Tumgik
#like it was pretty much just death and drugs
deconstructthesoup · 3 days
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Fantasy High Good Place AU
I am very happy that y'all voted for this, because it's been living in my brain rent-free for the past couple weeks.
So, right off the bat---this is partially self-indulgence, and partially a little exploration of what the Bad Kids would be like as adults if they hadn't found each other... and, well, if they were living in a more mundane world. And, of course, I had to combine and add a couple roles, just to make everyone fit.
Fig: She's in the Eleanor role as the main POV character, and as the first person who decides to learn how to be better. In life, she was a twenty-seven-year-old musician living in Phoenix, Arizona who was still trying to find her big break, and got by via drug-dealing after a string of shitty service jobs. Fig hasn't spoken to her mom in years, even after both Gilear and Gordie (aka Gorthalax) have both died, and she put up a front of selfishness and constant lies due to not trusting anyone and being afraid of being vulnerable. But when she dies and supposedly gets mistaken for a pro-bono death-row lawyer, she realizes that she's gotta ask for help...
Ayda: She's in the Chidi role---a high-strung ethics professor who devoted her life to figuring out the deep secrets of the universe, often at the cost of her own mental health. She's not as indecisive as Chidi, but she's very much of the mindset that ethical standards should always be upholded, and she initially sees nothing wrong with the points system. As Ayda becomes closer to Fig, she starts to pick up on how the system doesn't count for extenuating circumstances, and how much of an actual minefield ethics is... and she starts to reflect on her own life, where she never knew how to connect with others and stayed in her comfort zone of academia. Throughout bonding with the others, she slowly learns how to let her walls down and challenge the system.
Fabian: He's in a Tahani role, as the upper-class socialite who pretty much bought his way into "heaven" and definitely has a bunch of narcissistic tendencies. Unlike Tahani, however, he's very much aware of his own failings, and he constantly stresses about how fragile his standing and happiness is---though, he's become incredibly good at hiding it. Fabian's pretty much been living in the shadow of his late father's legacy for his whole life, and he spent most of that life trying to be just as good, if not better, than him... so, when he supposedly gets into the "Good Place," it's essentially proof that he did everything right. Of course, that still doesn't keep him from feeling like there's something amiss, especially since there's some issues with his assigned soulmate...
Riz: In life, Riz was a P.I. who mostly did petty work for rich people and got used to doing things that were vaguely shady in order to get by. By the time he died, he had a very low opinion of people in general, and had a "dog eat dog" mindset... which was immediately blown out of the water the second he realized that he'd been mistaken for a brilliant secret agent, and he was going to spend his afterlife with a self-centered rich boy as romantic soulmates. Riz being Riz, he immediately started to figure a way out of this situation, eventually finding out Fig---and one other person---and agreeing to take Ayda's ethics lessons if it meant he could earn his spot in the Good Place... though, of course, he's still subconsciously picking up on the little hints that something is off.
Kristen: She's in the "Jason" role... sorta. When she was alive, she was a former member of a conservative Christian cult who left when she was nineteen, spent the next five years trying to find another truth to pursue, and spent the last three years of her life partying her problems away and living high on nihilism. So it was quite a shock for her when, after dying, she supposedly got sent to the Good Place... and only because they thought that she's a humanitarian pastor, and straight to boot. Kristen initially doesn't want to waste time with ethics lessons, but as more and more things start to go wrong, she reluctantly agrees---and ends up reconnecting with that curious, searching part of herself that she thought she'd left behind, over and over again.
Gorgug: When he was alive, he was a physicist who made a lot of impressive discoveries---many of which had the potential to really help people---but due to the fact that he had a lot of issues with standing up for himself and believed himself to not be as smart as he actually was, he tended to let himself get taken advantage of and have other people take credit for his work. Getting into the Good Place kind of confirmed Gorgug's belief that keeping your head down and being humble would pay off eventually... until his assigned soulmate immediately told him that she was a) gay, and b) here by mistake. The two of them do become pretty good friends, and Gorgug even sits in on some of Ayda's ethics lessons, learning a bit about himself as he does.
Adaine: She's Janet---or, rather, an "Oracle," one of many informational assistants made by the Good Place (the Bad Place has Informants, while Accountants have Librarians). Every Oracle is given a name upon being activated in order to distinguish her from others, and, well, hers is Adaine. She starts off as your typical cheery, happy-to-help living Siri, but as time goes on and she gets rebooted over and over again, she starts to form genuine connections with the humans, and with connections come actual feelings... including the rise of mild anxiety. Adaine's grateful for that, though, as she sees becoming more human as an incredible experience.
Aelwyn: Honestly... there was no other character who was bitchy, multifaceted, and weirdly loving enough to be Micheal. At first, underneath her quirky and "cool older sister" angel persona, she's every bit the callous, vindictive, and cruel demon who only lives to torment human souls and prove her worth to her boss. But reboot after reboot, she fails, the humans become closer and figure her out... and she's eventually forced to cave. Aelwyn never fully loses her bitchiness and slightly amoral nature, but she does develop a heart and self-awareness as she becomes friends with the humans---and as she forms a sisterly connection with Adaine. Even a demon can learn to grow.
I have more thoughts, but I've spent a lot of time figuring out how to make this coherent, so... yeah!
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secret-w-l · 2 days
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~Whump #7~
Ft. Arrogant Whumpee, Vengeful Whumper, Pirate Whumpee, bound and gagged
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(This one’s a bit long- hope you enjoy!)
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Whumpee hissed through their teeth, the air they released filled with judgment.
“I don’t mean to pry, but are you really using that knot? Are you sure it’ll hold?” They asked. Whumper grumbled something under their breath as they focused on wrapping tight, thick rope around Whumpee’s wrists and the arm of a chair. Whumpee crossed their legs in a relaxed way.
“Alright then, don’t listen to me. I mean, what do I know anyways? I’ve only sailed for my entire life…” Whumpee trailed off. They began to whistle nonchalantly, as if they were waiting for the train rather than being held against their will. Whumper said nothing, finishing with their wrists and moving to their legs. Whumper grabbed Whumpee’s crossed leg and pulled it to the floor rather violently. Whumpee continued to whistle as Whumper tied their legs to the chair. When Whumper stood and turned around to retrieve something from their bag, Whumpee sighed.
“Look, I’ve got no clue what you’d want from a pirate like myself, but I will say it takes some guts to kidnap someone like me. I mean, taking a Captain straight off their own ship? I almost have some respect for you. . .
Almost.”
Whumpee waited for Whumper to turn around and lose it.
But they didn’t. They simply continued digging around in their bag. So Whumpee continued talking. Someone had to fill the silence, right?
“Anyways, will you be looking for a ransom? I’m almost positive my crew will be happy to kill you instead. Here’s a tip- I wouldn’t give them your location. That may spell disaster.” Whumpee paused.
… Still nothing.
“For you, I mean, not me. I trust my crew. They adore me, you know. You were smart to drug me earlier- otherwise I would have called out to my crew and you’d’ve been dead before you took another step. They’re pretty adept at what they do. I’ve seen them gut people like fish. . . I’ve taught them well.” Whumpee said proudly.
Whumper still did not turn around, but they had stopped looking through the bag.
Whumpee sighed dramatically.
“You know, all of this waiting is quite rude. At least I’m a merciful person: when I capture someone, I make their death quick. . . . Is that your aim here? To kill me? I mean, that might be what I would do: grab someone important, offer a ransom, and then kill them. You get the ransom because there’s no way to prove whether or not you actually kidnapped the person you say you did, and people care too much- they’d all rather be safe than sorry. But they’re sorry either way. Their very important person is dead and you walk away ten times richer. It’s really all very genius. Well, I came up with it, of course it is!” Whumpee said with a grin.
And still, Whumper did not react.
So Whumpee continued.
“You know, I really am quite smart. How do you think I became Captain? That plan I just laid out for you? That works well when taking over another ship. Especially if that ship is run by a man who has people to protect.”
Whumpee didn’t notice, but Whumper began to shake- just so slightly.
“Yes, I always thought it was quite stupid that someone should bring his entire family out to sea and expect them to be safe. It was almost too easy to grab their ‘Captain.’ (Whumpee made the quotation marks with his fingers) I took him simply by holding a knife to his wife’s throat. He came very willingly after that. Once I had him, I ordered that his family- his crew- hand over their ship and all the money they had. Or else I’d kill their Captain. They, of course, quickly gave me everything. But it never mattered. He was dead before they even agreed. Dead before I offered the ransom. So. . . I don’t suppose you’re after my ship? Well, I’ll tell you right now, even if you do kill me, you’ll never get my ship. That little anecdote I just told you is drilled into my crew’s heads. They know better than to give everything up without proof of life. And besides, if you do end up killing me… well, that, I suppose, is your prerogative. Though I don’t suggest it. My crew will seek vengeance, and I’ve instructed that it should not be pretty.” Whumpee threatened.
Was Whumper… laughing? This struck Whumpee into silence- why would they be laughing?
And indeed, Whumper was laughing. They turned around with a rag and a knife in their hand, both shaking with laughter. They stalked over to Whumpee and stood in front of them.
“You really don’t get it, do you? You really don’t know who I am?” Whumper asked.
“Am I supposed to?” Whumpee asked with a short laugh. Whumper shook their head slowly.
“No… no I guess not. I was so much younger then… you wouldn’t recognize me now…” Whumper said. Whumpee rolled their eyes.
“Look, I’m all for a tragic backstory, but really, if you’re going to kill me, my last wish is that you make it quick.” Whumpee said. Whumper raised an eyebrow and leaned over Whumpee, using Whumpee’s shoulder as support.
“That’s my father’s ship you stole. I want it back. But not before I show you a good time.” Whumper whispered. Whumpee’s eyes went wide as Whumper pulled away and began walking in a circle around Whumpee.
“Ahhh! I see!” Whumpee said. And then they laughed. “So, this is revenge! Excellent! Like I said, I gave your father a quick death, so, seeing as this is an eye for an eye situation, you’ll be killing me very soon here, is that correct? I mean, I can tell you exactly how I went about it, but I’m sure that’s not something you’d want to know.” Whumpee said. Whumper stopped behind them. They said nothing for a minute before sighing dramatically and leaning down next to Whumpee’s ear.
“You are a very conceited person Captain. I’m sure you’d love to die. But I won’t be the one to provide you that pleasure. And besides, I’m not the only one who’d like to get to know you. My family has been dying to meet you and it would be rude to kill you before everyone’s had their fun.” Whumper said. Whumpee began to protest, but Whumper shoved the cloth in their mouth before they could.
“Sorry about that, but unfortunately, there are people around, and we wouldn’t want anyone finding you prematurely.” Whumper said as they walked around to the front of Whumpee once more.
“Maybe later, when your crew stops looking for you- because they will- we can move you somewhere else. Somewhere where there are no people and I’ll get to hear you scream until your throat gives out.” Whumper said.
Whumpee tried to continue playing it cool, but it was clear now that Whumper really meant business.
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hearties-circus · 5 months
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What if you take a meme redraw and make it sad
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regallibellbright · 2 months
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Honestly I think I'd hate Arthur Cantabella less if they'd simply removed the whole "Yeah no this is a government-condoned psychological experiment" aspect.
TESTING WHAT?! No, genuinely, what? Using the contaminated groundwater/weirdass Silver Fainting Allergy and/or the flower ink as a drug? Because uh, if that's the case, then I'm pretty sure using them both in conjunction contaminates your results.
Is it something about mob mentality? In-groups and out-groups with the elaborate tech crew made of convicted witches and victims maintaining the whole illusion? In that case, I think the fact that you're drugging and gaslighting the entire experiment group is also contaminating the results.
Also the whole fantasy setting is probably a confounding variable for Something.
Okay sure parents could consent to taking part in this experiment for their children, but uh, I'm pretty sure some of these kids were born AFTER the experiment began. Given the aforementioned Large Amounts of Drugging From Multiple Origins going on here, I have some concerns!
No seriously. Please. PL vs PW writers. Give me the grant proposal Arthur Cantabella submitted to get anyone to fund this project. I know it's Bill fucking Hawks, but even he's got limits! I don't see how he benefits from half this shit even if he wants to use the other half (I assume the drugs.) Why is he paying for the rest? There's a reason why Clive is established as being a lone schemer with obscene amounts of money who's keeping all his scientists in the dark and/or coerced to keep building, and it's so that we don't have anyone there questioning why he's building an elaborate fake town populated by actors in addition to his Underground Vengeance Mecha!
The fact that you somehow managed to get this cleared as a psychological experiment establishes that you know the field of psychology exists. Why in the name of all that is holy did you think building an elaborate fake fantasy town with an elaborate magic system which you make real through the power of drugging people, knocking the ENTIRE TOWN out every time a spell is used, changing things around them to simulate "magic" using the most ridiculous Renn Faire stage crew ever, and manipulating the clocks so no one's aware time is passing, with a system that prosecutes witches and burns them so that they can join the Renn Faire Stage Crew along with their victims, and positioning yourself as the all-powerful Storyteller who writes their reality into being would be a better solution than therapy?
Honestly I'd respect "I had a god complex, lol" more. Especially for that last one, but like. In general. Descole's out there living his worst life, he KNOWS he's an asshole supervillain agent of chaos, and I respect this because he has clearly CHOSEN to be Like This. You do you, man. Ditto for Don Paolo but like, less effectively.
This is not how any of this works.
Okay, setting... ALL OF THAT aside, you're doing this because your and your best friend's young daughters are understandably incredibly traumatized because they wanted to ring the bell early and the Weirdass Groundwater-Induced "Allergy" That Makes You Faint When You Hear Silver Ringing caused them and everyone else to pass out, and as everyone in the square below was having a fire festival, this caused a massive tragic conflagration. Okay. Yeah, this is bad. (I have. MANY questions about how this bell was made, excavated, and mounted in the square without anyone ever ringing it and realizing something had happened, but we're going to gloss over those for now, it's Professor Layton and I would otherwise be all over this incredible bullshit. It's great up until it asks us to think THIS was ever a remotely reasonable idea.) One of your daughters is all but catatonic because a story you told her earlier has convinced her she either is or will be taken by The Great Witch Bezella. Sure. (You suck.) Why the FUCK is your solution based on the other one unpersoning herself to her best friend and doing all the work to make the magic real? Yeah, sure, she agreed to it. SHE'S LIKE EIGHT TO TEN. HER BEST FRIEND THINKS SHE'S AN AWFUL MONSTER AND WON'T REACT OTHERWISE. OF COURSE Eve's gonna help, but that doesn't mean you should put the entire burden on her! She is ALSO horribly traumatized to the point of repressing what happened. Get her help too. The fact that the game seems to put their actions on remotely even footing when one of them has been treated like shit since she was TEN and one of them was an adult who PURPOSEFULLY AND INTENTIONALLY set up a system that would put her in this shitty situation means that yeah, no, they fundamentally are not. Of course her decisionmaking is misguided and terrible! She's a twenty-year-old who's been horribly mistreated for more than half her life! HER DAD JUST COMMITTED SUICIDE OUT OF GUILT FOR HIS ACTIONS IN SETTING UP THIS SYSTEM.
No one's going to hold them responsible for the deaths. This was a sequence of events so thoroughly unforeseeable that literally no one could have predicted it. It won't even reflect poorly on you and Belduke, because you two somehow managed to find the bell, excavate it, and mount it without ever ringing it and realizing it knocked you out and you all had an environmentally-induced silver "allergy" and at that point this goes into "acts of a cruel and malicious Writer-God" territory.
Also it was totally predictable that this elaborate system of misogyny would not actually help Espella in the long term as she instead repressed her memories and further internalized the whole witches = evil thing so that when those memories inevitably came back she would be in EVEN WORSE shape, this is why you should have gotten an actual psychologist who could have told you this whole thing was a terrible plan to write your grant.
No like does he drug all his requests to whoever he reports to (it has to be directly to the person signing checks) in the mind-control ink? This is my only explanation here.
Why. In God's name why. Did you not. Simply. DESTROY THE FUCKING BELL TOWER. You have a crane here! What possessed ANYONE to think just covering it up with Vantablack and gaslighting so people couldn't see it was a reasonable solution to the Trauma Tower? (There may be an explanation for this, it has been ten years, but this man's problem solving has been established to be so poor I award him no points.)
And if you were going to do this, why didn't you tell Newton? Or was it just that the lightning strike burning up the Vantablack was itself a reminder to him that you can't repress the past away and he was suddenly aware of how overwhelmingly POINTLESS all this suffering was? (Edit: I think it was this. No but seriously you could’ve just taken a fucking wrecking ball to that thing while you were rebuilding the town.)
Seriously why the fuck did Newton Belduke go along with letting you use his traumatized daughter like this? What the hell, man. What an asshole.
Also. Your problem was that you had two severely traumatized little girls (even if you only acknowledged one of them was traumatized.) Your solution was... to traumatize a shitload more young girls?
TO THE POINT WHERE AT LEAST ONE OF THEM ATTEMPTED SUICIDE?!
And then your best friend actually committed suicide?!
Like. Seriously. If these are the actions of a single, seriously traumatized person, the fact that you are making Literally The Worst And Most Inexplicable Decisions Ever Which Make The Problem Worse For Literally Everyone Involved is more... well, conceivable. I buy a traumatized eighteen-year-old with an obscene amount of money building an elaborate fake London that is allegedly London ten years in the future, hiring actors to populate it, kidnapping scientists, making them build an Underground Vengeance Mecha to destroy the city, and then kidnapping the Prime Minister who is the source of that trauma and hooking the engine of the mecha up to his heart. And then roping in the one guy who could conceivably solve the whole problem and stop him and Clive would let it. It's a bad idea on EVERY conceivable level, don't get me wrong, on an UNPRECEDENTEDLY terrible scale, but it's a bad idea in which it is very clear no one at any point has asked the person what the fuck they think they're doing here, what they are trying to accomplish, and why they are doing so with this objectively absurd method. Because they have not let anyone in close enough to key them to The Full Absurd Terribleness. It's either this or become Batman.
But Arthur? Apparently his decisions have been vetted by OTHER PEOPLE, and this just boggles my mind. I refuse to believe this. I refuse to believe NO ONE went "have we considered this is like eight hundred terrible ideas bundled up into The Worst Idea Ever?" And I refuse to believe he's anything but a massive asshole when his plan had so many awful consequences for literally everyone BUT himself!
Like, don't get me wrong. There are SO MANY examples of unethical experimentation on human subjects in the real world, psychological and otherwise. But most of them are not this incredibly convoluted, implicitly expensive, and we all generally recognize these days that they were bad.
Also, none of them were enacted as an elaborate setup to (incompetently) handle the trauma of the experimenter's daughter after he told her if she was bad a scary evil witch would possess her and then she and her friend accidentally enacted a tragedy whose scale and fundamental absurdity rival the Boston Molasses Flood, but without corporate greed. There were solutions to this that were so much easier, less convoluted, less EXPENSIVE, and less harmful to... well, everyone else involved, except Arthur Cantabella.
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thatmartiangirl · 6 months
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Today on people need to be clearer when talking about menstrual health:
The definition of "Heavy Bleeding" needs to be more descriptive. Every place I've seen it talked about only defines it with how frequently you soak your pad/tampon
For the first time today I saw blood clot size referenced and hey if you are having blood clots larger than like a grape you probably also have heavy bleeding! Congratz!
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gutsby · 30 days
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Cabin Fever
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Pairing: Dark!Joel x Dark!Reader
Summary: Joel saves your life, but help comes at a price.
Warnings: 18+. DEAD DOVE: DNE. NONCONSENSUAL. I’m never ever beating the insane bitch allegations, I fear. Protector-turned-pervert-turned-unwilling-captor-kinda. Corruption kink. Daddy kink. Somnophilia. Misogyny. “It’s too big; it won’t fit” + Joel “I’ll make it fit” Miller. Captivity on both ends. Oral (f!receiving). Gunplay. Oversimplified first-time anal. Uno Reverse Drugging. Evil, inexperienced reader meets evil, feral, slutty Joel. Attempted murder x3. Russian Roulette…as foreplay?
Notes: Both characters SUCK. I condone nothing they do. Please do not take any of their behavior or language to reflect my own moral predilections. That is all 🚬😵‍💫
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You were hardly shaking at all when he’d found you chained, maimed, and frozen half to death on the plains.
He didn’t see that every day, that was for-fucking-sure.
Joel Miller barely got to see his share of happy, grinning girls on the cold and bitter frontier he inhabited. Ones that were tied to posts and clinging to life were even less common, so the sight of you there had almost frightened him at first. He’d approached you like one might advance upon a sleeping bear: with the utmost caution and a Winchester Model 70 levelled directly at your head.
He’d learned you were unarmed and defenseless in less than a second. He’d come to realize you were largely unconscious—and unclothed—even sooner than that.
He had been industrious in freeing your hands and feet from their restraints but never uttered a word as he did.
Even on the two-and-a-half mile trek back home, he hadn’t spoken once. You’d hung off his left shoulder like a pretty, frosted slab of meat, covered only with the sherpa blanket he’d secured around your neck, and dangled precariously down his back for the entire fifty minutes.
Your toes were two shades shy of onyx with frostbite.
Your limbs were hanging like lead over his chest.
A whisper of, ‘You’ll be fine, darlin’, I promise’ had just seemed ill-suited for the circumstances and his nature. In truth, Joel didn’t know if you’d be fine. You might die. The blood wouldn’t be on his hands one way or the other, but he never had liked burying bodies this time of year. He’d have to wait until April to break ground, at least.
Presently, he dropped your limp form to the floor of his cabin and hoped he wouldn’t be needing to bury anyone.
You sort of looked charming in the firelight.
He stomped off to the kitchen and began rifling for pans, preparing to defrost the icy stranger as best he could.
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You didn’t die.
You didn’t wake for forty full hours, but you didn’t die.
When you stirred on the floor with warm sherpa around your shoulders and a rough calfskin rug under your ass, you thought you had died—maybe taken a pit stop in cowpoke purgatory while you were at it—but then you blinked. Breathed. Realized you were still very much inside your body and most likely still in Wyoming.
You sat up where you were and looked around.
“Da-a-d?”
You knew it was useless, calling for your father.
He had been dead almost eight months; you just wanted to double-check to make sure you were still on earth.
When dead dad didn’t answer, you tried someone else.
“Momma?”
Still no answer.
Figured, since she was among the ones that had left you chained outside in the first place. It’d been worth a shot.
You started to rise from your place, when a sharp pain in your side made you plop back down on the rug. You winced and lifted the blanket, then your old nightie.
A neat little taped-down bandage had your ribs encased in antiseptics and gauze. You frowned down at a stain in the centre, which looked to you an awful lot like blood. That circle of old fluids must’ve been twice the size of your fist and currently oozing tiny, fresh beads of blood from the strain you’d just exerted. You pursed your lips.
Least they could’ve done is kill me, not leave me here.
You’d take it up with your old would-be assassins another day, you were sure. Right now, you were parched, starving, in dire need of a piss, and reeling on the floor to grab hold of something sturdy to lift yourself. But you were as much a child then as you had ever been, swaying in place and clawing at air like someone who’d never kept their balance before. Or might’ve been drunk.
You rolled onto your good side and cast a sweeping look around the cabin. You smelled slow-cooked barbecue.
Thank fuck, you thought.
Now, if I were a juicy rack of ribs, where would I be?
The kitchen was dark and empty; the smell was coming from elsewhere. You craned your neck, tilted your chin, spotted a loft overhead but figured it wasn’t too likely to find someone grilling up there, so where the hell was it?
And who the hell was it, smoking meats and mending up strangers in the cold and lonely dead of winter like this?
You put a pin in that thought as you searched for a place to pee.
By the time you’d hobbled out of the bathroom, the smoky smell had grown even stronger. It was so pungent it bordered on vertiginous, invading every inch of the cabin with a force. Then it was leading you, teasing you by turns to venture outside. All you had on your feet were some oversized socks and two strips of medical tape.
Against your better judgment, you continued to hobble.
Out the door, down the steps, slowly, then following your nose and the first whiff of smoke you smelled to make it to the place you were almost certain you needed to be.
You trudged around a corner of the cabin’s exterior and stopped. Turned around. Cursed your own senses for being so stupid to miss the huge fucking shed spewing smoke out front—or was it the back?—and plodded on.
Your feet might have carried you a third of the way there before your powers of sight and sound eventually failed you again, and you missed another big something.
Big and beige and coated in snow—baring its teeth and snarling at the unfamiliar presence as soon as it saw you.
The next thing you knew, sixty-two pounds of Belgian Malinois had had you knocked to the ground in less than a second. You hardly understood what had hit you until it was barking and chomping away an inch from your face.
You fought hard and frantic to shove the ugly fucker off, but your bandaged hands were no match for its paws. The dog continued to tear at your blanket, nip at your ears, claw at your neck, and all around snuff out any sense of peace you might have acquired in the dozen-odd minutes since you’d first woken up. You screamed.
You yelled as loud as you could and felt yourself cower and sink lower into the snow as you fought.
Just when you tried to raise a knee—to kick the animal in the ribs or else protect your own—a sound broke out above the buzz.
A voice, clear as day:
“CUJO!”
The dog stalled on top of you a moment, just to be yanked off the next, and the closest thing afterward was a face—kinder than Cujo’s but not by very much.
It was a broad, bearded, pock-marked head with more soot to recommend itself than skin. Lips smeared with ash and grime and curved down in the single most decisive frown you’d seen in your life, the man looked to be beside himself seeing you tits up in the snow.
He gripped one arm of yours, then dropped it.
Picked a leg up, paused, then hauled you into a cradle carry as graceless as you’d ever felt it done before.
“Come!” he snapped, and it took you too long to realize that he was talking to the dog. You’d already wrapped your arms around his neck in abrupt complaisance.
He carried you back into the cabin and kicked the door open in front of you. He held you firm for a second, then, just as he had outside, changed course before you knew what to do and was shortly depositing you on the sofa.
You winced when your ass hit the cushion.
You started to sit, grab a pillow for your back or just bring your knees to your chest, when suddenly a palm was pressing flat on your front. Forcing you to lie down.
“Hey, hey!” you cried when the man started lifting the hem of your nightgown.
If he’d heard you at all, he didn’t show it. He just worked his thick, dirty fingers under the fabric and raised the white satin like he might the hood of a car. He frowned.
It was then that you noticed a blooming red splotch on your side, slowly overtaking the terra-cotta color of dried blood on the bandage and spreading out. Then a pain.
Instead of pushing the man’s hands away, you were holding them tight, wrestling that same touch which was trying to keep you from poking around the area now.
“Quit,” the man said, sedate as could be.
“Hurts,” was all you could think to tell him—and you guessed he’d already had that part down by the outpouring of blood. He shoved your hands off.
The brand new crimson hue had already soaked through the bandage. He pulled it off. You caught a glimpse of a wound that seemed to be weeping through its stitches—oozing pus and blood and a gore you could’ve gone your whole life without seeing. You would’ve liked to run a couple gentle, awed fingers over it, but as it was, your coarse and tight-lipped medic wouldn’t let you.
“Hold still,” he commanded.
“Heystopstopstop!” you implored him, feeling a streak of pain up your side as his calloused hands delved deeper.
At your latest flinch and plea, the man seemed to have had enough. Or just needed to angle your body in a different direction for easier access to the site. He gathered you back up in his arms and walked over to the kitchen, where he set you down again on the counter. Hands moved to your hips, briefly, to push you back on the surface and allow him to stand between your legs. Again, the man frowned as he peeled off your pyjamas.
Two warring fears of pain and overexposure fought like wild beasts in your brain for a second—you yelping and trying to cover your breasts in a hurry, then realizing how much it hurt to lift your arms that way when your ribs were dripping blood, then the man making the decision for you both as he pushed your hands behind your back and said a simple ‘Fuck’s sake’ to keep you pinned.
You didn’t like it.
You didn’t like it, and you let him continue, because you knew that you didn’t know shit about doing this yourself.
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Joel must’ve fixed your dressings fourteen times before turning you loose. He’d had you perched atop his counter like goddamned Prisoner-of-War Barbie, all riddled with bumps, bruises, and lesions galore, looked your body up and down just once, and nearly grew sick at the sight.
He’d disgusted himself by feeling as aroused as he was.
Shortly thereafter, he’d toted you off—before the blood could rush down to his dick and start to swell—shrugged your gown over your torso, and stepped away. Simple.
Then you’d had to go and throw a wrench in his plans.
“What if I need to pee?” you’d said as soon as Joel started up the stairs with you in his arms again.
He had meant to drop you off on the bed in the loft, out of sight, but it seemed you were more concerned about the prospect of traversing the steps up and down for potty breaks. Joel had audibly huffed above you.
“I can leave a bucket.”
“Yu-uck.” The latter word had been given two syllables to show the full extent of your disgust, like a child might do.
And that was how you’d ended up here: snug in his bed on the ground floor, curled up in more layers of flannel and wool than you could count and staring blankly up at the man who was standing cold and aloof off to the side.
Your eyelids were growing heavy with sleep.
He figured they would be.
Joel picked up the glass that sat beside your empty one on the nightstand and drank, watching you all the while.
“D’you know my momma?” you asked, voice sounding extra small coming from the depths of your cocoon.
Joel finished his drink in four big gulps.
“Sure hope not,” he said once he’d set it back down.
By the sight of the scars he’d found littering your hands and back alone, Joel was able to surmise you’d come from a pretty rough, ragtag group. Maybe even Raiders. Knowing folks like that simply never struck one’s fancy, so he’d been honest. You might’ve argued, or laughed, if you hadn’t been nabbed so tightly in the grips of those first stages preceding sleep, so instead, you nodded.
“Figured,” you mumbled.
7:11, Joel read on the clock. You’d finished your drink at seven, or somewhere thereabouts. Judging by your size, it wouldn’t take long at all for the medicine to take effect.
‘Medicine,’ Joel thought, sounded a whole hell of a lot better than ‘drugs.’ One was meant to rehabilitate, rejuvenate, bring new life to your worn and weary bones. The other would just knock you cold and keep you there.
On second thought, those were definitely drugs Joel had just slipped in your water before giving it to you to drink.
As your eyes blinked from closed, to open, to closed, then open but slightly less open than the time before, and closed again, he felt a sick sense of accomplishment twist in his gut. If only his former-nurse friend could have seen what he was doing with those morphine sulfate tablets he’d traded for—he likely would’ve slapped Joel across the face. And Joel would’ve smiled all the same.
Yeah, okay, drugging the unsuspecting and defenseless female he’d just saved from death’s doorstep two days ago didn’t look great on paper, he would fully concede.
But this was all in good fun.
Great fun, even.
For him.
“Sick fuck,” Joel muttered as he started to undo his belt. The button and zip were taken apart just as fast, and with two steps, he was standing at your bedside—his bedside—and tugging his trousers down his legs. He took his cock in his hand and glanced over at the clock.
7:15.
He nudged your shoulder.
7:16.
Peeling layers of blanket away from your body.
7:17.
“Hey…honey?”
A lot more nothing from the girl sleeping in front of him. He shrugged his jeans to the floor, kicked them off at his feet, and moved onto the bed. You just looked so sweet.
Joel tried working around the fabric of his boxers but got impatient pretty quick. He hauled those off, too.
Soon, his beefy, bare, and surprisingly tan legs were bracketing your hips as he stroked himself above you. His eyes roamed the lax and tranquil features undeniably characteristic of sleep, and he pumped himself faster. Really, there was no need for theatrics or enhancements now—he was already hard as three tonnes of steel—but Joel would be lying if he said he didn’t like the build-up.
You were no longer in danger of dying, thanks to him. You were slowly but surely on the mend, no thanks to Cujo at all, but many thanks to him, Joel Miller, the man who had pried you off of that post, pulled you out of your chains, ushered warmth back into your limbs, and stitched up your side out of the goodness of his heart.
Any objective onlooker could see that you’d availed yourself of his medical attention and aid without ever asking, so why should he request access to you now? This was the way of the world these days, anyway. Sex was no longer so much a question as it was an answer in most scenarios—a mere transaction, wherein the physically weaker of two parties was forced to capitulate. Not within the four unsullied walls of Jackson and a few other pockets of homestead communities here and there, but on the whole, absolutely. Jackson was down the road a ways away and sufficiently far enough from Joel’s cabin for him to be disentangled from their rules. What mattered now was obtaining what he was owed.
Still, the man hesitated a half-second longer above you. He jerked his cock even faster and felt his stomach start to clench. Was that? No—nerves were fucking juvenile. Getting close to cumming from just the sight of you alone was for chumps. Joel Miller was no chump.
He lifted your nightie and lowered the head of his cock to rest between your folds. Then he shifted his knees so that he could rub himself gently against your warmth.
Joel Miller was a monster, but he was no brute. He also understood female anatomy well enough to know that, well…wetter was better. He started moving his hips.
You exhaled through your nose. Nothing major; you probably hadn’t even felt him long enough to whine.
Joel planted a hand beside your head—a preemptive warning.
“There…” He liked to talk as though you could hear him. Like you might be semi-conscious and dimly aware of what he was doing to you then, “Right there…ah, baby.”
He never did catch your name.
That was no matter. So long as you stayed put and made a nice, wet, pretty little hole for him to fuck, you would be fine. By the feel of your folds alone, he could tell you’d be a fun thing to use. Soft and snug and plied with drugs, you could do, and be, anything he damn well needed.
Or maybe nothing at all, he thought without humor.
Joel brushed your cheek with the knuckles of his free hand and watched you turn away, making a face. He snagged your chin and tilted it back to him, sharply, before gliding those fingers down your chest, then your tummy, then your hips, then dipping between your legs. He found your clit and pressed it with a deliberate touch.
“Hey,” Joel whispered, again, as though you might hear, “You’re gonna stay still and let me do this.”
Your nose scrunched in response, thighs clamping together. Joel pried them apart with one push and continued sliding his cock back and forth. He grunted.
“Gonna let me take what’s mine, hear?”
You didn’t hear much of anything, he suspected, but he asked the question all the same. At least now your legs were staying open and he could rut himself gently into that space without having to keep them spread. A first, gentle ‘mmph’ sounded from your lips, and he was glad. He kept thumbing that spot he knew you would like and rubbing along the seam of your cunt with his erection.
Then Joel felt a weight on his shoulders. Remorse? No. Anxiety? Perhaps. This felt more like a fog, though, seizing his muscles and seeping gently between the grooves of his brain. He gave his head a fierce shake.
“Hold still,” he said, more to himself; you hadn’t moved.
Joel fisted the base of his cock and angled the tip toward your entrance, caring much less whether you were ready or not now that his desires had grown stronger.
He was met with resistance on trying to push in. He dug his fingers in the pillow beneath your head and scowled.
“Quit…clenchin’…like that. Ain’t…fair to me,” he huffed.
He was one to talk.
Now, he’d been with a staggering number of women, experiences ranging all across the spectrum, but even the tightest, most untouched pieces of ass he’d ever tapped had given way more than this. Your walls were unyielding, refusing to give him entry. Joel cursed and rutted his hips in a rough, entirely unsuccessful, thrust.
You hummed in response, eyes still closed, one hand fumbling mindlessly for something to hold. Joel seized it.
“Not lettin’ you off that easy, darlin’, I—”
“Fuck,” you breathed, followed by a low whimper.
Joel froze. Had you heard him? Felt him just now?
Something about the uncertainty laden in those questions sent his mind into overdrive, heart beating a wild cadence in his chest. He realized then that his mouth had gone dry, his vision was skewed just slightly on the outskirts. And his cock was throbbing.
“Ya like that?” Joel seethed, not thinking, still rubbing, “Like givin’ daddy a hard time before lettin’ him in?”
“Uh-huh.” Softly.
You little slut. He knew it all along.
Whatever it was that kept your body from being coupled with his was almost immaterial to him now. Joel’s mind was swimming with desire, cock dragging in desperate, fitful bursts between your legs, never penetrating but still wringing massive jolts of pleasure from that place.
With the way he was feeling now, Joel could cum from just fucking your thighs. And that was alright.
You were moaning underneath him. Even…smiling?
“Fuck, baby, you look so pretty.”
Joel had never called a girl pretty before and meant it. But he hardly knew how else to describe you now with how good and sweet and fine you were making him feel. A strange warmth sank into his chest, making it harder to breathe, and then he was panting above you, as if he were really inside that dripping wet spot. He was close.
“Such a pretty…sweet…fuckin’ thing for me.”
That red, raging, leaky cock of his was almost a blur between your legs, he was thrusting against you so fast. Joel thought for one frightening second that it might be his skull that would explode instead, so high was that pressure between his ears, but his fears were promptly put to rest as the first rope of cum came stuttering out. Then another. Then another. Then another.
By the time he finished, he could’ve sworn he’d left a hundred spurts on your tummy. When Joel glanced down and saw a sea of opaque, sticky white, he groaned.
Then he fell. Fully collapsed at your side with his brain in a tizzy of wild, heady feelings and sank into himself.
He hadn’t even fucked you, and he felt like he had.
He lifted a hand to wipe away his spend, but he couldn’t.
He would get to it in the morning, before you stirred, he thought. He thought. He didn’t have the chance to think much longer at all, as darkness started hedging him in.
He slept.
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It was 7:57 when he woke.
The man had no real way of knowing that, though, seeing as he was greeted with a nickel-plated revolver between his teeth the second he opened his eyes.
You were straddling his torso, gun pinched between two calm, bandaged hands. You frowned when he jumped.
“WH—” he started.
“Shut up.”
“ST—”
“I said shut,” you cocked the gun, holding it tighter, then shoving it even further inside his mouth, “the fuck. up.”
The man obeyed.
‘Joel M.’—you’d read the name etched on the butt of his pistol before picking it up some twenty minutes ago.
“Pretty fuckin’ thing,” you mocked the man’s Texan drawl as you wiggled the barrel even deeper along his tongue, “Like givin’ daddy a hard time before lettin’ him in?”
The man’s eyes widened.
How dumb did he think you were?
Offering a semi-clear liquid that should’ve been water; he hadn’t even waited for the morphine tablet to fully dissolve before handing it over to you. Fucking idiot.
You were more disturbed by the fact he’d thought you stupid enough not to notice than him actually trying to drug you. The latter was almost to be expected from predatory, execrable men like him, but the insult to your intelligence? Unacceptable. You’d remedied that affront fairly quickly, though, swapping his glass with yours the second he hadn’t been looking, then nestling into his bed and playing pretend for what had felt like an eternity.
You’d been awake the whole time the man touched you, not knowing what the hell was going on but feeling like you had to stay still. Let him finish. Out of fear, at first, then curiosity, then some strange and unfamiliar sensation that you couldn’t quite describe as anything but a pleasurable itch between your legs. You let the man continue, hearing him grunt and groan and swear up a storm before he shot something hot all over your tummy. By the end of it all, you knew it was wrong, and you knew it was dirty—though you weren’t sure exactly what it was that he had done—but you wanted to learn more.
Which was probably why you hadn’t just shot the old pervert right between his eyes the second he’d stirred.
You shifted atop this ‘Joel M.’ and frowned once more.
“Why’d you stop?”
Gun still wedged in his mouth, Joel’s voice sounded garbled as he spoke, “Wha-agh-at?”
You retracted the metal just long enough to pose the question again. When you had, he still looked stunned.
“Answer me,” you barked, and feeling your patience lapse, got straight to pistol-whipping the motherfucker upside his half-grey head, “You DUMB, or somethin’?”
The man sputtered again.
“No, no— I don’t— dunno what you mean.”
He sounded dumb. You would need to spell this out.
“Why did you stop rubbing me like that?”
If anything, the clarification only seemed to baffle him further. He opened his taut, bearded mouth, then closed it, then eyed you up and down with a look that said he was considering something. Then he stared at one spot.
You glanced down at it too.
“And what is this, anyway?” you asked, swiping one finger at the mostly dried moisture on your stomach, “Why’d you spit this stuff up all over me, huh?!”
“I ain’t—”
You raised the gun as if to hit him again. He jolted back.
“I didn’t mean— shit. Shit, I just…came on you, ‘s’all.”
“Came?”
The word hung in the air like a grenade, waiting. Mr. M was already bracing himself for the impact, it seemed.
“Came?!”
That bracing served him well, because in the next second you were lifting the weapon even higher and eyeing him with the most pointed, putrid look of disdain. You’d never been one for letting grenades go untouched.
“Ejaculated!” Joel hissed, lifting a hand to shield himself, “Felt— felt so good I just couldn’t stop and I-I-I came.”
You paused.
Came. Felt good. Couldn’t stop.
You had felt good when he’d rubbed you. You had not wanted him to stop. But then he had. And you were mad. You’d never been touched that way in your life, and now you were feeling fifteen hundred emotions at once.
Were you supposed to ‘come,’ too? Why did he stop?
“Why didn’t you let me…ejaculate, too?” The words felt foreign and strange on your tongue.
For the first time, you saw one side of Joel’s lips twitch. Evidently fighting the urge to turn them into a smile.
“Girls don’t really…do that,” he said. Then, after a beat, “Why? Ain’t ever had your pussy rubbed on by a man?”
You shortly landed the blow you’d been holding over his head, splitting the skin along his brow with one hit from the butt of his gun. Joel jumped again, then moaned.
“Crazy bitch!”
“Creepy fuck.”
Your eyes narrowed with loathing, unable to comprehend how a man so vile had just made you feel so good. Your stomach was twisting in knots while Joel rubbed his forehead, pawing helplessly at the gash you’d just left.
“I saved your life,” he grumbled, low, “You owed me.”
“Did I?”
Abruptly, and without really thinking, you were sinking the muzzle of the gun into the spot you’d just cut, mouth kicking up in a smile at the sounds of pain it elicited.
“Did I, Joel?” you cooed.
“How the— the fuck do you know my name?”
Momentarily, you yanked the revolver from his face and tilted it to show him his name carved into the bottom.
“What’s the ‘M’ stand for? ‘Molester’?”
“Means ‘mind’ your fucking business,” he spat.
You probably would’ve hit him again had it not seemed as though he were trying to sit up just then. You slid swiftly from his frame—just to take a step off the bed, gun still pointed at his head. Then you backed away.
One by one, rapidly, you unloaded the bullets from the cylinder, maintaining a safe distance from the man all the while. You watched him blink and try to get some thing from his eyes, but he didn’t seem keen to move.
You left just one live round inside. You made a point to spin the cylinder and, again, aim it straight at his head.
The man was blinking even harder. Rubbing now, too.
“I feel…” Joel murmured.
“Drugged?” you returned, “Yeah, that must suck.”
A set of wide, irate, and horrified eyes met yours. His mouth hung open in a stupid look of shock. Trying to piece the last bits of this fucked up jigsaw puzzle together and growing angrier by the second.
“You fuckin’—”
Joel’s words were cut short by the weight of your body barreling back over his. Graceless, you imagined, but still nothing close to something you cared about now. You planted your knees on either side of his ribs and grazed the tip of the six-shooter down the length of his nose.
“Tell me,” you said, “How’d you make it feel so good?”
Your hips twisted for effect, jostling the man’s own parts beneath yours and clearly causing some effect in him. The muscles in his jaw jumped up as he gritted his teeth.
“You know damn well, slut,” Joel griped.
Without another thought, you squeezed the trigger.
Click.
The man’s whole body lurched underneath you. Trembling with the realization that you’d left just one lone bullet for him—and he didn’t know which chamber.
As far as foreplay went, Russian Roulette was probably a first, even for a man as wanton and depraved as Joel. You smiled sweetly and made another gyration with your lower half, which prompted him to grip you. Tight.
“What? Ya want me to fuck you, is that it?” he growled.
“I thought it wouldn’t fit.”
“I’ll make it fit.”
“How?”
Try as you might to conceal it, your gaze likely betrayed a hint of sincerity as you made that last inquiry. Joel’s eyes flickered between yours, searching for something there, and just when those glossy brown irises had found it, they stopped. Blinked. He shook his head, incredulous.
“My mind ain’t…right,” he said, slowly, “But I— I know you know what I mean by that, sweet pea.”
Something in your tummy fluttered at the sound. You gripped the pistol tighter to get rid of the feeling.
“I don’t,” you answered.
Again, Joel was stumped. For the first time, though, there appeared to be some sympathy behind his eyes. Or stupidity. Or just a shit ton of morphine coursing through his veins as he tried to make sense of this situation.
As if to confirm an idea in his drug-addled brain, he lowered a hand between your legs and hovered there a second. He watched you; you watched back but didn’t move.
Then slowly, almost clinically, Joel slipped two fingers underneath you and found a soft, pulsing warmth—far wetter than the last time he’d touched down there. When he pulled his hand away, both fingers and half of his palm were glistening with a fluid. You let out a startled cry at the sight of it and nearly dropped your gun.
“What is that?!”
Joel looked to you, equally awed—for different reasons.
“What do you mean?”
“Why’s it all…sticky?”
You couldn’t even try to hide your horror at the thought of that weird, syrupy stuff leaking out of you. It was strange enough feeling it come out of a freak like Joel, but from your own body? He had to be fucking joking.
“It’s normal.”
“Like hell it is— you— STOP!” The last fragment of your sentence was swallowed by a scream, leaping back when Joel moved his fingers toward your face.
“What? You’ve never seen this?” He sounded like he was teasing. You could shoot him for how smug he sounded.
In very small amounts, you’d seen stuff. Blood every month. Bits and pieces of bodily secretions that, to you, had always seemed gross. But never this. Never big, sticky globs of…whatever the fuck this was. You continued to back away on the bed, gun still tipped toward Joel but now trying to put some distance between your bodies. You didn’t know how else to act.
You did know you wanted to scream when Joel stuck his fingers in his mouth. Bile might’ve jumped in your throat.
He sucked the dew clean off the digits, then wriggled them to show what he’d done. You felt the urge to vomit.
“That came from— from— why are you eating it?!”
Joel grinned. Big.
You weren’t sure why, but he looked psyched to be alive in that moment, and not just because of the narcotics.
Before you knew what was happening, he’d pushed you flat on your back, hips pinned underneath his hands as he moved over your body. He didn’t even try for the gun.
“And here I was thinkin’ you were just fuckin’ with me,” he chuckled, palms sliding under your nightdress. When you felt the residuum of wetness from his spit and your slick stuck together on his fingers, you wanted to squeal.
But you didn’t. You tried propping yourself up on elbows until Joel was sliding your one and only article of clothing over your head, then beckoning you down on the bed in front of him. You watched his gaze flit down to your side.
“Still hurt?” he murmured, tracing over the bandage.
You shook your head no, though it did, a little. At the moment, it seemed the pain was the furthest thing from your mind as you saw Joel slide down your body and try to take up residence between your thighs—with his face planted right there. You kicked his shoulder in protest.
“Quit!” you cried, pulling your legs up to your chest.
“You quit,” Joel returned, yanking them back.
Then you felt you had no choice but to brandish the gun, taking the thing between two palms while you pointed it again—as if he needed the reminder.
“Fine. Why don’t you keep that thing aimed at my head while I give you some?” he muttered. The subsequent ‘See if I give a shit’ was silent.
“Give me some what?”
“Head.”
Head. You’d never heard something phrased that way. Joel’s head was down there, sure, practically grinning from ear to ear as he hooked your legs over his shoulders, but certainly he didn’t mean to do a thing as drastic and dirty as—
“JOEL!”
“Hm?” His voice was muffled by your thighs.
You tried to shy away, but he held you down.
“Joel, I— I pee out of there,” you hissed, “Why the fuck would you wanna put your mouth on that?”
As if your groans of disgust and vehement attempts to get away weren’t enough to deter him, you watched Joel’s tongue dart between his lips and down to yours. The sick fuck was actually licking your folds, tracing the tip across that warm, sticky place and moaning into your skin. Holding you tighter when you pleaded for him to stop. Then, with the hand that wasn’t prying your legs apart, he reached down and started stroking his cock.
Again, it felt dirty and wrong. Beyond the fact that this man was a perfect stranger and easily decades your senior, you were repulsed by the sight of his lips and his tongue and his spit mixing up in that messy, wet place you still didn’t quite understand yourself. You didn’t know much about your body, but it had never once occurred to you to be kissed down there. Joel was roaming every contour and crevice with his tongue like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he liked it.
“I hate it,” you whined, feebly.
You knew you could’ve easily blown the man’s brains out, but some small part of you was still plagued by curiosity. ‘Hate’ was just the first word that came to mind when you were faced with something that made you scared.
“It’s weird,” you tried again. This time pressing the gun to the top of his bobbing head while you grit your teeth, “And wrong.”
At that, Joel stopped.
His eyes flickered to yours, all glass-like and hooded.
“Why? Practically lickin’ ya clean here,” he said, starting to grin to himself as his words came slightly slurred, “There’s nothin’ wrong about this, sweet pea.”
You felt something flutter between you. He felt it, too.
“Like when I call ya that? ‘Sweet pea’?” he said, pausing to flick his tongue over the spot that had just stirred at his words. He watched you fight back a whimper.
“No,” you choked. You pinched your eyes shut, unsure whether it was pleasure or pure revulsion overtaking you—or both.
Suddenly, you felt Joel’s hand smooth over your thigh, still warm from when he’d been stroking himself below. He placed an affectionate kiss to your belly and grinned.
“Is that what this is? Feel guilty about feelin’ this good?” he murmured, “Think it’s…dirty, what we’re doin’?”
At length, and just barely visible to him, you nodded.
“It is dirty,” you corrected him quietly.
Then you saw that stupid pseudo-sympathetic smirk tug at the corners of his lips, and just when you thought he might nudge his way back up your body—to do what, you weren’t sure—he sank between your legs. This time, he made sure to hold your gaze as he re-assumed the position. His palm continued to rub at your thigh, as if to distract you from the rough brush of his stubble or the fact that his mouth was hovering so dangerously close.
“Sweet pea,” he rasped, “Ain’t nothin’ dirty about this.”
As if to punctuate his words, Joel dragged his lips down your slit to press a kiss to your centre, eyes never leaving yours.
“Not here…”
He pointed with his tongue, moving it deftly between your folds. You gripped the sheets, trying to ignore the pleasure that the simple act wrought through your body.
“Not here.”
He kissed your clit. You squeezed even tighter.
“Not on my tongue, on my fingers, anywhere, y’hear?”
You were about to answer—maybe tell him he was supremely full of shit, then flash the gun in his face—when Joel shifted onto his knees on the bed. He moved slowly and as calm as he ever had, motions languid while his mind was likely steeped in the morphine by now. He snagged one of your ankles. He slid his hand up the back of your calf and tugged you down to the edge of the bed. Then he stood up, right between your legs. The warmth radiating from his bare lower half was immediate, almost suffocating from where you lay. You didn’t like it at all.
You refused to meet his gaze, grip tightening on the gun.
“Joel…”
When that warmth at your front shifted inward, though, you hardly had a say in what your reflexes did or didn’t do. You jumped when you felt the head of his dick slip past your pulsing core, closer to the other hole below it.
“Not here, either,” Joel continued, grin still evident from his tone.
Before you could even think to ask what he meant to do ‘here,’ Joel moved one of your legs up, tilting your hips, and pushed ahead with just the tip of his cock. Not breaching it fully, but nudging—prodding at that hole.
For the first time, you let out a moan.
You hastily clamped a hand over your mouth to stifle it.
“Aw, honey,” Joel murmured, “Did that feel good?”
His words reeked of condescension. You scowled at the ceiling.
“No.”
You felt him push a little further—this time making the head of his dick notch into that tight ring of muscles.
No, the word rang through your skull once more. Your curiosity was shortly supplanted by disgust—how the fuck could you let this creepy old man, this stranger, press into you like that? Talk to you like you were dumb? You seized hold of Joel’s pistol with both hands and aimed directly for his chest.
“Stop doing that,” you growled. When the man’s grip on your leg only tightened and you couldn’t writhe away, you lifted the other and tried kicking him in the gut. Of course, Joel caught your foot midair, and it never landed.
“Just givin’ ya options, darlin’,” he said, easy-going. Not seeming to care about the firearm pointed his way.
Fuck it.
You squeezed the trigger again.
Empty chamber.
If Joel flinched, you didn’t see it. He did, however, knock the gun right out of your hand the next second, sending it tumbling with an unceremonious thump on the bed behind you. You tried to leap back for it, but your arm was quickly pinned. Joel cocked one silver-flecked brow.
“You done?” he asked, almost bored.
Your last—and only—leverage taken away from you, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of anger. And desperation.
“I don’t wanna do this,” you cried, trying to squirm away.
Joel didn’t move his cock, but he did hold you still. Blinking with indifference and a fair bit of drug-induced dissociation, it seemed, from the far-away look in his eyes. He pushed both of your legs so they were folded up to your chest, and ignored your whimpers when he did. At length, he pulled out just enough to smear some of your wetness down to the hole he was trying to fuck.
“You want this,” he countered gently.
“I DON’T!”
Joel continued as though he hadn’t heard you, and moments later, you sensed another slick something pooling against you. From your position beneath him, you could see a bead of spit slip from Joel’s mouth and stretch into a thin, glistening string all the way down to the space between your thighs. You watched him rub the saliva in with his fingers, almost meticulous as he did it.
Then he eased his hips forward an inch, wedging himself back in your ass. He groaned when he felt resistance—and a sharp clench of your muscles.
“I can teach ya…show ya everything…there is to know.”
His words somehow made it out through ragged breaths. That broad, tan chest was heaving with every labored pull of his lungs, and you could tell he was feeling good.
You might’ve been able to say the same for yourself, were your mind not singly occupied by the desire to escape. Still at war with yourself, wondering how it would feel or what you might see that first time, all the while despising the man who seemed hell-bent on forcing it.
He might’ve saved your life, but there was no fucking way he’d get to use you like that and stay breathing.
You were raised better than that.
You could do better than anything this man had to offer.
You resolved to kill him as soon as the drugs knocked him out—just like you’d had planned from the second you woke up on the floor of his cabin that afternoon.
Of course being chained, maimed, and frozen half to death on the plains for some well-meaning stranger to find you had always been part of your mother’s—and the rest of the Raiders’—grand plan. Having this stupid, horny sap take you into his home with the hope of claiming you as his own was just the icing on top.
Now you had a reason to kill Joel and steal all his shit.
At present, he fed another inch of himself inside you and grinned when you let out a startled cry.
“Atta girl,” he said, smirking, “Feelin’ okay?”
“Fuck you.”
“Will do.”
Then, as if to prove a point, he bottomed out, sheathing his cock to the hilt in spite of your cries. Your hands fisted the sheets, and you tried to pull off. It didn’t work.
In fact, all it accomplished was giving Joel more room to thrust back into you. And pull out. And shove back in. The snap of his hips was like cruel and excruciating clockwork, completely unhindered by your words or your gestures or your pleas to stop fucking doing that Joel, it fucking hurts! If anything, the sounds of your censure only got him harder, and with it, made it that much easier to fuck you rougher. His eyes shone with pride.
“What’s’at, sweet pea?” he hummed, strokes coming into a steady pace.
“It’s too…big…doesn’t fit,” you whimpered.
In response, Joel glanced down to see the spot where your bodies were joined. He pushed even deeper.
“Yeah?” he said when you yelped, “I think it fits just fine.”
Motherfucker, you wanted to wail, but then your neck craned sideways—your mouth trying to find purchase in anything you might grit between your teeth—and the only thing that escaped your throat was a sob. You tried burying your face in the comforter, only for Joel to yank it back.
Cupping your chin and pinching both your cheeks in a single, punishing squeeze as he continued to fuck you, “What’s the matter, darlin’? Too much?”
You groaned and clenched your jaw, head jerking away.
Per usual, Joel was undeterred. Even smiled.
“My pretty girl need somethin’a bite, huh?” he hummed.
He probably knew you wouldn’t nod, so he went ahead and decided to oblige that one need he saw anyway. Snagging your nightie, Joel raised a hand to your face and proceeded to push the fabric inside your mouth.
Just as he started to lift his hips to deliver another thrust, he had to stop. A sudden, sharp ‘FUCK!’ left his mouth, then a groan, and his hand retreated fast.
You’d bitten him.
You were grinning just a little, and you’d bitten him.
Joel promptly slapped you across the face. If you weren’t so fucking amused by the sight of his bright red fingers, you just might’ve winced. Instead, the smile stayed on your lips, the slap barely registered, and, to your utmost disbelief, something else had just then started to form.
Pleasure, in the pit of your stomach.
“Fuckin’—” Joel snarled.
“Shit,” you finished, eyes rolling back.
You couldn’t help it. Joel was rutting into you relentlessly. That brief hand bite detour had only stoked the flames of his hatred—and arousal—and now he was practically splitting you in half with the force of his thrusts. He slapped you once more for good measure.
“Oh, that you fuckin’ like?” he seethed, cheeks flushed, “Can’t get off with my…tongue on your cunt, but a slap— and my cock buried deep in your ass gets the job done?”
“Uh-huh,” you answered softly. Mindlessly.
Really, there were no two people more fucked up than you in this moment, you thought. Joel growing harder with each desperate objection of yours, you going all soft and hot and bothered the second he slapped your face and fucked you rougher, and together, the two of you letting out grunts and moans of pleasure while the bed shook like an earthquake just shy of a 9.5 on the Richter scale. Were you not already planning to slit the man’s throat after all of this was over, you just might’ve wanted to marry this Joel M for how wonderfully he fucked you.
You let him know as much when you seized his forearms.
Bouncing into his thrusts, you bit your lip and finally met his gaze. Joel’s eyes were trained in somewhat of a daze, pupils all but swallowing his irises as he fucked you.
“Like being daddy’s little cocksleeve, huh?”
Only the sentence was slurred so bad you could scarcely make out half the words. You nodded just the same.
“Like it when he fucks you in the ass?” Joel panted.
You nodded again.
That pleasure in your belly had worked its way up to a full swell—and whatever it was, you couldn’t bear the thought of losing it now. You gripped Joel’s arms even harder as his chest swayed into you, then sank further and further until your fronts were pressed flush to each other and your ankles were hooked tight around his back.
It almost felt intimate. That coarse, weathered, sweat-coated face spattered with patches of grey seemed to you nearly handsome as his lips hung limply in an ‘o.’
Joel’s cock dragged back and forth between your walls at this new, snug angle, and moans fell out of you both.
“Baby.” His voice was hoarse. Strained.
You couldn’t quite make sense of the expression above you, but there was an unmistakable, muted desperation lurking somewhere beneath it. Joel rutted into you quicker, balls leaving rapid smacks against your ass with every thrust. His hair was disheveled, and his hands were making fists in the sheets on either side of your head.
“Joel—”
“Jus’ lemme use you.”
Words so low they were barely audible as he panted.
“But—”
“Daddy’s…almost done, sweet pea. Just take it.”
You were surprised he’d had it within himself to be so soft. A peculiar sort of haze hung over his face, the pace of his hips picked up even more, and suddenly those plush pink lips were hovering a mere hair’s breadth away from yours. Mumbling. Rambling on and on about how wet you were, how perfect you fit him, how nice and sweet and tight your body felt as he fucked you stupid.
That sensation in your own stomach grew even stronger.
Unsure of what to do, you pressed a palm to his chest.
“Joel, I…I feel funny,” you whispered.
Joel hummed. Didn’t slow.
“I know.”
He knew?
“What’s it—ah, fuck.” Your words broke off in a whimper.
Instead of proffering a verbal response, Joel just slipped a touch between your bodies—thumbing sloppily between your folds to earn a couple more high-pitched moans. Your legs tightened around his middle.
“Joel, s-stop!”
It felt so good it almost hurt. He didn’t stop.
“S’just an orgasm, baby,” Joel panted, “You’re okay.”
And, in spite of his own impending climax and the effect of the drugs likely reaching a fever pitch inside him, Joel managed to slide his other hand beneath the back of your head. Cradled you to him while he fucked you into the bed and made you come unraveled with his touch. You tried to writhe away, but he was used to the drill by now—he just fucked you harder and rubbed you faster.
Whatever he wanted would come soon. You doubted there was anything you could do to stop it, but you tried.
Without thinking, you grabbed hold of the damp locks of hair at the nape of his neck and yanked on them hard.
“Joel, I can’t— I can’t,” you keened.
The hand at the back of your head held you firm.
“You can,” Joel returned, tough but surprisingly calm, “Give it to daddy, ‘s’all ya gotta do.”
What exactly ‘it’ was was still unclear. You just knew you felt good and warm and full—about ready to burst. When you felt tempted to give his hair another tug, Joel’s eyes met yours, and they were soft. Insistent, still, but soft.
Dilated as all hell and probably swimming in clouds of a delirious, bleary haze, but always soft. Almost tender.
“Be a good girl and give it to daddy,” Joel slurred, slow, “C’mon, sweet pea…cum for daddy, please.”
For the first time in that short, rough, utterly deranged time you had known this man, he was begging you. Pleading with you, now, as his body grew overwrought with pleasure and just needed release. You needed it, too, not even knowing how you would get it, but the force of his thrusts, the warmth of his body, the look in those warm, bare, powerless eyes—you fucking loved whatever it was that could make a man like that so weak.
You had to strike while the iron was hot. You slid back.
Joel didn’t notice, too focused on your face and the feel of your body to see when you’d reached for the gun.
Just as you took hold of it, a jolt of pleasure tore through you. Your heels dug into his back, and you nearly lost control of the pistol. Joel groaned in your mouth, begged you once again to cum all over this cock, make a fuckin’ mess of it, baby, please, and you could only whine, grip the metal tighter, and raise it slowly to the side of his head while he buried his face in the crook of your neck.
The peak of your pleasure had come into view. You felt it.
You nudged the muzzle through those soft, slick, salt-and-pepper shaded tufts of hair near the edge of his temple right when the first throes of euphoria seized you.
“FUCK!”
You squeezed the trigger.
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hairmetal666 · 2 months
Text
Steve knows he falls in love too easily. Nancy told him, Robin too.
But falling in love with Eddie Munson is hard.
They're supposed to be friends after Vecna. They're supposed to be friends, but Steve can't get past what Eddie did in the Upside Down; how he put himself in a position to nearly die, how Dustin got hurt. It's not fair. He knows it's not, but it doesn't make the anger go away.
Eddie's part of the group now, though, and Steve won't leave him out, no matter how angry. They're all at movie nights, at pool parties, at Hellfire, at Corroded Coffin gigs. It's just that Steve and Eddie don't speak. And Steve is okay with it. If it's what it takes to make sure that they're all hanging out together, not talking to Eddie is a small thing. He's pretty sure Eddie doesn't mind. At least, he seems as uninterested in hanging out with Steve as Steve is with him.
It doesn't need to be anything more than that, and it isn't, not until Steve goes upstairs to get more sunscreen during one of the pool parties, and walks back downstairs to find Munson waiting for him in his kitchen.
"You need something?" He asks, unable to fully hide the way he jolts with surprise.
Eddie twists the rings on his fingers, something Steve's noticed he does whenever he's nervous. "You have a problem with me, Harrington?
"No, of course not," he answers too fast.
"C'mon, man. You can barely stand to be in the same room with me."
"That's not true! We're in one together right now."
Eddie rolls his eyes so hard that it has to hurt. "Don't do that. Don't pretend like you don't know what I mean. You can't stand to be alone with me for more than thirty seconds."
Steve splutters, searching for a plausible reason.
"Is it cause--" Eddie swallows, hand going back to cup his neck. "Is it cause you heard me tell Robin that I'm gay? Back at the hospital. Is it because--" he cuts himself off.
Something in Steve's chest clenches hard, warmth swooping dangerously in his stomach. "No," Steve says, means it. "I didn't hear. I didn't-- it has nothing to do with that. It's--that's cool. Thanks for--yeah, that's cool."
Eddie's smile is a brittle little thing. "Then, what else?" Eddie pulls a chunk of hair over his mouth. "I can't think of any other reason you'd hate me so much."
"I don't." And Steve hopes it's coming off as genuine. "I promise."
He can't help remember the camaraderie, the understanding, that started to grow between them in the Upside Down. The "don't cha, big boy?" of it all. They could be friends. They should be.
They shouldn't get into it. Not right here, not right now when the kids' splashes and excited screams filter through the sliding door.
"You're a shit liar, Harrington."
"Ed--I'm not--"
"You know what? Don't bother. I'll just--" He jolts in the direction of the front door.
"Don't be stupid, Munson."
"God, I can't believe I didn't see it before. You just fucking loathe me."
"I do not. Grow up."
"Oh, yeah? Then what's your problem?"
"There isn't--"
"Stop lying!"
"You didn't fucking think!" He shouts. Loud enough that the noise outside cuts off. "You pulled that shit in the Upside Down and you almost died! Dustin got hurt!"
Eddie blinks his big brown eyes in stunned surprise.
"I told you, I said, 'dont try to be cute or be a hero or something.' And you know what you said? Do you?"
Eddie won't look at him now. "I had to make a choice, Steve."
"It was the wrong one!"
"I would do it all again. No matter what you say. I would do it to draw the bats away. To protect Dustin."
"But you didn't."
"There was no other way to stop them, Steve! They would've gotten through, into Hawkins."
"It doesn't matter."
"You weren't there! You can't tell me--"
"Yes, I can! I know."
"You don't! You think--"
"I almost lost you!" He screams. "You nearly died in my arms, Eddie. And for what?"
Falling in love with Eddie wasn't easy. It was blood and near death; it was weeks in a cold hospital room while Eddie existed in a drug-induced twilight state; it was agonizing convalescence and physical therapy and changing bandages; it was Eddie leading dnd sessions with bright eyes and contagious enthusiasm, herding the kids to the arcade and video store, theatrically serving snacks at movie night; it was festering, senseless anger at the near loss of something.
Eddie's lips tremble. "Steve, I--"
"It doesn't matter." He turns away to slide a hand down his face in an effort to wipe away the emotion. "You're fine and we're--it doesn't matter."
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "Steve, I'm sorry. I wanted--I thought it would help. I thought--"
And Steve has to admit, he does, the whole terrible contradiction of it all. "I know," he whispers back. "I would've--I know."
"I thought I was protecting Dustin. I thought I was buying you guys time with Vecna." Eddie's voice breaks. "I didn't--I--" He squeezes his eyes shut.
In the quiet of the kitchen, they gravitate to one another, foreheads resting together.
"I should have been there, Ed. I shouldn't have left you two alone. You almost died, and I--"
"Sweetheart, I'm right here. We're right here."
They don't kiss, but they're close enough that their mouths brush with each breath they take.
"Don't do that, again." Steve clenches his fists into Eddie's cutoff t-shirt. "Promise you won't ever--"
"I promise, Stevie. I promise. I'll be by your side until the very end, whatever it is."
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tonycries · 2 months
Text
Exes who…
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Synopsis. Showing up to a party looking like that. What's a man to do when he just can't stay away?
Pairing. Multiple x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem! reader, desperate boys, unprotected sex, NSFW, cunnilingus, pet names (my girl, babe), swearing.
Word count. 1.0k
A/N. This was supposed to be shorter, sorry lovelies. Art by @_3aem on Twitter.
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Exes who know they should stay away, but one whiff of your perfume at some dingy party and he’s dragging you to the nearest bathroom. 
He’s pathetic, he knows, but right now he couldn’t give less of a fuck as he spreads you on that bathroom counter and dives face-first into your dripping cunt.
Greedily lapping at your juices, the taste of your pussy on his tongue was so addictive. Fuck, he missed this so much. 
He feels feral. Groaning lowly at the tug of your hand on his hair which hurts so good. He flicks his tongue harshly over your throbbing clit. More. He needs more.
“Hah- Fuck- Feels so good!”
“Yeah, jus’ like that, my girl.”
Making out with your pussy was almost as addictive as fucking you. You were a drug he couldn’t let up - he couldn’t get enough of. 
Nose-deep in your cunt, he tastes you over and over the way he imagined when he fucked his fist on those lonely nights.
Fingers digging into your thighs, he moves your legs so that they wrap around his head, bringing him impossibly closer to your hot core. He breathes over it - teasing - mouth watering at the sight of it getting wetter just for him.
He’s pretty sure your sinful moans and the squelching sounds could be heard above the overplayed pop on the other side of the door. Good, let them hear. It’ll teach that scrub outside that was eyeing you a thing or two about what he can’t have.
“Hngh- Baby, I’m gonna-”
Once you cum around his tongue, hips bucking wildly and clit catching on his nose as you ride his face, he thinks he’d be happy to die here if it was in-between your legs. 
A final peck to your quivering cunt - not a goodbye, no, he’ll be seeing this pretty pussy again - but a prelude for what was to come. 
Amidst heated kisses, he lets you taste yourself on his tongue as he hurriedly unbuckles his belt. Fucking trousers - they come with too many fucking buttons. He wants to feel you now. Have your wet cunt pulsing around his painfully hard cock as he gets drunk off of your pretty moans.
So he does.
He only has his flushed tip kissing your folds, but already feels like he’ll fucking pass out. He teases your entrance - willing himself to wait like he did all these past few months. This won’t be the last time - he knows - but he sure as hell is going to treat it like it is. 
“Tell me what you want, my sweet girl.” he huffs out, eyes boring into your dazed ones. Beautiful. You were always so beautiful.
“Please. I need you in me so bad.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Please, baby.”
Your lustful whimpers are what makes him snap. You were going to be the death of him. 
Fully sheathing himself in you, he fucks your pussy with a merciless cadence that has your nails digging into his shoulder at how painfully good you were stretched. Tight. So tight.
He feels himself losing his sanity as your cunt struggles to adjust to his size, walls clenching down on his throbbing erection. It’s animalistic - the way your pussy tries to suck him back in when he pulls out fully, only to ram inside you again.
“Shit- Pussy made jus’ for me. Only me.” he moans. 
One strong arm steadying himself on the counter, and the other with an almost-painful grip on your hip, he keeps up a pace that has his abs burning. Heavy balls stinging as they smack relentlessly against your ass. 
He bites down on your exposed neck to muffle the strangled groans ripping from his throat at the ethereal feel of your snug cunt - he needs to better drink in your fucked out yelps at his harsh thrusts.
His dick twitches inside when you start whining out his name as you reach closer and closer to your climax. He could do this forever. You were heaven on Earth.
In his hazy mind, he distinctly registers the jingle of the doorknob. Annoying fuckers can’t take a hint.
“Fuck off.” he barks out, “I’m fuckin’ my future wife in here.”
His heart clenches as you push your face into the crook of his neck in embarrassment. Pulling you closer to him in response - strings of slick and precum connecting you to him - he hopes whoever’s there up above strikes him down if he doesn’t wife you up. 
Ah…he’s so close.
There isn’t even a hair’s breadth between your two bodies as he fucks into you mindlessly, not even a trace of thought for the poor soul on the other side of the door. He’s got more important things to do - you.
“Baby- Shit. I’m so close.” your exhausted mewls are music to his ears. His balls tighten and cock aches for release. 
Teeth clenched and brows furrowed at how your walls were fluttering around him so perfectly, he grits out “Me too, my girl. Me too.”
Your legs tighten around his toned waist as your cunt clamps down on his thick length - sending both of you over the edge. 
He sees stars as he cums. Thick ropes painting your walls white and shaky whimpers of your name leaving his mouth like a prayer. You really were heaven on Earth.
Cum drips down the side when he slows down to shallow grinds of his hips, fucking his cum deeper and deeper into you. He releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding as he pulls his sensitive cock out of you.
With a long finger, he gathers the cum now slowly dripping out of you. Pooling it at his fingertips before popping them into his mouth, half-lidded eyes looking right into your fucked out ones. He moans around them as if tasting a delicacy, elated at the way your mouth drops in disbelief at his lewd act. 
He feels barely lucid as he snaps your panties back on you with a devilish grin and tucks himself back into his trousers. 
Unlocking the door to pointed looks he couldn’t care less about, he can’t keep his eyes off the alluring curve of your hips as you walk away back to the party - pretending like his cum isn’t making a mess of your panties right now. 
Dick twitching to life again, he pulls out his phone - unblocking you once more. 
– GOJO, Choso, Geto, Suna, ATSUMU, KUROO, Oikawa, Sakusa, JEAN, EREN
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A/N. …Gimme a min I’m cooking up something for Suguru…
Plagiarism not authorized.
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nochukoo97 · 3 months
Text
boyfriend drabbles (pt.33)
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pairing: jungkook x oc
summary: the one where you and jungkook celebrate christmas, and you get a tiny bit jealous
word count: 1.4k+
masterlist
 sometimes you curse the universe for intoxicating you, making you become addicted to him like a drug. every moment spent with him made you find another reason to love him, another reason to gaze at him and think one thing: forever.
to you, jungkook is like an angel, glowing the brightest amongst all darkness and light in your life, always there to catch you if you fall. it makes you wonder just how much you’ve done in your past life to deserve a man like him.
that’s what you think as you hold the front door open for your boyfriend, who’s grunting as he tugs the christmas tree into your apartment. the lights in the apartment have yet to be switched on, and only the little cat lamp that jungkook had bought you a few years ago provides minimal light to guide the both of you through the door.
yet even the small lamp manages to make his face glow, his eyes meeting yours for a second when he realises your staring, again. instantly it’s like you’re falling in love all over again, and jungkook loves every moment of it. the way your pupils dilate the moment you look at him, or the way your eyes instantly light up even at the mere sight of him.
“where should the tree go?” he hums, halting in his steps as he pulls the tree to stand upright, huffing when the weight finally lifts off his hands.
“right next to the fireplace,” you point over to the empty spot where a plant use to sit, before you had overwatered it and caused its death. “right… here!”
jungkook carefully adjusts the tree, realising it might have been much larger than the both of you had expected it to be, as he notices how close it is to the ceiling.
“baby, are you sure this is the right size?” he laughs as you peer up to the top of the tree, bewilderment written all over your face as you try to recall if it was meant to be this big.
“i think we got the wrong size!” you whine, realising that since the top of the tree was so close to the ceiling, the star that you had planned to place at the top would definitely not fit.
“it’s okay, you know what they say, the bigger the better,” he snorts, sending you a wink as you gasp at his sudden innuendo, before sending a smack to his chest as you sigh.
-
“oh, you two are finally here!” your sister squeals when she opens the door, your niece running to peek at you and jungkook between her mum's legs as she waves at you shyly.
“yeah, sorry we got caught in a jam,” your boyfriend explains, passing the huge bag of gifts that he insisted the two of you needed to get for your niece, the small girl hiding behind her mum now curiously peering into the bag.
“come in, come in, ___ everyone’s excited to see him,” she snickers as you roll your eyes.
every year your family hosts a huge christmas celebration with friends and relatives, and one thing that doesn’t fail to happen is the guests gushing over jungkook.
“oh, jungkook is here!” your mum immediately calls out when she spots him supporting you as you remove your heels, your boyfriend chuckling when the aunties squeal a little louder than usual, him becoming the center of attention as he greets everyone.
“all good?” he turns to you, whispering slightly so that only you can hear his words, and you turn to him and meet his gaze.
“yeah, seems like you have fans here too,” you joke, poking his rib, jungkook laughing before he’s being called to answer more questions about, ‘what have you been up to lately’ and ‘you look more handsome”
as the conversations flow, you’re having a pretty good time catching up with your relatives, and chatting with newly made friends, but there was a sight that poked at your nerves ever so slightly.
a girl, looking about your age, which you had been sure was your sister’s college friend, batting her eyelashes at your boyfriend as she attempts to flirt with him.
“you’re so muscular, i’m sure you’d be able to lift me up so easily,” she giggles, reaching her hand out to slap over jungkook’s, but not before he quickly slips his hand off the table and onto your thigh, thumb stroking the exposed skin as he laughs nervously.
“so, how long have you guys been together anyways, like a year? ten months?” she smiles a little too widely, gesturing to you sitting next to him.
“we’ve been together for six years,” he proudly says, now shifting his arm around your shoulder as he shifts his gaze to you, noticing the slightly stiff and awkward look on your face.
the girl on the other hand tried to conceal her surprised expression, which she doesn’t do very well considering both you and jungkook noticed the shift in her demeanor.
“i’m gonna refill my drink,” you awkwardly shuffle out of your seat, grabbing your cup that couldn’t have been less than half full, quickly walking towards the table where the pitcher of water was.
“baby,” you hear jungkook walking up behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist as he shifts your body to face him.
“save me from her, please,” you hear him plead, now looking up to meet his eyes.
you almost burst out laughing at the desperate look of pure torture on his face.
“she’s being so obvious, when i’m literally sitting next to you,” you roll your eyes, pouring the water into your cup before jungkook takes the pitcher from your grasp.
“jealous?” he smirks at you, now passing you the full cup of water, “i’ll make sure she knows i have the fattest crush on you,”
you let jungkook drag you back to the table, not missing how the girl squints at your interlocked hands that disappear under the table when the both of you sit back down.
suddenly, a piece of meat is being brought to your mouth, as you widen your eyes in surprise, but you happily accept it as you open your mouth, letting jungkook feed you.
“good?” he asks you, making his voice loud enough for the girl sitting opposite to hear, and you nod, pressing a kiss to his lips, and staying there a little longer than needed, but just long enough to send her a message.
she seems to receive the message well when she scoffs and pokes at the potato on her plate.
-
“finally,” you huff, clicking in your seatbelt as jungkook gets in the driver’s seat and shuts his door.
the engine hums softly as you drive home, the warmth of the car cocooning you both.
jungkook, still riding the high of the night, reaches over to intertwine his fingers with yours, his thumb gently tracing patterns on your hand.
stopping at a red light, jungkook turns to you with a playful grin. “can you believe that girl thought we'd been together for only a year?” he chuckles,
“six years of putting up with you, and she thought it was just a year,” you playfully quip, earning a light nudge from him.
-
the familiar scent of your apartment greets you as you step through the door, and jungkook wastes no time pulling you into a tight embrace, his warmth enveloping you.
“i missed this," he murmurs against your hair, and you smile, reciprocating the hug.
“me too, maybe next time we should make out in front of her,” you giggle, making jungkook tut at your words.
you decide to unwind on the couch, the soft glow of christmas lights creating a cozy atmosphere. jungkook wraps a blanket around both of you, his arm draped casually over your shoulder. with the tv remote in hand, he navigates through the movie options with playful commentary.
“let’s watch the grinch,” you point at the tv when it lands on the movie, and he nods, clicking on it.
as the movie begins, jungkook’s affectionate nature takes center stage. he presses gentle kisses to the top of your head, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on your arm.
“baby, focus on the movie,” you giggle when his breath fans against your ear, tickling the skin and making you squirm.
“shh, let me love you,”
with the room bathed in the soft glow of holiday lights and whispered conversations between scenes, jungkook’s fingers find their way through yours, a silent reassurance that he's there, grounding you in the moment.
you rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. his fingers gently play with your hair, and the room is filled with a sense of contentment. the outside world fading away as you lose yourselves in the movie and the warmth of each other's presence.
taglist!: @imlyfie @jksgirlhere @laylasbunbunny @borahaexoxo @jklvrs-world @jksoftii @yoongisgirl69
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ursusarctos42 · 5 months
Text
I just finished watching The Fall of the House of Usher on Netflix, and I have a theory that each of the main characters represents one of the seven deadly sins. Note: pretty much all of these characters embody several (or all) of these aspects, so this list shows the ones that come through most clearly to me.
Prospero (lust) - the sex club, the pleasure rooms, the image of him waking up amid half a dozen naked bodies? Yep.
Camille (pride) - she believed she knew everything, and she often did. She believed she was right so far as to infiltrate Vic's lab, wielding her family name and status to get past the security guard, and shove a camera in the faces of dangerously drugged chimps. She was so proud/full of herself that she didn't pay attention to the open cage, leading to her eventual death.
Napoleon (gluttony) - he is constantly high, gorging himself on drugs or video games or sex. This eventually leads to his downfall, as his pleasure seeking is consistently interrupted by the gory "gifts" from the cat.
Victorine (anger) - she often feels inferior to her siblings, trying so hard to win her father's approval. When her research doesn't pan out and her partner tries to leave, she flies into a rage and kills her. This anger seems to be bubbling below the surface for the whole series, it just comes to a head in the episode where she dies.
Tamerlane (envy) - her death is the evidence of this connection. She is convinced that her husband is seeing the other woman behind her back, so much so that she runs around the house smashing mirrors. In every mirror, she can see the object of her envy and herself, not measuring up. And it ends up killing her.
Frederick (sloth) - he basically does nothing for the first several episodes. His father asks him to do one simple task over and over, but he just doesn't do it. When he finally does get around to doing it, he dies unable to move due to the paralyzing agent he used to abuse his injured wife. Dying while lying completely still and unmoving sounds a lot like Sloth to me.
Madeleine/Roderick (greed) - Madeleine and Roderick Usher are together in this list because they are twins, often act as a unit/team, and (to me) they embody the same deadly sin. This whole show is about greed. These two want money, power, and freedom, and they are willing to do anything (ANYTHING) to get it. Look at the people they killed, either directly or indirectly. All of those deaths were self-serving to the Usher twins.
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dejwrld · 5 months
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CHOSOIST KINKTOBER GAMING PLAYLIST — WEEK 2
( GUARDIAN ANGEL ) 🎮 GUARDIAN ANGEL!SEPHIROTH X READER
— game synopsis: he's been your guardian angel since you were sixteen years old. protecting you from danger you didn't see coming, but now that you're slowly wanting space from him—he makes it his mission to remind you who you belong to until you take your final breath.
( cw ) ⸻ fem reader, female anatomy described, slight enemies to fuckers, reader somewhat purposely put herself in danger, possessive!sephiroth, mentions of sephiroth having pretty white wings, mating press position, cream pies, mentions of soul ties,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀kinktober masterlist / previous playthrough
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You’ve known him since you were sixteen years old. The mere memory of him grabbing at your backpack strap to tug you out of the way as you were about to walk into ongoing traffic imprints your brain like a nostalgic TV memory. He was a sixteen-year-old guardian angel who aged through the years as you grew, interfering in your life as if you were the most life-threatening person ever. 
Freshman year of college, he’s taking the red solo cup of whatever mixed potion the older frat guys made out of your hand. This led to practically the whole campus thinking you were chronically insane as you argued with no one because they couldn’t see what you saw. He interfered with your life at moments when you had it all under control, and he didn’t need to baby you as if you didn’t. But you were grateful for him, and the things he did stop when things got bad.
It's like killing a guy who roofied you at a bar. Despite the toxic drugs from drinking your drink, it had you feeling like you were in another world. You remember the crimson-red liquid staining his large, elegant white wings after the deed was done. After that, he’s never left your side, and you grew to feel suffocated. You couldn’t do much in your life if you had your guardian angel down your neck twenty-four-seven commenting on you getting hurt or dying. 
Now an adult, he still was here. Despite you being perfectly fine. No freak accidents, no near-death experiences. He still was here lurking around as if you were a child. 
Right now, watching as you poorly attempted to get laid. Your panties dangle from your ankle as you wait for the guy to insert, but as your horny meter slowly decreases—so does the poor stranger you met at a bar cock. Your eyes averted between your bodies as he aggressively pumped his condom-covered cock; you could hear his laughs as he was sitting on your kitchen counter chewing on an apple. 
Fuckin’ Sephiroth.
“You know what? That’s okay. Just leave.” You pushed the guy off you, limp dick and all while you’re scrambling to tug your panties back on. 
“What? It just takes some time,” The guy’s tugging his pants up in frustration. “Just please…baby.” He’s grasping on you, and you’re swatting his hand away like it’s an annoying fruit fly. 
“Just go. I’m no longer in the mood.” You warned.
This was a warning not only for yourself but for him. You had a 6’1 angel looming around your apartment who didn’t care to kill someone—especially a person who wasn’t following directions. Your eyes darted from him in the kitchen to the guy who kissed his teeth while collecting his belongings.
“Don’t call me anymore! You completely wasted my time.” He sneered at you while leaving your apartment. The door closed with a harsh slam that made you jump. 
As silence drifts over your apartment, and the only thing you can hear is the sound of that annoying clock in your kitchen ticking, you lean back on the couch with a sigh. “You know, you completely ruined the vibe, you know?” Your eyes land on the white-haired male as he finishes the apple he obnoxiously chews on.
“Do not blame it on me.” He tosses the apple in a trash can and stands up to close the space between you.
“I am blaming you because it seems like every romantic connection I attempt to make, you are there to ruin it.” You sneered at him before sitting up. “I don’t think this will work anymore, Sephiroth.” 
“Are you saying you want to release me of my duties of being your guardian angel?” He asks. You can feel he got closer despite shifting your eyes closed to calm yourself down from this talk. 
You two have been together for years. He’s been protecting you for years, and now it felt so suffocating that you couldn’t breathe. Sometimes, you wanted to release him of his duties, but you knew when you did that every memory you’ve shared with him would vanish. It would be like you two have never met. 
The sight of him with his elegant white wings on his back. The sight of blood staining his pale skin after murdering someone that hurt you. The look of worry when you almost walk into traffic, and he was a split second from being too late. 
He was yours just as much as you were his. But you needed space. 
“Yes.” You breathed out, pushing yourself off the couch to enter your room. “You know, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but I don’t think we can co-exist in each other’s lives anymore.” You explained you turned around, and he was leaning against your doorframe with the most obnoxious face. 
It was as if your words were going out one ear and the other for him. “We’re not young anymore. I don’t need you being so….so.” You were searching for the word to describe how you felt—frustration riddling your bones as you attempted to express yourself. 
Sephiroth took steps forward, closing the gap between you two. When he was towering over you with such little care at how close he was to you—he fixed your tank top strap and let his slender fingers linger on your shoulder just a little longer to cause goosebumps to garnish your skin immediately. 
“Possessive.” He finishes your sentence as his teeth graze upon his lower lip. “Is that the word you’re searching for, my little ward?” 
And with challenging eyes, you met his and said, “Yes. Possessive, like you own me or something.” 
His chuckles. But this chuckle was different from the one you have heard. It felt more sinister, more agitated. 
“You’re stuck with me, love. If you like it or not. We’re bound together until you die of old age or better yet, I briefly take my eyes off you as fate finally chooses a moment for you to die. Maybe a bus will hit you as you walk into traffic for texting on that silly device of yours, or maybe you’ll accidentally hit your head.” 
Your eyebrows furrow together in frustration and anger at his words. 
“You enjoy my company but don’t want to admit it. You think I didn’t notice the way you bring home little flings to spite me. You think I can’t hear the way your heartbeat quickens at the sight of me watching you get fucked by some man who can’t even make you orgasm. Sephiroth’s eyes glance over your body like he was observing you under a microscope. “So tell me, Y/N.” His finger’s toying with that strap on your tank top that keeps falling off your shoulder. 
“How many times have you imagined me, your sworn protector—your guardian angel fucking you?” His fingers drag alongside your nipples that harden through the thin white fabric of your tank top. “And don’t lie; I know when you’re lying to me.” 
You couldn’t quite remember what you had said after his words for your knees to be pressed upon your stomach and for Sephiroth’s cock to be buried into your throbbing cunt while your moans bounced off the walls. The pornographic sound of heated skin slapping against each other with the sound of your headboard banging against the wall was like music to your ears. But you enjoyed the sight of Sephiroth more. 
His crystal white hair fell in his face so perfectly. Comically enough, you wanted to say he looked like an angel. His eyes kept averting between your fucked out face and in between your body. With each glance down there, it seemed he fucked you into the mattress even harder. Instantly, your legs snake around his waist, completely trapping him from depriving you of what you were so eager for.
Sephiroth chuckles darkly through your pants of desperation, “Seems you’re enjoying this a little too much.” He mumbles. He pulls his cock entirely out of you, leaving you whining for more. 
He guides his cock in between your pussy lips rubbing in the mixture of your essence and pre-cum. Your back arched off the mattress with urgency, and he pushed you back down so you could endure the pleasurable torture of his cock teasing you until you were staining the cotton sheets below your naked body. With each stroke between your puffy lips, you’re squeezing your eyes shut tightly to prevent even the littlest thought of him seeing you like this. You didn’t think you could fathom the mere embarrassment. 
“Come on, you don’t want to see how well you take me?” He questions, his voice rings with a teasing tone that makes your pussy pulse. 
“Fine then.” He mumbles what seems to himself before he hooks his strong arms under your knees, completely trapping you under him and what’s to come.
You wondered if Sephiroth could hear how fast your heart was beating. It felt like it was bouncing around your chest like a small ball in a pinball machine. The feeling of his thick tip brushing against your entrance felt like the world had stopped. Perhaps it did. The idea of a guardian angel fucking his ward into her mattress had to be some form of rule breaker, right? Maybe, just maybe—God had briefly paused the world to give you time to weigh out the pros and cons of this.
But when Sephiroth bottomed down inside you, you felt the world unpause, and a wave of pleasure travel across your body. You even could hear yourself let out a sigh of relief—as if you’ve been waiting for this moment in centuries. The way his cock was inside, you felt like it was a missing piece in a puzzle you need. It fit perfectly, but when he started rotating and thrusting his hips—you couldn’t help but call out his name like it was a scripture.
It wasn’t as if you could do anything else but take his sensual thrusts. The mating press position trapped you from doing anything else but that. The way he was making you feel at the moment had you ignoring all that. Your moans echoed into his ear, and Sephiroth was very responsive because he’d grunt back like a rabid animal in heat. Ensuring that the feeling was mutual. That he was feeling just as good as you were. 
“After this, you’ll be stuck with me forever, right?” Sephiroth asked. His tongue drags alongside the bridge of your right ear, and instantly, your legs snake around his waist, locking your feet together so he won’t let go.
“Mhm, that’s what I thought.” His words send a chill down your spine as he continues to fuck into the mattress.
The pornographic sound of heated flesh echos upon your bedroom, and your eyes seem to squeeze shut in bliss. Savoring the moment between the two of you until you couldn’t anymore. Your pussy pulsed around his cock, and your thighs quivered under your guardian angel’s touch. His grip on you grew tighter, and you knew that he was unraveling right on top of you. His groans that echoed in your ear changed into whines of desperation. If you were being honest with yourself, you haven’t seen him this desperate in your life.
But it was a reason for that because, in just three seconds, he was a coming mess. He didn’t even bother to pull out, either. His nails dug into your heated flesh with each thrust inside of you, ensuring that each droplet of his cum stayed inside of you. With your legs wrapped around his waist, you leaned up to indulge in a heated kiss to seal the deal that you knew was going to follow you for years.
You truly were stuck with him forever until you took your last breath. 
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TAGS // @salaciousdoll @syndrlla97 @lilvampirina @msun1c0rn
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steddieas-shegoes · 15 days
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cw: discussion of past parental death due to overdose, mention of drug use
Steve stumbled upon the article when he was helping Robin collect articles for a project for her Industry Studies course.
He didn’t think much of reading about another small time musician getting caught up with the wrong crowd, and overdosing or getting in a drunk driving accident. It seemed like a pretty common theme. It was terrible, sad, horrible, but he’d seen about 30 stories like that in the last two days and he was kind of getting numb to it all.
Until he saw the name Munson.
Until a picture of a woman with long, curly hair and Eddie’s smile stared back at him next to a headline that read: “Kentucky Country Queen Dead at 27.”
He read the article with tears in his eyes.
Elizabeth “El” Munson, a hopeful country singer and guitarist, was found dead in her home by her six year old son, Edward. The boy reportedly tried calling his father at work with no luck before finally calling his uncle, Wayne Munson.
Toxicology reports show that she overdosed on multiple illegal substances. At this time, it is believed to have been accidental and no foul play is suspected.
It has now been made clear that Elizabeth was seeking a divorce from her husband, Al Munson, but had not been successful as lawyers were unable to locate him until her funeral. Their son has been put in the care of Wayne until further notice.
Robin found him 20 minutes later, staring at the page with swollen, red eyes. She took the paper, read the article, and put it back in the files wordlessly.
“I don’t think he wants us to know,” she finally said.
She was probably right.
But Steve had grown pretty close to Eddie over the last six months, had opened up to him about his parents, his fake friends, his concussions and nightmares. Eddie had started opening up to him, too.
He thought he had, anyway.
He told him about how his mom died when he was young and his dad was awful so he moved in with Wayne. He told him about how his dad appeared every couple years looking for money or a place to stay and Wayne always turned him away.
But he never really talked about his mom, always said he barely remembered her.
Did he know what happened?
——
Steve asked Wayne the next morning.
He’d come by to pick Eddie up for a day with the kids, but Eddie hadn’t set his alarm and was still asleep.
Perfect opportunity to find out more.
“So. Eddie’s mom.”
Wayne tensed over his plate of toast and scrambled eggs. He didn’t look up, just took another bite of food.
“Does he know how she died?”
“Do you?”
“Newspaper said overdose,” Steve tapped his fingers nervously against his thigh. “Says Eddie found her.”
“Trauma messes with your memory.”
It was final, a statement that left Steve with more questions, but a certainty that he’d get no answers.
“Yeah.” He gulped. “I’ve heard.”
——
Steve doesn’t bring it up to Eddie for a while.
He figured Wayne’s reaction said a lot about what Eddie knew or would be willing to share.
But they were a little high and alone and Eddie’s hand was warm in his and his filter was broken.
“I’m sorry you had to be the one to find your mom.”
The air around them was thick. The silence was deafening.
“Me too.”
Eddie’s voice was quiet, nothing like his usual playful tone.
Steve immediately wanted to put this conversation in reverse, pretend his curiosity didn’t matter.
“I’m sorry.”
Eddie moved closer to Steve, his arm a constant pressure against Steve’s. His head leaned against Steve’s shoulder.
“Wayne doesn’t know I know how she died. He doesn’t know I know my dad gave her bad drugs, convinced her all the up and coming musicians were doing a new strain of heroin. She’d kicked him out of the house,” Eddie’s breath caught. “She shouldn’t have let him come back that day. I heard them arguing before I left for school. She told him she was finding a manager and recording an album and that she was divorcing him. I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew it was bad.”
“Eds, you don’t have to tell me.”
“I know, Stevie. But you know everything else.” Eddie’s face turned until his nose and mouth were pressed against Steve’s arm. “I went to school. Didn’t think about it. Figured my dad would be gone when I got home and might come back in a few days once they cooled off. But when I got home, he was gone and my mom’s bedroom door was closed. And I opened it and there she was.”
Steve turned so he was face to face with Eddie, cupping his jaw and rubbing his thumb along his cheek in encouragement.
“I don’t even know why I tried calling the store first. I didn’t even know if he still worked there. But then I called Wayne and it’s like he just knew.” Eddie’s eyes closed for a moment. “Don’t think he’d ever gotten to our house so quick.”
“Did he know all this?”
“He knew enough. I stayed with him and then my dad gave up his rights. Lied to the counselor about what I knew so Wayne wouldn’t freak. Kept it up for a while,” Eddie let out a small exhale that slightly resembled a laugh. “I read the article about eight years ago. A kid in my class made a joke about me being an orphan because of the drug problem in America as if he even knew what that meant and I decided to see what the newspaper reported.”
“Do you play because of her?” Steve asked.
Eddie blinked back at him.
“I play for a lot of reasons. But I started because of her, yeah,” he whispers. “You’re the first person to ask me that instead of give me that look of pity.”
“I’m sad about how it happened, but giving you pity doesn’t change it. I’d rather hear how it changed you,” Steve whispered back.
They were close, legs intertwined, hands touching bare skin under shirts and on faces and necks.
“It changed everything for me. Wayne packed us up and moved us here as soon as he legally could. Probably for the best. Well,” Eddie gave a small smile. “Definitely for the best. Wouldn’t be here with you if he hadn’t.”
“Do you ever go back?” Steve did his best to ignore the fluttering in his stomach.
“Her birthday every year. She’s got a nice spot near her mom.” Eddie bit his lip. “It’s actually coming up in a couple weeks. Maybe you could come with me?”
“Me? Are you sure?”
Eddie nodded. “If it doesn’t weird you out that I talk to her. I like to give her updates on my life, Wayne’s life, music. Think she’d find it quite funny that I bring the guy I’ve had a crush on for two years.”
It takes a minute for the words to sink in.
“Two years?” Steve’s lips curled up into a smile. “I hope I live up to expectations.”
“I think she’d like you. She’d definitely make fun of me for having a boyfriend who wears polos though.”
“Is that how you’d introduce me?”
“If you’re okay with it.” Eddie leaned his forehead against Steve’s. “I know we haven’t talked about what we-“
Steve pressed his lips to Eddie’s, nearly knocking their noses together painfully in the process.
After the initial shock, they both relaxed into the kiss.
“I’d love to go. As your boyfriend,” Steve said after pulling away for air. “What was her favorite flower?”
“Gardenias. Always wore perfume that smelled like it. Why?”
“Because I have to impress her, right?”
“You realize she’s not gonna actually see or hear you? She’s definitely dead.”
Steve snorted. “I know. But she can still have nice things. Maybe us bringing her nice things in death is a way to apologize for the not nice things she had in life.”
“You’re a pretty incredible boyfriend, sweetheart.” Eddie kissed the tip of his nose. “And you now know more than Wayne, so it’s time for a pinky promise.”
Steve giggled before holding up his pinky. “I swear I won’t tell Wayne anything.”
“And you’ll kiss me whenever I want…”
“That’s a guarantee.”
“And you’ll let me win at Go Fish…”
“Not a chance, Eds.”
Eddie laughed. “Worth a try.”
Steve curled his pinky against Eddie’s. “So do you think she’d like me?”
“Oh. Oh god. She’d love you. You’re exactly who she’d want for me,” Eddie rolled his eyes when Steve flipped his hair back confidently. “And she’d braid your hair every night while you gossiped and sipped tea.”
“And what would you do?”
“Probably just soak it in. Appreciate having her and you around. You’ll just have to gossip with Wayne.”
“Wayne doesn’t strike me as-“
“Oh, he’s got you fooled! He’s a worse gossip than the ladies at the hair salon. Just ask him about the mailbox at the end of the road sometime. Make sure you’ve got an hour to spare.”
“Really?” Steve’s eyes lit up. “Is he home now?”
Eddie pulled Steve forward until he was flush against his front. “No and I have much better plans than gossiping with my uncle.”
“Oh?” Steve’s brow raised.
“It involves my bed and handcuffs. You in?”
“Hopefully you’re in.”
“God, you’re ridiculous. C’mon, now I’m even harder from your stupid flirting,” Eddie sat up and tugged until Steve followed. “Can’t believe this is how my night’s going.”
“Believe it, baby.”
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xxbimbobunnyxx · 20 days
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Angel Face, Devil Thoughts
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Summary: The first time Rafe Cameron saw you, he knew he had to have you. Whatever it takes. Wk: 6.8K
•This is a collaboration with @babygorewhore🖤 I had so much fun working on this with you baby, I love you so much!!!•
Warnings: Possesive!Rafe, obsessive behaviors (Rafe and reader), kidnapping, drugging, kinda clueless reader (or is she…?), daddy kink, borderline stalker behavior, spanking, hair pulling, jealous!Rafe, bondage, age gap (Rafe is 35 reader is 26), spit kink, oral, unprotected sex. Dark fic, 18+MNDI!! (Divider by me)
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Rafe Cameron’s legs turned as he swung the golf club, perfectly hitting the ball as it landed near the hole in the ground yards ahead. He smirked to himself. Topper clapped a hand on his shoulder. His grip firm and Rafe cocked an eyebrow at him.
“I don’t know how you do it. I’ve never beaten you.”
Rafe shrugged. “No one can,” He chuckled and scanned the scenery of the yards ahead of him.
It was a beautiful day. It wasn’t too hot and he was able to wear nicer clothing than he usually did for golf. A simple button down shirt and comfortable pants allowed him to easily pick up his bag of clubs and make his way to the small section of the park where food and drink was served. By Pogues and the middle class.
But he wasn’t as involved in the war between kooks and pogues. At 35, he truly had better things to do. Run the empire and look after Wheezie who was a young teenager now. After Wards death, his sisters random marriage, his own growth over the years, Rafe just wanted to make money, fuck, and…make more money.
But then his eyes widened and he almost stopped short when he saw you. And his entire world came to a halt.
You were wearing a simple outfit, a little black tennis skirt and a polo tee that bore the logo of the franchise representing the park. Your hair was out of your face, you were wearing makeup and you were currently talking to Wheezie, who giggled and blushed at a young boy across from you both. Rafe’s footsteps slowed but he continued your way. He was close enough to hear the conversation.
“I think he’s really cute. But I don’t know how to approach him.” Wheezie complained and he wanted to roll his eyes over her thirtieth crush of the week when you smiled at her. And he melted inside.
“That’s okay. All you have to do is wave and smile. Men are easy.” You winked at her and he swallowed thickly.
You were so beautiful. Delicate. Angelic. Perfect. You radiated kindness and a youthful spark that he hadn’t exposed himself to in a long time. He was probably about ten years your senior but he didn’t give a shit. When he saw Wheezie walk away from you and your adorable smile continued to grow, that's when he decided.
You were his.
He cleared his throat and prepared to further approach you after abandoning Topper. He had no issue with shyness or other bullshit younger men dealt with but something about you made him hesitate. Why were you working? Someone as perfect as you deserved to be treated gently, like a princess. You needed to be kept.
Rafe could do that. Easily.
As he walked to you, your pretty doe eyes looked up at him, and a smirk so faint crossed your face that he almost missed it.
“Haven’t seen you before. Sorry if my little sister annoyed you. But I have a soft spot for her.” Rafe didn’t bother with introducing himself. You’d be screaming his name soon enough.
“Hi,” when you gave him your name, he almost got chills. Even your name was perfect. You were an angel. The way your feet rolled, trying to shorten the distance between you both was adorable. “She was cute! I remember my first crush.” You twirl your hair and Rafe gave you a hum of approval.
“What’s a pretty little girl like yourself doing working here? With looks like that, I figured you’d be a model.” Rafe complimented and instead of becoming shy, you batted your eyelashes and grinned.
“I’m thinking about it.” You glanced back at the bar cart, “but I have to get back to work. It was nice to meet you finally, Rafey.” The nickname made his lips quirk in a sadistic smile. A nickname already? One he never allowed others to use.
But you weren’t anyone.
You were his little bunny.
Rafe stayed longer than usual, watching you from a distance and leering at the way your skirt hugged your ass and hips. You were a little clumsy but he enjoyed that. He knew you’d have to rely on him for everything. You needed him.
When you clocked out, Rafe was horrified to see you start to walk down the road. You didn’t have a car. And that made him feel rage. How could someone allow you to walk home alone? He certainly wouldn’t. Not his pretty kitty.
Rafe marched forward, catching up with you before his hand gently touched your arm. “Pretty girls shouldn’t have to walk home. Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”
He expected you to deny it but then you grinned and nodded rapidly.
“Yes! That sounds great!”
This would be too easy. But he was worried. What if a bad man got a hold of you? How would he live with himself if something happened to you? He’d never let it go. No. His darling little girl would never get hurt.
“Come on. My car is this way.”
Rafe lagged behind you ever so slightly, despite his legs being much longer than yours. He couldn’t resist getting another peak of your ass in that little uniform. He also couldn’t resist when you stumbled as he was helping you into the passenger seat and one of his hands landed on the skin of your ass just under your skirt. He had to hold back a chuckle at the sight of you displaying yet another act of clumsiness. You were so helpless, fragile, too good for this world. He had to protect you from anyone who tried to hurt you, even yourself.
“Alright, Angel face, where am I headed?” Rafe buckles himself in, one of his long fingers hitting the push to start on his fancy sports car. He glances over at you, noticing that you haven’t buckled yourself up yet. He lightly shakes his head before leaning over the center console to buckle your belt for you.
“Oh, thank you, Rafey.” You run your fingers down his forearm, batting your lashes at him again. He takes note of your chipped nail polish, he’ll have to remedy that immediately. He’s definitely going to be calling the nicest salon on the island first thing tomorrow. Get you the full treatment, hair, nails, massage, whatever you want. “It’s on figure 8, I’m actually staying three houses down from you, I think. It’s my grandparents old house.”
“Oh, yeah, I heard about their passing. I’m sorry about that, doll.” He smiles at you softly, earning the cutest little grin in return. “Is that what you’re doing here? You inherit their house or something?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that. They left it to my mom but she doesn’t have any interest in living here so her and dad are selling it. We came here to go through all their stuff and get it ready to put on the market.”
“What about you? You like it here?” You cross your legs, and Rafe can see how deliciously your thighs squish together out of the corner of his eye. He stifled a groan at the sight.
“Yeah, it’s nice. It’s a lot different from my hometown but it’s really pretty here. And I make better money than I did at my waitressing job back home.” Your voice is so cute, Rafe wants to drown in it.
“If your moms parents left her all that money, how come you’re working?” He takes a chance to look over at you at a red light, eyes roaming your form, committing as much as he could to memory.
“They are still dealing with all the legal stuff, and I don’t really know if they’ll even give me any. I don’t think they trust me with it. I haven’t always made the best life choices.” You sigh, a frown spreading across your lips, a crease in your brow. Rafe hates it, how dare they upset you? How dare they not help you? If you aren’t great with making choices, he doesn’t mind making them for you.
“Ah, makes sense. But a pretty girl like you? You deserve everything you could ever want. Waited on hand and foot.”
“That’s so sweet, thank you, Rafe. But I’ve always worked for what I want, ya know? I don’t really mind it.” You shrug your shoulders, twirling a strand of hair around your finger.
“Well, I think you deserve better than that, s’all im saying. I’m gonna set up a spa day for you, alright? What are your days off?” This is a win, win for him. He can spoil you a little and figure out your work schedule.
“Oh! You don’t have to do th-“
“Angel, I don’t have to do anything, but I’d really like to do this for you. Let me.” It comes out like more of a command than a request and he doesn’t miss the way your breath hitches in your throat at his tone.
“Alright, if you insist. I work Tuesday to Saturday every week. So I have tomorrow off, since today is Saturday.” You smile at him, and he thinks it’s adorable how proud you seem to be stating simple facts. You seemed like a bit of an air head but Rafe didn’t mind, he liked that, it would be easier to guide you.
“Okay, I’m gonna call and make you an appointment for tomorrow.” He pulls into the driveway of your grandparents home and takes his phone out of his pocket, handing it to you. “Put your number in here and I’ll text you the details.”
Your smile is wide and he feels like he can practically see a sparkle in your eyes. He wants to give you the fucking world. You add your number to his phone, putting yourself in as “Angel Face” with a little bunny next to it. You give him his phone back and he smirks down at it, you were almost in too cute to bare.
“Well, thank you so much for the ride, and for tomorrow too! You’ve been so kind to me and you hardly even know me, I wish I could repay you somehow.” A little pout forms on your lips as you look up at him through those god damned lashes.
“I’m sure we can figure something out, Angel face. For now, be a good girl for me and get inside safely. Make sure you lock the door behind you. I’ll text you soon about your little spa day.” He smirks at you, resting his hand on your thigh and giving it a squeeze. The cutest little squeak leaves your lips and he can’t wait to hear what you sound like when you moan his name. “Also, no more walking home, alright? I’m usually done with my work shit by the time the club closes so I’ll pick you up from now on.”
You look like you’re about to protest, but it’s almost like you think better of it. Instead you give him one of those sweet smiles.
“Sounds good, thank you again, I’ll make sure I’m a real good girl for you. Get lots of rest for my big day tomorrow. Good night Rafey.”
“Night, Angel.” You pat his hand before grabbing your purse and exiting his car. He swears you bent over a little extra to give him a flash of your little black panties, but he’s not complaining. As long as he’s the only man you’re doing that for. He’s totally and utterly addicted to you already, and he won’t stop until he owns you completely. Rafe quickly calls the salon owner's private number, knowing they’re probably closed by now. He offers her however much it takes to get you in the next day before typing out a text to you.
Your appointment is at 12:30 tomorrow, I think baby pink stiletto nails would compliment you well. I'll pick you up at noon, don’t be late. Sweet dreams, bunny.
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Rafe eagerly pulls into the salon parking lot the next day. He picked you up at noon on the dot, you came bouncing down the driveway with a bright smile on your face. He must say seeing you out of your work clothes was a spiritual experience for him. You were wearing this little black mini skirt, and a little light pink tank top. You had on the most impractical shoes for a place like this, big, chunky, studded platform Mary Jane’s, with little white ruffle socks. The thing that really did him in though? The black o-ring choker around your neck. It was all so contradictory, the pink, the studs, the little socks. He’s never seen a girl like you in all his years. He needs you so badly.
Last night felt like one of the longest nights of his life, he never thought he could miss someone he just met so much. But he was up nearly all night, his thoughts riddled with you. Your thighs, the way your tits looked in that little work polo, the way your ass would bounce when he fucked you from behind. Rafe has never jerked off so much in one night. Not even when he was younger. All he can think about is filling you up, spoiling you, maybe putting a few babies in you once he’s gotten his fill of alone time with you. He walks into the salon with a pep in his step, his eyes scanning the room for your beautiful face.
His features immediately harden when he spots you though. You’re sitting pretty in one of the plush pedicure chairs your feet propped up while a man paints your dainty little toe nails. His nostrils flare, anger surging through him at the sight of another man’s hands on his angel. His expensive loafers thud against the ground as he stomps towards you.
“Rafe, hi! You’re early! But this is the last thing, so you shouldn’t have to wait for long.” You give him that saccharine smile, completely oblivious to his internal meltdown.
“Hi angel.” He smiles at you, but he doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You about done with my girl here?”
He looks down at the man as he coats the polish on your toenails, wanting nothing more than to cut his fingers off one by one for even thinking he’s worthy of touching you. Let alone doing it. He doesn’t give a shit if he’s paying.
“Yeah, this is the last step then I’ll have her out of here.” The guy smiles at him before returning to his task.
“I didn’t know dudes worked at places like this.” Rafe scoffs.
“Rafe! That’s kind of a rude thing to say… Everyone here has been so helpful and kind! I’ve had a great day!” Your lips form into a pout, your brows furrowed. The last thing he wants to do is upset you, or scare you off. He needs you to trust him. Plus he’s not the same hot headed guy he used to be, he’s a man now. He can keep this to himself.
“You’re right, baby, I’m sorry. Thanks for treating her right, man.” Rafe forces the most polite smile he can muster in his direction.
“No problem, just doing my job.” He taps his fingers against the polish, making sure it’s dry. “Which I’m all done with, you’re free to go ma’am. You can pay up front.”
“Thank you so much!! They look perfect!!” You wiggle your toes, your hands clapping together excitedly. You’re so cute Rafe hardly remembers why he was mad, hardly. He still wants to singe that guy’s finger tips off. “You like them?��
“Yeah bunny, those are gorgeous.” Rafe smirks, pleased to see the baby pink polish on not just your fingers but your toes too. You even went with the shape he suggested. You’re such a good girl already.
He walks you to the counter, using his black card to pay for everything. He even leaves a generous tip, despite how much he’s still simmering with jealousy over that man touching you. He wanted to make a good impression on you, he needs you to see how perfect he is for you.
“Lemme see you, pretty girl.” Rafe offers you his hand so he can spin you around, a low whistle escaping his lips as you twirl. “Gorgeous.”
“Oh my god, thank you! I really had such a great day. I got a massage. Then they did highlights and a blow out on my hair. And of course I got these pretty nails!!” You giggle, holding your hands out to him to give him a closer look.
“Very pretty, bunny. The little bows are a nice touch. I knew that color would be perfect for you. You ready to go?”
“Yup! All set.”
Rafe leads you out to his car, helping you in and buckling your seatbelt just like he has the last two times you've been in it. He drives towards your grandparents house with an almost uneasy feeling. He doesn’t want to let you go yet. Or ever. He left you alone for a few hours and regardless if it was his job or not another man had his hands all over you. He didn’t like it. You were too precious to be going around without him. You needed him just as much as he needed you.
When he pulls up to your house you thank him over and over again, telling him no one has ever done anything this nice for you before. How could they not have? You deserve a thousand times more than just this, and he’s going to give it to you. You lean over and leave a sticky lipgloss kiss on his cheek. His heart feels like it’s nearly going to burst out of his chest and he has to clench his fists to stop himself from reaching out and kissing you like his life depends on it. You make sure to bend over again when you get out of his car, and it just drives him even more crazy. He was going to make you his, by any means necessary.
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Rafe carefully selected another item into the cart as he walked down the aisle at the store. The aisles were nearly empty since he picked the perfect time to arrive and buy things for his little girl. His shopping was usually done by someone who worked for him but how could he allow anyone to touch things that were yours? Only he could give you these things. His little angel wouldn’t ever have to worry about anyone ever again.
In the cart were stuffed animals, blankets, decorations and even coloring books. He had already assembled the basics in the bedroom he specifically designed for you two days later after he had been driving you home. The room would be ready tonight.
His caretaker nature allowed him to easily pick up on things you liked. Soft, sweet and gentle natured you. His baby girl.
As he returned to his home with several bags, he didn’t allow anyone to put things away. The room was a soft pink color. Completely removed of any objects that could cause you harm. Stuffed animals, a tv set, a computer that would be monitored, and a soft bed with fluffed pillows. Rafe stood straight and admired his work. Yes. This was perfect for a sweet girl like you. Everything about this plan would go perfectly. His little bimbo would fall for his trap and he didn’t have a moment of doubt or guilt. Why would he? You needed him. And he wouldn’t stand the thought of anyone else having you.
Like clockwork, Rafe heard the doorbell ring and he knew it was Barry. Here to accomplish his part of the task at hand. Rafe opened his front door after begrudgingly leaving your bedroom and Barry leaned against the frame.
“Sup, country club.” He dangled a bag full of small pills. “Got the dough. You have my money?”
Rafe handed over the wad of cash and accepted the plastic bag. “This better be the real fucking thing or I’ll kill you.” He warned and Barry smirked.
“Yeah, yeah I’m so scared of you big boy. Pretty fucked up though. What you’re planning to do with that chick. But it’s safe I guess. Not gonna hurt her.”
“That’s all I need to know.” Rafe pressed the bag against his chest and Barry crossed his arms.
“Ain’t ever seen you like this, bro. When you gonna get her?”
“Tonight. When she’s on her way home. Pretty little bunny doesn’t have a car. She’s making this easy for me.” Rafe chuckled.
“Aight, I don’t need to know anymore.” Barry held his hands up and walked away towards his bike. “Careful, Rafe. Sounds like you’ve really fallen for her.”
Rafe nodded and a twinge of emotion made him feel warm. He swore to himself he’d never fall in love. And now look at him. Planning on taking this poor girl but he was doing her a favor. She was his and his alone. He would protect her. Even if it was against her will. Even if it meant forcing her.
Later, Rafe was in his car waiting to pick you up with your favorite drink. A milkshake. His trembling hands gripped the steering wheel as the minutes went by on his digital clock.
You will be coming out soon. All his. His precious baby. Rafe craned his neck and finally saw you walking towards his car. His body tensed and his cock twitched with adrenaline as you smiled when you saw him. Twirling your braids, you waved at him while approaching the car with a half slip.
“Hi, Rafey! You’re right on time!” You said as you happily slid into the car.
Rafe nodded. “Of course I am, baby. I’m a man of my word. Here, I got you something, Angel.” He handed you the milkshake, his fingers twitching as you grinned and immediately wrapped your lips around the straw. You moaned at the taste and his mouth watered at your pretty sounds.
You fell for it.
Rafe inhaled slowly as he started driving, but not in the direction of your home. It didn’t matter anyway, you were drinking too eagerly to really notice.
“It’s a pretty day, Rafe! Almost as pretty as you are!” You giggled and Rafe reached over, placing a hand on your thigh, giving it a gentle yet firm squeeze.
“Thank you, bunny. You’re such a sweet girl you know that? My sweet girl.” He muttered the last part and he noticed your movements were growing slower.
You blinked, your doe eyes becoming unfocused. The Valium was taking effect and he smirked with satisfaction. God, you were such a little bimbo slut.
“Rafey…I feel so tired…” you yawned and he traced his ringed fingers along your skin where your skirt had rode up.
“Go to sleep, baby. You’ll be all nice and safe when you wake up.” Rafe trembled as you slumped over, your mouth parting as you drifted to a deep sleep.
That’s it. That’s my fucking girl. So obedient.
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Your body feels weighed down, you try to open your eyes but it feels like someone put bags of sand on top of them. The last thing you remember is falling asleep in Rafe’s car, but what you’re laying on right now is definitely not a car seat. It feels like the most plush mattress you’ve ever laid on, even softer than the one in your grandparents guest room. Your head feels like it’s resting on a cloud, and the air smells nice. Like vanilla and strawberries.
After a few minutes of struggling you finally force your eyes to open slightly. There’s a soft warm light illuminating the room, and what looks like a sheer pink canopy on the ceiling above you. Your body still feels heavy but you’re able to move your hands now, spreading your fingers and running your palms across a silky soft blanket. You turn your head to the side and your eyes land on a pink wall with the prettiest vanity you’ve ever seen pushed up against it. You weave your head the other way, trying to get a grip on your surroundings. Up against the opposite wall there’s a rack filled with clothes and from what you can tell it’s all things you’d wear.
You try to push yourself up on your palms, now extremely aware of how dry your mouth is, how thirsty you are. But your body still feels too weak. You let out a little groan and lull your head back against the soft pillow.
“Hey, hey, don’t try to move, Angel. I’ve got you.”
“Rafe?” Your voice comes out a cracked whisper, you can’t see him, but there’s no doubt in your mind that it’s him.
“Yeah bunny, it’s me, daddy’s here.” The self proclaimed title sends a shiver down your spine.
“Daddy? What’s going on? Where am I?” You’re about to try to push yourself up again when Rafe comes into view. He’s towering over you, looking down at you with what only could be described as adoration.
“You’re home.” His large hand reaches out to cup your jaw, the pad of his thumb running over the apple of your cheek.
“Home? This isn’t my grandparents' house - I - I’m so thirsty.” You nuzzle into his palm almost subconsciously. You’ve spent so many nights now dreaming about his touch, more than just the brief thigh touches or a hand on your shoulder. It felt so nice.
“Shh shh, baby it’s okay. Don’t overwhelm yourself. Here, I’ll help you sit up, I have some water here.” His snakes one arm underneath your head and the other behind your knees, hoisting you up against the headboard with ease. Now that you’re sitting up you have a better view of the room. It’s beautiful. Something out of your wildest dreams.
“Where - where are we?” You ask with wide eyes, your voice filled with borderline awe.
“I told you Angel, we’re home. This is for you. I did this all for you.” He takes the cap off the water bottle sitting on the nightstand and holds it up to your lips. You eagerly chug it down, the cool liquid calming the burn in your throat.
“For me? Rafe? How did I get here? Did you change my clothes?” Now that you’re feeling more aware you realize you’re no longer wearing your work uniform. Instead you’re wearing a little silk nighty with white lace embellishments. It’s soft and comfortable and honestly gorgeous.
“Bunny… I need you to listen to me, alright?” He discards the water bottle so he can sit on the bed next to you, his hand returning to your face. You nod against his palm, looking up at him with big wide eyes. “Use your words.”
“I’m listening, Rafey.”
“Call me daddy when I’m talking to you like this, alright baby?”
“Okay, daddy.”
“I - fuck - I did what I had to do alright? I did what’s best for you. You’re too fragile, too precious for this world. That first day I saw you working at the club, I knew I needed you. Knew you needed me.” You try to hold in your smirk, you really do. But you were already starting to crack as it was, and this? This isn’t something you would’ve expected.
“Oh I know, daddy, I see the way you look at me… you didn’t answer my question though. How did I get here, huh? Did you slip something in that milkshake? Knock me out? Strip me down and get a good look at my little body?” You look at him with a Cheshire smile, and a gleam in your eye he’s never seen.
“Hey, I didn’t fuckin’ do any weird shit if that’s what you’re thinking, I want you fully aware of your surroundings the first time I have you. That is until I fuck you so good you forget everything but my name…”
“So kidnapping and drugging me isn’t considered weird? Got it.” You let out a breathy chuckle. “You know, I knew you wanted me, but I didn’t think you’d go this far. I have to say, daddy, it’s kind of hot.”
“The fuck you mean you knew?” His brows furrow, his nostrils slightly flare and you can tell you hit a nerve. But you just couldn’t keep up this clueless girl act anymore, not after he went to all these lengths just to get you. You needed him to know you wanted him just as bad.
“I mean, I’m not blind. You look at me like you want to put me in a cage and never let me go. You drive me home everyday. You offered to buy me new nails the first day you met me. Also, don’t think I didn’t notice how jealous you got when you saw that guy doing my pedicure. And guess what? The funny part is, you didn’t need the drugs to get me. I would’ve just let you take me.”
“You knew this entire time how badly I wanted you?” You nod and his hand reaches out to grip your jaw, rougher than before. “I told you to use your words, bunny.”
“Yes, I knew.” You smirk at him and he adjusts his grip so he’s pinching your cheeks.
“And you still continued to tease me like a little slut? Bend over and flash me your little panties every time you got out of my car? Always pushing those tits up against my arm and batting your lashes at me? Was that all some kind of act? You trynna scam me?” His hand migrates from your face to your throat, his thick fingers tightening against your esophagus deliciously.
“Daddy, no. It wasn’t an act at all. I want you so bad. Just wanted to see how far I could push you before you finally cracked. I have to say, you exceeded my expectations. I can’t believe you did all of this just for me. That’s so sexy.”
“Oh, so you’re just a little fuckin’ tease. That it?”
“I wasn’t teasing, you could’ve had me any time. You just got in your head that you had to carry out this elaborate scheme to keep me, when I’m already yours.” Rafe practically growls, he feels tricked, he feels frustrated that he risked hurting you with those drugs when you wanted him all along. But most of all? He’s so fucking horny.
“Well, I want you right fuckin’ now.” He uses his grip on your throat to push you onto your back and eases his body over top of yours.
Your breathing intensifies as you give him a small smirk. Of course you knew he wanted you. You may be a bimbo but you had common fucking sense. His blue eyes burned whenever he looked at you with a hunger that was impossible to deny. The material of his shirt rubbed against your bare skin, your slip riding up from his movements that left you pinned on the mattress under his mercy. His palm pressed against your throat felt heavenly, his fingers locked around the sides of your neck held you down posessively.
“You fucking slut. You liked it this the whole time. Liked playing with me. I’m gonna make you regret it.” Rafe flipped you over, grabbing your hips and yanking you up on your hands, your ass up in the air. Your pussy clenches around nothing before Rafe’s hand slaps your ass, hard enough to make you jolt forward as his other hand flies to your hair, holding you in place with a makeshift ponytail.
“Apologize to daddy. Say you’re sorry.” He growls and you want to be a brat and say no, but his fingers slide from your hair down, down, down to your entrance, sinking knuckle deep in your cunt. His two digits play inside you, curling in a come here motion and your slick welcomes him in further as his thumb brushes against your clit with a delicious pressure. “Mmm, wanna give you love, bunny, but you’ve been a bad girl.” He grunts and you whine with your face pressed against the bed.
“Sorry, daddy! I’m sorry I acted bad!” You shriek when he spanks you again, this time hard enough to leave a mark. He spanks you again, and again and again. Tears prick your eyes and you hear him shift as he releases you. You fall forward, crashing onto the blanket and you feel his hands take your ankles. He moves you around on your back, dragging you to the headboard.
“Dumb little kitty. Bet you’re so wet from this. Let’s see,” He gives you a predatory smile and shoves off his black tie. He pins your wrists down, using your weakness to his advantage as he loops it around your hands. He ties you to the headboard and his knee spreads your legs, making you feel the air on your damp panties.
Rafe breathes through his mouth in a taunting huff, “look at that. You’re such a little whore for me. Wet from me hurting you? Drugging you? God damn you’re so pathetic. I love it.”
As you jerk, trying to move you realize you’re completely trapped by him. Rafe looms over you, cupping your jaw. “Open your fucking mouth,” He hisses and you immediately obey. He spits inside, “swallow it. You’re good at that, aren’t you?” You shudder at his filthy words.
Rafe crawls down, sliding your panties down your legs. A groan escaping him at your sticky pussy on display for him as he spreads your knees.
“Mmmm, so good. You’re so worked up.” He situates himself on the bed, burying his mouth against you, his tongue lewdly licks at your clit like an ice cream cone. His heated lips suck at your center with loud moans as he grinds into the mattress.
Your hips buck, his nose continually brushing against the underside of your clit as he laps all around before thrusting his tongue inside your entrance, gathering every single ounce of precum he can get.
“Fuck, daddy. Feels so good, I needed this.” You barely manage and he chuckles.
“Desperate, huh? Needed daddy to fuck this tight little pussy? My little girl is such a good bunny.”
Your stomach tightens, a tightening coil in your belly growing the more he licks you up relentlessly. He rips away, whipping your juices from his chin. His cock inside his trousers looks painfully hard.
“I’m going to make you fucking scream.”
Rafe pushes himself up on his knees, easily ridding himself of his button up and then moving onto his slacks. Your eyes widen at the sight of his cock, you knew he’d be big, but it’s even better than you imagined. All those nights trying to stifle the moans of his name so your parents didn’t hear you.
“Fuck daddy, your cock is so pretty.” You’re practically drooling. “Fuck my mouth.”
He finds himself questioning if you’re even real at this point. His little angel all tied up and laid out, practically begging him to use your pretty mouth. He straddles your face, the head of his heavy cock brushes against your lips and you flick your tongue out. You moan at the taste of the bead of precum that gathered at the tip.
“Fuckin’ look at you, gonna let me use this little mouth?” He taps his cock against your outstretched tongue a few times before using his free hand to grip onto your hair, pulling your head back. “Open wide, slut.”
You stick your tongue out as far as it can go and he glides his length across it. He thrusts slow a few times before shoving his cock down your throat, causing you to gag.
“Yeah, that’s right, fucking choke on it.” You close your lips around him, taking a deep breath through your nose as he begins to assault your throat with rough thrusts. His groans are almost animalistic as he uses you for his own pleasure. You moan around his cock, clenching your thighs together at the feeling of being at his mercy. “Mmm bunny, this mouth is so fucking good. But I bet that little pussy is ever better. She was practically begging for me to fill her. Is that what you want?”
He uses his grip on your hair to pull you off his cock, leaning back so he can look down at you with a condescending pout.
“Please daddy, want it so bad. Want your cock, want your cum. Fill me up.” His large hand grips your face, punching your cheeks together as he tilts your head from side to side.
“You’re such a good little bunny, begging for daddy’s cock like my own personal little slut. That’s all you’re gonna be from now on. Mine to fill, to use, to fuck, to spoil. You’re never going to have to think about a single thing ever again.” He expertly undoes the tie binding your wrists, gripping onto your hips and flipping you onto your stomach again.
“Yes daddy, that’s all I want, just want you. Wanna be your good girl. Want you to take care of me.” You whine into the sheets. “Please fuck me daddy, please don’t make me wait any-“
You’re cut off abruptly when he pulls your ass up into the air, lining his cock up with your entrance. He fills you up in one rough thrust, your slick walls practically sucking him in. He doesn’t give you time to adjust before he’s fucking into you at a brutal pace.
“Oh fuck yeah, this fucking pussy is even better than I imagined. You’re so fucking tight, never gonna stop fucking you baby. Gonna keep you full day and night.”
“Daddy daddy daddy, it feels so good. So good. You’re so big.” You let him take you, his cock hitting that sweet spot inside of you over and over. You’re gripping the sheets so tight you’re scared your new nails are going to tear through them and drool is dripping down your chin and onto the fabric.
“Yeah, fucking take it, slut. Take this fucking dick.” He leans forward, his thick forearm snaking around your throat. He uses his grip on you to pull you up so your back is flush against his chest. You didn’t think anyone could ever be so deep inside of you, and the pressure on your throat makes your head light in the best way.
“Oh my god, daddy, I’m gonna cum.” His free hand finds your clit, and the minute he’s circling it your orgasm is crashing over you. You thrash in his hold, a pornographic moan ripping through you.
“Fuck yes angel, fucking cum for your daddy. Pussy is fucking squeezing me. Gonna make me cum. Look at me.” His hand leaves your clit, roughly gripping onto your jaw so he can pull your head to the side. It’s borderline painful the way your neck is craned so you can look up into his blue eyes. But when he smashes his lips against yours in a bruising kiss you can’t bring yourself to care.
Rafe continues to fuck into you, his tongue invading your mouth, intertwining with yours. He pushes his hips flush against your ass as he reaches his high, filling you with ropes of his cum.
“That’s it, good fucking girl. You're so good for me.” He releases your throat, pulling out of you slowly, causing you to whine. He eases you onto your back, leaning over top of you to place a much more tender kiss than before on your lips. “Let me clean you up baby.”
He gets up, quickly wetting a washcloth in the ensuite bathroom. He rushes back to your side, running the warm cloth along your folds.
“Mmm thank you, daddy. That feels nice.” You hum.
“Yeah? Gotta take care of my angel, you’re my responsibility now. I’m going to do everything and anything you need.” He lays down next to you, pulling you into his side so you can rest your head on his chest. “I am sorry about the way I went about this. But I’d do it again in a heartbeat. The first day I saw you I knew I needed to have you. Knew you were meant for me.”
“I feel the same, daddy. All you had to do is ask. Although, I must admit, it was honestly pretty sexy this way. You might be observant but there’s still a lot you have to learn about me.” You happily nuzzle into his chest. You’ve never felt so safe before. “I love my room by the way, it’s perfect. Does this mean I don’t get to sleep with you though?” You pout.
“Of course you get to sleep with me, Angel. I just wanted you to have a space of your own here.” He runs his fingers through your hair, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. “There’s going to be ground rules that I want you to follow, but we can go over those when you’re more clear headed. Wanna take a bath?”
“Yeah Rafey, a bath sounds nice.”
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from-the-clouds · 1 year
Text
savior complex - joel miller x f!reader
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masterlist | song inspo | gif: @joelmjller
All the skeletons that you hide Show me yours, I'll show you mine
summary: Joel shows up at your doorstep, battered and bruised. Despite the bad blood between you, do you have the heart to turn him away? Enemies to lovers. Takes place pre-television series/game. Was written as a companion piece/prequel to my other joel fic, but can be read on it's own. pairing: joel miller x f!reader words: 7k warnings: SMUT - 18+ ONLY, minors DNI. porn w/ plot, unprotected sex, dirty talk, implied age gap. Enemies to lovers. Heavy angst, multiple POVs, implied drug abuse, alcohol use, implied death of a family member, canon-typical suffering! Descriptions of injuries, blood, stitches (please dm for specifics if you have any questions). a/n: I haven't seen the enemies to lovers trope written for joel yet, and I'm also obsessed with the trope of a character showing up at their enemies house because they don't have any place to go. So maybe this is a little self-indulgent. Special shoutout to @ay0nha for letting me talk to you about this fic! Please enjoy, I'm really proud of/excited about this one.  ♥
“What do you want?” 
The ice in your own voice comes as a surprise. You weren’t sure you were even capable of sounding so cold, but it’s probably a good skill to have nowadays. Plus, he’s probably the last person you expect to see, and certainly the last person you want to see standing in your doorway.
“I need your help,” he says. 
You snort, lips pressing together in a bitter smile. “Uh-huh.”
It’s so dark in the hallway, you can barely see his face, but you can imagine what Joel might look like, lines etched in his face from the permanent frown he’s always wearing, particularly when dealing with you. You’ve known him a handful of years, here and there, and you’re pretty sure you’ve never seen him smile….or laugh…or display any emotion other than irritation, or indifference. 
The breeze from your open window shifts your curtains to the side, lets a sliver of light from the full moon pan over him, and you can see him clearly, just for a second. 
He’s covered in blood. 
It’s hard to see exactly how much, but it’s all over his face, his shirt, and accompanied by dirt and grime. One of his hands hangs limp at his side, his opposite clenched into a tight fist. The breeze dies down, the curtain falls back into place, and he’s cast once more in shadow. 
Crossing your arms, you lean against the doorframe. Anyone else, you’d help without question. At one point, you would’ve let him in willingly. But it had been months since you’d last spoken, and you had no intentions of ever seeing him again.
“Why should I help you?” 
He lowers his eyes, looks at the floor. When he answers, his voice is strained. 
“Because I have nowhere else to go.”
The more your eyes adjust in the dim light, the more you can see. Tattered clothes, rain dripping from the tips of his salt-and-pepper curls, his eyes dull. You wonder if he’s trying to make himself look like a kicked puppy, petulant and pathetic, but it doesn’t really seem like something Joel would do.
“Please?” 
He’s in pain, you can read it on his face, and you wonder if it’s because of his injuries, or because of how horrible it must be for him to beg you for help. Historically, it’s always been you in his place, needing something – and if it didn’t serve his interests, he’d leave you in the dust. Joel never made exceptions, no matter the circumstances, despite how long you’d known one another. With that to consider, you have every right to turn him away. You should feel satisfied, seeing him so desperate. You wished you could feel satisfied, but you didn’t.
“Fine.” You let him in. What is it about him that always makes you cave? 
Pulling a chair away from your small kitchen table, he staggers behind you, favoring his right foot, bracing himself on any surface he walks past – the doorframe, the countertop, the table, until he finally lowers himself into the chair.  
You cross the room. It takes most of your bodyweight to shift the couch in the corner of the room away from the vent behind it, and you kneel down. Air conditioning and heat are a thing of the past, but it’s got other purposes now. Using a blade of the knife you always keep handy, you’rable to pry the metal grate away from the wall, to pull out a tin tackle box that you haven’t had to touch in awhile. 
Joel’s still at the table when you return to him, breathing labored, and you flick on the lights. He blinks, his eyes are on you, you can feel the way his body is pinched with nervous energy – like a starving feral cat that’s been trapped in a cage, and still can’t decide if it trusts you yet. As if you’d ever done anything to hurt him. If anything, you should be scared.
“Alright,” you say. “Let me take a look at you.”
His eyes have shifted away from your face, but, too proud to cast them down, he’s glaring at some fixed point behind you, glazing over. He doesn’t want to register what is actually going on. It doesn’t stop you from the task at hand, and you begin to take inventory of his injuries.
“So what happened?” you ask. He’s got a black eye forming, several small cuts all over his face, one of which is slicing through his bottom lip, causing it to swell.
“It’s none of your business,” he quips.
“It’s precisely my business, if you want me to be able to actually help you.” 
“A deal went wrong,” he said. “I was in someone else’s territory. They said rather than turning me into FEDRA, they’d let me off easy.”
“This is being let off easy?” you ask, then cluck your tongue. 
Joel doesn’t answer. 
“And that?” you eye the bump forming on his opposite temple. 
“It’s nothing,” he says, even though, when you graze a thumb over it, he swallows hard. 
“You’re gonna need to be more specific.”
“Got uh, shoved into a brick wall.”
You slide two fingers underneath his chin, using light pressure to tilt his face towards you. “Look at me.” When you’re staring at him like this, studying him closely, you’re forced to acknowledge how handsome he is. Even battered and bruised, it’s the dark, sad eyes, sharp jawline, long lashes that draw you in. He’s hardened by the world he’s been surviving in for twenty years, like everyone is, but he wears it well. You’d never tell him that. 
“Any blurry vision, dizziness?” You aim your flashlight in his eyes, and his pupils constrict. 
“No,” he says. You study him a moment more, and know what to look for. But you don’t find anything of concern.
“Well, I don’t think you have a concussion,” you say. “But I’ll keep an eye on it…..What else happened?” 
“Got me with a knife.” That is what you’ve been the most concerned with since he’s stepped inside. There’s a dark stain blooming on his shirt, just below his left ribcage
“I see,” you say, stepping back. “Take your shirt off.” You open the tin that you left on the table.
It’s full of medical supplies, ones you’d pocketed from the QZ hospital the last few years working there. It’s not easy to sneak them out, nor is it entirely ethical, but you’ve gotten pretty good at it, and now have a decent sized stash built up in case of any emergencies. You’re still deciding if Joel Miller’s well-being is worth the waste of supplies it’s going to be.
When you turn back to him, he has unbuttoned his shirt, but is struggling to shrug it off his right shoulder, where his arm hangs limp at his side. 
“I….” he manages….”I can’t move my arm.”
“Sit up,” you instruct, and he does, which gives you room to slide the rest of his shirt off his shoulder. You immediately notice the obvious deformity. “Looks dislocated.” 
He nods, looking at the floor. “I was trying to defend myself.”
The idea of him, outnumbered and outmaneuvered, a position he’s so rarely in, is unpleasant. He might be an asshole, but because of it, he always comes out on top. There’s something almost comforting about that kind of consistency these days, and it’s tough to stomach the idea that he doesn’t have superpowers, he’s just another person. You’re not sure why you still hold him in such high regard.
You can’t dwell on it. Especially because what’s more pressing is the cut below his ribs, a few inches in length. It’s still bleeding, but not severely. It’s not a stab wound either, even though it’s deeper than you’d expected, but there’s no internal organ damage.
You take a clean cloth and place it over the wound, guiding his left hand overtop it. “You’ll need stitches.” You slide your hand from underneath his, ignoring the warm weight of his touch. “But we need to stop the bleeding. Apply pressure.” He does, and winces.
“You don’t have anything for the pain?” you ask, raising your eyebrow. 
“Front pocket of my shirt,” he says. You fish out a pill. Oxys. You’re not sure how strong they are, and you don’t want to encourage the habit, but this might be a case where he actually needs one. 
There’s a glass of water already sitting on the table, and you grab it, standing over him. Neither of his arms are free to accept the offering.
“Open up.”
He glowers at you like a defiant child. 
“Are you serious?” you tilt your head. “Come on.”
Reluctantly, he opens his mouth, and you tilt your hand to drop the pill in and lift the glass of water to his lips. 
When you’re done with that, it’s time to work on his shoulder. You had done this a few times before, even once to your mother, who had also been a doctor. Med schools didn’t exist anymore, but you didn’t need a degree now to provide care, at least not in this QZ…just experience. And your mother had taught you everything she knew. Before your part of town fell to the virus, she’d even had you reading her old textbooks. So you felt like you were only missing the degree.
You pull up a chair to face him, so close it’s touching the corner of his own, and sit, carefully taking his injured arm and bending it upwards with one of your thumbs in the crease of his elbow, your opposite hand wrapped around his wrist until his forearm is resting against your chest. 
It’s way more intimate than you want it to be, but you don’t have much of a choice. His jaw is set so hard you think he might crack a tooth. “So sometimes, if you relax your muscles enough, you can actually get the shoulder back into place that way.”
You release his wrist and reach out to knead the muscles around the problem area - his chest, his shoulder, in between his shoulder blades. He tilts his head back in the chair, his face pinched. 
“It’s okay,” you say softly. “Just don’t hold your breath, that makes it worse.”
Joel hates this, you can tell. How often does he have to rely on someone so much to help him, that he lets them touch you like you are, lets them see him vulnerable? 
As much as you can, you avoid eye contact, looking down. You didn’t need to see him shirtless before to know that he’s muscular – not perfectly cut, but that isn’t really your thing, anyways. He looks good enough that your eyes are being drawn to places they shouldn’t be, down his torso to the v-lines dipping into the waistband of his jeans. He clears his throat, and you turn to find him watching you. You hope he can’t feel the way your heart is hammering against the back of his hand. 
It’s been a few minutes that you’re trying to get him to relax, but he can’t seem to. You should’ve known that this method wasn’t going to work for him of all people.
“Okay, I’m just going to try to move your arm a bit, see if that’ll work instead.”
He nods.
“Just keep breathing,” you instruct. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.” you slowly guide his elbow forward, still keeping traction. 
He hisses. “Relax,” you soothe. It’s hard, despite the bad blood between you, to resist the urge to be warm, gentle. To reassure. It’s in your nature, it’s part of your job.
Eventually, and with a little patience, you’re able to get the joint to move back into place, and you check to be sure Joel is able to move it on his own. He can, even though it’s sore. You fashion him a sling made out of an ace bandage. 
“You’re probably gonna be a little sore for a while, so take it easy.” It’s probably a useless instruction to give because you know he won’t take it easy. 
He has a sprained ankle, and you wrap it up, elevate it. There’s a near-perfect footprint left behind in dirt on the skin there. Like someone had stomped on his leg hoping to break it. You’re glad they failed.  
Next is the stitches. There’s a few cuts on his body that need one or two, but you start with the big one. The wound has stopped bleeding, so you disinfect it, pull out your tools, and begin working, bent over him. Every time the needle pierces his skin, he tenses. You wonder if the one oxy was enough, or if it hardly touched the pain because he’s using them so often.
The entire time you’re treating him, you’re trying to be as clinical as possible. You’ve got to focus because if you think too much about him, you think about the last interaction you shared, and how pathetic you’d been. And the fact that he’d thought to come to you of all people for this makes your head spin. It’s not supposed to. You aren’t supposed to feel these things for him. You aren’t supposed to owe him anything.
Joel’s fist curls so tightly into itself that his knuckles turn white, fingernails leaving crescents in the skin of his palms. “Kind of feels like you’re making this as painful as possible.”
You smirk slightly. “Don’t give me any ideas.”
He sniffs, and you glance up to see him looking down at you, the ice that had been in his gaze before has thawed.
You squint at him, try to act indifferent, and turn your attention back to the stitches. “Don’t worry, I’m almost done.” 
“Thank fucking-”
“Shhh, you’re distracting me.”
His hand relaxes slightly as you keep working, slow and methodical, silence casting like a spell. 
“Why me?” you ask, finally.
“What?”
“Why did you come here? To me?” you pause. “It’s been forever. You’ve got Tess, right? Couldn’t she help you?”
Joel rubs his aching shoulder. “I didn’t want to scare her,” he answers. “And…I know you’re used to handling this kind of thing.”
“Uh-huh,” you say. “I am.”
One of you should probably acknowledge what had happened. But it won’t be me, you think.
“There,” you tie off the last stitch, and cover the wound with some gauze and a waterproof bandage. “You’ll probably need antibiotics. I’ll try to snag some from the hospital tomorrow.” 
Once you’ve fixed the most pressing issues, you focus on cleaning all the cuts and bruises on his face, his torso, cleaning and wrapping his bloodied knuckles. It’s probably been at least two hours since he arrived when you finally draw away from him, your surgical gloves snapping as you pull them inside-out, and off your hands, discarding them on the table, which is now littered with bloodied gauze, bandage wrappers, and medical supplies. You wish you had more ice packs than just the one for his shoulder and ankle, since he could use them just about everywhere, but it’ll have to do. 
“Could use a drink after all that,” Joel says, looking at his hands, flexing his fingers. 
“Don’t push it,” you answer, scraping the mess off your kitchen table into a bin. It dawns on you that you do have a half-empty bottle of bourbon sitting in your cabinet that’s surprisingly good. “But now that you mention it….” 
He snorts, the closest thing to a laugh you’ve ever heard. 
You pour a few fingers of whiskey into two glasses, sliding one across the table to him. Neither of you clink glasses, but you do eye each other over the rims of your cups as you take the drink in one go.
Joel places his empty on the table. “I should get out of here.”
“In your shape, it might be better to wait for light.” As much as he won’t admit it, you know he’s still weak, not in his right mind, and vulnerable to any FEDRA agents working the streets. “But I have to sleep, I’ve got work in the morning.”
Surprisingly, he doesn’t fight you. 
You curl yourself up on the couch, that is old and worn but still surprisingly comfortable. Joel sits at the table awhile more, and has one more drink. After all the activity of the night, you’re out within minutes. 
Joel drags himself over to the bed, which you’d never offered him directly, but he assumed to take since you were on the couch. He doesn’t think he’ll sleep, but he can’t sit upright in your uncomfortable kitchen chair anymore. Every part of his body aches. Your bed is in the corner, neatly made, even though it’s just threadbare sheets and a blanket. His never is, and he finds it ridiculous you must waste the time at the beginning of your day for something like that.
He sprawls across it, surprised at its comfort. A breeze coming through the open window drifts your curtains to the side, and he catches a glimpse of the full moon. Between the liquor, and the pills, the pain has subsided enough that he’s able to relax a little. The sun will be up soon. He just has to wait…
— — — — — —
The next thing Joel hears is your voice, muffled by the buffer of your front door. He looks at the clock next to your bed, it’s early in the evening. The sunlight trickling through the gaps of your curtains is golden, a slanting orange glow in the corner of the room. The window is closed. Fuck. Did he really sleep all day? He uses his good arm to shield his eyes from the offending light before stretching. 
Sheets on top of him rustle, he must have climbed under them at some point the night before.
It feels like he’s been hit by a freight train, and he groans. Pain drips through him, settles in his shoulder, his side, his head. His mouth is dry, and he sees a full glass of water next to him, two white pills. He couldn’t remember you leaving that morning, but it had to have been you who left them there. Who else would it have been? Without thinking, he indulges. 
There’s a note scrawled on a scrap of paper underneath the pills. He picks it up with his free arm, the other one still wrapped in a sling. 
– Take pain meds
– Ice shoulder, eye, temple, ankle
– Change dressing
– LEAVE
The last word is underlined twice. He exhales, letting his head drop back against the pillows, until it snaps to attention….you’re still outside, but your voice has gotten louder, more animated. You’re talking to someone….no…..you’re raising your voice at someone. He can’t make it out through the door, and for all the bad things he could say based on the nature of your relationship, he knows that you don’t often lose your temper. 
‘I think you should leave,’ he catches the end of what you’re saying and is immediately jolted out of the fog of discomfort, leaving your note on the bedside table.
He’s crosses the room, ignoring the protest of pain from his ankle, hears a man’s voice respond, but just a snippet – ‘stupid fucking bitch’ – and he’s throwing open the door, nearly trampling you, since you’re pressed against the threshold with your arms around your backpack, eyes wide. 
When Joel follows your gaze, he spots a man about your age standing a few feet away, chest puffed out and chin up. 
“Joel,” you say, and he’s taken aback by your tone – relief. He’s never heard you say his name like that. Somewhere, in a small part of his brain he doesn’t want to acknowledge, he thinks he might like to hear you say it again. 
“You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend,” the guy tilts his head back to look up at Joel, giving him a once over, and steps backward in consideration. 
Instead of correcting him, you say nothing. 
“What’s going on here?” Joel asks, and you lower your arms, move your shoulders back, standing up straighter as you turn to look at him.
“Ben was just leaving,” you say. 
“Sounds like a good idea,” Joel answers. His hand instinctively comes to rest on your shoulder – reverent, protective. He knows he’s in no shape to get into a fight right now, but he’s significantly larger than the other man, and figures that alone will be enough of a deterrent.
Ben notices, and nose curls into a snarl, rolling his eyes. “Fine, whatever. He’s like…old enough to be your dad,” he mumbles under his breath.
You don’t answer, just stare with contempt as he retreats down the hallway. Once Ben has turned the corner, you step into your place, Joel’s hand falling from your shoulder. 
“Who was that?”
“Just some guy from work,” you say, sounding uninterested, dropping your backpack onto your kitchen table.
“How often does he–?”
“Let’s not get into it,” you shake your head as you pull open the curtains, sunlight casting warmth all over the room, specks of dust glittering in the air. But he wants to know more. He’s tried to ignore all the suffering that isn’t his own since the world went to shit, but he’s at least aware of how dangerous it is to be a woman, living on her own.
“I didn’t think you’d still be here, did you sleep all day?” 
Joel doesn’t answer.
“You probably needed it.”
You disappear into the bathroom, and Joel sees a rush of light through that door, the creak of a window opening. “I brought the antibiotics, they’re in my bag,” you say when you exit, hands on your hips. “You’re not feeling feverish, are you?”
Joel shakes his head no, and sits back down on the bed. 
“Well that’s good,” you go to the counter. “Hey, if you need to shower here, it’s probably better because I can dress your wound before you go. I was actually thinking today about how you would definitely fuck it up if you tried to do it youself.”
He rolls his eyes at the insult, but answers. “That’s fine.”
You’re making yourself something to eat. He notices a polaroid on your bedside table. It’s two kids – a girl and a younger boy, her arms around him – their lips curled into identical smiles. When he looks closer, he realizes the girl is you. 
Please? My brother is sick, he’s in a lot of pain, you had said, on your knees in front of him, swallowing hard. Your fingers were curled in his belt loops, the cold steel button of his jeans pressed into your chin, so close he thought it might leave a permanent mark. In one of your hands was a wad of credits, only a couple short of what he’d asked you for in exchange for the pills. I’ll do anything you want me to.
Of course he wanted you, how could he not? He wondered if you knew that already, and were just trying to take advantage of his weakness. Or maybe you were just that desperate. It didn’t matter either way. He can’t do it. Not like this, he thought. 
No, is his answer.
He stepped backwards, away and you still tried to cling to him. Sensing his reluctance, you continued to talk.  Joel, whatever you want. I’ll do whatever, please…it’s nothing. Eventually, he slipped from your grasp, and you fell back to your heels. He left you there, and he didn’t look back.
The memory is burned into his brain, and has followed him to sleep more times than he’d be willing to admit. He swallows hard, and you’re standing in front of him with an opened jar of applesauce and a spoon against your lips. “Are you looking through my shit?” you ask. 
“It was sitting out.” 
You snatch the photo from his hand so quickly that one of your nails knicks his thumb, shoving it in your back pocket and jerking your head towards the bathroom. “Hurry, I can’t be up late like last night.”
The shower feels nice, even if the pressure is shit and the water is cold. He still has blood caked under his fingernails that he can’t seem to fully eradicate even after scrubbing them against his palms. He slips back into his jeans when he’s done, and he notices a clean shirt has been left on the bed when he exits. 
“You done?” your voice calls. There’s the sound of a book snapping shut, your weight shifting on the couch. “I want my bed back.”
Joel grunts an affirmation, and you round the corner with the tin of medical supplies from the night before, discarding what you were reading on the foot of the bed. “This’ll take two minutes. Let me see.” Pausing in front of him, you press your fingers, a little experimentally, along his ribs, peering closer to examine your work. “Oh, this looks good. It should heal nicely.”
“It doesn’t feel good.”
“Uh-huh, but it’ll get better. Give it time.”
He sits down while you shimmy out of your flannel shirt. You begin to work, quietly, quickly, and at first, he tries to look away, at the top of the bedside table where you’ve placed a bag of antibiotics and a fresh glass of water. The note that was there earlier, with instructions on how to take care of himself in your absence, that also told him to LEAVE, is gone. He gives in and turns back to you, knelt between his legs like it’s nothing, pressing an adhesive bandage across the wound. 
He’s not sure why he had expected you to be cruel. You should be cruel, he knows that, but you aren’t. Your touch is confident, firm, and surprisingly tender. It must be muscle memory, he thinks, because he’s never known you to be sweet. Maybe he hadn’t been paying close enough attention.
“There,” you say, pulling away. “Now, I’d recommend changing that once a day at least, if you can. Take an antibiotic once a day, and make sure you do the full course. Ice your elbow, eye, ankle, all that every couple hours. Also, you should really use a sling for at least a month-”
“No.” He knows he won’t do any of those things, can’t really afford to between work, life, and resources.
“Suit yourself.”
“I will.”
You don’t scoff or roll your eyes at him or try to convince him why he should, and it’s like a peace offering. I could fight you on this, because I’m smart, but I won’t. It’s everything you’re saying, but you’re silent, and you sit on the edge of your bed a foot or two away, poking your fingers into the laces of your boots, untying them. 
“I’m sorry.”
Joel says it before he can stop himself. He can’t remember the last time he’s said those two words.
You balk at him. “For what?” 
Everything. “Your brother.”
“Oh,” you say, focusing back on your feet, pulling them out of your boots and pressing your thumbs into each arch. You shrug, shake your head.  “Yeah, well….I’m just glad he’s not in pain anymore.” 
“Yeah.”
“...And at least it wasn’t….you know…” The infection. 
He nods, takes a beat.
“I should get going,” Joel says, his hands on his knees. “The next time you need something-” 
“Uh-huh,” you cut him off tersely. “Right.”
“All I’m saying is that I owe you one.”
“You really think I believe that, coming from you?” You snort, shake your head, and reach to pat his leg in a patronizing way, until his hand lands atop your own. He thinks it might make him feel better, to see if your reaction to his touch gives anything away. But it doesn’t. Everything about you is rigid, cool. 
“I’m sorry….about that night,” he decides, purposely changing the subject. “But I don’t make exceptions.”
“Right. Then, I guess I’m a fool for doing this,” you gesture towards him, with your free hand - all the work you’d done. 
Joel shakes his head no, fingers tightening around your hand, clasping it hard. He’s sure, or at least he hopes, somehow, you can see it. That this isn’t a jab, that he means it. 
I’m sorry. 
You look down at where his hand is squeezing yours, and he watches your throat work once. 
“No,” he begins. “You just have every reason to hate me.”
A wistful smile crosses your face, but it’s hard to decipher what it means. To him, you’re still unreadable, even staring right at him. Most people avoid Joel’s eyes at all costs, but not you. You slide your hand out from underneath his, and he thinks for a second you’re going to retaliate. His body is facing yours, his hair is still damp, dripping onto his bare skin. It doesn’t stop you from placing your hands on either one of his shoulders, and learning forward. 
The white tank top you’re wearing clings to every curve of your body, except where it’s shifted off your shoulder, revealing a black bra strap. It’s intoxicating to have you this close. You must be able to hear the way his heart picks up, thuds heavy against his ribs, being so close to him.
“You think I hate you…” you say quietly, voice a low murmur, tilting your head, studying him. “That’s why you want me, isn’t it?”
This is why he’s never liked you. That uncanny ability to stare right through him, crack open the camera, spool out the film. 
“Isn’t it?” you prompt, when all he can offer is silence.
Of course it is. It is always easier when hate is involved. Hate bolds the blurry lines, boils everything down to its simplest point – that’s all that this would be, just two people trying to escape, if only for a little bit. And you, he’s sure, would make it so easy. 
“Yes,” he answers, though he’s not sure if he believes it. In this case, hate is just another medium to channel energy through. Passionate energy. True hate, maybe, would be your indifference. And neither of you are indifferent.
“Well….” you lean forward, your lips are nearly touching. He’s still frozen. “Maybe I do hate you.”
It’s a beat before anything happens, a few seconds of uninterrupted eye contact, your eyes have darkened, pupils wide. 
He pounces on you, ignoring the scream of soreness through his body as he cups both sides of your face, his tongue already scraping on your teeth, swallowing the surprised noise you make, which he finds ridiculous because what did you think was going to happen, talking to him like that?
But you can’t be that shocked, because your arms have tightened around his shoulders, you’re pulling him closer, he’s pulling you closer. A tightrope, about to snap. 
He wraps himself around you protectively, you feel so small there, he’s aware how easily he could break you, but he won’t. Or at least…he’ll try not to. 
You break away first. “Fuck.”
Your lips are full, wet, flush, parted, and you’re panting. He pulls you back against him, and you oblige, much more pliant this time, letting him claim you. Two sets of hands fumbling for purchase. 
“I do want you.”
“Then have me.”
He pulls you onto his lap, still sitting on the edge of the bed, and it’s shameful how easily you move there, settle your weight across his hips. You’re warm, so warm…too warm. His skin pricks.
Your hands thread into his hair and tug, it’s heavenly. He’s not used to being touched like this.. Grinding down, you find him already already rock hard – he has been since you were knelt in front of him cleaning his stitches, but he’d been trying to ignore it – and he moans. “You like that?” 
He hums into your mouth, agreeable. Yes. 
Joel wants to touch you, won’t be satisfied if he can’t, and he tugs at the hem of your shirt. You pull back, just for a split second to pull it over your head. It takes him a moment, but he still remembers how to unclasp a bra with one hand, and you’re bare before him. All he has to do is run a calloused palm up your spine and you’re arching your body closer, until he can mouth at your breasts. 
You sigh as he cups, squeezes, pinches. Latches onto one of your nipples and grazes his teeth over it, watching you closely….your eyes closed, head falling back, murmuring. Yes.
What he wants to do is to lift you up, spin you around, and press your back against the mattress. He wants to spread you open across the bed, put his head between your thighs and lave at you like a man starved. He wants to hear every way you can cry, moan, whimper his name as his tongue works your clit, fingers in your cunt, washing over him. Of course, he’d go gentle at first – not too gentle – but gentle enough, work you up. He wants to dangle you over the ledge, hold you there until you’re begging to be let go. And after you finally come, pulsing around his fingers, he’d wrap your legs around his hips and fuck you into the mattress until you do it again. After the first time, he thinks, it’d be even easier to get you to do it again. And again. Would you face his steely gaze head on, eyes fluttering? Would your nails scrape track marks down his back? Would you stifle a moan by sinking your teeth into the pulse point on his neck? He wants to- no, needs to know.
But he’s weak right now, and can’t do any of that. He’ll settle for what he can get.
Your fingers are twisting the button on his pants. “Come on,” you murmur. 
“You shouldn’t want me,” he warns.
“I know.” But I still do.
Your hand is down his pants, and he shifts his weight backwards to wiggle further out of them. It’s far more hurried than either of you deserve. You don’t even attempt to tease him through his boxers first, your hand wrapping around him in one swift and confident movement. 
Hissing, Joel sees you duck your head, feels the press your lips against his neck, his cock jumping in your grip as you run your thumb over the head, pump him once.
“You’re so big,” your voice is all breathy and soft, the sound of it has him growing even more frantic. He tugs at the loops on the side of your jeans. 
“Take these off.”
Yes. There’s no protest.
It’s torture when you leave his lap, for the brief time you do, his gaze tracing the curve of your ass as you wriggle out of your pants, then your panties, and when your return to him, he holds you closer.
“I knew you’d be so fucking good for me.”
“Did you?” It's playful, breathless, your arms around his neck. The lightest he’s ever heard you. 
You’re wet, already dripping onto him, and he dips a finger between your thighs, sliding it through your slickness, dipping into you just so, enjoying the noises you make before withdrawing. It’s a shame he can’t take his time. He’s too impatient. One of his hands he uses to guide his cock to your cunt, and the other he uses to steady your hips. His head drops to watch himself sink into you. 
The stretch of him inside you makes your toes curl, you’re already pulsing around him and he hasn’t even given you everything.
“Fuck,” Joel whispers your name when he feels you around him, all-encompassing and overwhelming. “So fucking good.”
You’re whining, but it’s unintelligible, your head bobbing into an enthusiastic nod, teeth snagging your lower lip. When he’s reached the hilt, you pause only for a moment before you begin to move on your own accord. Experimental rolls of your hips, not drawing back far at all, keeping him deep inside you, rutting and writhing with no reprieve. He thinks he might come right then and there, it’s been so long, and it’s you. This young, pretty thing who – if this whole fucking world hadn’t gone to shit – wouldn’t have looked twice at him before. It’s just another injustice – that you’re going to let someone like him ruin you.
You begin to bounce on him, dragging yourself along his length. “That’s a good fucking girl,” he groans. “Just like that.” 
“It’s so…fuck, Joel, you feel-”
“I know.” He answers, partially in agreement, and partially to shut you up. If you keep saying his name like that, it’s not going to end well. 
He tries as best as he can to answer your hips with ruts of his own, but it’s sloppy, erratic. The whole thing is, and he wants to curse himself because it really shouldn’t be, just like he shouldn’t be thinking about what he’ll do differently next time. 
It’s the first time he’s been with you, so he doesn’t know what it feels like when you’re getting close, but you’re throbbing and pulsing around him, your breathy pants and soft sighs start sounding more desperate. 
You’re so fucking wet he can hear it, can feel it seeping out, dripping down his balls onto the mattress. He realizes one of his hands is just clenched into a fist, nails digging into his palm, trying his hardest not to come before you do. All he wants is to give you something, a chance to make up for everything that he’s taken.
“More,” you murmur, you don’t even seem to remember, or care, that he’s hurt. That you’d spent hours the night before after he’d been torn apart, putting him back together. “More, please.” 
His lips quirk into a boyish smile, something you’ve never seen before. He likes you like this, begging, desperate, sweet. “Don’t laugh,” but your lips are quirking, too, and you fucking nuzzle against his beard to hide it.
“I’m not - fuck.”
The shower was useless, he’s already sweating again, but so are you, and he trails his tongue across your neck to taste it, then unclenches his fist, moving it between your legs. He takes your clit between his knuckles, circling it carefully, steadily, while his cock keeps hitting the same, soft spot over and over again. 
You can’t get enough. “Harder, Joel…please.”
Of course, he obliges. And he’s lucky, because he doesn’t have to do much more. You slow, legs shaking, and you’re suddenly so tight around him he can’t move. “That’s it, baby, come on, so fucking good…” he would, is, saying anything to feel you. His name is a mewl on your lips, the rubber-band snaps, and you come around him, pressing every part of yourself against the hard line of his torso. He aches, it’s the sweetest torture he’s ever known. 
He knows, because he’s going to fuck you through it, has to, that he will not last any longer. 
“Where?” he pants, and you’re still peaking, gasping, grabbing. 
“Inside me,” you answer. “Please, inside me.”
He’s too lost in the moment to consider the consequences. Doesn’t care about them at all. When he comes, you groan at the feeling of him fucking you full, cunt still squeezing him, not as tightly as before, but still apparent.
The last bit of arousal is still waning, and he leans back to lie on the bed, pulling you with him. You fall to his chest, hands pressing lightly to adjust your position, suddenly aware again of the wound beneath his ribs, the bruises on his shoulder, settling so you’re pressed against his side, his arm still loose around your waist.
Neither of you say anything for a long time, and he notices your legs are trembling. 
We shouldn’t have done that, he wants you to say, as you should. But you show no signs of remorse.
Before all this, when he was a different man, he would’ve helped clean you up after. He would have soothed you in the aftermath; stroked your hair, peppered kisses along your neck, your cheeks, pulled you close so you could fall asleep in his arms. He can’t now, because you’re smart and you’d know what it means, but the guilt gnaws at him. 
When you sit up, pulling your shirt back over your head, sliding on your panties, and walking towards the bathroom, he imagines you think you’re doing him a favor. You are, in a way. Or maybe, you’re resisting the same impulse that he is.
You return a few minutes later, wrapped in a tattered robe, and climb next to him on the bed, propping yourself up on your elbows, then looking down at him. Between the combination of being tired, stiff, and fucked-out, he still hasn’t moved. 
“Don’t you think Tess is worried about where you are?” You bend your knees back and cross your ankles. 
“She knows I can take care of myself.”
Your eyebrow quirks. Can you? Joel turns away and stares up at the water-damaged ceiling panels.
“You should probably go.” 
His head snaps back towards you. He thinks of every person over the last twenty years he’d said the equivalent to after sex, and wonders if it made them feel as nauseous as he does hearing those words from your mouth.
The feeling fades – only a little – when you reach over to press your palm to the side of his face, cupping his cheek, before tenderly moving a piece of damp hair off his forehead, nails scraping against his scalp.
He lets his eyes close just for a beat, before nodding and sitting up. “Thank you,” he says, and he’s not sure what for. All of it, he supposes.
“Uh-huh,” you roll over, reaching to grab your book that had fallen to the floor at some point during your coupling, while he pulls on his clothes, laces up his boots, and takes the antibiotics from your bedside table.
Joel takes one last look at you, already engrossed in your reading, and then walks to the door.
“You know where to find me, if you need anything.”
You look up, nod, and he’s gone.
— — — — — —
part ii
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gay-dorito-dust · 1 month
Note
Here’s a Jason idea for you: imagine a criminal he’s fighting as Red Hood suddenly mentions you, by name, to mess with Jason. Jay would absolutely obliterate the criminal, but that leaves the question of how his enemies know about you… I love the potential for angst/protective Jason 😍 Also, I love your writing so much, it always makes my day to see you on my feed! Thank you for sharing your writings 💞🥰
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Tw: blood and violent stuff.
Also thank you for enjoying my stuff! It’s really appreciated and makes me wanna write a lot more in the future. It’s just nice being reminded that people do like the stuff that I put out and not hate it as much as I do when looking back on them.🤣 🦦
A well placed punch to the face landed the criminal flat on his back as he groaned upon impact and was currently struggling to get back up to his feet, only to be pinned by a heavy combat boot weighing down on his chest. Finally Jason had caught up with the drug dealer that had been lurking near children and vulnerable adults alike for the past couple of days, and right where he wanted him too.
‘It’s such a shame that you caught me as fast as you did RedHood because just you came along, I was going to pay one last person a visit before the night was over.’ The criminal smiled, showing off his blood stained teeth in the process, his smile then became a grimace as Jason put more of his weight onto his chest. ‘Well it was a good thing that i came when I did because after tonight, you won’t be selling drugs to anyone anymore, that I can guarantee.’ Jason growled, feeling his blood boil hotter for every second that he didn’t put a bullet in this assholes head.
‘What was their name?’ The criminal trailer off, not heading Jason’s warning and throwing his head back and laughing. ‘Oh right now I remember, it’s Y/n. What a pretty name for an even prettier person.’ Jason froze at the mention of your name, his blood had gone cold but his anger skyrocketed at the insinuation of you being placed in any sort of danger. Whether it be by a drug dealer or otherwise, the same conclusion was to be expected with Jason and that was that he would personally hunt down every last thug, drug dealer and crime lord that ever dared to speak your name.
Jason wordlessly then grabbed the criminal by the collar of his shirt and threw him into a wall with all his strength. Watching on as the scumbag crumpled the floor as he then began to stalk towards him before gradually breaking out into a run and brutally ramming his knee into the criminals head. Jason wasn’t done there though, not by a long shot. He wanted the make the bastard pay for having your name come out of his filthy mouth, he wanted to tear him limb from limb, put him back together again so that he could rip him limb from limb all over again before ever giving him the satisfaction of death.
‘You will never, ever, ever bring anyone to harm ever again! Not while I’m here, not while I’m still breathing and able bodied enough to tear you fuckers to bits!’ Jason hissed pure venom as each of his punches become more and more brutal then the last, his knuckles were going to bruise like hell and hurt like hell too, but the pain and punishment he’d receive would be all worthwhile if it meant keeping you safe and sound. Jason would gladly taken on any punishment anyone could throw at him if it meant you remained unscathed, he’d happily gain more scars on his body if it meant that you could sleep easier at night, Jason always had your best interests in mind whenever he was clearing the streets of Gotham.
He was doing it for you, he was doing it for the kids at Crime Alley, he was doing it so that everyone could have a peace of mind; And he didn’t care about the methods he took to obtaining that.
It wasn’t long until the criminal stopped moving all together, Jason didn’t care that his fists were stained with blood, he just stood up and left the criminal in the alleyway where he was brutally beaten to death and headed home; to you with a heavy mind and a growing pit within his stomach because if a low life scumbag like him knew you by name…then who else did? Black mask? Penguin? Two face? Scarecrow? Carmine Falcone? He didn’t like to think about this one but does Joker know? All these thoughts running through Jason’s head didn’t do him a whole lot of good with his ever growing sense of dread and slight paranoia; He had to get to you and he had to get to you now before anything else happened before the night ended.
‘I’m coming baby, just please still be there when I get home, please don’t let them take you away from me.’ Jason muttered under his breath as he pushed himself forward as he ran from rooftops to rooftop, determined to make it to the apartment before anyone else does because if they did, may god have mercy on their souls because Jason would go to war for you and will violently cut anyone down to size if they were to come between him and you; For nothing got between you and Jason and if they did, Jason would make sure to deal with it before it became more of a problem.
‘Sweetheart? Are you in here?’ Jason called as he slammed the door behind him.
‘Jason? What’s-‘ you rushed into the room and gasped upon seeing the dried blood on his knuckles and his paling face as though he looked about to pass out where he stood. ‘Oh my god.’ You whispered as you rushed towards Jason who rushed towards you, arms out stretched to grasp your waist while your hands held his face. ‘What happened out there? I thought you said it was a simple mission.’ You said, concerned for Jason as he seemingly let out a sigh of relief and rested his forehead against yours.
‘It was meant to be a simple mission but then…’
‘Then what?’ You asked, stroking his cheeks reassuringly and feeling him melt into your touch like he did every night he came home from a long patrol or mission, but he also did it when he needed to feel you on him after waking up from a nightmare.
‘He said your name chipmunk.’ Jason squeezed his eyes shut as though he was trying to rid himself of the events that happened early on and focus on the feeling of your thumbs caressing his cheeks lovingly instead. ‘He said your name -clear as day I heard him say it- and before I knew it I was wailing on him until he stopped moving…all because he said how he was going to come for you next and I couldn’t…’ Jason paused to regulate his breathing that he hadn’t noticed had become fast and uneven the more his mind lingered on that small detail. ‘I couldn’t let him do that. I won’t let them take you from me. Never.’ He then tightens his grip on your waist as he kept uttering the extent he was willing to go to keep you in his life under his breath, almost as though it were a prayer or a promise, which ever one it was you weren’t quite sure but you let Jason squeeze you against his chest with his strong arms like a stress toy to his hearts desire.
‘It’s okay Jaybirdie. I’m right here, can’t you feel my warmth? Hear my voice? I’m right here baby. So you can squeeze me, hold me, cuddle me as much as you need to feel alright again because I’m not going anywhere with my Jaybird.’ You said loud enough for him to hear over his thoughts, pressing kisses into anywhere that you had access to, whether it be his shoulders, face, neck, forehead, you’d plant several kisses to each of those areas respectively. You may act calm but much like Jason, you too didn’t like the idea of some random criminal knowing your name. The implications of that were endless and it would be enough to put anyone on edge or even over it depending on their mental state, and to put it lightly Jason’s mental state wasn’t the healthiest.
The occasional whimper and sniff that came from him only made your heart hurt even more that you were willing to put aside your own fears about the situation to instead focus on comforting Jason, who must be feeling it ten times worse then you were, but it was the fact that in this moment you were bonded by a shared fear but that fear could be eventually overcame by the pair of you working together. ‘It’s okay baby it’s okay, we’re not going anywhere, they can’t make us because we’re stronger together.’ You spoke into the skin of his cheek as you finished pressed a thousand kisses onto them.
‘Stronger together.’ Jason echoed as he pressed himself further against you to feel you closer to him. ‘We’re stronger together.’ You smiled softly, seeing that you finally go through to him somewhat. However you were more than willing to stand in this position all night if it meant bringing Jason back from the edge within his mind because nothing was more important than having your Jason back.
‘That’s right baby.’ You cooed. ‘We’re stronger together, nothing will tear us apart.’
‘Promise?’ Jason asked looking deep into your eyes, it felt as though he was looking at you rather then through you which has your breath hitching in your throat momentarily.
‘I promise.’
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manicpixiefelix · 2 months
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all this, and love too (will ruin us)
{ One-Shot for head, heart, hand. }
Summary: The night of Oliver's party and both yours and Felix's moods are ruined upon finding out Oliver had been lying to you both for your entire friendship. While sticking with Felix all night to make sure he doesn't maim Oliver, Felix realises he doesn't like sharing you anymore. You're more than okay with this, but Oliver doesn't seem to be okay with sharing Felix, even if he has no say anymore. Canon tries to happen, but you get there first, so you kill the problem at it's source.
Need to Know: They/Them. Explicitly NB Reader. FWB!Reader/Felix. Reader is from a well off family but has pretty much been adopted by the Cattons.
Warnings: MAZE SCENE; death, murder, violence, nongraphic smut, dominant felix, bathroom blowjob, oliver's birthday party situation, oliver being incredibly manipulative, reader being incredibly manipulative back at him, heavy drinking and drug use, You VIOLENTLY Murder Oliver Quick In The Maze.
A/N: 6074 words. oh god these oneshots are only getting longer and longer. whoops. but also PLEASE heed the warnings. this is the Reader Kills Oliver oneshot (first of two) that i was talking about. not sure how i feel about it. its very unedited.
TAGLIST IN COMMENTS!! // TAGLIST ALWAYS OPEN ! (just message or comment to be added)
----
On the drive back from his parents' house, Oliver sits in the back. Like a scolded child he keeps his gaze low and voice even lower. None of you speak the entire drive back; you try and focus on the wind in your hair and the hum of the car and not how your stomach is turning. In your mind you see the connections as they light up, small things you'd missed, things that are starting to make a lot more sense.
You wonder what other lies you could have gotten ahead of if Oliver hadn't been so nervous about you going through his file at Oxford.
Every single thing about him was designed specifically to be appealing, to you, of course, but more importantly to Felix. It was meant to be you who knew it all, could see the full board and all the pieces the people around you moved; it was meant to be you who could plan well enough and see far enough out to keep Felix out of situations exactly like this.
Felix is curt and swift the moment he's out of the car, trying to escape Oliver who rushes after him, his desperation echoing through the halls. You're several steps behind Oliver, silent, watching the exchange, watching Oliver cling to an ever-dwindling hope for even friendship, as Felix calls out the weirdness of his ongoing lies, tearing that hope asunder.
"I just wanted to be your friend," is all Oliver can say when pressed about his lies. It's genuine, it breaks your heart, but it doesn't make it better. For a moment, you see conflict as it flashes across Felix's face, but he clearly can't do this right now, needing at least the night, but promising not to tell his family.
As you go to leave, go to follow him, Oliver catches your sleeve, holds it too tight for just a moment -
"I thought you knew," his voice wobbles, but there's something like alarm bells in the back of your mind. Everything about Oliver is purposeful, even now. But you know him, you know how he likes to play.
"No you didn't," you look at his fingers still coiled in your sweater, watch him drop them, "you knew I trusted you." You wouldn't let him shift this blame; the faint dismay you can see in his eyes behind the hurt gives him away. He knew Felix had more emotions than sense, but somewhere along the way he seemed to have forgotten that you were so much more than another adoring fan in Felix's shadow.
"'m sorry," stumbles from his mouth almost like a reaction to the look in your eyes, "for hurting Felix with all this, I- I never wanted that," he shakes his head, dropping his gaze, "or hurt you," tacked on as an afterthought. Both of you know where he was placing the importance of that apology. Everything Oliver Quick does is with purpose.
"I know you are, Oliver," you tell him, standing tall and unflinching as you left him alone.
"If you leave my side tonight I'm going to maim him," is how Felix greets you when you enter your room. Sitting on his bed, you see a little, ornate box open in front of him, and you recognise it as one of the few stashes he had around the estate for desperate times. This one, if you recall correctly, was shoved well beneath Henry the Eighth's bed, and had a decent amount of coke that you'd left here after last Christmas.
"Can't fucking believe- I can't fucking believe him!" He rants, cutting up lines of coke on the little hand mirror Venetia had donated to this particular stash box. Mind working a million miles a minute, you're quiet, letting him rant. Running on autopilot, you begin to strip down to your underwear, pulling out your costume for the night, frowning at it in the afternoon light.
"How complicated is your costume?" Felix asks, finally looking up, gazing over at you and the sheer, shimmering thing in your hands. Without a word, but with a vague shrug, you turn it to him.
The base was like something you'd see at a rave, little more than green underwear, with straps, and beading, and jewels, and loops of green and purple pearls by your hips that would bounce while you walked. The overcoat, though it was far to generous to call it that, was pure gossamer, sheer and green, with hand-stitched silk leaves making up the hem that fell perfectly to your ankles, and intricate, hand embroidery of vines that extended across both shoulders, and both arms, ending with little, purple flowers embroidered by your wrists.
There's large, brown boots with a bit of a hell and some large buckles, and a belt that's half a skirt that hit just below your knee to give you some coverage, at least on your left, sewn to look like it was covered in leaves. Plus a leather thigh harness and flask that Farleigh had gotten you made for your last birthday.
Leaning back, Felix reaches out to feel the gossamer between his fingers, frowning for a beat.
"Don't be precious about it."
For a moment, you frown in confusion. Despite your entire outfit being exquisitely and perfectly tailored, you knew you could afford to not be precious about pretty much anything, even this. But that's never been an outright request he's made.
"I'm not?"
Quiet follows, the soft rustle of your garments as you begin to get dressed, and Felix quickly snorting a line of coke.
"I'm going to lose my fucking mind tonight," he mumbles. Even though you're half dressed, you still lean over his shoulder automatically as he lifts the mirror and the rolled bill up to you like an offering, holding the mirror steady for you.
"I need a drink," you groaned, to which Felix immediately agreed.
"God, why don't we stash anything in here?" He lamented, laying back and watching you head to the door once more while you're trying to do up your belt to hold up your partial leaf skirt, still without your overcoat.
"Because that's tacky and we're not alcoholics." Even with your explanation, Felix pouted. Still, it's a quick trip to the Blue Room and the bottle of rum you're glad Venetia hadn't found in the broken piano.
The night gets blurrier, gets better, with half a bottle of liquor in your veins before the sun even sets. As you're making yourself dreamy and ethereal with glitter and gems and makeup in the mirror, Felix drapes himself over your shoulders, pouting again. The drinks and drugs are already hitting you both and you can hear the revelry beginning outside.
"It's not going to last," he says pointedly, and you're confused until you see him trying to poke at the iridescent eyeliner that wasn't quite dry. Rolling your eyes, you smack his hand away. So he makes his point again, adding, "I'm going to get glitter all over me."
You smirked at him in the mirror, tipping your head against his.
"Don't be precious about it."
A spirit amongst the fairies, you greet your college friends with open arms and boundless enthusiasm, always keeping Felix close at hand. He was more subdued than you, more subdued than many of your friends were used to. Whenever you looked at him, it seemed like his gaze was searching, his expression drawn unless someone had caught his attention, and he wore a smile that seemed to convince them.
"Need a drink," his hand around your wrist and no time to protest, Felix dictated your night and it's pace. Frustration and apprehension keep him tense, even as he tries to loosen up; you feel every time that tension spikes, even if you don't know it's cause. His nails dig into you, wherever he's holding you, shoulder, thigh, arm -
In the bathroom, doing lines with India and some guys who claim to be friends of friends of the Cattons, you're leaning against the sink until you Felix nudge your knee with his own. Looking to the door, you see Oliver in white, taking up it's space. Felix only has to gently tap your thigh for you to shift, sitting in his lap.
"You can't ignore me forever," Oliver tells him, watching you both, watching the way Felix wraps an arm around your middle to hold you close and secure on him.
"I can try," Felix practically sings, his nails sinking into your stomach. With his free hand, he offers you his cigarette, raising it to your lips. You drop your gaze as you inhale, trying to only focus on keeping Felix secure in this moment.
"Felix we need to talk," Oliver insists, "Felix, come on man -"
"Look, man, I tried to be nice -" Felix started, and though you tried to gently warn him, pressing against him with Fi on your lips like you hope he won't say something he'll regret, he just holds you tighter and continues on, "but can you fuck off and bother somebody else?"
India half snorts with laughter in the middle of a line of coke, the others all judging Oliver the longer he lingers in the doorway, but Felix drops his gaze. His lips are on your shoulder to keep from saying anything else.
One of guys whose names you don't know asks who Oliver even was, but Felix can't answer; tension again, maybe anxiety or frustration, but his mouth moves from the gossamer and embroidery on your shoulder to your bare skin above the neckline, where your collar meets your throat. His teeth sting. His nails still sting. He swears under his breath before he lets go.
"Sorry," he mumbles finally, sighing and resting his forehead on your shoulder. You tell him it's okay, voice fond, but when you lean over to do another line of coke, you meet India's reproachful gaze. It takes you a long few seconds to connect the dots, to realise what was going on in her head. You're so fucking over everything tonight.
"You know Farleigh was lying to you about us, right?" You say casually, taking your line and sitting back up. Her eyebrows rise in surprise, "I know you think we're all gross and cousin-incest-y -" you hear Felix's faint laughter behind you, and feel him nudge you with his thigh, silently asking you to get up. Both of you do, and Felix manages his first proper smile of the night, even if it is smug.
"But we're not related," he tells her, "thank fucking god," and smacks your ass as the two of you exit, as if to just prove a point.
You're on your knees in a different bathroom when you hear everyone else start to sing happy birthday, but Felix's voice is a low growl of don't you dare stop, and his hands in your hair. Nothing else matters to you in this state of mind, blurry, pliant, desperate to follow his every command. It's as if you've forgotten what exists outside of Felix's hands on you.
The night becomes lights that are too bright, and music too loud, and laughter and glitter and the warmth of the people dancing around you. After a few hours you feel yourself starting to come down from your high, starting to come back to yourself, still on the dance floor. Venetia's dancing with a blonde boy, looking so pretty, like she's having a genuinely fun night, but when you point it out, Felix takes your hand.
"Don't look at Ven," there's that hunger in his eyes, that firm tone he'd been using all night, "don't touch Ven, don't -" he cuts himself off, wets his lips. Looking around for a moment, he spots something in the crowd that makes him scowl. Just a moment, as you follow his gaze, you see Oliver. The moment your eyes lock with his, however, Felix has his lips on your jaw.
"Fucking mine."
There's half a second where you and Oliver are still locked in this moment, you watch the way his expression starts to shift, jaw tensing, something like anger flickering in his eyes. But you can't bring yourself to give a shit about Oliver as Felix has his arms around you, kissing down your throat with a feverish, almost lewd intensity in the middle of the dancefloor.
"Prove it," and you let him drag you from the house, heading towards the place that had always felt a little special for you both, almost a little magical.
"I'm being selfish," Felix announced as you finally hit the tree line just before the maze, "I don't fucking care anymore, I'm being selfish, about you -!" He turns to look at you, only to see you gazing up at him with starry-eyes, hanging on his every word. He breaks into a sheepish grin momentarily, shaking his head as his voice drops for a moment, "oh, you're fucking loving this, aren't you?"
"I want you so bad right now it's actually embarrassing," you agreed with a wide grin, unable to contain your laughter, despite how genuine the feeling was.
"I'm being selfish," he said once more, muttering it this time, though as you entered the maze and the moonlight peaked down upon you, you could see the blush still upon his cheeks, "I don't want anyone else to fucking touch you again, you hear me?" This time, when he looks at you, he thinks he can see hearts in your eyes; your overwhelming love and acceptance, even for this -especially for this- is making it very hard to keep the stern act up, except -
"Anything you say," you tell him, breathless as you approach the centre of the maze, voice edging on desperate, "anything at all." And you see it hits him just where it had needed to, to hear you wanting and wanton and offering yourself to him -
The gossamer overcoat is ruined, scratched all up the back where you're pinned against the statue, half sitting on the base with your legs around Felix's, your fancy green undergarments around one ankle. His nails scratch down the bare skin of your back, fucking into you with furious intent to match.
"You've always been mine," he groans into your ear.
"Felix -" you whimpered. Immediately he was grinning, lips inches from yours, gazing at you through his lashes.
"How's that proving anything?" He teases, low and knowing, and as his hips snap up to meet yours, you take the hint, his name getting louder and louder on your lips as you almost chant it, till his hand is between you both, helping get you off, and you're close and all but screaming his name and -
"Felix." Not from you. Oliver.
"Oh Jesus Christ!" Felix immediately looks murderous, and not in a fun, sexy way. Oliver's demanding to talk to him while you struggle to pull your underwear back on.
"Could hear you out there," Oliver mumbles, half stumbling over his words, unable to look at you, focused on the dirt by your feet instead.
"Kind of the point, Ollie," you snapped, frustrated and now unsatisfied, but dressed once more.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, Oliver?" Felix demanded. Oliver advances on him, presses into his space with desperate eyes and a bottle clutched to his chest. He doesn't look at you, he can't fucking look at you, you don't matter. It's Felix and his emotions who lead every situation the two of you share; it's Felix he has to win back over.
But he should have expected you not to leave, should have expected that when Felix pushed him away, shouted for him to get the fuck away, that you would try and step in.
"He's already got you on a leash, can I just have this one fucking moment?!" He snaps at you; he doesn't hit you but you recoil like he has, and Felix's gaze grows cold. Oliver seems to sense this before he even turns back, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that, I just- they already have everything -"
"Back off." Felix warns sharply, but Oliver can't help himself, won't listen.
"I just gave you what you wanted!" Oliver throws himself at Felix, pins him to the statue, their bodies flush and Oliver rambling, "like everyone else does! Everyone puts on a show for Felix..." his voice drops, childish and weak and wanting, and you watch him press himself closer as he turns gentle, "so I'm... I'm sorry if my performance wasn't good enough..."
"I think..." some part of it was working on Felix, his voice soft and placating, "I think you need to see somebody," or maybe he knows by now exactly how Oliver wants him to act; his eyes never leave Oliver's face, even when he doesn't let him go, "you need help okay, seriously -"
"No, no, I don't," Oliver's voice is rising again, "I just need you to understand how much I fucking love you," a tremble in his voice, sounding so raw, so needy, "you're the only friend I ever had, Felix." The manipulation is so blatant it almost hurts; you don't matter to him in this moment, all that matters is saying exactly whatever Felix needs to believe.
"I mean, doesn't this just prove how much of a good friend I actually am? How well I actually know you?" That hope, that dangerous, heartbreaking note of hope that's going to make your skin crawl. But you're not leaving without Felix, and he's not leaving this moment it seemed, "I'm still the same person, yeah? I'm still the same person," he insisted.
A long few moments pass, Felix's gaze searching Oliver's face for something beyond you. But then, finally, his gaze slips to you. All you can do is shake your head.
"Don't-" Oliver murmurs faintly, tipping his head to try and block you from Felix's line of sight, but Felix turns his attention back, expression helpless.
"I don't know what you are," he breathes, "but I do know you; you make my fucking blood run cold."
The fight drains out of Oliver, as does every last drop of hope. He lets Felix push his hands away, makes himself give Felix space to breathe. After a beat, he looks back at you, unsteady on his feet, pain in his eyes, but then he lurches, quickly shoves his half-finished bottle into Felix's hands, and rushes away to be sick.
Oliver is doubled over, retching, when you get to Felix. Before he can raise Oliver's bottle to his lips, you tuck yourself under his arm and wrap him up in a hug. He's trembling, but you feel the bottle against your back. Felix tucks his face into the crook of your neck, tears unspilled, clinging to his eyelashes.
"Better?" You ask forlornly once Ollie had gone quiet.
"Fuck off," he spits, finally coming back around. You watch him over Felix's shoulder, and the glare he levels at you as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand is almost surprising. Still, you try and show the same compassion you knew Felix would in this moment.
"Wash the taste out of your mouth," you try and tell Ollie gently, moving carefully out of Felix's arms, wrapping your fingers around the neck of the bottle he'd brought with him, "I think you should go to bed after." Oliver doesn't even reach for the bottle, but he does stop, looking between it, and then between you and Felix.
"Please," Felix sighs, head bent and bottle clasped tightly in his hand, "I need this."
"We can get another," you tell him quietly, calmly. Felix's gaze flicks to yours, imploring for just a moment, but dropping again when you don't relent. Felix sighs, once more, but finally relents, handing you over the bottle. Which Oliver has kept his focus on, brow now furrowing.
"I gave you everything else of mine, my drink's not even good enough for you anymore, like the rest of me?" He sneers, reaching unsteadily for the bottle in your hands, though his eyes and their focus betray him. Something lights up in the back of your mind, like one of those memories that made far more sense once Oliver's lie had been revealed. Alarm bells once again.
Felix stumbles to a halt -
"Fucking fine -" but as he tries to reach for the bottle again you step out of his range, beginning to see red as you got closer to Oliver, prickling with suspicion, "what is your problem, Y/N," Felix sounds so fucking tired, but all you can see is the deer of a boy before you growing wide eyed as he looks into yours.
"It's Oliver's," trying with all your might to not jump to conclusions, you hold the bottle out, desperately hoping that you'd connected the wrong dots, that Oliver was just drunk and as helpless as he appeared, that he couldn't be this malicious or vindictive-
"You want me to be sick again?" He tries to stand up to you, bottle pressed to his chest and refusing to step back even as you continue to crowd his space, "fuck off." He's seeming more sober, more alert, more with himself with each minute that passes. The distant noise of the party rings in your ears and all you can think about is the cold bottle between you and how Felix had almost -
"Leave him alone," Felix called out, footsteps in the grass sounding as though he was making his way back to the maze, "he's not worth it."
"He's pathetic," you spit, nose to nose with Oliver now, face heating up as hot, angry tears begin to close your vision. Still, you can see in Oliver's eyes that he's finding fewer and fewer ways to escape the situation.
"I don't care what either of youse think of me anymore," Oliver's lip curls as it quivers, trying to play distraught and callous all at once, "go fuck each other to feel like you're not just a fucking waste of space, vapid cunts -" he can see he's touched a nerve by the way your expression lights up with malevolent fury.
"Fi," there's a shake in your voice that you can't even fight, "please leave."
"Can you please come with me," Felix sounds like he's on the verge of tears, and when you turn, he's reaching for you, his hand shaking, "please can we go?" He begs.
An angel. Your best friend. Your everything. Your Felix.
Seeing him like this, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that Oliver's greed and jealousy would rather see Felix hurt than not in love with him, you couldn't let him get away with it. Finally you start to cry, even if you hadn't meant to, and the sight of it has Felix begging for you to leave with him. Oliver starts pushing, demanding that you both fuck off.
"Give me a minute, My Felix," you tell him, trying to smile, trying to reassure him, "I'll catch up."
"I'm not leaving without you."
"I don't want you to see this," you turn back to Oliver with newfound resolution. He's stepped back, leaning himself against the statue, doubled over, head in his hands.
"See what?" Felix asks dubiously, and Oliver looks up, sees the way you're approaching him, and scrambles to straighten his posture.
"Ollie's going to have a little drink," you offer him the bottle again.
"Tryna make me sick again?" He snarls.
"Then use it to wash your mouth out, then swallow," you order coldly, "and repeat until the bottle's empty."
"Why should I?"
"Because it's just as perfectly fine as when you handed it to Felix," you hissed, voice low enough that Felix himself couldn't properly hear. Oliver narrowed his eyes, matching your tone.
"If I don't?"
"What I will do to you, Oliver Quick, will be much worse than whatever you've put in that bottle, so you'll drink it all up," you leaned in, whispering close and menacing, "and if you do throw it up, I will have you on your belly, like the worm you are, sucking your own sick off of the fucking ground."
"What the fuck is going on?" Felix demanded, and you turned, taking a deep breath and hopefully giving a much more convincing, determined smile.
"He made you cry."
Felix's expression immediately changed. All soft and fragile but understanding, he just asks that you don't be long. You promise not to be. Both you and Oliver watching him go.
Once in the clear, you turn back to your captive audience, keeping your voice low.
"I'm not going to make you drink it," you admit, and though Oliver's confused and on edge, he seems to relax, just a little.
"The fuck do you want from me then?"
"I just need to hear you say it," you step back from him, give him space, even step around to place the bottle at the foot of the statue and lean your forehead against the cool stone.
"Say what -?"
"I'm not fucking stupid, Ollie," you groaned, looking at him out of the corner of your eyes, "you think I could hurt you? I ruin lives behind the scenes, I couldn't -" you flail your hands awkwardly, rocking back on your heels, turning to him properly once more. It appears to work, however, as Oliver is now only regarding you warily, instead of seeming actively cautious. "I was... hurt," you admitted, "I know why you said it, but I was hurt to hear you say Felix was your only friend."
"That's not -" he tried, defences lowering further as he attempted to defend himself.
"No, I get it; I've done terrible things because I love Fi, I couldn't imagine," you cast a pitying, apologetic look to Oliver, "him not loving me back."
And it works. He cracks, little by little. The tears begin to form, the lip starts to tremble.
"It's not fucking fair," it already sounds like there's a lump in his throat, "why do you deserve his love?" He scowls, "why can't I? I can be like you, I can be good -" he babbles, sniffling harshly amongst his defiantly sharp tone, "I know I could be," you gently wrap an arm around him and he fists a hand to tightly in your overcoat that it tears, "I was everything he wanted me to be -"
"I know, Ollie, I know," you carefully remove his antlers, holding them in one hand as you coax him in close, running a comforting hand through his hair.
"I wanted him to love me, I wanted- I never wanted him hurt, but wanted him dead so it wasn't my fault if he didn't love me; he couldn't love anyone -" he breaks down into furious tears, "I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. I hate you, I hate that he loves you without you even trying -" there's no apology in his distress, even as he lets you hold him close, and you, for a few more moments, whisper reassuring nonsense. "I never wanted to hurt him," he mumbled softly, "but I wanted to kill him. I could never hurt him," there's anger and guilt in his eyes as he looks up at you, tear soaked and helpless, "but I wanted to hurt you." What you give him in return is pity, is sweetness and apology, but your blood is burning through your veins.
"You would have regretted it."
"I know..."
"Are you lying?"
"I think I am."
You have what you need, the confession, the intention; validation for your motivation. Hook, line and sinker.
"Hey, Ollie, Ollie, darling look at me, I know, okay, I know-" you try, taking his face in your free hand.
"No you fucking don't!" Oliver insists, but you keep insisting, "don't fucking take that tone, I just told you I was trying to kill Felix to hurt you -!" He thrashes, but your gentleness is unrelenting in this moment. You will give Oliver Quick what he deserves.
"Ollie, look at me, okay? Look me in the eyes, please -" you begged, and finally he did, despair and anger all there amongst the tears, "keep looking me in the eyes," you tell him gently, and firmly, and he does, too curious for his own good and wanting to see where this was going -
"Everything," you give him the faintest, reassuring smile, one hand on his face, shaking, messily wiping tears from his cheeks with your thumb as he keeps your gaze, "is going to be -"
- and you ram one of his antlers into his soft, exposed belly with all your strength. Surprise and pain hit him all at once and suddenly he's scrambling, trying to get your hands off of the headpiece. But he's winded, and suddenly in overwhelming pain.
"- fine," you breathe out, shaking with adrenaline. You have him pinned against the statue, just like he'd had Felix only minutes ago.
"Eyes, Oliver," you ordered coldly, while making sure to keep smiling, even as fresh traitorous tears were gathering and already spilling down your cheeks. Hand in his hair coming to grip him tightly, keeping his gaze level with yours, "what did I say? I want you to look me in the eyes -" and you rip the antlers out before plunging them back into his gut. Lips twisting into an animalistic snarl involuntarily, Oliver splutters and fights and squirms but everything is becoming slippery, and warm, and slick with his blood. The antlers, your hands, and his; hard to get a grip like the firm one you had on your weapon of choice.
"Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-" he chokes out helplessly, bloody hands moving up, trying to grip your arms, your shoulders, your face, "how -fuck- why -?"
"Whatever you had in that bottle is too good for you; you tried to kill Felix, you said so yourself."
As his strength begins to fail, the way he holds your face turns tender, almost gentle, before his hands fall back to rest on yours, both gripping the bloody antler. Oliver's weight rests on the statue, watching you with despair and helpless, pained moans. Cheeks wet with tears, you can't even fathom how you're doing this, or who you will be once it's done.
"You are not the minotaur of this maze," you grit your teeth, leaning your weight on the headdress, driving it into his guts until the bloody antler snapped clean off of the headdress, you still can't bring yourself to stop. It doesn't feel like enough. He tried to kill Felix. So you took the other antler in hand, unable to stop yourself, shaking with rage and tears, "you are the dear in my fucking headlights; you tried to hurt Felix, you tried to kill Felix! You are nothing, nothing, nothing," you punctuate each nothing with another bloody, unnecessary jab until you can't keep going. The second antler collapses to the ground, and you stumble back, hands shaking.
"Didn't want to hurt him," Oliver insists weakly.
"You were someone we loved," you can see the first antler still jutting out of him, stemming the blood flow but undoubtedly causing excruciating pain. But you spare him no sympathy, only a look of absolute loathing, finally taking in what you've done, the blood your fury had shed. "Someone I loved!" Burst from you, raw brutal betrayal scraping its way from your throat, face hot and wet with tears, falling to your knees, looking up at him with an exhausted fury, "you will never hurt him again. I will never give you that chance."
But Oliver's quickly unfocusing gaze slips from you, rising to a point beyond you, out into the maze. A weak, faint, but somehow still triumphant smile works it's way across his lips.
"Him?"
Like in a horror movie, you cast your gaze over your shoulder. You hear when Oliver finally gives out, stop holding himself up on the statue and fall to the ground, but all you can see is Felix at the edge of the maze.
And that look in his eyes.
Oh god, what have you done?
"Felix," tears start welling in your eyes again, and finally he looks away from Oliver's body, his own antler protruding from him, slowly bleeding out, to you. From here, he can't see the blood on your hands, the blood that's all over you, but he can see it all over Oliver, "Fi, please, you need to -" but he's stepping towards you, almost automatically; he looks ill. You have to look away, can't bear for him to see what your rage has brought about.
"I'm not," his words are robotic, still a bit slurred, and he keeps looking at Oliver, "going without you. 'said that." But he stops behind you. Eyes closed, you wait, you can't bear to even look at him. Then, slowly, he moves. When you breathe, it makes you shake, but you slowly open your eyes.
Felix approaches Oliver. You watch the faint, far away smile wears as he sees Felix up close once more.
"Fe-lix," he sighs faintly, reaching out with weak, shaking, bloody hands, feather light finger tips leaving red streaks along Felix's cheeks, his jaw, his lips. Felix's head dips in close, into Oliver's aching touch, his forehead resting against Oliver's in this moment.
"You were going to fucking kill me, Ollie?" Felix whispered through clenched teeth, on the edge of tears.
"'m sorry," Ollie mumbled weakly, shock and blood loss catching up with him as he struggled to keep his eyes open, "didn't want to hurt you."
"You wanted to kill me -"
"It wouldn't hurt."
"It would have hurt them!" Felix grabbed him by the collar with one hand, wrenching the dying boy up enough to see him pointing at you, still kneeling on the ground, second bloody antler laying in front of you. All Oliver could do was make a pained whimper, and Felix dropped him back to the ground, "and you said it yourself-" his voice is venomous, but your breath catches as you realise just how much he must have heard to know that, "and even having a thought like that," he snarls, hatred burning in his eyes, "means you don't fucking know me at all."
Felix is by your side in the very next moment, pulling you into his lap as he leaned back against the base of the sculpture. You're sobbing into your bloody hands, nothing else to do or say. Even as he's shaking, as he's crying too, Felix doesn't let you go, doesn't let you feel anything but secure with him.
"You saw it all, didn't you?" You whispered finally, and feel him nod.
"I said I wouldn't leave without you."
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry -" and while he tells you that you don't have to be, the words, the fears, the desperate justifications and rationalisations pour out of you, "he said he was trying to kill you, Fi, and I couldn't- I should have walked away, just gotten him kicked out or taken away or- or- but I couldn't," you gasped, "I couldn't let him ever have that kind of chance again, I couldn't risk that, my mind wouldn't let me -"
"I know, I love you," Felix murmurs weakly, his forehead against your shoulder once more, "dad and Duncan will know what to do, they'll take care of it tomorrow," he sounds so young in this moment, so tired and fragile. You nod quietly, leaning into him. When his hands find yours, threading your fingers together and holding on tightly, Oliver's blood is still sticky on your skin. Neither of you seems to care.
"How did you know something was so wrong?" Felix finally asked, the air cooler and quieter now. You have no idea how much time has passed, but it sounds as though the party was winding down. Oliver's party.
"He wasn't that drunk," you said after a long moment of deliberation, "could see it in his eyes," taking a deep breath, you cast your gaze to the guest of honour, completely still, chest no longer shifting with shallow, frantic breathes, "if he wasn't drunk, why was he sick?" Sighing, you leaned into Felix. You felt so hollow; "everything Oliver Quick did, he did with purpose."
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