the words, keeping her voice as low as possible. Your eyes go wide.

“Are you kidding me?” You ask and Nami shakes her head.

She leans in closer after looking around. “His sister is Uta, remember?” She explains. “He traveled with her a few times during her earlier tours and knows a ton of big artists because of it. I guess someone was harassing the band and Luffy just laid them out – well, Luffy and Uta’s manager Shanks. I swear those two should’ve gotten into boxing or something, they would’ve made bank.”

“Wow.” You say it legitimately. “Luffy’s full of surprises.”

Nami smiles and nods. “Okay, it’s three weeks from now, let me know if something comes up.” She taps the ticket. “Vivi and I were going to get outfits for the concert next weekend, you want to come with us?”

You nod, not wanting to decline. The best person to go clothes shopping with was Nami – it was uncanny the deals she ended up getting. “That sounds good. I don’t know that I have anything to wear as it is.”

“Hey, are you okay?” Nami questions, putting a hand on your shoulder.

You give her a proper smile. “Yeah, it’s just… two years ago today.”

“Ah. Oh sweetie, I’m sorry.” She leans forward giving you a hug and patting your hair. “We can go out tonight and grab some drinks. I can text Vivi and Robin, I’m sure one of the line-backers will be available too.”

You laugh a little despite it all. “That’s not a bad idea. Ah, but F-Franky or Zoro. I don’t know that I have the energy for Sanji tonight.”

Nami pats the top of your head before stepping back. “If I have to resort to Sanji, I’ll keep him on his best behavior.”

#Famous Last Words #Trafalgar Law x reader #x reader #reader insert #trafalgar d water law #band AU #Soul Mate AU

57 notes · View notes

zepskies · 1 year

Text

Never Say Goodbye - Part 3

Pairing: Dean x Female Reader

Summary: The first time you and Dean sensed each other’s thoughts and feelings, you were just kids. It would take years to realize that you both were bonded for life, and even longer to finally meet. [Soulmate AU] (Rated M for eventual scenes – 18+)

Word Count: 4,500 Warnings: Language, fluff.

Part 3: Contact

As it turned out, your life started to get better after you missed that shift at the coffee shop.

Oh, you still got fired. But the experience of nearly getting splattered on the pavement by an oncoming truck gave you some unexpected clarity about your life.

Mainly, you needed to stop wasting it. You were tired of jobs that would pay your bills but not bring you closer to your career. And frivolous thoughts of coffee shop boys and…the hope of running into your soulmate.

Maybe one day, you could dare to hope, but from now on, you wouldn’t let it rule your thoughts. You wouldn’t hope too hard either.

It could save you from the disappointment of never hearing anyone’s thoughts but your own.

So you decided to check the University of South Dakota’s career board for jobs, and you discovered an opening in the history department! A research assistant for one of your favorite professors, who was writing their dissertation on the strange, superstitious, and sometimes down-right disgusting social practices of the Ancient Greeks (including bottling up the sweat of their best athletes, because they thought their musky body oils contained magical properties).

Since you were already majoring in history, you were a shoe-in for the job. And working directly with your professor gave you a great resource for future classes.

Four years later, you had earned your bachelor’s degree in History. You even decided to further your education when you were able to get a scholarship for graduate school.

Now you were just one semester away from finishing your master’s. You still worked in the history department, but you had been able to upgrade—to Executive Secretary to the Dean of Ancient Studies.

It sounded fancy, but really, you were a glorified slave. Or at least, your boss seemed to think so.

“I need you to cancel my meeting at two,” said Dr. Birch. She breezed into your tiny office without knocking, startling you from where you were hunched over your laptop.

“Good morning!” came your reflexive greeting, though it was a bit too loud and sharp. You internally winced at yourself and relaxed your posture, like a bird unruffling its feathers. “Cancel your meeting with Dr. Wells?”

Dr. Wells was a nice man, and an important one. He was the Head Dean of the entire History department. Technically, he was above Dr. Birch. It wasn’t a good look to blow him off, but you weren’t about to say so.

“Yes, I have an important lunch, and I already know it’s going to go overtime. Gary will understand,” she replied. She was looking at her phone rather than at you. For all she cared, you were just a calendar with hands.

Dr. Helen Birch was a brilliant woman. She’d published no less than five books, had won awards for her peer-reviewed articles, and she had been your academic advisor all through graduate school.

She could also rival Meryl Streep for “bitchy-ass boss” in The Devil Wears Prada.

“I also need you to grade the final exams for one of my classes,” she said. “Greek Studies this time.”

You held back a sigh. Again? I’ll never finish my own finals at this rate.

But what you said was, “Sure, I can do that. And I’ll email Dr. Wells to reschedule.”

“Yes, make sure it’s not on Thursday,” she said, brushing a finger through her thin blonde hair. “I have to leave early to get my roots touched up before I go away this weekend.”

“That’s fun,” you chatted while you revised Dr. Birch’s calendar on your computer (and sent an apology email to Dr. Wells). “Where to?”

“Oh, I have this tedious conference in Chicago. But then my boyfriend is taking me skiing in Breckenridge.” She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I simply can’t wait. This semester has been a drain on my psyche, and just terrible for my migraines.”

With the email sent, you took a little breath and gathered some courage as you got up from your desk and gathered a handful of papers you had stapled together. It was a rough draft of your thesis, which was only a bit worse for wear (including a suspect coffee stain that you didn’t remember accidentally putting there).

“Actually, I was going to ask you if you got my email about my thesis. I just wanted to go over some of the feedback you gave me on the draft,” you said, trying to sound more confident than you felt.

Dr. Birch raised a brow. “What of it?”

“Well.” You showed her the front page, which was covered in red ink. “Mainly the part where you crossed out the first three pages and commented, ‘Missing the point.’”

She nodded. “Yes. I’m afraid I have nothing to add about that.”

Well, that didn’t exactly help you. The first three pages was your entire introduction to your thesis, “TV & Film: The Modern-Day Mythology of the Masses.”

You must’ve had a pitiful, lost look on your face, because Dr. Birch finally took pity on you. She sighed.

“You are a creative girl. I’ll give you that, but your degree is not in cinematography. You are a historian,” she said. “And while the ‘Well of Souls’ in Raiders of the Lost Ark may be based on a real historical place in Jerusalem, that does not mean Indiana Jones can, or should be described as a ‘religious experience.’”

My ten-year-old self would bed to differ, you wanted to retort, but you kept your mouth shut and lowered your eyes. Dr. Birch nodded to herself and was about to leave your office, until she stopped short and gave you her Amex card.

“Oh. And get me a coffee, would you, dear?”

The moment your day ended and you were able to get into your car, you let out a long sigh of relief. While you waited for your car to warm up, you massaged your hand, aching from grading papers for Dr. Birch’s class.

You rubbed your hands together, this time to warm them as the frigid air draining from the car still bit into your skin. A shudder tingled through your body, and not in a pleasant way. Honest to God, I hate the winter.

On reflex, you toyed with the silver ring on your right hand—your mom’s ring. It usually comforted you, but today, remembering her made your heart heavy. Because today was the anniversary.

You still remembered that snowy day when you were fourteen, could picture it so clearly, like a scene painted on glass.

With one last sigh, you fished out your phone to call your dad. It rang for a few seconds (it always took him an eternity to answer his phone, and it drove you crazy).

“Hello?”

“Hey, Dad,” you said.

“Hey. Just got off work?”

“Yeah, I’m headed back to Sioux Falls. Want to meet at home and go together, or do you just want to meet me at the cemetery?”

The other line was silent for a moment. Longer than you would’ve liked.

“You’re coming, right?” you pressed.

“Look, I’m gonna have to work late tonight,” Jack said. “Don’t wait up for me.”

“Really?” Your voice was terse. “It’s one day a year, Dad. You can’t even manage that?”

“I told you I’m working a case.” He sounded annoyed. You didn’t care.

You were pissed.

“Whatever,” you dismissed. But then, you realized you weren’t willing to let it go just yet. “You know, I just find it interesting. On her birthday, Christmas, today, somehow you just can’t be bothered to visit your wife.”

“Hey, drop it, all right?” your dad snapped back.

“Sure. It’s none of my business, I guess.”

“I don’t need your sarcasm either.”

You silently fumed, but you weren’t willing to hang up the phone first. You didn’t want to look petty, and apparently, neither did he. You both could be stubborn like that, sitting in a tense stretch of silence instead of just…

Instead of just, I don’t know what, you could admit, if only to yourself. Eventually, his voice reached your ears.

“I’ll go when I can,” he said.

“Fine.”

And you really did hang up this time.

What should’ve been an hour drive back into your hometown took almost two with the traffic.

Oh yeah, you still lived at home with your dad. It wasn’t ideal, especially with a long-ass commute every day. But unfortunately, being a full-time student with a part-time job didn’t give you the budget to have your own life.

At least you had your car—a dark blue Camaro your uncle had restored and gifted you for your twenty-first birthday. You didn’t talk to your Uncle Bobby as much as you would like. Between work and school and taking care of the house for you and your dad, you didn’t have much free time on your hands. You did see Bobby around town sometimes, and occasionally shared a beer with him when your demanding schedule allowed.

Your dad had never liked it, you hanging around your uncle. So you didn’t tell him.

That seemed to work out better for both of you.

In fact…

You reached for your phone again and found your uncle’s number.

“Stop badgering me, Rufus. I’m busy.”

Your lips curved into a grin. “Uncle Bobby?”

“Oh. Hi, darlin’. Sorry, thought you were some riff raff that keeps spammin’ me.”

“What did Rufus do now?” you asked.

“He knows,” Bobby said. The surly edge to his voice made you smile in amusement.

“What’re you doing later? Up for a beer?”

“Usually I’d take you up on that, but I’ve got some people coming in pretty soon.”

You scoffed. “You have people? What people?”

“You’re not the only number in my cell, you know,” he said dryly.

“What, you mean Rufus?” you teased.

“All right, now you’re just runnin’ up my minutes,” he said. “If you really want that beer, you’re welcome to swing by, if you want. I’ve got a stocked fridge full of cold ones.”

You laughed, then you considered his offer. Did you really want to go home and deal with your dad (whenever he bothered to come home)?

“Well, I’m going to the cemetery first, but I could maybe swing by after,” you replied.

“Right, that’s today, ain’t it?” Bobby said. “Give your mom my respects.”

A more genuine smile grew on your lips. “Thanks. Will do.”

You hung up with him just as you got to the cemetery. It was hard not to feel melancholy here, especially in the winter. All the graves were lightly dusted with snow, and it felt like the world came to a quiet stillness here.

You bundled up with your scarf and gloves as you braced yourself for the cold, stepping out of the car. On your way in, you heard the rumble of a car going by. It was loud enough to make you turn your head and see a flash of black speeding away.

You shook your head. People drive like maniacs nowadays.

You were about to continue on your way towards your mom’s grave, when you finally heard it.

Say goodbyeee…never say goodbye-y-aaayy. Holdin’ on we gotta try, holdin’ on to never sayyy goodbyeee.~

Someone was warbling a Bon Jovi song in your mind, and it certainly wasn’t you.

But you did come to a dead stop in your path. Your eyes widened as shock claimed your heart and your brain. Soon enough though, your heart warmed as you became aware of something new. It was like a low hum at first, reverberating inside your chest.

You and me and my old friends, hopin’ it would neeever end. Say goodbye—

The singing continued, but all you could focus on was the thrumming in your skull, the thread of connection you could sense and feel inexplicably. You didn’t realize you were crying until you felt warmth trickling down your cold cheeks. Sniffling, you wiped your tears with the back of your hand and smiled tremulously.

You were finally feeling your soulmate.

Which meant, he was close by…and with that realization came an important question:

What the hell do I do now?

They were in South Dakota again.

Dean knew coming back here was…potentially dangerous. He hadn’t heard his soulmate’s thoughts in four years, since the last time he was in this state.

Truth be told, he hadn’t wanted to come here. After the last hunt though, he could use some R&R at Bobby’s for a couple of days.

This time Dean had his brother with him, albeit the circumstances weren’t…great. Their dad was missing, and Sam had lost his girlfriend in the process of trying to find him.

Sometimes, Dean really regretted going to find his brother at Stanford. Part of him thought, if he hadn’t hooked Sam into coming with him to try and find John, maybe Jessica Moore would still be alive.

A more selfish part of him (one he wouldn’t name) was glad to have Sam with him. Dean was actually having fun hunting with him. And maybe, Dean was having to get to know him again too.

“You think Bobby will have any intel on Dad?” Sam asked from the passenger seat of the Impala. They were about five minutes away from Singer Salvage, the old man’s tow business (and his house).

“Doubt it,” Dean replied, changing the radio station once Bon Jovi turned to REO Speedwagon. He could get down with some pop rock from Jovi, but REO was pushing it.

“Then why are we here?” Sam turned to him with a frown. “We just ganked a poltergeist in our old house and…we saw Mom. You think we should be wasting time right now?”

Dean’s lips pursed. Leaving their old house behind in Lawrence, Kansas was exactly why he needed a minute before jumping into the next case. As much as he wanted to find John, Dean just…he needed a minute to breathe.

Revisiting those old (painful) memories wasn’t easy for him. He wasn’t sure that Sam completely got that.

“Bobby’s got a stack of lore books to Kingdom Come. Who knows, he might have a way to help us find Dad,” he said.

Sam shot him an unimpressed look. “And if he doesn’t?”

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He got why Sam was so fired up. Really. The fact that the kid was having weird…premonition dreams about the near future was concerning. And he wanted to find the thing that killed Jess, that killed their mom, but this was clearly going to be a marathon. Not a sprint.

“In the meantime, we crack open a couple beers,” Dean said, “get one or two of free nights on actual beds, and then we’re on our way to the next gig. How’s that sound?”

Sam let out a sigh through his nose and faced the road ahead. They both knew he wasn’t happy. Dean couldn’t exactly blame him.

When they finally got to Bobby’s, the old man greeted them with a casual wave, beckoning them inside. He offered them the contents of his fridge—a few beers and a frozen lasagna defrosting in the fridge. Dean scoped it out while Sam dropped off his bag in the upstairs guest room.

“That for us?” Dean pointed to the lasagna with a grin. “Didn’t know we merited the red-carpet treatment.”

“’Cause it’s not just for you,” Bobby said dryly, then he hesitated. “...My niece might be swingin’ by later.”

Dean raised his brows in curiosity. “Didn’t know you had a niece.”

Or any family, for that matter. He knew the old man had a wife, once upon a time, but he assumed she’d passed away. No kids. Bobby had never talked about having an extended family. He didn’t have pictures on the walls, and the shelves only had books and locked boxes.

Bobby took a long sip of his beer after opening a bottle each for himself and Dean. He had one ready on the counter for Sam, who came into the kitchen looking tired. The kid hadn’t been sleeping well for the past few weeks, to say the least. Dean handed him the beer.

“I don’t see her much,” Bobby conceded.

“Why’s that?” Dean asked.

It took a moment for the other man to answer. Eventually, he was honest. “Well, she's grown. Going to school, got a job. But you could say I had a fallin’ out with her dad, a while back.”

“You have a brother?” Sam said.

“Brother-in-law,” Bobby corrected. He didn’t say anything more about it though. Sam and Dean shared a look that said they agreed: There’s something off there, but I’m not gonna pry.

“You still see her though?” Dean asked.

“Every now and then,” Bobby said, sipping at his beer again. “It’s a small town.”

That kind of pissed Dean off. Bobby was a good guy. He’d watched Sam and Dean a lot when they were kids, their dad on a hunt. He’d made sure they had decent food to eat, good movies to watch, and even played catch with Dean a time or two.

So what kind of assholes did Bobby have for family, that they couldn’t be bothered to check in on the old man every now and then? They must’ve been off living their lives, in their own little world. Must be nice.

Dean brought the bottle of Heineken to his lips, only to realize it was empty. Couldn’t have that, could we?

He went to the fridge and opened the cap, only to jump as the beer fizzed and leaked over his hands.

Damn it!

Bobby sighed. “And I just mopped the damn floor.”

“All right, Martha Stewart. Keep your slippers on,” Dean teased. “Sam, get me a paper towel.”

Bobby tried to get by him to get the mop, but beer was still dripping down Dean’s arm.

“Would you move to the sink, already?”

Sam finally cracked a small grin as Dean rolled his eyes. “Fine. Jesus. You’d think Miss America was comin’ into town.”

Damn it.

You heard him again. And this time, you could hear his voice, so you knew the thought belonged to a him. The voice was pleasantly deep, and annoyed. You actually felt his irritation and were able to recognize that the emotion didn’t belong to you.

Excitement bubbled in your throat, almost making it hard to breathe as you drove your car down the road. You had been too worked up to go see your mom, and technically you were supposed to head to your Uncle Bobby’s house, but this was too important.

You needed to figure out how to talk to him—your soulmate.

So you pulled over on the side of the road, and even turned the radio off. Okay, now what?

You didn’t know what you were supposed to do. They taught about this subject in school, sure, but that had been years ago! You’d spent the past six years filling your head with college and work and learning how to be an adult.

Okay, just breathe. You calmed down a bit with some deep breaths, and you closed your eyes. When you first heard your soulmate’s singing in your head, you remembered feeling warmth spread through your body, emanating from your chest. Then in your mind, you’d noticed a…a thread, of what could only be described as energy.

You felt it now. You could almost visualize it with your eyes closed. In your imagination, it was bright and beckoning. You focused on it, and it grew brighter, thrumming and soft.

You thought of what you wanted to say, and you tried it—sending your thoughts and your will through the connection.

Having a rough day?

Dean was still wiping beer off the floor in Bobby’s kitchen when he heard your voice ring through his mind.

Having a rough day?

His entire body tensed, and he paused with a ball of wet paper towel in his hand. Sam had taken the mop from Bobby and was about to finish off the floor, until he noticed Dean blanking.

“Dean?” he asked.

It shook Dean out of his shock, enough for him to look up at his brother. “Hmm?”

“What’s up? You were staring off into space.”

Dean feigned innocence. “Nothing.”

Sam’s brow rose, but he didn’t press the issue and went back to mopping. Dean took the opportunity to toss the wet paper towel in the garbage.

“I’m gonna hop in the shower,” he said, and made his swift exit to the bathroom upstairs, so quickly that he didn’t see Bobby watching Dean curiously from the living room.

“Don’t use up all the hot water!” Sam called after him.

Once again, Dean found himself locking the bathroom door and staring at himself in the mirror. His green eyes were conflicted as he tried to calm down. Maybe his heart was starting to beat a tick faster. Maybe a trickle of nervous sweat was making its way down his spine. Maybe he didn’t know what the hell to do.

His dad’s warning was still clear as a bell in his mind.

“Unless you’re prepared to hang up your gun, and stop hunting, don’t open that door.”

Dean knew why John had said it, and even agreed with him…at least, logically he did. His life was complicated, and insane, and bloody. How could he put someone else through what he went through? What he still went through every day? It wasn’t right.

But his chest was aching. He rubbed at it absently.

He could feel your worry again, he realized. You were anxious, probably waiting for him to respond. Dean could feel you. Having a rough day? you’d asked him.

So as usual, he made an impulsive choice.

You could say that, he carefully replied. He remembered the way your voice sounded, smooth and pleasant in his mind, and he couldn’t help smiling a little. But not for long, I’m thinkin’.

Your relief hit him in a slow, but powerful wave. It almost made him feel guilty for taking so long to answer.

Well, it’s not every day you hear someone else in your head. Maybe you’re going crazy.

She was teasing him. You were teasing him.

It brought an incredulous smile to Dean’s face. You’re one to talk. Maybe you’re just talkin’ to yourself right now.

Hmm. I don’t usually warble to Bon Jovi, but maybe you’re right.

A beat of surprise, another to remember what he and Sam had been listening to in the car earlier, and then embarrassment prickled at the back of his neck.

You heard that, huh? he asked wryly.

Maybe, you giggled. It was a cute sound, and it cut through some of his embarrassment. He wasn’t used to being put back a step by women. He was good at reading people’s body language, and usually it didn’t take him more than one look to figure out what a woman thought about him, and what they wanted to do with him.

So the fact that he couldn’t see you was a challenge. With that realization, a slow smile spread across his face. He was game for a challenge.

Well, I’m likin’ your voice so far, he said. Think I could get you to sing for me?

He felt you pause, a flutter of warmth through a tendril of shyness. I’ll leave the performing to you, Romeo.

Come on, it’s only fair.

Who said life is fair?

Dean sobered a bit at that. Ain’t that the truth.

Hmm, so you were having a rough day.

Make it a week, he said.

Yeah, I know the feeling…I wasn’t having a good day today either.

Dean sensed your melancholy and didn’t like the feeling. Well, now you’re talkin’ to me. So it should be smooth sailin’ from now on.

He could feel you brighten at that. It made warmth bloom once again inside his chest, especially because he sensed you were smiling—a bit shy, but genuine.

…What’s your name? he asked.

It took you a beat, but eventually you gave him your name. It wasn’t what he expected, but he liked it. Your name rolled through his thoughts, and he tested on his tongue.

What’s yours? you asked predictably. Somehow, Dean didn’t anticipate the follow-up.

Suddenly he realized exactly what he was doing: he was talking to you. (Something he’d told himself he wasn’t going to do.) Not to mention, he’d been locked in the bathroom for about ten minutes and hadn’t even showered yet. Pretty soon either Sam or Bobby was going to come knocking to see what the hell he was doing, so he might as well shower for real.

He answered you as he turned on the showerhead and started undressing. I’ll make a deal with you…if you can guess what I do for a living, I’ll come by and introduce myself in person.

Dean felt your shock, so he let you think as he stepped into the shower. Eventually you came back, annoyance coloring your emotions and your voice.

That’s stupid.

Dean smiled. Aw, come on. It’ll be fun.

For you!

Don’t you know, sometimes the best things in life come after some delayed gratification.

You paused for a moment, in which Dean didn’t know if you were in shock again, or just pissed. Maybe a combination of both.

Great, I got a comedian, you deadpanned. …You’re not a comedian, are you?

Sweetheart, I’m hilarious, Dean replied. But no. Good guess, though.

He sensed the equivalent of you rolling your eyes.

Just then, Sam knocked on the bathroom door.

“Hey, you better not use up all the hot water!”

“Twenty minutes of peace, Sammy. That’s all I ask,” Dean shot back. Sam made a sound of annoyance, but he went away, leaving Dean almost alone with his thoughts.

Look, I gotta go, he said regretfully. But I expect you to have some guesses cooked up by the time I get back from work.

You were still annoyed, but you begrudgingly agreed to his terms.

Fine. Just…don’t wander too far off. I can’t win the game if I can’t hear you.

Dean sensed your underlying worry, and your fear. You were afraid he was going to leave.

His heart softened. As a result, he ended up promising things he didn’t know if he meant.

Don’t worry. I’m not leaving town until you win, he said.

He felt your warm smile, along with your excitement.

Goodnight, sweetheart. We’ll talk soon.

Okay…goodnight.

He hung onto the feeling of your presence for a few seconds longer, before he let go of the connection. For now.

Dean caught himself smiling, but it quickly turned to a frown.

“Nobody should be waiting on men like us to come home bloody.”

When he once again remembered his dad’s warnings, that new warmth in his heart chilled, and it sunk like a stone. He leaned against the cool bathroom wall and pressed his forehead against the tile, while lukewarm water beat the side of his face and body.

Shit.

AN: Oh, Dean. What're we gonna do with you? lol

I hope you enjoyed Part 3! I promise they'll finally meet soon lol. What did you think of their first conversation?

To keep reading: Part 4

Series Masterlist

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

743 notes · View notes

milkycarnations · 1 year

Text

Kinktober 2022

|Week Four| Bloody Painter x afab!Reader | aftercare, brat taming, spitting | 1,050 words

kinktober masterlist | crying, name-calling, degradation, spanking, established relationship, brat taming hence a lil' dubious consent, all consensual obvi but reader fights back because they're being a bratty sub, so struggle, mean Helen, soft Helen, good dom Helen, the holy trinity

Written for @just-a-creep-babe's #creepkinks. Helen shows his brat-taming skills. Y'all's safeword is vantablack. I will admit I was a little tipsy writing this one and I feel it came out so much more easily. We'll see what I think about this post later lmao.

"Open your mouth,"

He squished your cheeks between his fingers, but you shook your head in protest, giggling at him.

"You're being disobedient. This is your punishment. You don't get to decide not to learn today."

He squeezed a little harder and made you look into his eyes.

"Open."

You did so, sticking your tongue out. He spits. It wasn't often that he did this. He reserved it, particularly for when you said things you weren't supposed to, but all of his punishments came in two parts.

"Now, get up. Come lay over my lap. On the bed."

He walked to sit down on the edge of the bed and looked at you expectantly on the floor. You didn't move, wiping a bit of saliva smeared across your chin.

"I said to get up."

He reached over to pull you towards him. Once you made it to his legs, he lugged you up and laid you over his lap himself. You started to squirm, so he held your wrists together with his hand as he groped at your ass with the other. He gave you a light spank. It was nothing like what he was truly capable of, especially through the thick fabric of your pajamas. In fact, it felt a little flirty - you could only think about how you weren't wearing panties underneath, and he was so unbearably close to you.

"Do you want to tell me what you did wrong,"

"Not really," you said.

He gave you another smack. Light, playful, and really nothing special.

"Don't try me,"

You said nothing in response. You knew you were in trouble, but you felt spunky today. He spanked you again, this time harder, before pulling down your pants. You felt terribly bare against him, both embarrassed and needy.

"I was bothering you when you were busy," you said.

His hand swung down with a little more force than just gravity. Yipping, it stung and made you tighten your legs together yipped. You were getting squirmy, but he tried to ignore you, tugging your pants down more until they were off.

"You were being a little slut while I was busy," he corrected you.

Rubbing your ass, he let you think about what you did.

"Yeah, yeah, a slut while you were busy."

Another smack.

"Now's no time for an attitude with me. You were distracting me while I was painting."

You just now realized how hard Helen's cock was, pushing up against the front of your thighs through his pants. You humped into him a bit and he made a sound. It was a mix between a sigh and a moan and it was delightful to hear. He always sounded so soft and needy when he was vocal. You're sure you'd tease him about sounding like a sub another day. He spanked you twice this time, quick and sharp.

"You don't get to be impatient just because you want to be dicked down. I don't give a shit. Take your punishment like a good girl. Now, what did I tell you you aren't supposed to do?"

The smirk fell from your face.

"I'm not supposed to call you a little bitch because I'm too horny to wait,"

"Right."

He spanked you a few more times, each slap a bit harder and a bit faster than the last. You flinched a few times, whining at the pain. Eventually, he let go of your wrists, and you immediately brought your hands to your face to wipe away a stray tear.

"Now, keep your hands to yourself,"

You didn't argue as his left hand went to your ass and his right hand reached between your legs. He pushed a finger between them. Already wet he pressed into your cunt. The position made him hit your g-spot with ease. Instantly, he abused it, making you become putty beneath him.

"Since you wanna be a slut," he smacked your ass again while fingering you, "learn what sluts like you get when they're impatient whores."

You gripped the sheet beneath you, contorting at his touch. He was finger fucking you so good, but the spanking was enough to throw you off guard each time, making you jump and squeeze around him.

"Please, I'm sorry!" you begged him.

"I get to choose when you've properly learned your lesson."

He added another finger, curling them up now instead of simply pumping them in and out. He always had such slender fingers. You shoved your face into the mattress, trying to muffle the sounds you were making. Such a mix of pleasure and pain. Surely, you were a blistering red color.

Eventually, the sensation became far too much.

"Please! I'm gonna cum!"

"Cum around my fingers. If you're gonna be a slut, do it right for me. Yes, that's it."

Giving another final smack, he gripped your hip, holding you in place as you came violently around him. He didn't stop fingering you until long after you'd cum. The sensation left you begging him to give your pussy a break.

"Oh? That's it, you're tired already?"

His voice lilted, but he took notice of your tired eyes. He pulled out and used his clean hand to brush sweaty strands of hair out of your face. You looked properly fucked out. Giving you a soft smile, he carefully slid out from under you, leaving you laying on your stomach.

"I'll be right back, you stay here."

You didn't have any intention of moving, but you nodded and closed your eyes. A small kiss hit your forehead before you heard him walk away into the bathroom. The sink turned on for a moment before he was back in bed. He made no ordeal out of wiping you down and getting slick cleaned off your legs. You were blissed out.

"That's right," he sat the towel aside and laid down next to you, "you did wonderfully, taking it like that."

You hummed, nodding.

"Learned your lesson, didn't you? Don't worry. I'm not mad at you, love."

He cuddled up next to you and positioned you to lay against his chest. Your ass was sore, but you felt pretty good.

"Did you want to go to sleep early and call it a night?"

Nodding again, he reached over and flicked off the table lamp.

"Anything for you," he said.

#creepypasta #creepypasta smut #creepypasta kinktober #kinktober 2022 #creepypasta bloody painter #bloody painter #bloody painter x reader #bloody painter headcanons #creepkinks

279 notes · View notes

yanderelmk · 1 year

Note

Hello hello! ☆ May I request yandere Peng (from LMK season 4) x Female reader? Headcanons or an scenario you can choose between those two! ♡ (since I have lack of creativity I'm sorry :'D) I am ok with it! ☆☆☆

Thank you so much and have a nice day! 💖

Peng I imagine is the type of person that will fight for your honor, but not in the modern incel way. He genuinely wants you to feel honored and respected, and any who contradict that will get air-dropped into a polar bear's zoo enclosure

I imagine he likes bringing you gifts that can go from shiny jewels to outright gold coins

Considering he last graced the Earth with his presence uncountable centuries (even millennia) ago, it wouldn't surprise me if he follows old courting traditions. Any dates he would have you home by sundown (must keep your reputation in mind to show he's considerate)

He loves to show off. Just give him a reason. He wants to show to you that he's the most capable provider for you and that means slamming the sledgehammer on one of those Test Your Strength carnival games so hard the bell flies off into the stratosphere

Expect him to make comments about you being his queen and wanting to treat you how a queen ought to be treated

I want so. So badly to say that as an eagle he has a mating dance except it's the smoothest thing you've ever seen because he began actively studying new forms of dance in an effort to truly impress you

Love language will consist of making blanket nests b/c who wants to sleep on a rectangle? That's weirdo behavior

Will totally constantly talk about how the both of you are clearly the superior couple

He likes to keep watch over you at night especially since that's when you're at your most vulnerable

That bitch Helen stole your parking space? He's got you covered dw sweetheart you just give him five minutes

Will gladly carry you and fly you anywhere you want to go

"If nothing else in this wretched world is worth saving, at least I can protect my most precious treasure."

When he is tired he will rest his beak in your hand and will accept head pets

Might attempt to preen you, beware

You know with how sharp his beak looks if he deems they've disrespected you enough/pissed him off enough he could totally just do a lil peck-peck at their eyes

#lmk #lmk yandere #lmk yandere headcanons #lmk peng #lmk golden winged peng #lmk yandere golden winged peng #lmk yandere peng #lmk yandere peng x reader #lmk peng x reader #lmk peng x reader headcanons #lmk yandere peng x reader headcanons #lmk yandere x reader

71 notes · View notes

johnwickb1tsch · 5 months

Text

you're the worst thing (i'm addicted to) Part 3

PART 3

The rest of dinner is pleasant, but not terribly emotionally eventful, comparatively. You survive by telling stories about Helen from when you were children, which John listens to with a wistful look in his eye. Maybe it's the wine, and the excellent food, but that sharp edge in his obsidian eyes softens, somehow. It is endearing, and your heart aches more than it should.

You are so full you try to decline dessert, but the special is a chocolate mousse and John insists you should split one, even if you only have a bite. You are not sure if the waiter brings one spoon on purpose, but you watch with fascination as John takes the utensil between his long fingers and scoops up a delectable little nibble.

When he offers it to you from across the table you think you might die. You have had far too much wine to not do exactly what you want to now, which is to accept the sweet morsel between your lips while meeting his eyes, wishing it was something else.

Your panties are drenched by the time the meal is through. You know that you are the worst, living vicariously through your older, better, sister, but just in that beautiful moment, its hard to care.

You can always hate yourself properly tomorrow.

John's hand finds a home at the small of your back as you are leaving. You know there are Feminist! reasons to hate when a man does that, but secretly it’s your kryptonite at the end of a long evening when there’s a crowd to navigate and you're tired and not really sure which way to go.

“Can I drive you home?” he asks, looking down that straight patrician nose at you. You could draw him from memory, you've studied his features so much tonight. You probably will, later, when you’re alone in your apartment with just the reminiscence of him.

“I live in Brooklyn,” you warn him.

He seems amused by this.

“I know.”

You pause for a moment at this. But then, it’s not so strange he knows. Helen could have mentioned it a hundred times.

“Okay.”

When the valet rumbles up in a sinister black American sports car, you lift an eyebrow.

“This is yours?”

“Did you think I would drive a Mercedes like some kind of asshole?”

The next car in the valet line is a Mercedes, and the stodgy old dude behind you who just exudes Old Money looks like he's received an extra stick inserted in his ass. You huff, your lips twisting as you are fighting a grin.

“Usually I would make a crack about a midlife crisis, but it really does suit you.” You'd heard tell of The Car, but had never actually gotten to see it.

“Kind of you to say.” It’s so deadpan it takes a moment for you to realize he’s teasing you.

He holds the door for you, and you can tell by the way he’s looking at you that he has not taken anything you've said seriously, or personally.

“Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

The car is kind of bare bones inside, but it is undeniably cool. The sound of the motor is a tactile experience—you feel it in your bones as you pull away and take off down the street. You feel it other places too, as you look over at John seamlessly working the gears. Perhaps you look at him longer than what is polite, thinking about how once Helen used to sit in this seat, and they would undoubtedly go on adventures upstate, her cameras in tow.

You close your eyes, because you are tired, and you are thinking, and for the umpteenth time you are fighting tears. As you go across the Brooklyn bridge you roll down the window. The cool air helps clear your head.

The lights of the city at night from up high are a treat. Usually you're taking the subway.

Only once you arrive at your building and John parks on the street do you realize you never really gave him any directions. But once again, you shrug it off.

There is a long moment of silence after he turns off the engine. The intimacy of an enclosed car at night, the weak light of the street barely intruding. “Do...you want to come up for a drink?” you ask, before you can really stop yourself.

Another long moment passes, as he looks at you in the shadows of the car, undoubtedly weighing the merits of this suggestion. His dark eyes glitter in the night, and your heart is in your throat, hoping he'll say yes.

“Sure.”

He is watchful as a hawk of the street as you make your way to the security door of your walkup. He frowns when you simply pull the door open, no working lock.

“How long has that been like that?”

“At least a year. Shall we say the landlord moves at his own pace?”

“Give me his number.”

You laugh. “Ok.”

“I’m serious.”

You pause to look at him, his face half in shadow. A chill runs down your spine, the hair lifting on your arms; he is so beautiful, but there is something dangerous about this man. Something only your deepest instincts left over from the days of life in caves picks up on. It is…intoxicating, because somehow you know you are not the one who needs fear him.

Your landlord, on the other hand…you might be getting that new lock sooner than later.

You start to climb the stairs. When your heel catches the edge of the old wooden runner he is there, steadying you with a hand on your waist. You lean into him without a thought. He's taken charge of you, for the evening at least, and you are more than happy with the arrangement.

For the evening, at least.

Your key sticks in the vintage lock, the way it always does. The more modern deadbolt goes quicker. And then you are inside your humble sanctuary, and you can tell John is a little shocked by the cacophony before him. Helen liked the ordered balance of modern design, but you are a maximalist at heart. The walls are covered in art, your own, and friends’, and collected pieces as well. There are little shelves filled with curios from your travels and thrift stores around the city. What isn't filled with art is taken up by plants, on the floor, and side tables you have rescued from the curb over the years, and hanging from the ceiling too.

“Come on,” you say, taking his arm to guide him through. It's not actually messy. Everything has its place, and is fairly clean. The space is just full. “Have a seat. What do you drink?”

He lowers himself onto your cerulean blue couch, still looking around. It’s almost as though he forces himself to look back up at you.

“Bourbon, if you've got it.”

“Sure.”

You slide off your coat, hanging it on a vintage brass coat rack from an old hotel long defunct.

“Ice?”

“A little.”

You make his drink, and a vodka tonic for yourself. You cross the room to join him. “Thanks,” he says as you hand him his glass.

“Sure.”

He is still surveying the room, and you are content to sit in companionable silence while he takes it all in, used to this reaction from newcomers.

“Did you make these?” he asks, looking to a cluster of small but highly detailed portrait paintings on the wall closest to you.

“Yes.”

They had taken months with a tiny 20/0 brush. You can be…obsessive, when a project grips you.

“Impressive.”

“Thanks.”

“May I...” He pauses, taking a deep draught, nearly finishing his drink in one go. “I overheard, this morning. About the piece, with Helen's photographs. I know Helen said you don't like people in your studio, but I was wondering...if I could see it.”

It dawns on you that this is the reason he agreed to come up. Possibly the reason he took you to dinner too. You are relieved, in a way, even if your heart aches a little for it.

Even though it’s true that you usually hate letting anyone into your studio, the place where you think and dream and create, the resting place for the unborn and half-finished creations of your imagination, you do not hesitate in your answer.

“Yes. Of course you can see it.”

You stand from the couch and hold out your hand to him without thinking, and he takes it. It’s as though you both know you're going to need a little extra emotional bolstering for the task ahead. You take him to the second bedroom that is your art studio. The smell of linseed oil and paint is heavy on first entry, though you are used to it.

Helen’s piece is still on your easel, the most recent thing you’ve finished. Usually you like to work small, but this canvas was five feet on both sides. It took you months to go through the boxes of photos she’d left you, then to lay it all out, deciding which photo went where according to value and structure. You could have done it easier with photoshop, but the personal quality of this project demanded completion by hand, from start to finish.

To complicate things more, you used a transfer technique to affix them to the canvas, giving the images a hazy dream-like quality. In between it all you had painted with miniscule strokes, miniature scenes and tiny embellishments, adding color, pumping up contrast and value. There were words she had said to you, short one sentence stories from your childhoods, and miniature daisies sprouting through the cracks. It was a galaxy of image and memory, each square foot containing a multitude. Yet when you stood back and unfocused your eyes, it was unmistakably her face looking back at you, larger than life, beautiful and filled with warmth.

The subject of the photos ranged from her arty pieces of architecture and landscapes from trips she’d taken, to more candid shots of family and friends. There were also several images of John, and it occurred to you that maybe you should have okayed that with him. You’d been working in the pitch of such a fever dream with the materials Helen had left you, it hadn’t even occurred to you at the time to reach out to ask. You’d made this piece in a damn near fugue state, swinging between working rapaciously and crying in a ball on the floor. There had been some catharsis in finally finishing it, but the process had damn near killed you.

“I hope it’s okay…that you’re in it,” you say as he stands before the canvas, his exacting gaze taking in every detail of every inch.

He has not let go of your hand; in fact, his grip has tightened almost painfully upon your fingers. You don’t think he realizes he’s even doing it, and you let him hurt you, the way you’re pretty sure you’re hurting him with this visceral reminder of the life of the woman he’d loved.

“I’m honored,” he says, his voice hoarse with emotion, his jaw clenched. “Such a full life she lived.”

“Only the good die young,” you answer, barely able to raise your volume above a whisper against the constriction in your throat. “It’s not fucking fair. All the horrible people in the world…and the fates took her.” Your voice cracks. Your eyes are burning, and you know you are on the brink of losing your shit again. He pulls you in against him, and there are no arguments this time about preserving his suit or your dignity. It’s too easy, to settle into the solid warmth of his chest. This man feels like he could be a bastion against all that is bad in the world; it is hard not to wish to just stay there beneath his chin forever.

“I would have traded, if given a choice,” you whisper into his collarbone. “In a heartbeat.”

“Me too,” he answers. “But she never would have allowed it. She loved you beyond measure.”

You give a tinny, sad little laugh—or maybe it’s a sob—for the tragedy of it all. You know that no one—no one—will ever love you the way Helen did. Will ever protect you, the way Helen did. You will wander the Earth for the rest of your days with a Helen-shaped hole in your heart that will never heal.

“I know she felt the same about you.” Minutely you lift your head to look up at him. “It’s easy to understand why.” You touch his face lightly, wiping away the tear that is hovering on the blade of his cheekbone with the side of your thumb. When you realize how casually you have invaded this man’s personal space, this man who has been so kind and tolerant of you, you try to draw away. But his hand covers yours on his cheek, the scruff of his beard surprisingly soft beneath your palm.

Your eyes meet, and you can see that John is drowning in the loneliness of so much loss. You reckon you look about the same; this day has left you feeling like you fed your heart through a meat grinder. Pushed to the brink, perhaps there is little wonder that when his face descends, you do nothing at all to fight it.

Yet he does not kiss you.

His lips hover above yours, and you think you might expire of longing, caught in the limbo of waiting. He brushes the tip of your nose with his. It is almost unbearably sweet. You feel like it’s a gesture between two people who have been in love for ages. A remembered gesture, a sweet habit left from a different relationship, a different woman you resemble, but can never really be.

You should stop this. You should back away before you both get hurt. But then his lips touch yours, and any small amount of resolve you might have worked up to do the right thing shatters.

At first it is the simplest press of lips; light, and sweet. He is shaking; or maybe it’s you who is? He rests his forehead against yours, savoring the moment, or trying to talk himself out of whatever it is he is about to do.

It’s his choice, you know.

You no longer possess the willpower to stop him either way, and your wicked heart rejoices when he leans in to kiss you again. Still, he is gentle with you, as though you are a thing in his grasp that might break.

He isn’t wrong about that, and yet as the kisses go on, you feel it in him when something snaps—the change is sudden, and visceral, and you cannot withstand the onslaught as he slants his mouth over yours. It is like being caught in a hurricane, grabbed up by his inexorable strength and the fury of his desire. You’re not really a small woman, but he maneuvers you like you weigh nothing at all, backing you into the wall.

You know it’s wrong, somewhere in the back of your head, but it feels so good. Or maybe, it could be right? Maybe it could be ok, to take comfort in this certain someone who also loved the person you lost. Doesn’t that balance, somehow?

You are full of shit, but you also don’t care.

All you know is that he’s hiked your leg over his hip as he’s kissing you, and you can feel the hard length of him pressing into your center, and you might collapse with the heady pleasure of it all.

You reach for his belt, but he catches your hands, panting as he presses his forehead against yours again. “Let me touch you?” His words are laced with such a mix of fragility and need that you know no matter what he asks you for tonight, you won’t say no.

A trembling sigh escapes you as you nod, and he kisses you again, hard and hungry and you’ve never surrendered so willingly to anyone before in your life. He’s running a hand up your thigh to the molten core of you, pushing your underwear aside to slide a single long finger inside your desire-slicked body, and you are lost.

Utterly wrecked, and irrevocably lost.

He toys with your swollen little clit with his thumb while he finger fucks you, his mouth on your neck and you are so close, before he picks you up all together like you weigh fucking nothing, and walks you to the couch in the other room. A vague thought enters the cloud of your sex-addled brain, a small sense of relief that he has removed you from Helen’s watchful gaze on the easel.

Any guilt you might feel vanishes with the thrill of him dropping you on the soft cushions, which is only topped by him dropping to his knees before you in that beautiful suit, (that beautiful suit!), and hooking his fingers in your panties, practically tearing them down your thighs.

There is a moment of eye contact, that burning dark stare that bores a hole straight to your soul, before he falls on you like he means to devour you whole and lick the bones clean. You’ve never felt anything like his furious mouth on you, the hard licks and soft kisses, the circling of his tongue around your clit, the relentless pleasure he mercilessly bestows until your back is arching and you cannot stop and you cannot wait, you are cumming in his mouth.

It’s the most magnificent thing you’ve ever felt, this fierce and fiery pleasure that is like fireworks inside your cunt and across your skin, and he keeps licking you slowly through the tremors and the aftershocks until you beg for mercy.

There is a moment of reverent quiet, while he rests his cheek on your thigh, your hands stroking his long dark hair. But when you try to reach for him, “Come up here,”—you are suddenly in his arms again, and he is carrying you to your bedroom, laying you down. You expect him to climb in with you, but with a flourish he covers you with the sheet, effectively trapping you, pressing a hard but reverent kiss to your forehead. “Get some rest, y/n.”

“Wait!” you plead as he is walking to the door, dizzy from the whiplash of this change of direction. You hate the desperation in your voice but at the moment you’re unable to care. “Where are you going?” Even you can hear how pathetic you sound.

He stops in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder. His profile is half in shadow. He looks like a masterpiece by Carravagio, beautiful and terrible to behold. You want to paint him in this moment, almost as badly as you want to fuck him.

“I’m going home.” You cannot tell if that is regret in his voice, or pure exhaustion?

“Why?” You know you sound wretched, like the lost little girl you are inside.

“Good night, y/n.”

Then he is gone like a shadow, like he’d never been there at all. You barely even hear the front door snick shut. If it was not for the glorious soreness between your legs, maybe you would have thought it was all just a magnificent dark dream your twisted little imagination thought up.

You weren’t usually prone to such dramatic thoughts, but it was possible that John Wick had just ruined you for all other men, and you didn’t even get to see him naked.

PART 4>>

Part 1 Part 2

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick x y/n #keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #i'm so sorry i'm sorry for everything #john wick fic #john wick x you fic

84 notes · View notes