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notmyneighbor · 28 days

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Let Me In ~ Doppelgänger Francis Mosses/The Milkman x Female Reader

Chapter 5

Word Count ~5k

Rating ~ Explicit

CW ~ sexual content, mild body horror and violence

Also available on AO3

taglist @luthien-elvenia-asher

Fanart used with permission @kaworinx on Instagram and TikTok

The power is restored later that evening.

You are still sitting on the living room sofa before it happens, still tucked against the doppelgänger. Listening to the death of the storm outside. Watching the gray light oozing through the windows grow dimmer.

“How far did you walk to get here?”

“Not far. The delivery truck broke down about a mile from your house.”

“I’ll give you a ride back into town tomorrow, then. You’ll need to get it repaired as soon as possible.” It was strange, planning things with the imposter like this. As if you were truly allies and not sworn enemies. “What are you going to do once you move back?”

“I haven’t decided my next course of action yet.” His thumb is caressing the line he’d carved on your arm. Gentle, absent strokes.

A blossom of light suddenly illuminates the room. Electricity. You sigh with relief, straightening. You notice your panties still lying on the floor where he’s discarded them. The things that had seemed forgiveable in the darkness now feel indecent under the lighting. Like you’re being judged for your transgressions.

You look at what had once been Francis Mosses and your heart turns over again. And this is why you’ve done it; all of it. Because the sight of him instantly weakens you. You can’t help yourself.

His clothing, still in a state of half-on, half-off, is rumpled, still dirt stained from his trek to your house.

“I’ll draw you a bath,” you say. “While I make dinner.”

He rises, hastily fastening the button of his fly so the work pants don’t drop to the floor. The belt buckle he leaves as it is, the end with the metal piece jingling as he walks, following you up the stairs. The farmhouse squeaks in protest with each step. A heavy tred, though the milkman had never seemed anything but lean. Perhaps what was dwelling inside lent the extra weight.

You turn the lights on as you go, making sure every corner is devoid of shadows. There’s a tiny linen closet in the hall you retrieve a bath towel from. You’re considering what clothing you might have that he could wear while you wash his. Something a former boyfriend had left behind, maybe. You lean and turn the faucets of the claw foot tub on, testing the water temperature and adjusting accordingly.

“I have to find something for you to wear. Just leave everything on the sink and I’ll wash it for you.” You’re about to exit the room when he halts you, fingers lightly closing over your forearm. The previously injured one.

His lips touch yours. Just once. Just for the feel of it, to place a reminder there. You were his.

The deceiver releases you, working on the buttons of his work shirt’s cuffs. You duck out of the bathroom, making your way to your dresser. Nearly every piece of furniture in the home is hand made, built to last. Solid pine, the scent of it still strong after all these years as you begin rummaging inside. There, at the bottom. Shoved way back. Undershirt, briefs.

You snatch at them and return to the other room. Finding the imposter nude, standing beside the tub. You blush, not looking directly at him as you shut off the faucets. You test the temperature a final time and decide it’s safe.

“Soap, shampoo. Here’s a wash cloth.” You point out the items. Wondering if these creatures ever bathed. If cleansing their true form was ever a concern.

One foot sinks into the water. The other follows. He sits down slowly. A little sigh escaping at the feeling of soaking in the warmth.

“I’m going to go start supper.” You close the door softly behind you, descending the stairs. Considering your options for a meal. You’d never gotten a chance to check the garden earlier, so fresh vegetables were out. Canned ones, then. Green beans and instant mashed potatoes from the box. Leftover meatloaf from the previous evening. A quick, easy meal to prepare. Your eyes linger on the bottle of milk in the refrigerator. Not from Francis’ company, but a reminder nonetheless. You shut the fridge again after grabbing the necessary ingredients, then preheat the oven.

It doesn’t take long to get things ready. How strange to see two place settings on the oak kitchen table. You hadn’t had company over in a long time.

Still no appearance from your current guest. You walk to the foot of the stairs. “Francis! Dinner is ready.” You were still unsure how else to address him. It just seemed easier to call him that. If it bothered him, he didn’t reveal it.

The pretender returns just as you’re pouring two glasses of iced tea. You’ve never seen Francis with wet hair; it lies so dark and flat when it’s wet. The clothing you’ve lent doesn’t quite fit right, a little loose on the shirt and tighter on the material clinging to his hips.

“I’m sorry I don’t have anything better to offer you. I wasn’t expecting…”

“It’s fine.” He holds out a hand, turning it over to stare curiously at new wrinkles along each digit.

“You pruned up. Spent too long in the water,” you explain. “How was the bath?”

“Enjoyable.”

“Good. Have a seat.” You drag the chair out slightly and he finishes the task, settling at the table about to be laden with food.

The dark eyes follow your movements around the kitchen. Potholders in hand as you remove the reheated dish from the oven. It seems too quiet in the house. You wish you had switched on the radio in the living room. Just for the comforting sound of background noise. Something to soothe your frayed nerves.

You sit across from your guest after you’ve filled both your plates. He still hasn’t touched anything. Hesitant. Waiting. And then you realize it. Francis would have said grace. You close your eyes and bow your head, reciting the words. “Bless us, oh Lord, for these thy gifts that we're about to receive from thy bounty through Christ our Lord, Amen.”

A soft echo of the last word. You wonder if it would be considered blasphemy, what you’ve just done. The invader participating in it. You’ve never been overly religious yourself. You suppose you’ve committed far worse transgressions than this one over the course of the day.

The dark haired creature lifts a spoon and takes a tentative scoop of the white mixture, bringing it to his mouth. Considering the taste. “Good.”

You realize you’re starving and you dig in. Stabbing the loaf and cutting off a piece, blowing on it to make sure it’s cooled enough before taking a bite. Still moist. Your grandmother’s recipe. The figure on the opposite side of the table mimics your actions. “Careful. Don’t burn yourself. It’s still hot.” You hate burning your tongue. That awful soreness, the awkward numb feeling.

It doesn’t take long for the imposter to clear his plate. “Seconds?” He nods and you push back your chair, lifting his plate and returning to the counter. The glass he refills himself from the pitcher on the table. “Have you eaten before this?”

“Yes. But it wasn’t…” He pauses. “Different than this.” He seems reluctant to elaborate and you’re not sure you want him to, so you let the subject matter drop, setting another helping before him and retaking your seat.

You struggle for a safe topic of conversation. Everything you think of, each query you seek answers for, seem anything but. This domestic peace between you feels fragile. You’re not sure how long it will last.

After the meal concludes you bring your dishes to the counter and the false milkman copies your actions, piling them next to yours beside the sink. You let the water run hot and then plug the drain, filling the sink halfway. You squeeze a generous dollop of dish soap from the bottle tucked on the rim of the porcelain basin. A little too generous, maybe. There are a few little iridescent bubbles that drift through the air in front of you.

One arm tucks around your waist from behind. Lips beside your ear. You struggle to scrub the plate in your hands, your heart pounding. A throbbing further down. Still hungry for him.

He hums Francis’ song. You feel tears welling in your eyes again. The dish you set in the drying rack nearly falls, your wet fingers clumsy.

“Did he suffer?”

The humming stops. “What?”

“Francis. When you took him over. Was it quick, at least?”

“Yes.” He could be lying, of course. But why would the alien care about your own comfort?

You pull the drainer from the sink and the water level begins descending, the last of it suctioned inside with a loud squelching noise. He’s still holding you. His breath warm by your cheek.

You can see nothing through the window above the sink. You stare at that void, blinking away the tears.

***

You’d forgotten about the bloodstains on Francis’ work shirt.

You’ve just begun lathering the fabric with soap in the bathroom sink upstairs when you notice the incriminating flecks.

Hydrogen peroxide will remove them. Erase those traces of the milkman’s lifeforce that had spattered upon his surrender.

It makes you want to weep again.

Once your chores are completed you take your own bath.

You don’t linger. You’re thinking of the doppelgänger resting in the chair in the corner of your bedroom. Trying to figure out where he’ll spend the night. The living room couch, maybe.

The mirrored medicine cabinet is clouded when you emerge. You swipe at it ineffectually with your towel, still damp from your body. The one the creature had used lying in a pile on the floor by the tub. You toss it into the hamper before dragging a comb through your hair and brushing your teeth. Hastily sliding into a sleeveless nightgown. Tiny lilacs printed on the fabric. You have them growing in the side yard, the perfumed scent when they’re in bloom wafting over you when you walk by. You touch the purple satin bow at the scooped neckline. A delicate little detail.

Those dark eyes watching you as you begin to strip the bed. He moves to assist you in stretching a fresh fitted sheet over the mattress. You can hear the drip of the water from Francis’ clothes hung to dry over the tub in the next room.

He sits on the side of the bed while you rub moisturizing lotion into your elbows, over your hands and arms. Legs once you’re seated on the opposite side. He’s moved so that he’s propped upright against the carved headboard, lower limbs stretching out along the length of the bed. Inviting himself in. Maybe it was better this way. At least you could keep an eye on him. Not worrying and wondering what he was doing downstairs all evening.

You switch off the lamp on the nightstand and lie down. Hear him scoot lower until he’s resting next to you. There’s just a top sheet at the foot of the bed. It’s really too warm for more than that. Through the cracked bedroom window you can hear the crickets chirping near the foundation outside. You turn away from him, reclining on your side, facing the wall. Willing your eyes to shut, to get some rest.

Succeeding.

You awaken and it’s still dark in the room. There is a hand on your bare shoulder, stroking circles along your deltoid muscle, grazing the path where your neck meets your shoulder, dipping into the hollow above your collarbone.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, and you hold your breath. Wondering again over how fast your body reacts to his touch, to his voice, to everything. “What are you doing to me?” As if you are the one caressing him in the middle of the night and not the other way around. “What is this feeling…this ache…”

You turn onto your back. He reaches blindly for your face. Following the angle of your jaw. His thumb seats in the dip in the edge below your bottom lip and he tugs gently, your mouth opening. His mouth finds yours. Tongue slithering between. You whimper. Your fingers seed in his hair. Still slightly damp. Refusing to dry in this humidity. He reaches for the hem of your nightgown, sliding the cotton material upward. Immediately at your panties, eagerly working inside. A heavy sigh of satisfaction from him. You gasp, your legs falling open. So wet already. Your body not caring if this isn’t really the man you love. It wants this. It craves this forbidden touch.

He’s so, so good at the touching. Retaining everything you’d showed him previously. Expertly manipulating your clit. Thrusting inside of you. You moan into his mouth. The side of his throat. You lap at that skin. Rough now. The first pricks of new growth of facial hair coarse against you.

“My sweet girl. Mine. You’re mine.” You do not protest. Your hips are lifting, grinding you against his fingers. It doesn’t take long to find your release. Your nails rake his back. The praise spills from his lips. The claims that you belong to him continue. His possession. His. To do with as he wishes. “Touch me, love. I need you.”

You find his cock leaking against the tight fitting underwear. You shove at the elastic top, releasing it partially from its confines. Stroking. He shifts positions, resting on one forearm. Fucking into the tight ring of your fingers. “Francis.” He’s not him, he never will be, but it’s so easy to pretend when it’s like this. In the dark and the heat of the summer weather, from the exchange between your bodies.

“I want to be inside of you. I want…I want…”

His breath shudders and his hips stutter as his orgasm rocks through him. Spilling hot seed over your fingers. The mattress dipping and creaking as he drops his full weight down onto it. You slip out of bed, padding barefoot into the hallway to retrieve a wash cloth. Washing your hands at the sink in the bathroom before bringing the dampened material back to the imposter in your bed, dragging it over his skin until you’re satisfied he’s clean.

You leave the soiled cloth on the nightstand, lying back down with your back to him again. He pulls you against him. The curves of your bodies fit together like spoons resting stacked in a silverware drawer. Your hands rest on the forearms curled around your torso. Feeling the threads of his body hair. He breathes your name into your neck and you shiver. There are still so many hours before dawn.

***

The week of your suspension passes quickly.

Francis’ doppel has already moved back into the apartments. Calls made. To the milkman’s employer. To the DDD director. He says he seemed placated, but you know better. They’ve been alerted. They’re going to be watching him closely. Both of you.

You like having him visit your home far more than you should.

It’s beginning to feel comfortable. A routine developing. He helps you sand and repaint the front porch once the weather is no longer humid. Tending to the garden. Mending the fence bordering the side yard. Replacing the broken bracket for one of the pantry shelves. Tightening the gasket under the kitchen sink when you hear water dripping during dinner one evening. There are endless repairs when one owns a home. Especially one of this age. It’s strange to see the imposter working so diligently to maintain it.

Stranger still how much you enjoy him in your bed.

There are many kisses and touches. Moments of taking each apart with hands and mouths. You learn each other’s bodies. You know he wants even more of you. You want it, too. But you’re reluctant. For so many reasons. Fearing an accidental pregnancy not the least of them.

The guilt of betraying the real Francis that still haunts you.

***

Your replacement as doorman had not been very tidy.

The desk is cluttered with papers, confiscated entry requests and identification cards. Pens no longer in their cup beside the phone. The day’s listing taped sloppily to the wall beside the window so it hangs at an angle.

You spend some time rearranging things. Restoring order. Internally, you’re trying to get yourself back into the right frame of mind. You have a duty to protect the residents. The replicants are not welcome. Never to be trusted. Francis’ copy is the only exception.

You shouldn’t be making it.

He’s there at your window later that day. Looking tired. Thrusting his ID and paperwork through the narrow slot at the base of the glass. Merely for show, of course. There is a security camera inside the office now. That video feed being constantly monitored by a DDD member. You’ve already warned him about it.

There’s an extra piece of paper beneath the entry request form. A small scrap with a torn edge. You tuck it into your palm quickly before reviewing his documents, then handing them back with a smile before pressing the door to allow him to enter.

You make a show of shifting some papers, your back to the camera as you quickly unfold the secret message. An invitation to come to his apartment once your shift is over. It wasn’t wise to draw attention to him. But you find yourself unable to resist the offer. You see the pilot that lives near Francis leaning in the open doorway of his residence as you exit the elevator after your workday ends, smoking a cigarette.

“Mr. Rudboys,” you greet him, nodding. “I’m just dropping off some paperwork for Mr. Mosses.”

He grunts, a smirk twitching his thin lips. “Sure you are, doll.”

Your spine stiffens in embarrassment, your neck warm beneath your shirt collar as you knock on the apartment door.

Your lover opens it and you hastily bid farewell to his neighbor before you enter, closing the door behind you with a little sigh of relief. “I think he might suspect—” You don’t get a chance to finish as his mouth covers yours. “Francis,” you gasp.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, planting kisses along your throat, unbuttoning the top of your blouse and seating his lips in the hollow there. “This tedious work routine is unbearable.”

“I did warn you. You have to earn a living. Pay bills. I still don’t understand why you wanted this.”

“It’s not the mundane work ethic you devote yourselves to that we’re interested in, I assure you.” He nibbles your ear.

“So why do it, then?”

He sighs, his affectionate gestures ceasing. “Do you really want to talk about this right now? I had envisioned a rather different evening for us. I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?”

“I found something I know you’ll like. Come here.” He leads you into the living room. There’s a tan object resting on the coffee table. The length is too short to be a suitcase, the height making you realize what it is a heartbeat before he lifts the lid. A portable record player. Beside it, a shallow stack of vinyl albums. “Saw it in a shop window on my route downtown. I’ve no idea if you like those artists, but…”

“Francis.” You cover your mouth with your hand. You can hardly believe it. Such a thoughtful gesture. From the intruder or some sentiment of the man he’d taken over. You don’t know which is which. You never have.

“Try it out,” he invites.

You already know which record you’re going to play. At the very top of the pile you see Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong’s collaboration. You slide it from the sleeve and place it on the turntable. Setting the needle down gently on the ebony disc, you grin when it starts to play.

“Turn the volume up. It’s only fair, considering.” He nods towards the direction of the apartment where Mia Stone and her fiancé reside, a mischievous smirk on his features.

You comply, still uncomfortable with making it too loud. “Dance with me?” You’re not certain if he knows how. But the memory is there for him, plucked from the depths at this hour of need. His hands rest on your waist. You twine your arms behind his neck.

Stars shining bright above you

Night breezes seem to whisper, I love you

Birds singin' in the sycamore trees

Dream a little dream of me

He turns, lifting you easily. You smile again, allowing him to pull one of your hands free to clasp beside you as you rest the other one on his shoulder, swaying gently as your bodies move in a tight circle.

Say nighty-night and kiss me

Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me

While I'm alone and blue as can be

Dream a little dream of me

The doppel leans suddenly and you gasp, but his hand is strong against your lower spine, the other holding your hand tightly. The throaty male singer’s voice begins the next verse as you’re lifted upright again.

Stars fading but I linger on dear

Still craving your kiss

Now I'm longin' to linger till dawn dear

Just saying this

“I thought you didn’t like music,” you murmur against his ear, lifting slightly on your toes.

“It’s growing on me.” You draw back to find him smiling. Francis’ smile. Your heart lurching in your chest again as the artists’ voices join together.

Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you

Leave the worries behind you

But in your dreams, whatever may be

You've gotta make me a promise, promise to me

You'll dream, dream a little dream of me

The song ends. His hands cup your face. “Sweetheart.” His mouth hungry on yours. “Come to bed with me, love.”

You nod, following him to the bedroom. Undressing each other. Practiced at this now, clothing quickly shed. Not stopping to move the comforter, pressing your naked body down on top of it.

“I want to be inside of you.” He says this often, and it frightens you as much as it thrills you.

“Francis…”

“Let me in, love, please. My special, sweet girl…” His hand wedges between your thighs. Never once has he forced you. Never once have you denied him. You open your legs and he straightens, kneeling between that v shaped space. Running his erection along your pink flesh, parting your nether lips, spreading the slick from your core through them. Massaging your hooded button. Pausing outside your entrance. Waiting for your permission.

“Please,” he says, and it’s the first time you’ve heard him say the word.

“Okay.”

Pressure as the fattened dome violates your canal. You gasp and his hands instantly reach to soothe you, caressing your thigh as he thrusts inside gradually. He leans his weight forward in small increments, bringing your legs up as he goes. Pressing deeper inside of you. Still more than you’re used to. There’s a burn accompanying the stretch as his prick fills your pussy. A kind of raw ache when he is fully sheathed, bumping against the edge of your cervix. Lifting his hips, the shaft sliding back. Thrust in again. A slow rhythm that you know belies what he really wants. His arms tremor with the tension on either side of you. Your knees hug his ribs. He kisses you and you rock against him. The movements become easier. A wet sound every time he bottoms out, his cock fully buried, the base of his groin tapping your own.

“So perfect, love. So tight around me.” He’s already perspiring. He hadn’t opened the window. The air in the room is stale and warm. You taste the salt of his leaking sweat when he kisses you.

“Francis. You feel so good…” The discomfort has subsided. Now, every motion brings nothing but pleasure. Your nails dig into his shoulders. The warning your mind attempts to deliver is ignored. You want this. You want him. You’ll worry about the consequences later.

He moans loudly. “They’ll hear you next door,” you caution.

“I don’t give a fuck. You’re mine,” he growls, nipping at your throat. “I want to mark you again. Somewhere everyone will see.” Sucking kisses near your collarbone. Moving back to your neck.

“Oh, Francis, don’t.” You know how difficult it is to conceal a hickey. You can’t allow it. Imagining greeting the residents with a bloom of raspberry on your throat after the fragile vessels beneath had burst. It was too much.

“A different kind of mark, then. Like the one I made before. Somewhere they won’t see.” There is still an ache to the healing wound he’d previously left. The sutures have been removed, the edges knitting together nicely. “I like being able to feel you when you’re not with me.” He thrusts back inside you. “I won’t hurt you, I promise. You don’t have to be afraid of me.” His pelvis jerks faster, his passion building once more. A hand snakes between your bodies, thumb stroking your clit.

“Oh…” Your hips roll up, making that finger collide more firmly. The familiar sensation of release building inside of you. The coil tightening. “Francis…”

“Cum for me, love. Want to feel you around me.”

Your lower spine is on fire. You can’t hold back any longer. You climax, the walls of your canal spasming around him as the pleasure wracks through your body. Trying to milk your partner’s release. It’s working. You recognize the tell tale shudder. The way his breathing becomes ragged. “Please let me,” he says again, his voice full of need.

“Yes.”

A sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh escapes him. His mouth at the place where your neck and shoulder meet. An instant of heat and needle sharp pain. Something piercing you. Not Francis’ teeth, but belonging to the thing inside of him. The hurt vanishes, replaced by another sensation. You’re warm again. Your body ready for another release. The wave of a second orgasm dragging the doppel through his own. You feel the wet heat of his ejaculate filling you deep inside.

The damp skin you’re clutching ripples. That hazy shimmer visible when he draws back slightly to regard your features, still buried in your womb. You haven’t seen this struggle for many days now. Nearly forgetting its existence. Allowing yourself to be deluded.

Now reminded as the imposter fights for control. The hand that had been draped loosely against your throat tightens slightly, a sharp prick of claws digging into that soft skin, nearly enough to invade that barrier. Your eyes widen in alarm. “Francis,” you manage to choke out.

He abruptly releases you. Looking at his hand as if it’s foreign to him. The movement beneath his flesh stops, the halo fading. He is whole again.

“I’m sorry. I was overwhelmed, I…” His voice trails off. You struggle to move and he withdraws. You feel his cum dripping out of you, staining the blanket beneath you. “Sweetheart.” Worry in his eyes. Touching your cheek. Your force yourself not to flinch. Not to think about the unnatural seed he’s just filled you with. What that union could possibly result in.

The bite he’s left tingles. You reach for it absently, the flesh warm beneath your fingers. It’s slightly raised and firm. Like getting an insect bite, your body reacting to the venom injected.

“It will go away. I didn’t…it’s not deep.” His fingers nudging yours, feeling the injury. “Sweetheart. You’re so quiet. Talk to me. Tell me how you’re feeling. What you’re thinking.”

“I don’t know.” There are so many of each, all competing to be heard and felt. “I think…I think I’d better go home now.”

“Stay,” he pleads. This sudden begging of his, you’re not sure what to make of it. “Even if not for the night, just stay with me.”

You shake your head. “I should go. It’s well past curfew.”

“I don’t care about your stupid government’s rules,” he snaps impatiently.

“I do. I have to live by them.” You move to sit on the side of the mattress, his hand reaching for you, settling on your scarred forearm.

“I thought about you all day. All I wanted was this. To be with you.”

“Francis. I can’t stay. Truly. I’ll see you tomorrow.” You bend to retrieve the nearest article of clothing you can reach.

“You’re upset with me.”

“I’m scared, Francis.”

“Of me?”

“Yes. No. Not just you. Everything. You guide his hand to your abdomen. “What will you do if there’s a baby?”

“Is that what you’re so concerned about?“ He sighs heavily, looking relieved. “I’ll protect it. Just like I’ll protect you.”

“They would never let us keep it. Not your species. Not the organization. The DDD would dispose of it. Your race…you wanted it for an experiment. You told me that.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

“You know what.”

You swallow thickly. “This is so dangerous. And you act like it’s not. They’ll kill us, Francis.”

He shakes his head firmly. “No. I won’t let that happen. Did you notice there were no doppels today?”

“I did. It’s unusual, but it does happen on occasion.”

“That’s because of me. Because they recognize this.” He caresses your marked arm. “No one would ever dare harm you.” His fingers now on the new puncture he’d created.

“Even if that’s true, it won’t stop the DDD.”

The imposter cups your cheek. “You’ve done something to me. Not something visually apparent. Something inside. I have to be with you.” He kisses you, the intially chaste gesture deepening and your hand relaxes, dropping the garment you’d retrieved back to the carpet. “Stay with me. We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

You can’t refuse.

#francis mosses x reader #francis mosses x you #thats not my neighbor #milkman x reader #milkman x you #francis mosses #milkman

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sea-lanterns · 7 months

Text

TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE

synopsis: (slasher! AU) getting chased by a chainsaw-wielding murderer goes…horribly right?

featuring: beidou

rating: 18+ smut (men and minors dni)

warnings: sub! afab fem reader, violence, mentions of gore, blood, brief mention of vomiting, strap on, penetration, squirting, size difference, blo.wjob, choking, prey and predator kink, pet names (beidou calls you her little lamb), chasing, sharp things near areas they shouldn’t be, se.x in a barn, cursing.

art credits: chainsaw man

Holding your breath as best as you could, you heard the whirring of a chainsaw close by and prayed to whatever higher entity above that you would get out safe. What first started out as an innocent vacation with your friends, suddenly turned into a bloody chainsaw massacre, as the farmhouse near your vacation home had the most insane serial killer you’ve ever bore to witness.

From what you saw before your friends’ early demise, was a tall, muscular woman wearing a leather mask that mimicked human skin. It made you sick to your stomach, right before she sliced open one of your friends and left blood splattering everywhere. Traumatized was an understatement, you were left standing there in shock before forcing your legs to move and start running. You’ve seen enough horror movies to know you should run now and get therapy later, not too keen on getting sliced to ribbons like your other unfortunate friends…

The leather-masked woman slowly looked up. Her one eye gazing at you through her mask as blood slowly dripped from her strong, bloodied hands. The further you ran away, the longer she stared, suddenly no longer chasing you as she turned the chainsaw off.

You didn’t notice, of course. After all, you were too busy running for your life to see the way she licked her lips underneath the mask, pulling it off to take a breather and smirk at the way your cute little legs ran off to your car. She chuckled to herself, kicking aside one of the corpses of your friends and slowly stalking her way towards your path, humming to herself as she wondered how long it would take for you to notice that she slashed your tires with her chainsaw.

It didn’t take you long to notice, however; as the moment you ran to your car, you noticed the cut up marks on your tires and mentally cursed yourself with your luck. “Well fuck me with a chainsaw…” you groaned, before hearing the whirring of a chainsaw in the distance. “Wait, bad choice of words—”

As the chainsaw wielding woman tore down some shrubbery with her blade, she smirked and waved at you mockingly, almost flirtatiously with the way she flexed a bicep through the thin cotton flannel of her shirt. ‘So cute…’ Beidou couldn’t help but think as you stood there dumbfounded like a baby deer, wondering all the sweet little sounds she could get out of you once she got you all alone.

“Ah shit…” you quickly recollected your nerves and started running in another direction, remembering that you spotted a truck near the barn that you could hopefully hotwire once you got there.

As you ran, Beidou just chuckled when you took off in the direction of her old family’s barn, rubbing her calloused fingers against her forehead to wipe the sticky sweat off her skin. “So much work for one little lamb…” she sighs, eying the way your legs ran halfway across the field. Call her perverted if you will, but the woman couldn’t help but envision your legs wrapped so prettily around her neck while she eats you out. The soft flesh of your thighs just begging to be held down by her hands…

“Fuck…” Beidou was getting hot and bothered just thinking about it, groaning before slowly moving her way towards the direction where you ran. She was taking her sweet time in chasing you down, as she figured a girl as cute as you wouldn’t be so hard to hunt.

Through hard, heavy footsteps, Beidou watched from afar as you tried hotwiring the truck outside her barn, chuckling to herself as she wondered how long it would take for you to realize there was no gas.

“Oh Goddammit!”

Apparently it took you two seconds.

Beidou had to keep herself from smiling as she watched you frantically run into the barn to search for a gas canister. You were so cute in the way you panicked so frantically, darting this way and that like a little rabbit running in circles.

Oh, right. Beidou had to chase you, not admire you.

She let out a sigh and slowly entered the barn as quietly as she could, watching as you searched high and low for a gas canister, (or at least something that would protect you) in a barn full of hot air and hay. She watched you search through the barn and folded her muscular arms together in amusement, leaning against the doorframe with her chainsaw off and settled by her hip. ‘Poor little thing has no idea I’m right here…’ Beidou smirks to herself, almost tempted to tap her finger against your shoulder and scoop you up in her big, bulky arms.

Beidou drew closer, shadow slowly looming over your smaller figure and making you shiver as you start to notice the darkening light. Your blood ran cold, body tensing as you realized that Beidou was currently standing right behind you. “The little lamb has wandered out of her pen…” you hear her mumble huskily, pushing against the trigger of the chainsaw to give you a threateningly loud whirl. “I need to bring her back.”

“A-Ah…” your throat went dry and you almost stopped breathing the moment you heard the chainsaw behind you. Not daring to look back, as you knew that if you did, you’d get a face full of spinning blades and blood.

“…Hm.” Beidou chewed her lip at the sight of you still facing the wall, placing a rough hand on your shoulder and letting go of the chainsaw. “That’s not good. I want to see my pretty lamb’s face…”

She reached over to gently cup your cheeks and slowly bring your body over to her. Compared to you, she was absolutely massive. A tall, muscular, and broad-shouldered woman who looked like she could crush your skull with just one squeeze, towering over you like a bear leering down at its next fallen prey…

“…I know begging rarely works but please don’t kill me.” You say under a trembling breath, locking eyes with the mysterious killer behind the leather mask. “I— I won’t tell anyone anything, I swear. Hell, I sincerely apologize for my friends who trespassed on your property. Haha…ha…”

Beidou smirked at the way you shuddered under her grasp, like a little leaf that was quivering in the wind. She wondered if you could take what she had in store for you, or if your poor little body would crumble to dust with how she was going to manhandle you.

“Shhhh…” you were caught off guard when the woman suddenly began petting your head, treating you like some sort of shelter pet. “Don’t move.”

Well, you weren’t planning to, and with the way she was still holding that chainsaw made you obey every command she gave. Beidou was pleased to see your compliance, pressing a thumb against your bottom lip before leaning closer to murmur in your ear. “Are you scared?” She asks breathlessly, chuckling at the shiver you gave her from her voice.

“…A little.” You reply quieter.

“A little?” Beidou repeats, smiling a little and reaching up to pull off her mask. “What about now?”

Your eyes widened as you locked eyes with a roguishly handsome woman. She was missing an eye, had her face scarred with multiple scars, yet you could tell even from a glance that she was extremely handsome despite being a killer.

“…Uhm.”

Your cheeks burned hot for a moment before you quickly snapped out of it. Even if she was hot, she was still insane…!

“Uhm…?” Beidou edged on, giving you a toothy grin as she leans against a wooden post. “Didn’t expect a face like this, huh?”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. I mean, how could you when your killer was literally flirting with you after just chasing you with a chainsaw. You weren’t sure if she was trying to trick you by seducing you, or if she was genuinely flirting. Either way, you were still a bit terrified.

“…Dammit. I didn’t mean to scare ya’ that badly.” She sighs, moving closer until you are practically backed up into the wall. “I just wanted to see your pretty face screaming…”

“You killed my friends!” You suddenly exclaimed, before covering your mouth in shock.

“I did, didn’t I.” Beidou chuckles, gently moving her chainsaw against your thigh, cooing at the way you froze. “Well, your friends should know better than to trespass on my property anyways. It was very rude of them to enter my family home without permission.”

“That—” your breath hitches as the metal blades of the chainsaw gently graze your inner thigh. The chainsaw was off, luckily; but you could feel the severity of the situation as Beidou could turn the chainsaw on at any moment. “…That doesn’t give you the right to slaughter my…my…”

Images of your friends being sliced to pieces replayed in your head. You wanted to vomit, feeling a hot billow rise in your throat and threaten to spill over. You turned to your side and suddenly hurled the contents of your stomach on the ground, Beidou not looking surprised as she reached over to rub a comforting hand on your back.

“…That was a lot, lamb.” Beidou hums, pushing a lock of hair over your ear. “But let it all out. It’s okay…”

“You’re a sicko.” You couldn’t help but cough, a wave of fatigue crashing over your body as all that running and trauma finally caught up with you. “Dammit…fuck…”

You were sweating from both the hot barn and the aftereffects of vomiting, looking delirious before suddenly losing your balance.

“Oh...” Beidou moved forward to catch you from your fall and prop you against her muscular body. “I guess a small fry like you would fall eventually. You should drink some water.”

“What…” you looked more confused than anything, unable to keep your head up as you rested it against her chest. It didn’t make sense to you as to why the killer was being so nice, yet your body was too exhausted to fight back after running and screaming so much.

As you felt your body slowly slip into unconsciousness, you felt the killer wrap her arms around you and enclose your frame with her taller body. You’ve never felt so warm (and terrified) in all your life, yet she seemed to be gentle with you as she stroked her hand over your head. “Shhhh…you’re so sweet compared to them.” Beidou cooed, some of the blood on her shirt rubbing on your face. “I don’t understand how such a sweet little lamb like you would be hanging out with such jerks…”

‘They were still my friends…’ you wanted to say, but fatigue kept you from saying any more. Instead, you just breathed heavily and tried to move away, only for your thigh to accidentally brush against something firm and hard.

“Fuck.” You heard Beidou curse in front of you, a sly grin crossing her face. “Feel that? Ever touched something like that before, little lamb?”

You let out a surprised yelp when you felt it, confused as to what you just touched.

“Ever heard of a strap on?” Beidou chuckled, reaching a hand down to slowly unzip her trousers. “It’s what I was planning to use on you if you agreed…”

Your eyes widened as she slowly revealed a large, silicone dildo. You had no idea she was packing such a thing while chasing you, but just looking at the size of it had you unexpectedly aching in the heat of your core. “You…I…” You sputtered out as her words finally caught up with you. She wanted to use this on you? She wanted to fuck you?!

“You’re beaming, little lamb.” Beidou grins, giving her shaft a few playful strokes. “Are you turned on? Just moments ago you were cursing me out for being a sicko…”

“You still are!” You exclaimed back, yet you couldn’t tear your eyes away from how she was pumping the base of her cock. “I just…ugh…” your delirium wasn’t helping either as another wave of heat coursed through your body, Beidou staring at you with an arrogant grin before tilting your chin up to look at her.

“I have a proposition for you,” she speaks in a low, husky groan. “Let me have my way with you, and I’ll let you go. Or I'll let you go right now, but chase you to get my high…”

As if to emphasize her point, she gave the trigger of the chainsaw a small squeeze, causing it to whir to life for a split second. Upon hearing the loud roar of the chainsaw again, you tended up and shook your head no, clearly frightened for your life.

“By…letting you have your way, you mean…”

Beidou smirked, moving closer to murmur in your ear.

“I want to fuck you, little lamb.”

The way she whispered it had your nerves sparking with tension. Eyes flickering down to her strap, back to her face, and back to her strap again. “If I let you fuck me…will you really let me go?” You ask in a smaller voice, tempted by the offer of such an easy way out.

“I promise, my princess.” She hums, though that dark glint in her eye says otherwise. “Just let me reach one high with you, you’re too pretty not to lust over…” She exhales breathlessly before leaning down to whisper in your ear. “Do I have your consent, my little lamb…?”

As her hot breath tickled your ear, you chewed your bottom lip before contemplating your options. “…Only because I want to be let go…” you say shakily, closing your eyes so you wouldn’t have to see Beidou’s reaction.

“Oh, I know,” you hear her chuckle, before a large hand pushes your head down to kneel against the hardwood of the barn floor. “But first, I need you to lube my dick with your throat. A pretty girl like you needs some assistance if she’s gonna take something this big.”

When you open your eyes you’re met with the fat tip of her silicone cock. The color a nude shade that matched the skin tone of Beidou herself, as well as a fake vein that ran from the base of the shaft all the way to the tip. “Suck it off, pretty girl.” Beidou chuckles, pushing you closer so that your lips brushed against the head. “The better you wet it, the easier it’ll slip in.”

Obediently, you parted your lips to take the head into your mouth, stretching your jaw to accommodate the wide girth and slowly bob your head down to suck.

“…God.” Beidou groans as she stares down at you, her one good eye glazing over with lust as she watches you suck her off. “That’s a pretty sight…”

She pushes you down a bit deeper and watches as you almost gag from the size. Beidou was one to always pick toys on the larger side of things, so it was no surprise to see you struggling to take her length inside your mouth.

“Gh-Ghhck—” you choked a little and accidentally let some drool leak past the corners of your lips, Beidou moving a finger down to wipe some of the drool away and pat your head. “Easy there, girl…” she hushes, gently pulling you back so you could pant for air. “Don’t want you suffocating, that should be enough for me.”

Strands of your saliva stuck to the toy as you gasped for air, Beidou stroking your spit all over her cock before hoisting you up to stand. “Shorts off, I promise to go slow…” In quick motions, you begin unzipping your shorts to slide them off, Beidou not wasting another second as she quickly moves in to scoop you up into her arms and pin you against the wall.

“H-Holy shit—” you instinctively cling to her broad shoulders and wrap your legs around her waist. “Don’t drop me—!”

“I won’t drop you, little lamb,” Beidou chuckles, trailing a thumb down to your bottoms and rubbing circles against the soft fabric. “I’d never drop someone as sweet as you…”

You felt a jolt of electricity when you felt her thumb rubbing circles against your clit. Although still clothed, you could feel how hot and big her fingers were as they toyed with your pussy from above your underwear. You couldn’t help but imagine her stuffing each one of her fingers deep inside you, the image making you wet as she continued playing with you to get you ready.

“My, you’re getting wet already…” the woman chuckles heavily, sliding your panties aside so you could feel her large fingers prodding at your hole. “Practically drooling for my cock to be shoved right in…”

She groans and continues massaging your folds until she feels you dripping over her fingers and down her arm. Once she’s sure you’re ready, she grips the shaft of her strap and angles it so that the tip pushes against your hole.

“Ready?” She purrs roughly, teasing your entrance with her head.

“Mhm…” you didn’t want to let her know how much you were craving it, so you bit your lip and hoped for the best.

“Alright.” Beidou groans, steadying her hips before slowly sinking you down on her cock. “Oh…shit.” She husks, feeling your walls part for the intrusion and swallow her whole. You squirm for a bit as you feel the mushroom tip spear through your folds, stretching you out to your limit due to how thick the strap was.

“Ah…hah…” you took deep, steady breaths as Beidou slowly eased her way inside of you, the smooth, slightly textured edges of the cock massaging your innards before you finally met her at the hilt.

“Oh…the little lamb is quite tight I see…” Beidou grins, feeling a little resistance before sliding out. “Let me fix that for you.”

Without warning, she begins moving her hips a little more and has you bouncing in her arms with small, wet, thrusts. She was holding you with just her strength alone, as she thrusted her shaft further into you and had you whimpering as she went.

“Is it deep enough for you, my lamb?” Beidou hums slowly, keeping up the rhythm while sliding her hands down to hold you by the rear. “I knew you’d be addicted to the size…”

She punctuates the end of each sentence with a sharper thrust, pounding away while she holds your legs up and grinded you against the wall. Though the dick she was wearing was not a real one, Beidou could feel every push and pressure against the harness while you grind your hips against the belt, making the woman grunt with pleasure.

“Just earlier I had you screaming, eh?” She laughs hoarsely, squeezing your ass with her hands before making you spread your legs wider. “I’ll have you screaming even more now… Screaming until your throat is torn and your cunt is filled to the brim.”

You moaned as she spoke such filthy words into your ears. She was fucking you so good that you were almost forgetting she was a masked killer who slaughtered all your friend, making you squirm with ecstasy and whine.

“Oh? Is the lamb whining for more?” The killer laughs, slamming her hips even harder against yours and making you scream with bliss. Nails gripping onto the blood-stained fabric of her shirt and trying to stabilize yourself from falling over in pleasure.

“T-Too…too much…” you whimper out into her ear, close to sobbing as you bury your face into her shoulder.

“Too much?” She mocks with an arrogant grin. “No baby, it’s perfect.”

She practically growls the word into your ear and raises your hips all the way up until just the tip was left inside. Once she feels you shiver under her hold, she braces you for impact before slamming you down roughly. Over, and over, and over again.

With each rough slap, it wasn’t long until you felt your insides tighten like a screw, before suddenly letting loose and squirting all over her strap, eyes rolled back in ecstasy.

“Oh…baby…” Beidou grunts, gazing at the way your cum dripped out of your hole and down her shaft. “That’s a sight…”

She senses your overcoming exhaustion and lays you down against her chest. Large hands coming up to hold your back as she kisses the top of your head. “I take it back, I don’t want to let you go,” Beidou murmurs softly, petting your head like you were an innocent farm animal she wanted to take in. “I’m going to keep you here and let you join the family, you’d be such a good wife for me after all, hm?”

She chuckles at the way your eyes flutter shut, fatigue taking over your body as you pass out in her arms.

“Rest well, my little lamb…”

That was the last thing you heard before you blacked out.

#beidou smut #beidou x reader #beidou x you #slasher au #genshin smut #genshin x reader #genshin women smut #genshin women x reader #halloween special

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florvaine · 10 months

Text

lost comfort and found familiarity.

Escaping the prison was a mess, and Carl is devastated when he can only find his girlfriends red jacket, but not her. (afab! reader)

genre: heavy angst to fluff

warnings: death, blood, gore, panic/anxiety attack, !carls’ SA scene!, kissing.

-— DREAD BEGAN TO FILL THE PIT OF CARL’S STOMACH WHEN THE HEAVY REALISATION SET IN. That realisation was that the prison was overrun, the Governor and his goons having broken down the wired fencing with a tank and brought in dozens upon dozens of brain-deteriorated, famished walkers into the previously safe confines of the prison.

They had killed Hershel in cold blood using Michonne's katana, leaving his severed head to pool a red sheen on the grass. Somewhere in the time of his beheading bullets began to ring out around the borders of the prison.

Cars, trucks and military-grade vehicles began to fill the courtyard, Rick and the Governor are beating each other bloody with their bare hands by the overturned bus.

“Holy shit.” He hears you say, and once he looks to his left to find you, his heart hurts a little more.

You’re typically comforting smile has vanished like the peace had just a few hours ago, instead pulled in an open-mouthed look of pure shock and horror. Your eyes are blown wide, brimming with a small collection of tears. There’s dust and debris flying everywhere, staining your cheeks. A shotgun is tight in your grip, ammo stacked in your pockets and an army knife clinging on your belt.

He’s only ever seen you this devastated when the farm got set up in flames, and when you had been told that your brother had been bit.

Carl gulps, pulling you closer to him via the strong grip he has on your hand. Both of your palms are sweaty, but it was barely even registered as the tank that the Governor had hijacked shot another bomb into the crumbling, brick walls of the prison.

“We gotta go!” He says, running in the opposite direction of the explosion. You follow behind him, still holding his hand as an anchor to keep you aware of reality.

Your eyes drift around the series of events around you. The obliteration of your home, the snapping jaws of the decaying walkers that drooled and reached to take a chunk of flesh from either of your bodies. Bullets rain hell on everything that moves, sparks of orange and yellow shining from all directions, the scent of blood, gunpowder and dust is heavy as it clings to your clothes and hair.

You stumble, tugging on Carl's hand, "We have to get your Dad!" You point to where Michonne is helping him up, and the blue-eyed boy falters.

A loud bang followed by the sound of debris hitting the floor, a flash of heat passed over each of your skins. Between the flash, he sees his dad covered in splatters of blood, bruises and cuts stumbling towards a break in the metal fence.

Every sense in his body is muddled, an annoying, high-pitched ring in his ears makes his clammy hands raise upwards to press against them, sounds muffled as dust coats his tongue like thick, chalky medicine. His eyes flutter as the light passes, debris clinging to his lashes and dirtying his freckled face. Carl sniffs, his head turning around rapidly to see you again.

Except you were gone.

Just like the flash of orange light and thermal blast, you had seemingly dissipated into thin air. His first reaction is panic, in a form that roots his body into the concrete floor at the thought of you being hit by the bomb, therefore disintegrating instantly.

Carl feels sick to his stomach and he removes his hands from his ears, picking up his gun that clattered to the ground and spinning in circles to catch even a glimpse of you.

"Y/n?" He shouts even if his throat was aching from the particles in the muggy air.

There's no response, "Y/n!" He calls out with more urgency, his feet moving quick against the ground as another round of bullets pass beside him.

The shaggy, brown-haired teen dashes through a gap between the cell blocks, keeping as low as he could whilst running, pressing the sheriff's hat his father gave him just a few days prior against him skull.

Then everything stops. It's practically silent if you ignore the echoes of the snarling walkers that invaded the space. His eyes brim with salty tears, scrambling to pick up a too familiar red cloth discarded on the floor.

His heart is put on pause for a few seconds as he kneels down to claw at the jacket. Your favourite jacket. Bright red stained with black smudges and bloody hand smears, an open hole passes cleanly through both sides of the left sleeve, encircled in a deeper scarlet that dripped in a sickening curve of an open wound.

Time passes slowly, as if God himself was providing him time to grieve. You had slipped through the cracks of his callousing hands, the blood trapped under his fingernails suddenly more obvious as he scratched at the drying liquid on the jacket. His heart hurts. So does his head, a throbbing pulse that matched the pants and trembling breaths that exited his chapped lips. His body washes out any adrenaline or happy emotion an refills it with dread and mourning.

He feels like crying. Sobbing, screaming your name until his lungs collapsed and his throat was raw. Vocal cords torn, shattered like his heart that would no longer beat with the same life he had with you. His thoughts turned from joyous hope of a future with you and Judith outside the crackling prison to disbelieving hurt at the realisation you were not near him anymore.

With no body, their could be no funeral. Nobody in the limited black attire they collected throughout their time in the apocalypse. With no grave to bury you under, you could not rest.

But without a funeral or a tattered corpse of your being, Carl refused to believe you were dead.

The sound of bullets restart his heart again like a defibrillator, and he's back in the moment. There's shots in the courtyard, the boy scrambles up, clinging onto your jacket with harsh breathing.

There's two walkers further along the cell block. Carl ties the jacket around his waist. Rage slowly drips into the building acceptance in his mind, and the shotgun that he held previously was snagged up off the floor.

The gun is raised, aimed perfectly for the decaying heads of what used to be morally guided people. His breathing picks up slightly.

One shot rings out, bullet shells hitting the ground. Chunks of skin, bone and rotting organs spills over the floor and the walker hits the ground with a dull thud. He steps over the remains with what could only be described as a bitter mixture of anger and sadness on his face.

The second shot is fired, and the first victim is joined by the other. A mess of liquid ruby changes the grey hue of the floor, the sound of blood spilling like tossed water would usually sicken him.

His gaze drifts towards the bodies, and he is repulsed at the image of you, your hair splayed against the concrete and your eyes wide open yet unseeing, glossed over in grey as your plump lips turn blue, skin cold. Your chest does not rise. You are still, graceful and dead.

He blinks, and yet again you were gone. Carl looks up from the meaningless corpses.

His own dad looks back at him.

"Carl," It doesn't sound like him, there's a hint of liquid that gurgled in his throat as he spoke, and Rick gulps it down. He's breathing heavily. A collection of red patches adorn his beaten face, curls from his hair and stubbly beard pressed against the sweat gathered on his skin.

The two of them limp away from the remains of the prison, trauma and sorrow tossing and churning in their minds and stomachs. They had lost not only you, but Judith as well.

One of the only memories of his mother that he had. And the only hope that Rick had of raising one of his children without any fear even in the apocalypse.

That night the two of them exchanged no words.

-—-

1 month, 27 days and 17 hours.

That's how long it had been since Carl had last heard your voice. Him, Rick and now Michonne occupy a two story house in a leafy road surrounded by woods. They visit the neighbouring homes further down, once he even found a 112 ounces worth of chocolate pudding, and ate it in one sitting. Alone.

The words 'alone' has never been in the forefront of his mind this much before. He wonders if you would've enjoyed the pudding with him, or comforted him on his worst nights as his dad slept on the sofa barricading the front door. Maybe you would've stopped him shouting at his unconscious body.

He was terrified, that night. Because the sleeping body of his dad would sometimes look like you - except there's a bite on your shoulder and a bullet wound punctured between your closed eyes.

Now there was no resting body on the sofa as his dad was awake, alive and moving whilst Michonne helps the two of them work with their slightly tense familial relationship.

Sometimes he'd get bombarded with questions about you. He'd still answer with one phrase.

"She's alive."

The same tone, the same memory starting to form before his ocean eyes whenever he blinked. After a while it went from being a quivering statement of hope to an exclamation of law.

Every time you were brought up negativily, it ended in him storming out of the house and sleeping in a different one for the night, and coming back in the morning to his anxious dad who was very close to vomiting and a worried Michonne.

Carl knew you wouldn't just leave or give in that easily. It wasn't in your blood that stained the jacket he kept folded upstairs in one of the rooms.

He had washed it, any trace of what happened at the prison left in a stream of water; the hole from your bullet wound was sewn together as best as he could. No more smudges of soot and crumbling brick smeared down the hood and arms, no more scarlet hand prints that grabbed and tainted your clothing.

Carl had one mission that he would complete - he had to complete it before anything else.

And you were going to get your jacket back - alive.

-—-

Terminus was a horrible idea. It had been advertised as a safe haven for anyone in need of it, offering sickingly sweet luxuries that no other place had before.

Who knew it was run by cannibals that captured, disarmed and intended to eventually eat them? Not Carl, that's for sure.

They had barely escaped with their lives, and Carl could only wonder how many more times he could dodge death until it inevitably caught up with him.

But in the back of his mind, he knew he would avoid it for as long as he possibly could, because if he kicked the bucket then he wouldn’t see you again.

At least they found everyone else - including Judith. That was one miracle that Carl dreamed of, and it was accepted, so the last one was you.

Many nights and days he had spent wondering where you were, if you were thinking about him too, some other days passed with tears and muffled screams of your name; those days he’d be comforted by the tight arms of his dad or Michonne wrapped around him.

Carl would sometimes have nightmares of that grimey, old man that pinned him against the floor, Michonne and Rick having to see him at his most vulnerable in that moment. That was the one time he was grateful you weren’t there. Not because he didn’t want you to see him so shattered and broken, no.

He knew that whatever was going to happen to him, would happen to you too. And with the predator pinning him down, the company of his equally as vile creatures that held Michonne and Rick as captives. Nobody would be able to save you in time.

Part of his innocence was picked up and snapped that night. He fell asleep with your jacket over his torso, and he let his quivering frame curl into yours.

He wanted to see you again, in real life. Not a part of the fractured, twisted part of his imagination. He wished to hold you close against him, kiss you under the stars like you had done too many days ago. Everything Carl found that he thought you’d like was in a small pouch at the bottom on his bag.

A thin-chained necklace, a gossip magazine, a comic book. A small heart shaped rock that he had found. Most importantly, your jacket.

Carl was intelligent, observant. He could tell everyone had already grieved for you, mentioned your name in speeches of motivation saying ‘do it for her’. He hated it.

Another argument happened whilst they were all moving down the abandoned road, towards a new hope of life.

His father brought you up again when he saw Carl wearing your jacket. They had stopped for a break, sitting in the middle of the road whilst Daryl went hunting for anything they could eat.

“Carl,” He spoke, voice slow and gentle as if he was a ticking time bomb, “I think it’s time you let go of her jacket.”

Everyone’s eyes moved from his father to his son, eyes slightly widened and mouths clamped shut. The air becomes tense as the blue-eyed teen looks up at his father through the corner of his eyes.

Carl swipes his tongue over his lips, “Why’s that?” He spoke, Judith coo’s in his arms, pulling at the strings that tightened the hood.

Rick adjusts his stance, placing his hands on his hips and thinking of what to say to his son. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he speaks.

“I just think, well we just think that,” The curly-haired dad gestures to everyone with one hand, “It’s time to let go, son.”

Carl lifts his head fully, eyebrows knitted together in scrutising disbelief, “You all think she’s dead?” His tone is harsh, accusing and targeted to pierce their racing hearts.

Everyone knew that the mention of you being dead was something that the boy didn’t agree with. Stubborn as ever, Carl points his gaze towards his dad. His gaze as sharp as daggers and Rick knows hes in for the long run.

“She disappeared, Carl. We can only guess what happened to her.”

Carl hands Judith to Carol next to him and she takes her without looking at the boy, “You can guess, but I’m not guessing. I know she’s alive.”

“She’s got lost, nobody saw where she went. She’s alone.” Rick argued, his voice louder.

“She has a gun and a knife!” Carl replies, shouting over his father. Michonne stands up and removes her gun from her holster, as did Abraham and Tara when a branch snaps behind the wooded trees.

Daryl shows himself, empty handed. Everyone internally groans, but they give him a look to tell him to be quiet and point at the arguing boys.

Rick places his hands on his sons shoulder, looking down on him, “People have still died with a gun, kid.”

Carl pushes his dad away from him, face contorting into pure anger and vemon lacing his features, “Don’t touch me.”

“I’m just tellin’ you the truth, Carl.” Rick points at him, eyebrows raised and his voice returning to the soft, almost patronising tone from before.

“But it’s not the truth!” Carl argues, his anger put into lashing out against his own blood, “She’s alive, I know it! I see her, Dad!”

Michonne places a hand on Rick’s shoulder when she hears him sigh and prepare himself, “Don’t-”

“She’s dead! Trust me. She. Is. Dead. If you’re seeing her like I see your mother, then she is not alive anymore!”

It goes silent, a few birds fly overhead with calls of their scratchy language. Even in the open surrounded by trees it has never felt more claustrophobic than ever for the Grimes family.

Carl stiffens at the mention of his mother, the woman that birthed and nutured him through his pre-teen years. The woman he eventually ended up killing.

Rick takes his silence as an opportunity, “Let her go, Carl. That’s my only advice.”

Tears form in his lashline as he stares back at him dad, and the sheriff’s hat against his head has never felt more heavy than in this moment.

“But everyone saw Mum’s body.”

Rick has never turned around quicker than in that moment. The mention of his lovers lifeless body, deep cut in her lower stomach flashes under the glaze in his eyes and Rick swears he can see a white dress move through the treeline.

Carl continues, “We saw Mum’s body,” His voice trembles and he sniffs, “I knew she was dead more than anyone else here.”

It’s deathly silent. Everyone knows what he’s referring to, and everyone is scared shitless to say anything to either of them. Rick takes a deep breath, but doesn’t speak.

A droplet rolls down Carl’s pale cheek, and he looks down to ensure no one saw him wipe it away, “We haven’t seen hers. Until we see her body, I’m keeping her jacket. But when we find her, she’s gonna have it back.”

Rick only nods lightly, picking up the supplies he agreed to carry.

Nobody makes any objections to continuing to move further up the road - towards Alexandria.

-—-

You have never felt so close before. Yes, they were extremely suspicious and afraid of Aaron and his husband, Eric. Having been tricked into a cannibal house just a week ago does that to a group of people.

But walking up yet another road, littered with lifeless corpses of walkers with bullets making their brains paint the pavement. Carl knows only one thing.

He has never been this sure that he was going to find you.

Aaron is rattling on about what facilities they had. Running water, heating, electricity. Promises of necessaries they haven’t heard of for years now.

His dad is on edge, not particularly fond of the idea, but he knew that everyone was so tired and burnt out that they needed just the idea of a safe place to be just to bring more motivation to themselves.

So far, Aaron’s words of a 15 foot, metal wall that bordered Alexandria and protected the insiders was true, and Carl begins to feel more energetic and hopeful than before.

Carol notices this, and questions the boy, “What’s up, Carl?” She looks at him, and he looks back.

“She’s here, I know it.” He replies and then looks forward again, walking ahead of her.

Carol furrows her brows and decides to take harder and longer looks at the walkers on the floor.

The group arrive at the large, metal gate. The journey felt like hours for each of them, but extra long for Carl. He was antsy, and fully compliant to anything any of them told them to do. If Aaron or Eric told them to stop, he would. If they told him to go find a bird, kill it and bring it back, he would.

The gates finally screech open, Carl feels as if his heart is going to burst open. An alarm sounds in the back of his head but not one of worry, but one of intuition that told him she was here.

He looked into the gated community as the gate opened fully, and felt alienated as soon as he entered with his group. They were dirty, hair knotty and unclean against the pristine and organised residents of Alexandria.

People poke their heads out of houses and stare, smiling or looking upon them with apathy. Every face Carl doesn’t recognise.

They get told to hand over their weapons. Their refusal is argued, and eventually they give in. It’s hesitated and unsettling seeing all their guns and knifes piled onto a trolley.

Carl is the second to last person to place anything on the trolley, his handgun is held in his hands tightly as he walks over to the collection, placing it down and reaching for his knife-

“Carl?”

It’s a voice further along the pathway into Alexandria, and he looks up in slight confusion.

His blue eyes meet hers, they’re as recognisable as ever. Finally.

His body is practically overflowing with emotion - relief, joy, sadness and the most overpowering feeling of love.

The knife clatters to the floor, there are hands reaching for him, tugging on his clothes to hold him back and the leaders that he didn’t care to remember the names of tell him to stay put.

Instead he runs. It’s a run of desperation. He’s afraid that if he doesn’t run fast enough, you’ll disappear again in the aftermath of an explosion. You’re running too, a hand against your mouth to cover sobs.

The two of you meet halfway, arms wrapping around eachother as a form of physical touch to ensure that the other that this is real.

“You’re alive,” Carl whispers, breathing heavily and clutching the back of your head that was pressed against his chest, “I knew it.”

You’re both crying, holding eachother in a tight, cathartic embrace that released any inkling of doubt that the others heart wasn’t beating.

Carl’s hands clamber to hold you face in his hands again. You let him, raising your head to look into his eyes. He runs his thumbs against your soft skin, scanning your face.

His head lowers, yours lifts, and your lips meet in a greeting that was way past it’s due date. Eyes closed, experiencing something that has only been a dream for so long. You didn’t care that his lips were chapped, he didn’t care that yours were slightly cut up from you biting at the dead skin there.

It’s messy, teeth clashing and your noses bump one or two times, but all that you care about is that he’s here, and that he finally found you.

You pull apart, and your eyes fly open to witness his still closed like he was still in shock. His lashes flutter, and you make eye contact once again.

There’s a sense of melancholy realisation that slowly ebbs through him. The fact he hadn’t been there to witness you grow up alongside him during the time you were apart. He admires the change in your facial structure, features from before stronger and more prominent to show that you had grown up.

“You’re just as beautiful as I remembered,” His thumb wipes away a few of your tears and rolls over a small scar that streches up from your jawline to your cheekbone and his eyebrows furrowed in slight worry, “What happened?”

You press yourself further against his palms, relishing in the feeling of him again, “I survived, Carl.”

His name has never sounded so good before. His brain feels funny, his heart floating as he pulls you in for another kiss. It’s less messy this time, not that either of you care.

Carl pulls away again as he’s reminded of his mission, his forehead against yours, “Your jacket,” He gives you peck, and departs again, “I have your jacket.”

His hands leave your face to pull the rucksack of his back, and in panting breaths you gasp softly as he pulls the red fabric out of the bottom of the brown bag, holding it out to you.

“I cleaned it, sewed up the bullet hole,” He holds it up, showing the messy threading, “It’s not the best-”

He’s cut off by you taking it from him with a sniffle, pressing it against your heart and clutching it.

“I love you, Carl.” Your voice trembles, and he smiles, pressing a kiss against your forehead, brushing a few loose strands of your hair from your face.

“I love you too.”

You unzipped the red jacket, struggling to get it on; Carl moves forwards to help you slide it on over your arms again.

Where it rightfully belongs.

-—-

#*{ ‘. florawrites<3 #carl grimes x reader #the walking dead #carl grimes #twd #angst #the walking dead x reader #fluff #twd fluff #twd angst

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mrchiipchrome · 9 months

Text

Nosebleed(s)

W.C - 1,6k

The moment you hear the resounding crack of your nose, you know something is wrong, seriously wrong. Pain sprouts from your nose out towards your eyes in unsettling waves and you feel how a warm liquid seeps down from your nose and into your mouth, half open in a silent scream.

The metallic taste of the sticky liquid clues you into what it was, the red staining your hands in an unsettling way. You can feel the tears welling up in the corners of your eyes as your surroundings fall away, the pain much too overwhelming as your face throbs.

Your knees find the ground in an instant, the turf scratching uncomfortably against the tough skin. The rest of your body soon follows in its path, meeting the ground painfully.

Your already red jersey stains with a deeper shade of red as the waterfall of blood continues its rampage. The warm blood soon transfers onto the vibrant green grass, making it an ugly greenish brown color as you shove your forehead into it, willing the pain to go away.

Only moments after your form dropped onto the hard ground, you can feel pain spreading on the left side of your face, distracting you a smidge from the pain in the middle of your face. The scratching sensation disappears after a second or two but leaves behind paralyzing pain that makes the wail stuck in your throat escape.

Blood mixes with sweat and drips dangerously into your sensitive eyes, something you can feel as the burning sensation in your eyes blinds you.

In the span of a few seconds, you had gone from running all over the pitch and creating chances left and right to laying on the ground twisting and turning as the pain creates spots in the little vision you had.

The last thing you could feel before everything went black was a hand giving you a soft pat on your shoulder and someone trying to turn you over onto your back.

The limp nature of your body concerns the Chelsea player who’d taken you down, the blood not noticed by her yet. She stands up, dusting herself off all while thinking that you were fine.

It’s when the whistle blows and she notices that you still haven’t moved from your position that she starts to become slightly concerned. She bows down, putting her hand on your shoulder softly as she waits for you to react, only you don’t.

The referee approaches with a slight jog as she notices the small commotion happening on the field. All the players' eyes follow after her and soon after they notice the pool of deep red appearing around your head.

The Arsenal players rush towards you, pushing the Chelsea player out of their way as they crowd around you. A few of them turn you on your back, gasping at the horrific scene that might as well have come directly from a horror movie. Blood covers the majority of your face as deep scratches on your left side continue to seep out metallic liquid at an alarming rate.

There is a gurgling sound coming from your throat and your girlfriend drops down to her knees worriedly by your head. Leah pulls your head onto her lap and with the help of a few teammates, she turns you on your side looking on in worry as a few drops of blood slip out from between your lips.

Somewhere in the far distance she can faintly hear how Katie argues with half of the Chelsea team and the referee to card the player that took you down, but she tunes it out, all too focused on you and the continuous flow of blood from your nose and cuts. Leah strips her shirt off in a desperate attempt at stopping the bleeding, pressing it firmly to the side of your face, the blood staining yet another shirt.

Leah presses a soft, reassuring kiss to the only piece of skin she can find that isn’t smeared in blood, muttering soft reassurances to you as she strokes your hair carefully. She doesn’t want to mess you up any further.

Soon enough, the once steady shallow breaths turn labored and deep, the puffs of oxygen mixing with whines as the pain hits you like a truck. Your face feels sticky and dirty as you regain consciousness, the soft and familiar feeling of your girlfriend's thighs making everything better.

Your senses are in overdrive as you feel everything all at once, the roughness of the turf beneath the rest of your body and everyone’s eyes on you, the smell of sweat and metal mixing together in an unpleasant symphony and how everything just hurts.

“Make it stop, please Lee make it stop.” You manage to get out from between clenched teeth and chapped lips, the whisper being near inaudible due to the surrounding noise and yet, Leah could hear you perfectly fine.

“The medics are coming love, don’t worry you’ll get some help. See they’re nearly here.” She dips her head to whisper in your ear, fearing that the rather obvious concussion would get worse if she were to talk normally.

She continues to reassure you, telling you that the help was near when it wasn’t in fact near, the slight tremor to her voice telling you as much. Leah grasps the hand that comes up to touch your face in her own, her fingers hugging yours tightly in a comforting gesture.

After what feels like an eternity, but in reality closer to minutes, the medical personnel finally show up. Leah wants to scream and question why in hell it took so long for them to get there, but she realizes that it’ll help no one, not you nor the medics if she did. She lets them run through the concussion protocols, and as it turns out you in fact have one.

The garment she placed over your cuts gets removed, the shirt having formed a glue-like bond to the cuts on your face which in turn reopens the cuts and lets the blood start to flow yet again. You groan in pain as the normally stinging sensation instead turns out to be a sharp and stabbing pain.

The medics take one look at the deep scratches made from the Chelsea player’s studs and decide that they’re deep enough for you to need stitches. The continued groaning and moaning pierces Leah’s ears and she keeps her hold on your hand firm as the medics wrap your head in blindingly white gauze.

Red spots soon appear on the light bit of fabric, looking more like an abstract artwork than a football player’s head, and you can feel how fingers prod at your nose. Your eyes start to water once again and as one single tear slips down your face, it leaves a noticeable path of unstained skin.

They decide that it’s broken fairly quickly, sticking two wads of cotton up your nose to stave off the bleeding a bit.

The grass feels pokey in your hands as you put them to the ground, pushing yourself up to your feet with help from your girlfriend who keeps you steady with her arm hanging firmly around your waist. Your body sways dangerously as you put your arm around her shoulders, steadying yourself while the other one goes around one of the medics shoulders.

The two escort you to the sidelines and as you reach them, you feel Leah let go of you, Jen quickly taking her place so as to not let you fall down. Leah presses a quick kiss to your lips, the blood having been wiped off earlier, before she tugs on her new shirt and runs off towards her place on the pitch.

The rest of the game is played with surprising vigor from Arsenal, the red side scoring a few more goals in your honor and as soon as the whistle signaling the end of the game blows, Leah legs it to the medical room.

The door slams open, leaving you to turn your head quickly and spot your girlfriend standing in the doorway panting slightly. A smile paints your now clean face as you open your arms for her to enter, and she springs into them carefully so as to not put pressure on any of your cuts and bruises.

“Are you okay? It doesn’t hurt too much right? You’re coming home with me, I’m not letting you drive let alone be alone at your apartment.” Leah rambles, her nerves quickly becoming noticeable as she rants to you, cupping your face in her soft hands.

“Lee, stop worrying, I just have a pretty bad concussion and my nose is broken but I’m fine. I love you so much babe.” You respond to the pretty blonde, a small smirk situated on your swollen and bruised face.

“Okay, you're still coming home with me, I’m not letting you out of my sight for the next few weeks.” Leah tells you sternly, but the loving look in her eyes betrays her as she looks down at you where you’re sitting on your bed.

“I can agree to that, I guess”

Six days later

Looking down at the field from your place in the nosebleeds is an ethereal feeling. The club had been nice enough to give you some seats with an incredible view to watch the rest of its fixtures until you were back to training again.

Sitting in the nosebleeds, watching your team destroy another team was bittersweet as you’d much rather be down there playing with them, but you had a much better view of your girlfriend which sweetened the deal oh so much…

a/n; honestly this is so shitty, but i felt like posting something

#woso x reader #woso #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson

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greatooglymooglyyy · 19 days

Text

The Last Ride Chapter 7 (AU Cowboy!C.Sturniolo)

summary: when spoiled and sheltered city girl Y/N finds herself in running in the wrong crowd, her dad gives her an ultimatum. it's either spend the summer of her gap year on her uncle's ranch or face being cut off and finding a job. just when she thinks it can't get any worse, she meets Chris, the brooding farmhand who thinks he knows her type. but as the summer goes on, they both realize there may be more to the other than meets the eye.

advised and cowritten by @rootbeerworshiper

contains: cursing, kissing, general fluff, verbal arguments, mentions of toxic relationships, angst, 3.7k words

a/n: sigh. here y'all go. damn.

series masterlist

“What if instead of cleaning duty, I was on horses today?”

I look up at him from under my lashes as he scans over his clipboard with today’s task list.

“Hmm..” Chris taps a finger against his chin, tilting his head as if in deep thought. “How about no?”

“Please?” I beg, not caring at all about the slight whine in my voice. When he doesn’t answer, I step a little closer and drop my voice to a whisper. “I’ll kiss you again.”

Chris arches an eyebrow and gives me his cocky smirk. “You were gonna do that anyway.”

Wow. Someone’s gotta humble this kid. I open my mouth but my words get lost when I focus on his lips, his tongue prodding teasingly against his bottom one. Damn it. He’s got a point.

When I throw my head back in a dramatic show of defeat, he laughs and touches my waist lightly. “Sorry, Scotch. No favoritism. You gotta see Cinnamon on your own time.”

I shoot him a glare that turns into a small smile without my permission when I meet his teasing eyes. His hand on my waist lingers longer than necessary as he trails his eyes over my face. Just when I’m sure he’s about to lean in, a couple of the hands walk by and Chris pulls away.

He claps as he recovers, apparently remembering he’s in charge. “Alright. Get a move on. Last time you left milk in my buckets and they soured.”

Covering my mouth in mock horror, I gasp. “Oh my. Not the buckets!”

Chris bites his lip to stop his smile. “Watch it. Keep it up and I’ma put you on pigs tomorrow. Let ‘em dust your ass again.”

*****************

My lip curls up with disgust as I drop my soaked gloves into the trash bin and turn around. Turns out that disinfecting animal equipment is absolutely disgusting. Who would have thought?

Suppressing the urge to shudder at the memory of caked-on curdled milk, I smile at a passing worker as he collects the buckets to redistribute them. He nods his head back in friendly recognition. “Chris said to send ‘ya round to the cows when you’re all done.”

He’s leaning against a truck, staring at someone testing out paint colors on the barn with an inscrutable look on his face. My heartbeat doubles embarrassingly when his eyes find me but I force myself to not let it show. He doesn’t react outwardly either, but I clock how he readjusts slightly like he’s trying his hardest to stay still.

“You rang, bossman?”

He rolls his eyes and gestures towards the painter. “This is all your fault.”

Okay, so that was technically true. But how was I supposed to know when I told Birdie the peeling paint made my eyes bleed, she’d make my uncle redo it?

“I never told her to make it red. She always half listens to me.” I counter, leaning against the door beside him and letting our arms brush.

He glances over at me, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. “Speaking of not listening, didn’t I tell you to make sure you grabbed all the buckets?”

“I literally did!” I answer, panic raising at the idea of having to scrub more nasty equipment.

“You literally didn’t.” He says with a butchered valley girl impression. “Coulda sworn I say some of the other side of here. Come see.”

I sigh as I follow him to the back of the barn, already growing irritated at Chris’ nitpicking. But as soon as we are out of eyeshot, he stops short and turns to me. Before I can ask what’s wrong, he leans in, bending his head low and tilting my chin up with his fingertips, before pressing his lips to mine.

It’s a sweet kiss, not unlike the handful we’ve already shared, but there's some urgency beneath this one, his tongue moving against mine. When he pulls away, it takes all my energy not to follow him and bring his face back to mine.

He leans back and studies my face, running his thumb under my lip before dropping his hand. “I’ve been wanting to do that since breakfast.”

“Why didn’t you?” I question with a smile, watching as he leans against the wall of the barn.

He scoffs and crosses his arms. “And have your uncle get to whoopin’ my ass over grits? No shot.”

I smile at the thought of that. “You’re right. It would be pretty funny though.”

Chris just rolls his eyes, using his hands to pull me into him by my belt loops, our bodies leaned against the barn wall. “It’s like you just live to see me suffer.”

“Need I remind you of the work I was doing at the barn today? I’m gonna have nightmares about the smell.” I shiver slightly, reminiscing on the sour smell of milk and strong chemicals combined.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear while his other hand simply rubs my lower back. I’m not entirely sure what’s gotten into him but he’s definitely more affectionate than normal.

“What are you doing tonight?” He smiles, making eye contact with me and immediately causing me to look down.

Unfortunately for me, he doesn’t let me have that luxury for more than a few seconds, his finger lifting my chin to force my gaze back onto him.

“You ask me that every time as if I’m ever doing anything but hanging around you.” I lean in to close the space and place another quick kiss on his smirking lips. “Where’re you taking me now boss?”

“What makes you think you’re getting another date?” He asks as if the answer isn’t completely obvious.

I look up as if I'm really racking my brain for an answer before looking back at his blue eyes again. “I happen to think I know you pretty well. Now tell me, am I wearing a dress, or is this another good ol country get-together?”

“Call me uneducated but I’m not entirely sure on the dress code for every date.” He laughs. “State fair’s coming down, thought you might wanna go on a few rides.”

I gasp with a smile plastered on my face as I step back from him. “Really?”

“Really. Better go looking for outfit ideas soon, Scotch. I’ll pick you up for eight.”

*************************

“Since when were you scared of rollercoasters?” I ask, my arm intertwined with Chris’ as we walk past the brightly colored food trucks.

He scoffs dramatically, shaking his head. “I’m not scared of them, I don’t know what you’re on about.”

“Really? Because from where I was sitting, it was hard to tell your screams apart from the ten-year-old behind us.” I tease, leaning my head onto his shoulder.

Chris just kisses the top of my head. “I really can’t catch a break with you, can I sweetheart?”

“No, you cannot.” I smile to myself before a sign catches my eye. “Oh my god!”

I pull Chris by his hand, not stopping to explain what has me walking so fast. “Woah, what’d I miss?”

I catch my breath momentarily before replying. “They have my favorite lemonade here. I haven’t had it since my mom took me to the Cali expo.”

He looks down at me, eyes laced with a hint of concern at the casual mention of my deadbeat mother.

Before I can reassure him that I’m okay, it’s my turn to order. “Hi. I’ll have a large raspberry lemonade please.”

I reach for my wallet but by the time my eyes scan back to the cashier Chris is already handing them a ten-dollar bill. “Keep the change.” He smiles, grabs my drink for me, and begins to walk away from me.

The first sip transports me back to my childhood so quickly, I almost mistake Chris’ arm brushing against mine for my mom’s. Almost.

But the smile he gives me when I glance up at him is enough to keep me from letting those thoughts linger. Instead, I hold out the cup for him to take, listening to the satisfying sound of the ice sloshing against the plastic.

“Try it,” I demand. “It’s like sunshine in a cup.”

His eyes light up with amusement as he takes the cup, tilting it to peer inside. “Sunshine, huh? Awful big promise.”

I shrug, watching closely as he takes a weary sip. “You could have flipped the straw.” I joke when he hands it back, nodding his approval.

He raises an eyebrow and chuckles. “Oh, so you can stick your tongue down my throat but we can’t share a drink?”

“Don’t recall that.” I lie, as I walk over to an empty picnic table and swing my leg over the bench.

“Yeah? Lemme remind you.”

He leans down, tipping my head up so he can kiss me slow and heavy. I reach up and tangle my hands in his hair. Just as I start to deepen the kiss, someone clears their throat and I pull away quickly, the memory that we are in public heating my face.

Chris just laughs, completely undeterred and unembarrassed, before he takes a seat next to me. He reaches over and takes the cup again, taking a slow and deliberate drink from the straw, all the while keeping his eyes trained up on mine.

“Cute,” I say when he hands the cup back, a smirk growing on his face.

“Thanks. I thought so.”

************************

“I cannot believe you talked me into this,” I say mortified as I look around at the children occupying the other teacups. Yeah, that’s right. Teacups. Because I’m on a date with a child apparently.

“What are you talking about? This is the best part.”

Chris’ face across from me is one of pure and utter glee. A soft and playful demeanor he rarely wears coming to the surface. It’s so cute, I can’t help but match his smile.

The ride begins and we start spinning slowly, Chris’ hands resting longingly on the wheel. I had expected him to turn it as quickly as he could the minute we started but I guess he wants to be a gentleman.

Thankfully, I am very much under no obligation to be one.

Shooting him an evil grin, I spin the wheel like I’m steering a rouge pirate ship, cackling when the momentum sends him flying to the side.

He looks up surprised but grins back, spinning the opposite way even faster until we are both slipping and sliding, laughing uncontrollably.

I end up sliding over to him and he wraps an arm around my shoulder, slowing down the spinning a bit. I feel his thumb gently smoothing against my arm as I lean into him. “This was my plan all along.” He says softly into my hair.

I smile up at him, content as the world around us continues to spin.

The ride is over way too fast for my liking but it’s probably for the best. Forty-five seconds in and I’m already seeing double of Chris.

He hops off the ride first, extending a hand and helping me out. My first steps are a bit wobbly and he laughs, slinging an arm around my shoulder and pulling me into his side.

“Easy, baby. How about we switch it up and go play some games?”

*****************

I press the back of my hand to my mouth, trying to cover my laughter, as Chris misses his final ball toss. And by final I mean, the fourth round that he’s paid for and missed every single time.

“Y’all got them motherfuckers glued down.” He accuses, jokingly pushing his buddy who’s working the stand.

The boy, who I remember vaguely from our night at Hank’s, smiles back tauntingly and walks over to the glass bottles, picking one up for demonstration. “Ain’t nobody cheating you. You just suck, Sturniolo.”

My laughter bursts out at this but I quickly play it off as a cough when Chris’ attention snaps back to me. “Why don’t we try another game?”

“No chance. You said you want that penguin, you’re getting that there penguin.” He says squaring his shoulders and pointing at the hanging toy.

Oh god. He might as well bang on his chest and swing from a vine.

“Can we just buy the penguin?” I ask the worker, giving him a sweet smile. He leans in, a bit charmed before he notices Chris’ eyes on him and takes a step back, shaking his head.

I sigh and pull out my wallet, grabbing a few dollars to pay the fee. But before I can hand it over, Chris grabs my arm, his eyes wide. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like? I’m winning you that penguin.” I say as I place the money into the boy’s hand and pick up one of the balls.

“Okay fine. But at least waste my money instead of yours.” He mumbles as I wind back and completely overshoot on my first try.

The worker steps forward, giving me quiet advice on how to set my feet and I nod thankfully before I toss my second ball. It bounces off the ledge and moves the glass a bit but it doesn’t fall.

Motivated now, I try again, tuning out Chris’ rambling advice and aiming similarly to how he taught me to fish. The ball crashes through the bottles and the pyramid crumbles to my and Chris’ shared shock.

We look at each other stunned for a second before exploding with celebration as if I had just won the Superbowl. I’m serious. Pretty sure there was a chest bump involved.

The worker rolls his eyes but there’s a small smile on his lips as he takes down our prize and hands it over. “Here. Now gon’ get away from my stand. I’m gonna throw up.”

Chris grins at the penguin, handing it to me as we walk away. “Good shit, Scotch. I never doubted you for a second.”

I scoff, tucking my stuffed animal under my arm and looking up at him. “You did. But that’s okay. We just proved which one of us got game.” I lace my voice with a perfect impression of his cocky confidence and he kisses his teeth.

“Yeah, yeah. You won this one. Bet you don’t wanna see me in basketball though?” He says, already taking off towards the booth like a little kid.

I huff in faux anger as I race to beat him there. “Chris. You are such a cheat!”

But as I hear his playful laughter ring through the courtyard, it’s impossible not to join in.

******************

“Looks like they’re about to close up. You bout ready to call it?” Chris asks, bringing my hand up to his mouth and pressing a quick kiss to it.

I nod, trying not to let the disappointment at the night ending show on my face. “Okay.”

We start walking towards the parking lot slowly, trying to stretch the minutes we have together. As if I don’t see him every day. Somehow it’s still not enough.

“So…” He starts, stretching the word out dramatically. “How was our first real date for you? Give it to me straight. I can take it.”

I laugh and roll my eyes. “God. I hate to inflate your ego anymore. But it’s definitely been the best date I’ve ever had.” I shake my head a bit embarrassed as I add a quiet, “Not that I’ve been on many.”

He scrunches his face up as if that’s impossible for him to believe and I just shrug as if to say ‘what can I say?”

“Alright. What’s up with those West Coast boys? They blind or somethin’?” Chris asks lightly, his eyes glancing down to where our hands swing interlocked between us.

I laugh darkly in response, the memory of Jace souring my mood a bit. “More like I couldn’t see past my ex… or whatever he is.” I shake my head and sigh at how dumb I feel not knowing what to call him. “It was complicated. I’ve loved him- I mean, I loved him for a long time.”

Glancing up to meet Chris’ eye, I can tell he’s fighting between wanting to ask more questions and not wanting to press me. But after all the vulnerability he’s shown me lately, the least I can do is open up in return. I give him an encouraging smile and he finally continues. “When did y’all break up?”

The question rattles me immediately and I stop short. Technically…I mean… Did we? Not that Jace and I were ever anything near official and especially not that I have any delusions of him waiting up for me. But it’s true that we never had a conversation about calling it quits. Instead, I blocked him and hopped on a plane.

Worry skates across Chris' features at my silence as we watch each other for a second. “Scotch… You did break up with him, right?”

“Yes. I did…I think. Just not in so many words.”

Chris drops my hand, tilting his head and giving me a look of complete and utter disbelief. “You think or you know? Throw me a bone here and tell me I haven’t been losing my mind over somebody else’s girl.”

“You haven’t!” I say, my voice coming out sharper than I meant it to. “I don’t know what you want me to say. Dating is different in the city.”

His brow crinkles and his voice grows smaller. “You get down like that?”

And I don’t know if it’s his words or the way he’s looking at me like he just found out I don’t light up the sky, but something sets me off.

“You have no right.” I grind out, stepping closer and digging a finger into his chest to emphasize my point. “Don’t insinuate a thing about me like you’re some Sunday school saint. You don’t think I’ve heard about you and your ‘whores of the week’? You get down like that?”

The laugh he gives me is clipped and he takes a step back, looking over my shoulder as if he can’t stand to meet my eye. “If you believe that bullshit talk, that’s on you. I’m going off the words from your mouth. You don’t even bother to put the poor guy down before you're stringing another idiot along.”

My eyes narrow to slits. “Take. Me. Home.”

“You. Got. It.” He answers, mocking my cadence and stomping off toward his truck. I trail behind him in silence, trying to hold back my emotions as adorable couples pass us by hand-in-hand. A few feet away from the car, he turns back around and glares at me, hurt and anger warring in his eyes.

“Just tell me one thing, Y/N. How long were you gonna wait before you ran back to that loser, huh? How long after I dropped you off at the airport? Were you gonna give me a month at least? A week?”

“It’s not like that, Chris,” I say, pleading creeping into my response without my permission. “I hadn’t thought it all through but I was trying to be done with him.”

His lips pull up in the mockery of his usual smile; this one is cold and unlike him. “Oh! Well, as long as you’re trying. Why didn’t you just say so?”

Rolling my eyes at his sarcasm, I step around him and pull against my door handle, finding it locked. “Hurry up before I walk home,” I say, running my fingers through my hair, wincing when I hear his mocking laugh.

He doesn’t say a word, just walks over and unlocks the truck on my side, swinging it open before heading back around. I rest my fingertips on the frame of the door, watching as Chris climbs in and starts the truck, but I hesitate to get in. “I’m not a whore.” I say, my voice remaining strong despite how much I want to break.

Chris looks over at me, the furrow between his brows deepening. “I never once called you one.”

“Then why is it so easy for you to believe I’m trying to play you?”

“Because you’re you, Scotch.” He says simply, his grip on the steering wheel tight.

“What is that supposed to mean?” I cry, frustration at how quickly this all went south rising to the surface.

He’s silent for a beat and the sounds of the fair become audible again. The sound of children laughing and faint carnival music at odds with the tension sitting between us.

“You know what it means.”

My breath hitches for a second but I nod, somewhat happy my doubts are confirmed. The ones that screamed at me Chris would never see past that stereotype that he pegged for the first day we met. The ones that whispered I will always be missing something vital but no one will care enough to tell me what it is.

I slam his car door shut and turn on my heel, walking vaguely toward the direction we came from. Chris is calling my name behind me but I keep my eyes forward even as they grow blurry. When I almost trip over the rocky asphalt, I stop and rip off my heels, carrying them in my hands as I keep forward.

From my peripheral, I see the truck pull up beside me, slowing to crawl and rolling the window down. “Okay, you’ve made your scene. Get in the car.” Chris says, sounding every bit as exhausted as I feel.

Ignoring him, I train my eyes forward, panic raising when I realize the sidewalk ends a few feet ahead. While I’m debating what to do, Chris calls my name again sharper this time.

Cars begin honking behind him as we both come to a stop. Just as I’m about to say fuck it and keep it pushing into the street, Chris’ patience snaps. “Get in the car, Scotch!” He hollers, reaching over and flinging the door open. “I’m not gonna watch you get hit by a fucking high roller.”

My lip trembles as I finally cut my eyes over to his. We stare at each other for a moment before the melody of horns starts back up and snaps us out of it.

“Please.” He whispers so quietly I have to read his lips to hear him.

So I do. Hopping wordlessly into the car, I let him take me home while I stare out the window, my mind racing. And not for the first time, the center console between us feels like it might as well be as tall as the Great Wall.

🏷️// @sttzee @tillies33ssss @miloisdone1 @sstvrnioloo @junnniiieee07 @sturnioloslurps @mrsmiagreer @asturniolos @teapartyprincess4two @whicked-hazlatwhore @sukiipjs @fratbrochrisgf @sturniolosmind @imfromthediningtable @st4rswrld @thvvluvr @sturnssmuts @littlenerdybee @sturniolossss @iloveneilperry @eclipzw @chrissloverrrrrrr16 @sstvrnioloo @clemlament @fwskullz @luv4kozume @xoxo4chrisss @ribread03 @h3arts4harry @chrissystur @pepsiboyy

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radioisntdead · 15 days

Note

AHAHHAHAHSHSHHD I HAVE A REQUESTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT IF YOU DON'T MIND BUT CAN YOU DO A HUSBAND ALASTOR X CRYBABY READER

Good evening my dear! Indeed I can!

I'm on a songfic fix at the moment so hopefully you don't mind me turning this into one, if you do just let me know and I can write a proper oneshot, drabble or headcanons

Crybaby

Warnings:

Murder, Alastor being weird, mild angst, OOC, the ending is a bit muddled because lack of motivation hit me like a TRUCK.

The song I chose for obvious reasons

You seem to replace your brain with your heart, You take things so hard and then you fall apart

You always had what one would call a bleeding heart, tears would overflow at the slightest instance, you fell onto the ground? Tears, you saw a rabbit munching on a carrot? Tears fell because it was just SO cute, you sobbed as you stabbed a guy to death, blubbering out apologies saying you wouldn't have to do it if he had JUST kept his mouth shut and didn't say those awful, awful things.

You try to explain, but before you can start

You met Alastor when the two of you were alive, he was an aspiring radio host at the time and well, your father ran a rather popular radio station.

Those "Cry baby" tears come out of the dark

You were considered the favorite child, (or the only child depending on the route you go) and Alastor knew that, he wasn't above using people to climb up the social ladder.

Someone's turning the handle to that faucet in your eyes

Everything was planned out, like how the two of you met, he found out what places you frequented, choosing a cafe to be the place to run into you.

You had accidentally poured warm coffee on his clothes, you cried out apologies as you patted him dry with napkins, offering to pay for drycleaning.

You pour it out where everyone can see

And that was it, it started with him charming you, asking you out for coffee, lunch, dinners and eventually he had you hooked.

Your heart's too big for your body, it's why it won't fit inside

Him eventually catching feelings for you was just the icing on the cake, a bonus, you and him felt similarly to certain affections.

His mother quite liked you as well asking him to bring you by again when you met her the first time.

You pour it out where everyone can see

As the relationship grew, he became a prominent radio personality, eventually proposing to you leading to marriage.

They call you cry baby, cry baby

Alastor was supposed to be working late that night, you weren't expecting him to come home as you washed the blood off of your hands, blood stained the bathroom sink, dried tears leaving faint streaks on your face.

But you don't fucking care

"Mon étoile?"

You slowly turned around as if you were in a horror movie, the one person you didn't want to see you like this.

Cry baby, cry baby

You burst into tears falling onto the ground, not even trying to explain yourself, Alastor grinned and moved next to you, gently wiping away your tears taking silent joy from them.

So you laugh through your tears

You laughed as Alastor gave a light smooch onto your face.

Cry baby, cry baby

And that begun a new era of your relationship,

You'd act as bait luring in the folks you and Alastor felt like taking away their living privileges.

'Cause you don't fucking care

You lived like that for years, taking many lives, shedding many tears, a killer couple.

Tears fall to the ground

Unfortunately all good things come to an end.

You'll just let them drown

Alastor went to dispose of a body while you cleaned up the aftermath.

You'll just let them drown

The police showing up and breaking the news to you that your dearest Alastor was shot in the head and attacked by dogs shattered you.

Cry baby, cry baby

You spent your days crying, barely being able to organize a funeral that no one other then you attended, after all who would attend the funeral of a murderer.

You're all on your own and you lost all your friends

You were alone now, sure your family urged you to move back home, you were still a sweetheart with a bleeding heart to them, you just fell for Alastor's schemes, that no one saw coming.

You spent your days crying, clinging on to any remnants of Alastor, your social life took a huge hit.

You told yourself that it's not you, it's them

They whispered behind your back, theorizing if you were apart of the murders or not, if you knew, if you were truly innocent.

You're one of a kind and no one understands

You were found dead in your home, alone.

But those "Cry baby" tears keep coming back again

You woke up in hell, you knew you probably weren't going to heaven but still!

Someone's turning the handle to that faucet in your eyes

Tears swelled up in your eyes but you wiped them away before they could fall deciding to look around and assess your situation.

You pour it out where everyone can see

Wandering around you passed by a shop with a radio present in it, reminding you of your dear Alastor.

Your heart's too big for your body, it's why it won't fit inside

The tears started pouring, and before you could do anything else, someone touches your shoulder.

You pour it out where everyone can see

You've been down below for who knew how long now, bring found by Mimzy of all people, a good friend of yours, and Alastor's.

They call you cry baby, cry baby

Mimzy showed up at Alastor's home banging on the front door, you stood a few feet away from her, He opened it displeased at the sudden visit but he smiled wide nonetheless.

"Mimzy dear, pray tell why you are banging on my door at this unholy hour?" He asked, simply hearing his voice the waterworks began as Mimzy pulled you out from where you stood.

But you don't fucking care

Alastor's eyes ever so slightly widened, it hadn't been that long since he died, he suspected you would follow suit eventually but not this quickly.

Cry baby, cry baby

"I believe this one is yours, they've been crying on and off, it's driving me crazy" Mimzy said shoving you into Alastor as you grinned up at him through blurry eyes

So you laugh through your tears

"I missed you." You said as Alastor touched your face, brushing a claw over it, you, much like him and every other sinner looked different from when you were alive, you had permanent gold tear streaks stitched into your face, how ironic.

Cry baby, cry baby

Alastor simply grinned, wiping away a tear.

"You haven't changed a bit, Mon étoile."

'Cause you don't fucking care

"You can pay me back for reunitin' ya lovebirds later!"

Mimzy laughed before running off to do who knows what, making a swift exit for plot convenience.

Tears fall to the ground

And that was that, you were finally reunited.

You'll just let them drown

While Alastor was given the name of The Radio demon you were referred to as the Crying demon,

How original.

Cry baby, cry baby

While Alastor stuck fear with a smile, hearing you wail in the distance stuck fear into others, you'd apologize as you ripped sinners apart just like you did in life.

You'll just let them drown

You watched as Alastor developed a cannibalistic taste for sinners, he opted to bring you sinner hearts as a token of affection,

You teared up from how sweet the extremely messed up act was.

Cry baby, cry baby

You also watched as Alastor's personal hygiene got worse, to the point where you'd chase him down with a sponge and a bucket of water, or before bed with a toothbrush and some toothpaste.

Much to his chagrin he was never able to escape you chasing him.

You'll just let them drown

Alastor's more sadistic tendencies were revealed in full force, with him biting and pinching your cheeks just hard enough to make you cry.

It wasn't a deal breaker but it did weird you out at first.

I look at you and I see myself

Alastor brought you to the Hazbin hotel after Husk and Niffty were pulled from wherever,

You quickly gained an affection for the hotel and it's residents, Alastor may have been using the hotel for his own entertainment but you genuinely believed in Charlie's dream of redeeming sinners.

And I know you better than anyone else

Becoming another parental figure for the princess you showered her with advice and familial affection, saying if you had a child you'd want them to be just like her.

And I have the same faucet in my eyes

Vaggie wasn't spared from the parental affection either, Alastor might not have been fond of her but you were.

So your tears are mine

You eventually became like the hotels therapist, a very prone to crying therapist but a therapist none the less.

You and Charlie tended to cry together especially if the two of you decided to put a emotionally charged movie on for movie nights

They call me cry baby, cry baby

You cried when extermination day happened, taking out exorcists left and right, your tears were filled with anger as you witnessed what happened to Sir Pentious.

But I don't fucking care

You cried tears of joy when the hotel was rebuilt and when Alastor came back from wherever he was.

Cry baby, cry baby

"You are an complete and utter MORON,"

"Mon étoile, W̴̝̖͙̩̹̓͆̏͌̒̔̑͐̕h̶͔̲̄ă̵̟̥͙̥͖͚̋̍̓̓̇̕ţ̶̧͇̞̟͈͔͉̦͋̄͂̌́̉͗ ̸̛̟̖̰͛͐̂̌̃d̷͎͍̦̩̯̂̐̈́̒̇͜ͅï̷̙͎͙̱̲̾̓̓̂d̵̛̛̲̤̺̟͒̈́̽́̑̈́̈͜͠ ̴̬̥̱͓̊̒͛ȳ̶̢̢̛̛̘͓̱̱̭̩̣͈̈́̀͋͘͝ő̴͓̜̥̪͇͙͉̞̜ủ̴̢̖͙̞͈̳̈́̑̋̂̉̈ ̵̩̈́̋̂̾̓̎̌̕̚j̶̛̗̲͚͖̼̻̥͕̚ù̸̫̯̎s̷̛̹̠̠̰͇̬̟̤͖̃̋͋ť̵͇̹͕̞͌ ̵̢̹͖̯͆̀̽́̎̐̐̽̆̃c̴͍̼̤̓̉̃̒̕͠a̶͖̙̭͂͋̓l̸̢̧̨͙̯̹̯̱̳̏̈́̀l̷̡͖͉̟̼̳̹͙̏́̄̃͋ͅ ̶̧͓͍͑m̶̨̡̠̖͇̫͓̅̈́-̷̞̱̪͓̞̅̈́͊̇̎̐͝"

"Don't pull that radio demon bullshit with me right now Alastor! How hard was it to arm yourself? You aren't invincible to ANGELIC WEAPONS!"

You shouted at Alastor as you paced around your newly restored shared room, first aid kit open, bandages wrapped around, angry tears in your eyes.

If you were anyone else, you would be dead for rubbing salt into the still aching wound.

Alastor sighed and swung one leg over the other, crossing his arms intending to wait until your 'temper tantrum' was over.

I laugh through my tears

Normally he rather liked your tears, in a Alastor way, but they were annoying to him in this instance.

Cry baby, cry baby

You grabbed his face, locking your eyes with his,

"You could've died, You would've left me again."

"Dearest,"

"Al,"

"I won't leave you again."

"Promise?"

You asked dropping your hands from his face only for him to hold them in his hands.

"Promise."

'Cause I don't fucking care, Tears fall to the ground

With the hotel rebuilt, bigger, more grand then before, sinners began to trickle in.

Wanting to give redemption a shot,

Some wanted to see someone they knew that more then likely ended up going above, some had nothing left to lose, some just wanted to change, hating what they've become since they fell below.

I just let them drown, Cry baby, cry baby

You quite liked how things were developing, seeing Charlie's face light up when hotel residents improved, getting clean from addiction, proving to be better.

I just let them drown, Cry baby, cry baby

Alastor originally got involved in this place for his own entertainment or otherwise, bringing you with him, he didn't think that his darling crybaby of a wife would get attached.

But maybe he was getting attached too, not that he would ever admit it even to you.

You'll just let them drown, They call you cry baby, cry baby

You and Alastor sat comfortably on the couch in his radio tower, with you laying on his shoulder, his arm gingerly wrapped around you.

I just let them drown

"Al, look how cute they are!"

You said as you held your phone to Alastor, you had to remove a few qualities in order to keep the phone, you didn't mind since you mostly used it to communicate with the hotel residents or look at animal videos on the Internet anyways.

He simply hummed as he grimaced at the phone, you were trying to show him a group of hellborn kittens,

"We should get a cat,"

"We already have a cat."

"Husk doesn't count."

You said frowning as Alastor moved his hand to your cheek, pinching it until tears swelled up in your eyes.

Cry baby, cry baby

You were sobbing at the red creature you held in your arms,

"It's adorable!" You sobbed out holding the catlike creature that you found on the side of the road much to Alastor's displeasure you wanted a cat, and you got a cat thingy

"It looks like Alastor."

"Exactly!"

Alastor squinted at the cat thing you were crying with pride over, he would throw the damned thing out the window but unfortunately you were already attached, and he preferred you to cry over literally anything else other then the failed clone of his.

You'll just let them drown

Good evening folks! Thanks for tuning in! I scheduled this for Saturday so that should mean this is the last of the songfics! [For now anyways] [post-post edit, I LIED THERE WILL BE MORE SONG FICS THIS IS ONLY THE BEGINNING]

I wanted to go more into how Alastor would probably enjoy the readers crying but it got a little too weird.

Have a wonderful weekend folks!

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #alastor x reader #alastor x you #alastor imagine

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trashmouth-richie · 8 months

Text

ᴴᴱᴬᵀᴱᴰ

MODERN! EDDIE x FEM! READER

MODERN! KING! STEVE x FEM READER

CHAPTER 2: DOUBLE DOSED

summary: taking the back roads to Indianapolis was Eddie’s idea. the day trip there was Steve’s. But when Wayne’s borrowed truck grinds to a halt on the hottest day in September, the tension and the boys’ tempers aren’t the only thing to rise.

warnings: 18+ smut, alcohol use, drug use, drug mention, kinda sadboy! Eddie, king Steve being king Steve, modern times so things such as google and Snapchat are mentioned. no use of y/n, reader has a nickname, pet name usage.

The blazing swell of the late September sun had been pelting down on you all day. Stuffed right between your best friend Eddie and his best friend Steve, the humid Midwest air trickled through the open windows in a hazy wave of oven door heat.

Between Steve’s hair-brained idea of driving to Indianapolis for tickets to the annual Irvington Halloween Festival and Eddie’s even more ridiculous idea of taking Wayne’s single cab truck, without A/C to make the 4 hour round trip drive— it was no surprise when the clunking metal of the brown ‘86 Chevy spluttered to a grinding stop alongside the highway.

100 miles from Hawkins, and nothing but pent up anger boiling at the surface to keep you all company.

“Oh this is just great Munson,” Steve groaned, swinging open his door and slamming it shut with a metallic bang. A ring of sweat set deep in the Hawkins athletic shirt he was wearing, a heavy hand pushing his hair from his face, “dude, let’s take the truck!” he mocks the long haired metal head, “fuckin’ told you this would happen!”

The boys weren’t exactly getting along for the entirety of this trip. Eddie and you had made plans to decorate your apartment tonight for Halloween, a month too early just like you did every year, a night full of themed snacks and cheesy 80s horror movies, the perfect opportunity to finally make his move.

But when Steve showed up at the light blue trailer looking for his wingman to help him score at Hargrove’s party— he was less than impressed to find you peeking around Eddie’s outstretched arm holding open the door, a shit-eating grin on your face. Even more pissed when Eddie told him that you would be tagging along. A roll of his eyes and a scoff on his lips as he pounded down the concrete steps.

Steve wasn’t your favorite and you definitely weren’t his. He didn’t get the appeal.. Always too loud, too annoying, acting like one of the boys when clearly you were just too insecure to have any friends that were girls.

As he stomped through the dead grass he told himself it had nothing to do with the fact that you turned him down freshman year, never mind that it was six years ago and Steve had plenty of girls added to his belt, his snap score and drawer full of stolen panties proved it. Never mind that his bruised ego from that night at a bonfire in the woods pushed him into his King Steve era. He flicked a cigarette into the dirt, muttering under his breath.

“Fuck off, Harrington.” Eddie gripes as he shoves the gear shift into neutral, he lowers down to his left and pulls the hood jack towards him. “It’ll be an easy fix.” He says to you, his breath fanning your sweaty cheek as he shoves open the door and jumps out, boots crunching along the gravel as he pushes the hood open.

To be fair, Wayne’s truck had about a 50/50 chance of making the trek to Indianapolis, but Eddie had wanted to take it for a few reasons, and not one of them was for a trip down memory lane like he had told Steve.

The first reason he wanted to drive the truck opposed to Steve’s BMW, was lol was because it was a stick shift. An opportunity to let him float the gears and have his veins pop out that he knew was a panty wetter for most girls, he had only hoped you fit into that category.

The second reason was simple: there was no air conditioning, meaning the small tank top you were wearing would undoubtedly become very hot, and maybe… just maybe you would think of taking it off to cool down.

And finally the third reason mimicked the first… you would be sitting bitch in the middle, and with each shift between gears, his arm would be sliding around the soft plains of your luscious thighs. The same thighs that were bare besides a high waisted pair of cut off shorts that had his mind flipping the perv meter to dangerous levels when you hopped off your bike this morning.

Greeting him with the same smile that cooked his brain to mush for years.

Only today— you were starting to flirt back with him, pushing your ass out and bending at the waist just to untie your shoes. Even though in the history of forever, you had never once taken off your worn converse in the Munson trailer. You also were wearing a tank top, accentuating your curves, and Eddie was ready to chew a hole in the makeshift drywall of his trailer when you bounced up the steps to greet him.

Usually you hid your body with a baggy shirt and a pair of jeans, your fuck-off attitude is what earned you the right to have Eddie as a friend in the first place.

Tonight he was going to push the limits, share a joint with you when the yellow harvest sun dipped low into the indigo trees, kiss your ear with chapped lips while he held you when the movie had a jump scare… he had a plan. And Steve ‘cockblock’ Harrington was being the worst wingman of all time.

Sliding out of Eddie’s door, the Navajo rug blanket snags against the cracked leather of the worn seat. The back of your knees were sticky and shiny with sweat, same as your cleavage, not a single stitch of wind to be found along the gravel road— unless you counted Steve’s annoyed huffs.

—

Steve bitched and moaned the entire time Eddie was bent over the truck. Investigating what had gone wrong, “aren’t you supposed to be some sorta mechanic?” He grumbled, pushing his hair from his forehead, slotting his hands back into place around the Levi’s on his athletic hips, “swear to God if you make me miss this party, and what Lily has been teasing me with on snap,” his eyes roll into the back of his head at the thought of it, almost letting out a desperate whine.. “I’ll shoot you dead Munson.”

“Take it easy Stevie,” Eddie grunted, his jaw tensed and an irritated tone on his lips. His brows turned inward in concentration as he twisted a wrench with strong grease covered hands from behind the hood, “just need’t.. fuck.” Dark smoke started billowing out around him.

His foul mouth spewed a string of words that barely made any sense, ending his fit with a slam of the hood and his wrench thrown into the ditch.

You walk pointed nails across his sweat covered bare back easing his bruised ego with a sickly sweet voice, “it’s okay,” you preen, pushing your chest into his side when he wiggles from your tickling fingers, his dark eyes swirling into calm and the huff from his breath lost in his throat, “I’ll just call AAA.”

AAA did not service in your area, and according to google— the nearest gas station was twenty miles away, a podunk hole in the wall that sold newspapers for a quarter and had 1 star reviews.

“Fuck,” Eddie shouted, kicking the tires and hiding the burn of ache traveling up his leg, “the hell are we gonna do now?”

“Guess we’re fucking stranded! Great idea Munson, gonna die by the inbred hands of the family from The Hills Have Eyes, but god we just had to take this piece of shit!.” Steve spit as he flopped back into the bed of the truck.

Eddie pointed a greased finger into Steve’s chest, “you,” he said prodding with emphasize, “were the one who didn’t want to buy them online, oh God Eddie let’s just get out of Hawkins for the day, make Lily sweat a little bit, make her think I have a bitch in Indy..”

“Fuck off,” Steve said shoving Eddie’s hand away, sitting up, casting a stank eye in your direction, voice laced in venom, “at least my dick is getting w—”

A pack of cards hits Steve right in the chest, hard and knocking the insult from his lungs.

It was your idea.

The slick pack of cards in the glove box with paisley red design on the front was sure to lend some relief and make time pass between now and when Robin would be on the way, driving Steve’s BMW with white knuckles and the radio off no doubt. You had texted her when the boys were arguing, explaining the situation and promising her a small white baggy from Eddie’s stash when you got back.

“great idea,” Steve accuses, “s’ gonna take at least 2 hours to get here,” his hands fly in the air in defeat as he yells, “she’s failed her drivers test four fuckin’ times because she drives like my grandma, and that old bag has been dead for years!”

“Cool it, you didn’t have any other ideas besides whining Steve,” Eddie defends, fingers wrapped around the neck of a foggy glass bottle filled with amber liquor, he hands it to you in a slick move of his wrist bending and presenting both a blunt and the bottle like a flower blooming in his open palm, “might as well relax a little s Sswhile we wait, make it worth our while.”

The liquor went down with a burn, hotter than the pinked shoulders of Eddie’s sunburnt skin. And the small band of splotchy salmon across Steve’s nose.

Eddie wrestled a dusty moth bitten blanket from behind the seat, and spread it on the bed of the truck. Before you could push your ass up onto the tailgate, he had wrapped his hands tight along your hips and hoisted you up. A grip so tight he didn’t want to let go, your body feeling just right in his palms, and you were feeling it too.

As the liquor bottle got lighter and lighter, the tension eased, Steve was actually laughing at Eddie’s jokes and wasn’t rolling his eyes as much when he had to give you a card or when Eddie praised you for winning again.

When Steve threw his cards on the blanket and twisted his arms in a pout at losing another round of Go Fish, it was his idea to play another game.

“It’s real easy,” he explained around a puff of smoke as he shuffled the cards back into the pack with his large tanned hands, a single bead of sweat sloping down from his temple and curling around his chin. “You hold up five fingers, and if you’ve never done what one of us says, you keep a finger up, but if you have… you put a finger down and take a sh—- hey dickhead!”

Eddie’s lips turn sinister around the glass bottle as rogue drops of Crown dribble from his chin. “Ooops,” he says coyly, eyes bigger than Betty Boop’s and already feeling the combined high and drunken stupor take over his body, “were you needing this?”

Dragging a hand down his face, Steve sighs, “yeah it’s kinda the whole point of the game, fucker,”

“Hey…” Eddie whines, “be nice Stephanie.”

With another ten minutes of arguing about Eddie being a jackass and Steve being crabby in hot weather, you all agree to play the game, the loser has to finish the bottle and strip off an item of clothing.

“Okay so let’s start this easy,” Steve explained, “never have I ever been arrested.”

Eddie puts a finger down and scowls, “good one Harrington,” he adjusts his legs and leans back against the frame of the truck, “just because you got away doesn’t mean your ass wasn’t just as guilty as mine.”

“Shoulda ran faster,”

The boys make annoyed faces at each other and it’s Eddie’s turn, “never have I ever… nope I’ve done that… never have I.. shit.. okay pass! I gotta think.”

“Your turn,” he says, passing you the bottle of almost empty liquor.

“Okay, Uhh..” you hold the bottle with both hands and gently peel back the label with your fingernail, rubbing the sticky residue between your fingers, you rack your brain for something that would get them both, “never have I ever… peed standing up.”

The boys roll their eyes, and each put a finger down, “cheap shot,” Steve whines, and glowers when you stick your tongue out at him.

“Oh I got one!” Eddie says rubbing his hands together, splaying a wicked grin on his face, “never have I ever, socked Billy Hargrove in the face.”

You push Eddie’s shoulder and slap his chest playfully, as he laughs like a hyena, “he deserved it!”

Steve chokes on his inhale of the passed blunt, “that was you?!”

“Fuck yeah it was!” Eddie says proudly, “that’s why she’s banned from the pool.”

Laughing at the now funny memory of Billy slapping your ass as you walked by him in your swimsuit.

The way Eddie’s fist felt in your hands as you shoved it down, the rage in his eyes as he was ready to beat the bricks off of Billy.

The sick twist of his mustache when it formed a grin knowing that Eddie was on his last strike with Hopper and couldn’t defend you.

And the satisfying crack of his molars splintering in his gum line when you knocked your fist into his jaw.

The pain and swollen fingers were worth it.

“And I’d do it again,” you say lowering a finger and taking a swig from the bottle, the burn of the liquor barely there now.

Steve laughs, a new sense of almost admiration, as he looks at you with his hair in his face, grabbing the joint from Eddie’s fingers and holding it firm between his teeth, “my turn,” he says clearing his throat, “uh..never have I ever… kissed Eddie.”

You and Eddie look at eachother and giggle awkwardly around the cloud of dense smoke, but your fingers never budge.

“Seriously?” Steve says incredulously, looking from you to Eddie and back to Eddie and then you again, “can’t lie in this game, dude.”

Eddie had come close to kissing you on a few occasions. Once in high school at Steve’s party after winning the beer pong tournament, he looked at you the way someone would a lover, wetting his lips and looking at your mouth, but in the end he gave you a bone crushing hug and twirled you around the room.

Another time during the 4th of July fireworks last year when you had both smoked two bowls from the pretty pipe he gifted you earlier that year on your birthday.

The air was warm, just like today, and you leaned your back into his front as you laid lazily on the roof of his van. He was singing a song you were too high to comprehend and when you turned your head into his shoulder and looked up at him.

His fingers wrapped around a lock of your hair and you hummed in approval. Snuggling further into him. And the next thing you knew it was nearly dawn and you had fallen asleep.

It just never seemed like the right time.

“So who’s turn is it?” Eddie said clearing his throat.

“Oh n-n-n-n-n-n-no!” Steve said leaning further into the circle, clearly interested to know what’s going on, “we aren’t just gonna skate past this.”

“Drop it, Steve,” Eddie said all too fast, his boots stretching out to kick at his thigh.

The bottle in your hands is suddenly heavy and you set it down with a clunk on the bed of the truck. And you pick hastily at your nails, avoiding two sets of brown eyes.

“Fuck it,” Steve says, tongue dancing around his mouth trying to stop a smirk, “I dare you to kiss her.”

You're certain your heart stops beating.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie sighs. Running his hand on the back of his neck, his open cut off flannel shirt showing off his tattooed chest.

“Y-you don’t have to Eddie, it’s okay…” you say trying to brush the tension off, not noticing the way his hands are fiddling with the ends of his shirt and how his eyes haven’t left you, “but I dare you to.”

It could have been the combined high. It could have been the fact that you hadn’t taken your eyes off of Eddie since you parked your bike against his trailer this morning.

He was always good looking, in that goofy best friend kind of way. And although your friendship was never normal, Eddie’s hands always searing through your skin like grill marks on a hotdog, it never crossed the boundary into something more. And you’d be lying if you weren’t curious about how his lips would taste.

That was all the convincing Eddie needed before he pushed himself up in a fluid motion, balancing on his knees, and leaning back with a second guess, but it’s you who leans up on your knees too, meeting him halfway.

His dark curls swing around your face as he gets impossibly closer. “You sure?” he asks, working a finger under the tip of your chin.

And your surprised when your nod is followed by soft lips, slipping against yours.

He tasted like the liquor you’ve been drinking and matches. Musky, and woodsy. Your tongue swipes against his bottom lip and catches into the corner of his mouth, the brine of sweat on your tongue has you whining into his mouth and he swallows your noises with glee.

He shudders when you pull him closer, fingers hooked into the fabric of his shirt. His eager hands holding your face, lips smacking against yours, and for the first time today, it’s not the heat that has your panties wet.

Kissing Eddie is like finding money in your jeans after they go through the dryer. It’s easy, and slow, and so fucking good.

Seconds, minutes, days? go by before Steve clears his throat and mutters an ahem!

Eddie finished the kiss by nudging is nose down the apple of your cheeks and kissing behind your ear.

“Fuck…” is all Steve can muster and you bite your lip and sit back down, lips still buzzing with Eddie’s spit still on them.

Eddie is smiling and looking at you, eyes drunk on lust.

“I— uh, yeah, it’s my turn I guess, ” straightening your back and crossing your legs in a pretzel, you know damn well you’d get at least one finger down from Steve. “Never have I ever… kissed Nancy Wheeler.”

Steve rolls his eyes and puts a finger down, and when a long finger covered in grease despite the many wipes against denim jeans also disappears into a fist… a sloppy grin lines Eddie’s mouth as Steve looks like he might throw up.

“Are you fuckin’ serious man?”

Eddie explains to a butthurt Steve, “let me explain, fuck— it was like a hundred years ago, after junior year, she kissed me!”

It was true.

Nancy went to Eddie to buy some “forget-‘ems” (Eddie’s coined word for ecstasy) after Jonathan left her for the pretty long haired new boy from California. She was scared and didn’t want to be alone while she took the white pill. Drug use being foreign to her entirely.

Eddie? She had asked kindly, unsure about herself for the first time. Take it with me?

His long curls bounced as he nodded his head, taking one of the pills from her dainty hands and placing it between his teeth. Tipping his head back with a quick jerk and a rough swallow, hoping it looked cool, he looked into her blue eyes and gave her a grin.

It was strange, having the preppy Nancy Wheeler in his trailer with her proper fitting cardigan and light wash skinny jeans.

He could tell she was uncomfortable, the normal glow of her skin was lost behind shallow cheeks and dark rimmed eyes, pressed tight with setting powder to try and hide it.

maybe she should have had a smaller dose, being that her small frame had never dealt with drugs before. And right when Eddie’s high took over, Nancy Wheeler had started to feel it too.

She ran around the trailer giggling and feeling the rough edges of the peeling wallpaper. She did flips on Eddie’s bed and spilled cereal all over the kitchen, laughing with dark wide pupil filled eyes. Completely rolling.

The high lasted longer than Eddie had thought it would, and she started to cry when thinking about her mom, crying harder when she asked Eddie about his. Forgetting she was gone.

She took it a step further by kissing Eddie square on the mouth, wet cheeks and harsh lips pressed to his before he could pull away. And immediately after, Nancy threw up all over his lap.

Ending the high and the four hour sudden friendship they had gained.

Eddie had told you the story one night when he got too drunk, making you swear to secrecy the next morning that you’d never tell a soul, and you hadn’t. Keeping the pinky promise with your friend all the way to your grave— if he hadn’t just spilled it all to Steve.

“See,” you say to try to smooth things over, voice calm and cool through your own high, “no harm no foul, Stevieee,” you chirped, hiding a small giggle behind bit lips.

“Really?” Steve spit, flustered and a bit bold trying to mask his hurt with venom. Tongue pressing deep into his cheek and his dark eyes locked on your own, hands tapping onto his bent knees, “then maybe we should even the score, huh?”

Eddie blows a ring of smoke into the air, following its lazy descent into the dense humid sky. “You wanna kiss Chrissy?” He looks at you with a quizzical expression, laughing at your stunned face, not understanding what Steve is getting at, “be my fucking guest, dude.”

“No,” Steve says firmly, not breaking eye contact with you, dark knives of fury peel back each layer of skin, “her.”

Eddie says your name in disbelief, and you’re stunned to your core, realizing the air was suddenly much stickier and hotter than before.

He sits up straight and leans over the discarded card game, pointing at Steve, eyes narrowed in on him, “you don’t even like her.”

“Sure I do,” Steve lies, sniffing loudly, his wicked eyes glance towards Eddie and he licks his lips when he turns his head back to you, eyeing you up and down, as he leans back on his palms, “don’t I, Taffy?”

Eddie’s nickname he had given you when you were kids for love of the cavity inducing candy, felt wrong falling from Steve’s mouth, especially in the grim sentiment it was said in.

Of course he was referring to the way he had approached you at that party at the lake all those years ago.

You could still smell his Acqua Di Gio cologne, the way the sun highlighted his hair that summer, the freckles on the bridge of his nose, the warm beer on his breath.

You make a face in disgust towards him, “I’m not kissing you, Harrington.” Crossing your arms in finality as if your words held enough power to command an entire kingdom.

Eddie shoves Steve’s shoulder, “what the fuck man,” mixed pleasure of pain and concern painting his face, “don’t be weird.”

Steve knew how much Eddie liked you, having spent many nights on the roof of his practically abandoned home listening to Eddie through FaceTime over analyzing how to make his move.

“‘m not,” he says with a shrug, long fingers tapping against the metal of the truck bed behind him, legs stretched out so the tops of his air forces skim your bent knees, eyeing what he wanted, you.

“just trying to get even,” Steve said nonchalantly.

“She’s not gonna kiss you,” Eddie said, shaking his head and throwing his hands around, hurt lacing his voice, “give it up.”

Steve wiggled the toe of his sneaker against your knee, shooting you a wink, “not until she does.”

It’s not as if the question hadn’t crossed your mind. It had more times than you’d like to admit. What would it be like to kiss Steve Harrington?

“Dude! She doesn’t wanna do it. Fucking leave her alone.” Eddie’s voice was loud and on the cusp of breaking as he pleaded with his friend.

What would have happened if you fell for his charm instead of turning him down? He was definitely sweet back then, taking your hand in his and guiding you along the rough terrain of the woods.

“Let her speak for herself!”

Eddie’s eyes fall to yours in desperation, his heart aching for you to tell Steve off, “c’mon, tell him, Taffy.”

Pressing your eyes shut tight you can feel Eddie’s hand on your knee, rubbing soft circles in an attempt to remind you that he’s there.

“One.”

“What?”

“What!”

“Just one kiss, then you need to shut up, got it?”

“Taff, you don’t have to do this, we can— we can just get home and I’ll pay him or something.” He’s desperate, willing to do whatever it took to not have this happen.

“It’s okay, Eddie, what’s one stupid kiss gonna hurt?”

You don’t hear the way he groans and throws himself back against the side of the truck, pinching the corner of his eyes between his fingers trying to ignore Steve’s low chuckle and smirk planted on his face.

“C’mon then,” Steve presses, man spreading his legs and patting his lap, “get over here.”

You roll your eyes and push yourself up again, “cocky aren’t ya?”

“all confidence babe,” he says back, licking his lips, and you roll your eyes again before kneeling in front of him.

Eddie groans and kicks at Steve’s leg again.

“Sorry dude, just bro code,” he said to Eddie, “and you,” he says addressing you with a nod, “ready?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

He doesn’t move like Eddie, he’s grabby and rough, taking what he wants and not waiting for cues. He bullies his way into your mouth with his tongue, colliding yours with his and massaging it wildly. It wasn’t bad, just completely different than how you were just kissed by Eddie. When his teeth bite the flesh of your lip you yelp in surprise.

You turn your head and Steve’s lips trail down your neck, hungry hands grab at your waist and pull you into his lap. Your eyes are closed but his are open, looking at his friend and moving his hand in a wave to beckon him over.

A second set of hands is on your shoulders and you feel Eddie’s lips against your neck.

“This okay baby?”

His breath is hot and stuttering as you reach up and fist your fingers in his hair, your answer muffled by Steve’s mouth.

You moan their names, and it drives Eddie wild.

Eddie’s hands lower the strap of your tank top scraping your skin with the blunt of his nails. He groans when he sees the absence of a bra strap, diving into your warm skin with a lapping tongue, thrashing slow against your skin, working a strawberry shaped bruise into your skin.

Steve’s hands are already working to pop the button on your jeans, and you whine when you feel his hard cock beneath your leg.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” Eddie breathes as you crane your neck to meet his lips, desperate for your lips to connect with his sgain.

His hands fumble on your tank top straps and he groans when his fingers skim over the swell of your tits, you twist his hair in your fingers when his rough hands pinch at your nipples.

Steve takes his shirt off and tosses it carelessly, his skin is warm on your bare chest as he licks at your exposed neck and earns another moan from you, causing you to whine into Eddie’s mouth and move your hips against his cock.

You’re all a tangle of bare chests and sweat coated skin. The boys are barely giving you any time to breathe between open mouth kisses and lazy tongues before the other one commands your attention.

“oh, fuck,” Steve whimpers when he works your shorts down, his large fingers find their way into the wet folds of your pussy, “no panties?”

Eddie pulls his mouth from yours to let out a desperate groan as your hands unzip his jeans, “shit, all day and no bra or panties,” his hands caress your cheeks and his thumb slips into your mouth open, which you close around him and moan, “you’re a bad girl, huh?”

“With the tightest little pussy, fuck,” Steve groans as he pushes a finger into your slick walls.

“Mm’mm” you answer them both at once, grabbing needy at Eddie’s cock through his boxer briefs as it flips into your hand, heavy and leaking a pearl of cum from the slit.

Noises of all kinds flood the bed of the truck.

Wet sloshing from you gushing over Steve’s fingers, him coaxing an orgasm from you as quick as he could, determined to hear your pretty mouth hum.

Eddie almost in tears as your mouth devours his length and the head of his cock slides into your throat.

The velvet skin of Eddie’s heavy cock slides in and out of your mouth at a slow speed, a small patch of hair rubs on your nose as you take him deeper.

He’s muttering incoherently and Steve is egging you on. His lips wrapped around your nipples and teeth nipping harshly.

“Jesus Jesus sweetheart, Taff— I’m gonna, don’t want to shit shit shit,” you open your mouth and he slides out on accident as you cum all over Steve’s fingers. Sloppy and wet as he rubs at your clit like a DJ.

“Thas’it,” he encourages, “so fucking wet, pretty little pussy, yeah, you like this? The two of us giving you what you want huh?”

“Yes, Jesus Christ yes!” you’re a blabbing mess, as your high peaks and Eddie spins you away from Steve.

Steve’s jeans are soaked from you and he’s pitching a tent big enough to host a family reunion.

“My turn baby,” Eddie says kissing you sloppy on your lips, “been wantin’ to taste this sweet pussy for years.”

He helps you lay down on the blanket, making a makeshift pillow with the discarded clothes from the three of you.

You’re covered in sweat and more than likely sunburnt in places no one ever should be, but you could care less. Being worshiped by Steve and Eddie had you feeling like the sexiest woman alive, and nothing could compare to the separate high that alone was giving you.

Eddie nudges his nose in the crook where your thighs meet, tongue lapping up the pleasure leftover from Steve. “What’d’ya think Stevie boy? Wanna bet I can make her cry?”

Steve’s busying himself with unthreading his legs from his jeans, his cock in his hand as he strokes it up and down at the sight of you spread out and naked for them.

“You’re on, Munson.”

Eddie’s tongue was tantalizing. Demon-like against your puffy clit and going further into your pussy than any tongue has before, including Robin’s.

His nose pushes up against your clit as he goes deeper, swirling his wicked tongue and slurping your folds into his mouth.

You’re buzzing all over. Vibrating from the intense pleasure. Moaning and yanking Eddie’s hair between your fingers as he moves and licks and darts his tongue.

Pretty whimpers elicit your body and are swallowed by Steve’s lips, as he hungrily works his tongue into your mouth. The swirling and twirling is all too much. Their tongues work like hands on a clock and your second orgasm arrives quick fast and in a hurry. The tears spill from your eyes as your writhe and moan beneath them, clawing every inch of their skin.

Eddie cleans you up with his tongue holding your hips in place as you shake and try to wiggle away from him. Too sensitive as you lay practically lifeless on the bed of the truck.

“Told you,” Eddie says as he sits up, with a sheen of your arousal all over his face. Smiling wide. “I’m just that good.”

Steve sits up and tucks his cock back into his boxers, pushing his hair back from his sweat slicked face, “yeah yeah, whatever…” he says, looking out towards the blue sky and the wavering, heat wave horizon, a stupid grin on his lips, “better get dressed sweet girl.”

“Thought we were just getting started,” you whine as Eddie kisses his way up your body, laying on his back next to you, his finger threaded with yours.

Steve chuckles and points a long finger to the road, “it’ll have to be another time, princess, our ride is almost here.”

I have a part two partly written .. lemme know what you would think of that?

CHAPTER 2: DOUBLE DOSED

#eddie munson #eddie x fem!reader #eddie x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine #steve fanfic #steve x female reader #steve harrington smut

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gamermattsgf · 2 months

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Horror movie hot takes // Matt + Chris

Again, I’m sorry that this is not my proper writing, but don’t worry! My breeding kink oneshot is on its way, I gotchu guys ;) I’m hopefully going to be dropping it some time in the middle of the week, so this is just some light and fun reading to do until then whilst you wait - if you want of course… pls humour my stupid ideas lol.

Thank you to whoever suggested this because I’ve been dying to give u guys my breakdown. Horror is one of my FAV genres, idk why, I just love scaring myself. Also, I don’t have just one to share with u guys, but three different options each because it’s such an expansive genre with so many probable things to pick from. You guys can probably tell that I have way too much fun with these things… (Plus they’d look good in multiple different genres and I rlly wish I could add more but I don’t want these to get too long bc they’re meant to be hot takes).

Obviously, a couple of the pictures I’ve used for the visuals may be potentially triggering as they contain blood and other disturbing bits of paraphernalia, so please if you’re squeamish, proceed with caution!!

But anyways…

Matt:

First up Matt’s most likely to star in some type of rural corn maze horror. I’m thinking proper Southern gothic style, low quality, out in the sticks and with only a small population in the farming town where he resides.

I could so see the storyline following the main character who moves to this place, but very quickly gets that sinking feeling in her stomach that there’s something not right about the town, from the way the locals look at her to the way Matt speaks when she first arrives. There’s got to be that cliché plot line where something suspicious is afoot, something that she wants to unearth.

Matt’s character gives off creepy neighbour vibes, like the kind that watches the main character from behind his curtains as she unloads the moving truck. This Matt is properly country too, from the cowboy boots on his feet to his red flannel shirt and his shotgun that he randomly carries around because he’s a sheep farmer (do I envision him using his country accent, yes, yes I do).

Long story short, the rural town isn’t just a town, it’s actually a cult, and the reason the farmers rear cattle and mind sheep is so that they can conduct ritualistic sacrifices with them.

(I lowkey wish this was a movie I’d eat this kind of twisted shit up)

For his second movie I’m absolutely obsessed with the idea of putting him in a domestic psychological thriller- so proper stalking vibes. I’m thinking something like ‘You’ but almost making him a more extreme version of Joe Goldberg.

Possibly he’s maybe the main character’s co-worker, who takes the secret affection he has for her a little too far? Or even just an absolutely psychotic ex that refuses to let her go… In short this is the kind of movie that doesn’t quite give you that exhilarating rush of jump-scares, but instead tries to make you as physically uncomfortable as possible with an absolutely horrific instrumental soundtrack playing underneath it.

I’m not sure why I chose this branch of horror, but something about the way Matt looks just really did it for me, it’s so difficult to explain but his physical appearance fits the overall image of someone with an obsessive attitude towards a loved one.

Three words. Found footage horror. These kind of horror movies scare me the most because of that idea of it being ‘found footage’. Equally, ‘based on true story’ horrors also mildly unsettle me just because of that idea that it’s been reimagined from a real life event.

Matt’s found footage is giving ‘The Blair Witch Project’, I can defintely see him out in the wilderness with a bunch of his really close friends, all with camcorders in their hands as they document their time camping in the woods. Until everything goes terribly wrong. And they get lost. And are picked off one by one until Matt is the only one standing.

There is no soundtrack this time, just heavy breathing, crunching leaves underneath running footsteps, the sound of the wind in the trees and the occasional blood curdling shriek of whatever is hunting them down.

(I should seriously become a director lmaoo)

Chris:

Now onto Chris… most people often think Chris would thrive in a classic 90’s slasher flick- like ‘Scream’ or ‘Friday the 13th’ which I’m not going to argue against because he really would look great in one. It fits his overall vibe of being the jock boyfriend that is one of the first ones to die after him and his girlfriend stupidly break off from the group to ‘fool around’.

HOWEVER, I personally think that a game show gore horror is more his speed, it fits his skill set better. I feel like Chris would be really versatile in this kind of high-pressure environment and I’d honestly love to see him in a franchise like the ‘Saw’ movies (I want to hear him whimpering in pain) -WHAT…? Who said that??

This Chris is just an ordinary guy who works an ordinary but depressingly mundane job that does not come with the best pay… so what happens when he gets an ad mailed through his letter box promising money to whoever volunteers to try out this new and exciting game for a reality tv show? Well it’s simple, Chris would do anything for a dollar, so he signs up- not taking into account at all about how advertisements like this aren’t normally personally mailed to a person and that quite possibly this letter had actually been specifically targeted to people who were known to be in desperate need of some spare change.

The result? A wicked sadist trapping these poor people into machines and torturing them for his own personal gain.

(Fuck I love this idea)

This next one is a bit of a curve ball but roll with me here… a deep sea horror. Fun fact about me, I have horrible thalassophobia, and a severe fear of sharks (I know, stupid) but I can’t help it lol, they terrify me. However, still rolling with the overall cocky/jock/playboy characterisation of Chris, I could definitely picture him being some form of deep sea diving protege that’s a cave diving expert.

He’s a side character in the thriller that is called in when they need help with locating whatever monster lurks beneath the waves. Due to his speciality in the field, he’s one of the best, and co-leads a team of divers through a cave to see if they can sus out its location.

This Chris likes to wear a lot of blue things, and he’s constantly either smugly chewing on gum or is biting a toothpick within his teeth with an air of superiority about him. The soundtrack helps with the overall gritting suspense of the movie and keeps you on the edge of your seat constantly with jump-scares around every corner.

And finally, who the fuck would I be if I didn’t rope Chris into a zombie/pandemic apocalypse horror? Because this kind of movie has Chris written all over it, real TWD style. For some reason, within the whole horror genre in its entirety Chris fits the branch of gore horror the best, blood, guts and big spectacles of action packed violence. You name it, Chris looks like he could be apart of it.

In an apocalypse kind of situation, Chris would definitely be either a side character who you meet maybe about half way through the series - possibly from some other rival gang that threatens to steal your weapons - or one of the original main characters that have survived thus far. His weapon of choice is definitely either a trusty crowbar, or a classic metal baseball bat, something that he can really swing and satisfy his frenzied killing needs with.

Aesthetics wise, he wear a black bandana to keep the hair out of his face, a white tank top and army green cargo shorts. Pair them with some heavy duty black boots and you’ve got yourself a mighty attractive apocalypse survivor to spend the rest of your shortened life span with.

Author’s notes: someone needs to take my phone AND my imagination away from me immediately at this point, it’s too powerful when they’re put together. I get wayyyy too carried away with this shit lol. I have such a vivid imagination it’s insane to me, I be writing whole ass screen plays for these Jesus Christ. But anyways, I wanna see those two in a horror movie so fucking bad (if you couldn’t tell hehe). Or maybe just watch a horror movie with them… like- dw baby boy I’ll hold your hand at the scary bits hahahaha.

Again, a list of people who I think would entertain my silly little ideas: @luvmila444 @luv4kozume @luverboychris @mattestrella @mattslutt @nicksmainbitch @ellie-luvsfics @orangeypepsi @sturniolosreads @sturniolowhore @sturniolosstar @imwetforyourmom @thesturniolos @strniohoeee @rootbeerworshiper @lacysturniolo @matthemunch @1800chokedathoe @asturniolos @vecnasnose0 @meanttomeet @mattscokewhore @stursweet @breeloveschris @kvtie444 @lovingmattysposts @bernardsgf @fake-sturniolos

#matt sturniolo #sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo #nick sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #sturniolos

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miller-lookforthe-lite · 4 months

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steps: part one

joel miller x f!reader

rating: M

words: 6.6k

summary: Westward bound, and your steps are uncertain. Your hands shake, and it's hard to keep the food down. Joel thinks he might know why. (or, how accidents sometimes lead us to our fates.)

tags/warnings: unplanned/(unwanted?) pregnancy, thoughts and discussion of abortion, vomit, canon-typical violence, nightmares, hurt/comfort (u already know what it issss) - please heed the warnings, as these may be triggering to some! MDNI

read on ao3

a/n: here she is boys here she is world. My first TLOU and my first x reader, all in one. this one means something to me, hope it does to you too. part two coming soon

The road is twisting around a bend when you make Joel pull over. He eases as gently as he can off the asphalt, the dense, looming forest closing in around you in the twilight. You swing open the door and barely stick your boot in the grass before you’re emptying the contents of your stomach into the ditch. The skin of your throat burns and your nose reeks, the scent of it is everywhere. Hands on your knees, you heave until nothing is left. You wipe off your mouth with the back of your hand and catch a glimpse of an eagle high above in glowing sunset, what’s left of it to see anyway. You put your hands on your hips, give yourself a second to breathe. In and out, in and out before you have to look at the crease between Joel’s eyebrows, the question hidden under his tongue.

You turn back around and pull yourself up into the beat-up black pickup. Ellie’s faint snores from the backseat almost impress you, her ability to sleep through a loud bodily function steadfastly enduring throughout your journey. A light breeze trickles its way over your spine before you can shut the door and your hair stands on end. You reach for the seatbelt and chance a glance at Joel. He’s making no move to shift back into drive. He frowns at you with that question in his gaze, his wondering brown eyes flicking between your own like he might be about to crack open his dry lips and ask, but he’s snapped out of his reverie by a gunshot off in the woods. He wastes no time, throwing the truck back into gear and pushing onward down the road, resting his hand on your denim-clad, gooseflesh thigh.

Your destination is Wyoming, some Western mountain-filled land that you’d never seen, but had come to know well through old faded maps and silent wishes in your companions’ eyes. Weeks ago, before everything had happened, before Ellie, before losing Tess, Joel had confided in you in a rare moment of quiet that he had always wanted to visit. “The Grand Tetons,” he had muttered darkly. “Thought they might be nice. Guess Tommy did too.” You hope it’s nice. You try hard to tell yourself this, that the beauty of the natural world will make up for its horrors, that there’s something beyond shuffling Infected and the Raider country you currently roam through. You picture a haven in your most secret dreams; maybe a bunker, secluded, serene. Stocked with nonperishables. Perfect for weathering a wretched existence.

Sometimes you convince yourself the truck was a bad idea. It’s loud and gasoline isn’t always so easy to come by, but you’re still too far away. Several weeks skirting broken and ancient infrastructure, and you’ve made it west but not to the West, not the mountains, not the cold like you know must be coming. It’s still too warm, the trees are too deciduous. You have the ridiculous impulse to fan yourself.

You lean your head back against the seat to let your fantasies play out behind your eyelids. There you see Ellie, chattering away with some long-forgotten board game under her arm and plenty of food in her belly. Joel, shaking his head but with eyes glistening joyfully. You, not having to pretend that you aren’t terrified, not running, not pleading, not shaking. Not sick.

A gunshot strikes through the air not far away, pulling you from your daydream. You glance over at Joel, but his eyes stay firmly on the road and his fingers wrapped around the steering wheel.

“Are they close?” Ellie whispers from the backseat, and you start, not even realizing she had stirred. You shoot her your most half-hearted smile and reach your hand back. She threads her fingers through yours absentmindedly.

“We’re okay. We got plenty of gas left. We’ll be out of here before they can even shoot again.”

Ellie’s eyes are wide, she wants so desperately to believe you, and you want so desperately for her to believe. To give her this, one breath of relief.

“Okay,” she murmurs, not releasing your fingers until the night has shifted once again to day.

“Come on!” laughs your brother, egging you on from his perch across the rooftops. He and your younger sister are soaked through, having already braved the icy downpour, the leap across buildings. You laugh along with him until you shift your gaze to where he’s looking. The other crumbling rooftop is empty. Your sister’s not there.

“Brandon, what…?” When you turn your head to look at him, he is gone.

You blink, and you’re in his fancy new office in the FEDRA headquarters. He’s older, just been promoted to some kind of private. He’s ruffling your hair and you’re mad, you know you were trying to say something important, something that would help him, and he’s brushing you off again. “Fuck off, asshole!” You can see the force of your words hammer through the air as you say them. The blast blows Brandon off his feet and he hits the wall, his head snapping to the side. He hits the floor with a thump and lays there without moving.

You open your mouth to shout but your sister’s face is in front of you. You’re in a back alley in Boston, it’s cold, so cold, and you’re so worried. “What did I tell you?” You know to say, grabbing her shoulders and shaking a bit.

“This is the right thing. This is right,” she insists, and your heart sinks.

“This is stupid,” you hiss. “They’ll kill you, Katie. FEDRA will kill you. Whatever war Marlene thinks she’s fighting - it’s not yours to fight - it’s not yours to die for —”

A harsh laugh splits from her throat, and you’re shocked to hear such bitterness pour from the mouth of the little girl you helped to raise. “What the fuck else am I supposed to do? I’ll die anyways, it should be for something, it should be —”

She was too loud. She raised her voice too much. She gave away your position. A shot rings out and the heavy weight of your sister collapsing knocks you to the ground.

You’re lying on the ground with Brandon. Dust chokes the air. Something heavy lies across your legs. You push as hard as you can, but it doesn’t budge. You grunt with the effort, but the thick air fills your lungs and you gag. You blink soot out of your eyes and turn your head to Brandon. He’s so still. Whatever’s lying on your legs is almost completely covering him. A trickle of red spills from down the corner of his mouth. Your lungs are filled with ash, dust, panic, terror. You try to say his name, but your lips can’t move. Brandon, your baby brother. Brandon. Just as you hear the big metal object creak, shifting for the first time, the air clears.

You’re standing in a dark hallway, dilapidated wallpaper peeling into its yellow crest all around you. Sobs and groans echo throughout the dim, and your feet carry you to the doorway. A make-shift hospital bed, a woman lying in it. You creep forward to see her face, to see your mother without her breath and her blood standing still. You reach for her, at the same time scurrying away, as far away as you can get.

You jolt awake with a scream, deep and entrenching. There’s a hard, calloused hand over your mouth in an instant, and you vaguely register that Joel is hissing at you to stay quiet, but you can’t control the wracking of your body, the panic coursing through your veins. You come back to yourself slowly, realizing there’s no blood on your hands, just Joel’s arms around you, just a thrashing heartbeat that threatens to beat you to a pulp. You’re pressed up against his chest in the bed of the truck, Ellie on your other side whispering frantically at you to calm down. It’s still dark out, but you can hear machine gun fire in the distance. You twist your head to look at him, reach out your hand to touch him, need to make sure he won’t disappear too. He’s real and solid, and his eyes glitter with apology in the moonlight. Ellie presses into your other side, arms coming around you in her sweet child’s embrace, and you’re ashamed that she’s had to witness your despair, that she is the one who shoulders your burden. Joel takes his hand off your mouth when he’s sure you won’t make any more sound, but holds you closer still, like he knows what you dreamed and is afraid of the same thing.

You met Joel for the first time when he was asking for directions. A weathered, haunted look in his eye, like he’d rather be doing anything other than asking the girl distributing rations which way around the construction detour to the South End, but a Boston native like yourself couldn’t resist the urge to demonstrate your own knowledge. That’s how you unknowingly wound up leading him straight to Robert’s new basecamp setup, an itch creeping up your spine once you realized what his intentions were. Stupid, you had thought, stupid to think nothing bad could happen in broad daylight, that he was beautiful so he was safe. So stupid.

It was there, when one of Robert’s fucking goons tried to rob the two of you at gunpoint, that Joel realized you had extra rations in your bag, rations that you had stolen from the distribution center — “They’re for my sister,” you protested —and that you had something more to offer him than just the best way to Richmond Street.

You set up a deal of sorts, after he had wiped his hands of your assailant’s blood. You stashed two extra cans per shift in your pack, and brought them to him. In exchange, he kept the gnashing teeth of the city’s smugglers’ off of Brandon’s back, offering your little brother a protection that his FEDRA school never could.

It was through this deal that you met Tess, that you had loved her, too — She took care of things in a way you had always wished you could, but without fucking up, like you did. She was calm, and powerful, and knew she was right, always. Joel looked up to her, too, even if he was too hurt to ever show it.

When she had asked you to come on a special run outside the walls, you were hesitant — several years into your partnership with the smugglers, and you’d only ever been outside of Boston once, to make a drop in Lincoln and get to meet that charming Frank that you’d heard grinning over the radio so many times. It was important, she insisted, a cargo like nothing they’d ever transported. A kid. You said yes, mostly because by this time you didn’t have anyone left to take care of, not the way you longed for, the way you knew how to.

You loved Ellie from the start, loved her spirit, her bite, so much like Katie in her fierce determination, and the ache of remembering didn’t hurt so much as Ellie’s grin helped. You guided her down the road like you knew you were meant to do - to give, to lead, to provide. Tess was more hesitant, but would always answer to Ellie’s curiosity, and always with kindness underneath her brusk.

Joel, of course, didn’t say much. Even after years of handing him can after can of crushed tomatoes, of deliberately brushing up against his fingers just to feel that shock of cool air when he pulled back, he didn’t even say much to you. You knew some things; you knew that he was from Texas, that he had had a brother who used to work with him and Tess, but who left. Who called once but didn’t any more.

You wound up knowing more about Ellie than Joel, strange given the amount of time you had passed with each of them, so much more with Joel, but so much fuller with Ellie. Her secret, her golden Immunity hung its mantle like an axe above each of your throats. It made Joel angry - it made Tess hope. It just made you wonder.

When Tess died, lighting her own pyre to ensure your safety, and Ellie’s and Joel’s, you felt even stronger the pull to shield your traveling companions. Tess was another mark against you, and you wouldn’t let her, or whoever was watching you fuck all these things up, see you fail again. So you tucked Ellie delicately under your wing, and she came willingly, so desperate to be talked to and known. You tried with Joel, too, but your urges competed. He wanted to protect, you wanted to control — you exchanged heated words at the hardest of times, but the journey didn’t stop for your obstinance, so they faded away as the Eastern coastal plains rolled behind you.

—

The End of the World chases you so all you have left to chase is euphoria. It’s some desperation to feel wanted, you know, and you’re sure that he’s just desperate to feel anything at all. That’s how this thing between you started, sparked from argument tinder and nurtured by lonely swollen nightfall.

After all this time, you know he cares about you. You know. He loves you. It’s clear in the way he’ll step in front of you when he perceives a threat, how he always makes sure you and Ellie have taken your first bite before he takes his. He loves the way a leader loves, by leading.

But he doesn’t love you like you loved him, not like when you led him down a Boston street like you knew the world, like when he pushed a bullet from its path to you on that first day, and every second and shattered heartbeat in between.

So you chase this parallel sensation as hard as you can. You chase his fingers, his tongue, his quiet exhales behind trees and in the dark, across a clearing, behind the truck. You try to pretend, however long it takes to find release, that somewhere beneath his rough and his scorn he could feel something for you.

—

Joel pops open a bag of stale, questionable chips and the smell explodes throughout the cab of the truck. He fishes out a few with fingers long and thick and the holds the rest of the bag over to you, but you can’t bring yourself to look at it. You turn your face away and put your hand over your mouth. You think you might vomit again, but Joel’s furrowed brow, his telltale sign of anxiety, appears unbidden in your mind. Nothing’s wrong, really, nothing is, so you hold it in.

You hear him give the bag a little shake. “Hello? Are you gonna take some?”

You manage to look back over at him, but can’t open your mouth lest the scent hits your taste buds. You shake your head mutely.

He frowns. “You have to eat something.”

“Not now,” You wave away, like your insides aren’t churning.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Ellie declares, swooping in to snatch the bag and chomping loudly on her prize.

—

“What is that? Over there?” Ellie sticks her head between the two of you in the front to point over the front dash. There’s a strange movement in the trees, a foreign shape marring the landscape. As you get closer, it comes into view. Two figures sway back and forth amongst the trees.

“Drive,” you breathe. “Keep going.”

“What is it?” Ellie demands, a current of panic running thick through her voice. “What’s—”

“Stop,” Joel says harshly. “Ellie, don’t look.” He presses his foot firmly to the peddle, but he can’t drive anywhere but past them. Bile rises in your throat. You hear him swear softly when the girl clearly refuses, but you can’t make yourself look away, either.

The image burns into your mind long after you’ve passed them, and you’ve crossed state lines, and the sun has set. Two bodies, suspended from rope tied round their necks. One is a young girl, small body, youthful cheeks, hanging dead from a tree. The body next to her is her older carbon copy, it must be her mother. They dangle in the wind.

Ellie finds her voice, however hoarse, sometime later. “We should have stopped.”

Joel grunts. “No time.”

Your mouth is dry. You say nothing.

Ellie sniffs in the backseat, and you can’t help but feel that it’s another mark against you.

You’re so fucking tired of this shit. Every day’s the same, you wake up and think you’re gonna hurl. You smell anything other than clean air and feel the same. You almost can’t remember what it feels like to be not-nauseous, to be free in your body and have it do the things you want it to do.

You just want to feel something good, anything ever again, so you push Joel down in the backseat early one morning while Ellie still sleeps outside and cover his mouth with yours. He don't complain, seemingly content to lie back against the ripped plastic seats and massage the skin at your hips with his thumbs. You sigh into him, convince yourself that this is what it felt like before your body betrayed you, before you couldn’t move without the urge to empty your stomach. His tongue moves with yours, against yours, for yours - you don't know. You push your hips down against him, more for yourself, the rough denim of your jeans pressing wickedly between your legs. He drags a rough hand up under your shirt and tugs aside your flimsy bra, squeezing your breast in his hand.

A sore, tugging pain radiates from where his hand squeezes, and you moan into his mouth. He brings his other hand up and squeezes both of your breasts, harder, rolling the tips between his fingers, and you think you might burst. They feel heavier hanging off of you than they ought to, more burdensome than you recall. The pain builds and builds with your panic as he continues to knead - if you tells him it hurts, he’ll stop. You need him not to stop.

You grab his shoulders to pull him up into a sitting position and untangle yourself from him to turn around. You shuck off your jeans as best as you can in the cramped cabin.

You brace yourself against the window, the dawn light just beginning to filter through the trees. His hand slips down to hold you, wet and wanting, and his teeth scrape the top of your spine. “Good?” He asks, like he somehow always does. You want to say no, not good, so bad, but you’re all that’ll make it better, you’re it, I don’t know what’s wrong, but you’re right, please don’t stop —

You don't trust yourself to look back at him. “Yes,” you breathe.

He lines up with you, sweetly mouthing at the strip of skin your neckline exposes. You try to pretend the pain in your chest is gone when he slides into you from behind. This is how he likes to do it — no faces, as many clothes as possible, as few words. He’ll check that you’re okay, and then silently rush to his finish, blessedly pushing you over the end with him. For once, today, you’re grateful for his preference. This way he can’t see the tears you furiously swipe away.

—

You come across a small market store not far from the Missouri border. It doesn’t take long to scope the area out. There aren’t any people, just like there isn’t much food. Some gum and pre-packaged cakes that make Ellie scrunch her nose in distaste are on a bottom shelf in the back, so you throw them in the bag. It’s not much, but you’ve only got crackers and a few cans left in the truck. You’re not so much able to refuse anything. The thought of eating the cakes sends your stomach for a spiral, and you squeeze your eyes shut for a moment. Not here. Not now.

Ellie notices, of course. “Woah… are you okay?”

You force your eyes open and give her a tight-lipped smile. “Yeah. Just dizzy. Let’s get going.”

Right as you’re about to leave, another truck screeches out of the trees and into the parking lot. The headlights shine through the glass door straight into your eyes. Joel sucks in a breath. The truck pulls to a stop not far from yours and four men get out, all covering their faces, one with a machine gun pointed towards the sky.

“Fuck,” you whisper, Joel grabbing your arm and whisking you to the back before you finish speaking. Ellie’s already crouched down behind an empty shelf, her lips set in grim determination but her grip on her pack shaking.

Joel taps you to get your attention, jerking his head towards a back door. He moves slowly, gesturing for you and Ellie to follow. The shift of his jeans and the crack of his knees make your heart beat even faster. The bell above the door rings and heavy footsteps follow into the space. The three of you freeze, and through the gaps in the metal shelving, you see them.

Tall, brutish. All four armed, and deadly. Their neanderthal brays pierce your eardrums.

“Who’s here?” Calls one while the others cackle and titter. Right, the truck. They would have seen it.

“Come out, come out…” One of them jokes, knocking over a display by the door with unnecessary grandiose.

Ellie clutches onto your sleeve, her wide eyes begging you for an answer. Joel’s the one that gives it to her. He points at you and Ellie, then down at the ground. You stay. He points to himself as he pulls his rifle around his front, then over to where the mean are kicking around the front counter. I go. He locks eyes with you and nods his head to Ellie, then the back door. Get her out of here.

You nod, a calm determination washing over you, dampening your racing heart. You grasp Ellie’s hand in your own and count silently in your head as he sneaks towards the Raiders on bended knee, though you’re not sure what for. He starts to lift his gun, your signal to pounce on the back door, when suddenly a tidal wave of nausea pours over you, dousing you from head to toe, swirling your insides and turning the room upside down. You don’t stand when you’re supposed to, not when there’s shouting and gunshots and Ellie yelling and tugging you towards the exit. It’s hard to see, it’s hard to breathe. All you can feel is the acid rising to your lips.

The three of you barely make it out alive.

He slams his foot on the gas petal and the tires screech as you careen out of the parking lot. You stay turned around watching the world disappear behind you, ignoring Ellie’s eyes that bounce between your face and the trail of dust you leave behind. You fly down the road, faster than he’s dared to go before. After several miles, you let yourself collapse back into your seat, facing the front. You let out a breath, trying to focus on a single point on the dashboard in front of you, trying to quell the dizziness, this sensation that the world is spinning off of its axis.

“I don’t think they’re following us,” Ellie supplies. She’s quiet for a minute, then adds, “they won’t, right?”

Joel don't reply. You chance a glance over at him to find him fuming, his jaw locked in place and his eyes glued to the road. His arms bulge like they do when he’s tensed up and not even realized it. His grip on the steering wheel threatens to snap the plastic.

His ire fans the flames of your own. Something wild in you pushes you forward, nudges you to ruffle the lion’s mane, some alien urge that you’ve no name for. “Think we’ve got bigger fish to fry in the car with us,” you mutter.

You can hear his jaw pop. “Oh, like a delinquent that can’t stand on her own two feet?” You flinch like you’ve been stung. You want to sting him, too. “What, you’re just gonna pass out every time we’re in a life-or-death situation?”

“I didn’t pass out,” you snap. “I just got dizzy. It wasn’t a big deal, you asshole.”

“Until it was,” he seethes, still careening down the road. “Until you had to run, with her, and you couldn’t fuckin’ see straight. You didn’t think to say something beforehand?”

“What would you have done differently, then?” You hiss, suddenly overwhelmed, not ready to be on guard again so soon. He’s saying things that make sense. You’re losing. Again. “Asked them nicely to leave us alone?”

“Might’a left you in the truck, might’a had a different plan if I knew the person I was relying on was gonna choke, fucking Christ —”

Your heart clenches at the word rely so you scoff to hide it. “Fuck off.” What if he hadn’t been able to take them down, to get you all out of there? What if you had cost Ellie her life? You’re raising your voice and you know that won’t help anything, but your vision is still swimming and adrenaline is still coursing through you and you don't know what else to do with that combination.

“I will not!” Joel’s shouting, and you start. He’s never shouted at you, not once, not even on that first trip to Lincoln when you almost got caught sneaking back into the QZ, not even when you survived and Tess didn’t, not even when you made him give himself to you over and over. His foot is letting up off the gas petal and the truck slows down, like he knows if he puts his foot down the way he wants he won’t be able to stop and he’ll drive you all off the edge of the world. “You got sick a few weeks back, too. What, you got bit or somethin’ too? Think I’m worth tellin’ about an aneurysm, a heart attack—”

“It’s only sometimes,” You snap, shaking with rage or sickness, you don't know. “I’ll be fine in thirty fucking minutes. It keeps happening.”

His foot is on the brake, a sudden screech against the road as the truck skids to a stop. You jerk back in your seat. “What the fuck, Joel?” Ellie exclaims.

“What are you doing?” You hiss. “We need to get further away—"

He stares straight ahead at the road, chest heaving, face impassible. “How long?” He breathes.

You glares. “How long what?”

“How long has it been goin’ on?”

“I don’t fucking know, Joel, a couple weeks? I—”

He doesn’t listen to the rest of your sentence. He’s out of the truck, slamming the door behind him before you can blink.

You glance back at Ellie, who looks deeply uncomfortable, and sigh. “Gimme a second.”

You unbuckle and follow him outside, a few yards into the treeline, urging your shaky legs onward. “Joel, get back in the fucking truck, this is insane —”

“You won’t eat.” His interruption is pained as he stops in his tracks, face pointedly looking out at the trees, not at you, not at you. “You’re not eatin’. And there’s the nausea, then soreness, dizziness -"

“What’s your fucking point?”

He takes a moment to respond, jaw working itself to bits. When he finally turns to look at you, you realize his expression isn’t as stoic as you thought. “When did you have your last period?”

Your heart stops beating in your chest. You sneer to hide it.

“Girls who don’t eat don’t get their period, dumbass-”

“When?” He demands.

Your veins are full of icy frost, not blood, blood would move and cycle and make you feel alive, this just makes you feel still, frozen, gone. You close your eyes. “I - I don’t - I don’t know. I don’t know. But it hasn’t come, for a while. It hasn’t come.”

After a moment of silence you hear the sound of Joel moving back to the truck, closing his door more gently behind him this time. You don’t remember your ghost feet floating back to your side, not wanting to find out what would happen if you kept him waiting too long. Your fingers shake as you buckle back in. Ellie, for maybe the first time since you’ve met her, doesn’t say a word. The world begins to move forward again. You grip the door next to you so tightly you think your fingers might fall off. You don’t remember falling asleep like that, but when you do it’s a sweet, welcome relief.

—

When you wake up, it’s dark out, but the road outside is wider than you expected it to be, having stayed mostly on backroads and service paths. The only light comes from the truck’s headlights and the moon shining up above.

“Where are we?” You murmur, stretching out the aching muscles of your back. Ellie seems to have joined you in slumber, slumped awkwardly against the door behind you.

Joel’s hand slides over the top of the steering wheel. “Nearby Kansas City,” he offers.

You become more clearly awake at this. “The QZ? Why do you wanna head so close to it?”

He rubs the steering wheel again, drawing from it some kind of power to speak. “Figure we stash the truck somewhere, enroll at the gate as refugees. Get what we need, get out.”

“What we need?” You’re still confused.

“A doctor,” he says. “It’s nearby and you need a doctor. So.”

You’re at a loss. You can’t keep up with the implications, with the unspoken, terrifying truth of the question he’s asking you, he’s been asking you. You open your mouth, but the sounds are weak to your own ears. “But — it’ll take too — Wyoming, we have to — and Ellie — and Tommy —”

“We’ll get to Wyoming,” he promises. “First we check on you.”

Something bubbles up in your chest and you shift in your seat, too afraid to ask but too afraid to not know. “Are you angry?” You venture, keeping your eyes on what little of the road you can see in front of you.

You can see him puff air through his lips from the corner of your vision. “I do generally like to know about things before they became an immediate issue, so next time —”

“No,” You say too quickly, and he stops, looking over at you. “I mean, were you mad about - you know, if I am” — you choke on your own spit, can’t bring yourself to say the word — “If I am, are you angry with me?”

Your voice sounds too small to your own ears, this isn’t the You you know, but you don't remember how to be that girl anyways, don't remember how to survive without him. If he’s not with you, and if what he thinks is happening is happening, this could be it for you, this could be his final straw, too much baggage, not giving enough, not —

“You, what? Listen, no, I don’t —” He takes his foot off the gas. The truck slowly but surely rolls to a stop, so starkly contrasting the abruptness of its earlier halt. He shifts the car to park, not even bothering to pull off the road like he usually does when you stop for the night. You can feel him looking at you but you can’t bring yourself to look back.

You sit like that in the quiet for a minute before he speaks. “I’m afraid,” he confesses to you like he worries the night sky will hear his secret. “I’m afraid and I’m sorry that I made you think I was angry. I’m not angry. You ain’t done nothin’ wrong. You understand? Nothin’."

You don't realize you’ve begun to cry until his arms are reaching over the center console to pull you into his lap. A mess of limbs and you find yourself between his solid frame and the steering wheel, his arms holding you like they do when you sleep, but this feels different, this feels tighter, this feels dangerously close to touching the reason you shake, the reason you burrow yourself into him at night.

“We’ll be alright,” he promises so fiercely it startles your eyes dry. “You’ll be alright. I promise.”

It’s late at night in the QZ a few years earlier, dim street light beaming through the dusty window. You sit with your back against the rotting drywall, Joel with his against the couch. You’re waiting for Tess to get back with a drop from a new partner, something she said felt “promising,” but that she wanted to handle with caution. The two of you would always listen to her, so you’ve stayed behind, but you’ll also always worry for her, so you stay awake into the early hours of the morning just to see the promise of her wellbeing slip through the doorway.

You’re picking at your fingernails, something Katie would always turn her nose up at you for, “makes ‘em look ugly,’ she’d say, but everything’s ugly here so you might as well match. Katie’s on your mind just as much as Tess - she’s been gone from your shared residence more often since Brandon died, you think she can’t stand to see the hallways you once all ran through together as children. You worry for her, too. Her great love for a woman named Marlene and ceaseless ardor for Marlene’s cause put her in more danger everyday. She’d do anything for the Fireflies, plant any bomb. Maybe even the one the killed Brandon. Neither of you are sure, and you definitely never talk about it.

“Will you quit?” Joel’s gruff voice startles you out of your spiraling reverie, and you realize blood has started to seep from around some of your cuticles. “Fuckin’ — fidgeting’s makin’ me nervous.”

“Sorry,” you say, not really meaning it but feeling sheepish nonetheless. Joel intimidates you; he’s quiet, and strong, and definitely beautiful, and maybe knows something about life, maybe too much about life, maybe that’s why he’s so dour all the time. However, sitting here on the floor, waiting for your shared comrade’s return, you feel emboldened or delirious from the witching hour. You open your mouth before you can stop yourself.

“Didn’t know you got nervous.”

He scoffs abruptly, a sound you might almost have called a laugh in another life, and runs his fingers over his mouth absentmindedly. The streetlamp glow slants across his cheekbones just so, and in this dilapidated, peeling living room, he looks almost otherworldly. “‘M always nervous.”

He doesn’t say anything more, settling back into his friend The Silence, and you don’t believe him. He doesn’t look nervous, doesn’t pluck at his own feathers like you or move to fill the time.

“About Tess?” You venture, high off of his conversation, elated at his breath expelled in your direction. It feels like something, it feels like anything, and you’ve been dying - Katie’s never around anymore, the other girls at the food bank are even more dried up and sullen than you, and Tess, beautiful Tess with her clever wit and grounding roots isn’t here - you need more.

Joel casts you a sidelong glance. You suddenly wonder if you remembered to run your fingers through your hair this morning. It surely looks a mess. You go back to picking at your nails. The blood feels warm and soothing. “Yeah,” he acquiesces, eyebrows raising slightly. “But she can handle herself.”

Your heart races. “I know! I didn’t mean to say she couldn’t. I just —”

He holds up a hand to quell your ramble, and you crumble to his command. “I know. We still worry.”

You exhale long, arduous. “Yeah,” you agree softly.

He taps his finger on his knees, joins you in your fidgeting realm, his feathers pluck, his callous peels. “Don’t you got someone waitin’ for you?” He says suddenly, and you know he knows these things about you, but it’s a shock to hear him acknowledge it.

“My sister. And no. She doesn’t come home much these days. ‘Sides, I’d rather be here anyways.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “What’s she doin’ away at this hour? Isn’t she younger?”

The hair on the back of your neck stands up, and for a moment, your hackles raise. “She’s a grown woman. That’s her business, not mine.” As if it’s your fault that she’s joined up with a vigilante guerilla. As if it’s your fault that you don’t know where she sleeps these days, or if she gets enough to eat besides the times she comes to pick up the extra cans you still steal her. She is younger than you, he’s right, and you tried to provide, tried to take care of her the way your mother had tried to before she passed, before the outbreak, even. You were only 8 when the world ended, and your mother had died just a few years later. The only thing that had kept you and Katie out of military school was the older woman across the way who lied and said she was watchin’ over you. It hadn’t worked for Brandon, though. He was too young for anyone to care for, and was rocked right into the deadly cradle of FEDRA.

Joel pauses for a second, quietly contemplative, before nodding. “Suppose you’re right.”

Your breath drops back down into your stomach. If there’s anything you and Joel Miller would ever shake on, it would be leaving others to mind their own.

You wonder what his life must have been like before. What sorrow left him this way, bewildered and cold and fortified as the QZ itself.

“When did Tess say she was getting back again?” You say to fill the space, to fan the coals of a conversation long dwindled.

“Said she wasn’t sure.” He’s annoyed, you can tell. “Said it could take the whole night, or longer. Were you even listenin’?”

You purse your lips, and the apology slips from you without your own permission. A longing to stand your ground far outrun by the desperation for his voice, for his grave countenance continued. “Sorry. I don’t remember things like I’m supposed to.”

Your voice catches in your throat at the last few words, and you have to look away from him, have to blink a little faster than perhaps is natural. You’re not just talking about Tess’s debrief, you know.

You don’t expect it when he replies. “I remember it all.” A quiet confession to the night draft through the pane, shaking the dust on the counter. You look back to him, eyes wide, and his tongue peeks out to wet his cracked lips. It’s like he knows, he knows what you meant, and he can see right through you and this flimsy excuse for skin you wear, this flimsy excuse of a girl you are. He sees you, and you feel like the recipient of a crown jewel, a treasure held close to your heart for this little bit of him that he’s allowed through, this morsel of self that’s scrapped so haggardly to his surface.

His eyes lock with yours, his face set suddenly with a grim determination. “Listen, she’ll be alright. We all will. I mean it.”

You nod, his earnestness permeating your jellyfish shroud, spineless, maybe he could prop you up. Maybe he’s doing it now. You turn back to your nail beds to shred until the early morning sun brings Tess home with it.

#joel miller x reader #joel x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfictioin #joel miller #joel x f!reader #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #tlou fic #tlou fanfic #tlou

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scorpiussage · 8 months

Text

The Robin to My Batman (Neil Lewis/Fem!OC)

Pairing: Neil Lewis/Fem!OC

Summary: A comic book store opens up next to Gumshoe Video prompting a hot and heavy feud between the two businesses and their nerdy owners.

Theme: Romance - Enemies to Lovers

Warnings: Nerds being nerds, smut

The early morning walks to open Gumshoe Video are always enjoyable for Neil. He loves getting coffee from that family owned Armenian coffee shop down the street, greeting the old man who owns the hardware store across the street, and contemplating what the day’s theme should be.

However, his gorgeous, peaceful morning comes to a screeching halt as he spots a large moving truck parked in front of Gumshoe— no, parked in front of the vacant store to the left of his. He quickly darts into the alleyway across the street and watches with mounting horror as some—so far unrecognizable—new business moves in.

“No no no no no,” Neil mutters to himself, already picturing the worst case scenario. What if it’s a competing video store? Or perhaps on of those Christian shops that sells over priced bible themed tchotchkes? Both are miserable possibilities and he has no idea what he’ll do if either of those ends up being the case.

When the coast is clear of movers, Neil goes sprinting into his store and making a made dash for the phone to call his friends.

He has a bad feeling about this.

…

The first time he sees her is at the grand opening of Golden Age Comics, the new comic book store next door. The first thing he sees when he walks in isn’t the life sized cutouts of various comic book characters placed strategically about nor the wall display of rare figurines.

No, the first thing he sees is her, Bailey Taylor, the owner of the shop. She’s dressed like Wonder Woman, displaying these long shapely legs that have Neil’s jaw going slack in awe. She flutters about the store, greeting customers and advertising the big grand opening sale she’s running.

Johnathan and Lucien, who came into the store with him, start needling each other excitedly, muttering about how hot she is and Neil can only feel dread. This can only spell bad news, he just knows it.

Not at all like a coward, he quickly flees the store before she can approach him.

…

The first time he actually meets Bailey, she comes into his shop. Today Gumshoe is having a deal on westerns and so Neil is dressed accordingly as a cowboy. When she walks into his store, it creates a rather comical juxtaposition as it appears her own store is having a sale on Japanese manga.

Sailor Moon Bailey and Cowboy Neil stare each other down.

“Um, hi,” she greets with an awkward little wave, her smile bright despite the uncomfortable mood, “I own the comic book store next door. My name is Bailey.”

Neil nods stiffly, doing everything in his power to not stare at how hot she looks in that cosplay. When Neil fails to respond, an irritatingly adorable frown mars her features

“Okay,” she mutters to herself before saying, “Well, I just wanted to see if you’d be willing to do a team-up and have a collaborative sale.”

Neil scoffs, “And what? Hock old Adam West Batman tapes?”

She perks up and nods enthusiastically, “Yes! Exactly! I actually have this really great id-.”

Neil shudders at the thought and cuts her off before she can get going, “The old Batman show is absolute garbage in its cinematic delivery— no way would I subject my customers to that.”

The glare she gives him could cut steel and admittedly makes his happy bits stir in interest.

“Garbage?” She snarls, “That show was a pioneer for superhero media! Just because some over hyped alcoholic wife beater didn’t direct it, doesn’t mean it’s not good!”

Neil’s eyes narrow at her and he crosses his arms, trying to appear more authoritative than he usually looks, “Oh believe me, the director has nothing to do with the bad editing and poor visual shots!”

The woman looks like she’s visibly holding herself back from launching herself over the counter and decking Neil in the face. His cock makes another inappropriate twitch at the thought and he internally scolds himself for these reactions.

Without another word, Bailey storms out of the store and stomps her way back to her own shop and Neil breathes a sigh of relief.

God, he really needs to get laid if some uneducated comic dork is getting him riled up.

…

After that disastrous first encounter, a Cold War of sorts settles over the two businesses. If Neil is having a sale, Bailey will have a better one. If Neil does a midnight showing of a movie, Bailey hosts a free-to-join D&D party. If Neil dressed up, Bailey does too but does it better.

It’s aggravating.

Neil doesn’t even know what it is about her that has him going absolutely insane, but it’s beginning to be a problem. For instance, last week she dressed up like Cat Woman and strutted about both in and out of her store, placing herself in full view of Neil boredly manning the register of his own shop. He had to go and jerk off in his office like five times; and he was still horny afterwards!

Like he said— problem.

And it’s only getting worse.

“Dude, oh my god! She’s dressed like a school girl today!” Johnathan says while rushing into the shop, a lecherous grin on his face, “Her skirt is so short!”

Lucien cheers and Neil rams his head onto the surface of the checkout counter repeatedly.

He’s gonna die horny and infuriated by her subpar taste in cinema, it’s inevitable.

Lucien just gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and leaves him to his melancholy while he and Johnathan go next door.

“Ugh what do I do?!” He laments pathetically to himself.

…

The second interaction that Neil has with Bailey happens on a slow night for both businesses.

Neil is parked on the shop couch, watching Lady in the Lake and barely staying awake when she comes into his shop. She’s dressed normal today in a worn Captain Marvel t-shirt and denim shorts and he’s a little too tired to properly hide the slow up and down he gives her.

A little blush settles on her face when she catches him doing that.

“Slow night?” She asks after clearing her throat awkwardly.

“Yeah, you?”

Bailey blows a raspberry and nods, walking over to the couch and throwing herself down onto it next to Neil. He quickly scoots over, giving her room while trying to smooth his shirt and hair down to look less like a mess.

“What are we watching?” She asks.

Things sort of devolve from there. Whether it was one innocent comment taken the wrong way, or an intentional dig, it prompts a fresh new screaming match between the two of them over the cinematic quality of the Adam West Batman series. This woman will not let go of that trash TV series, Neil realizes.

Bailey gets up from the couch at some point, Neil hot on her heels as they move their heated argument about the store. It’s when they’re next to the wall that Neil pushes her against the surface and pins her arms high above her. He’s not thinking when he kisses her, pushing his tongue into her mouth to taste her— he’s running purely on adrenaline and instinct.

That first kiss they share is not a gentle one; it’s rough and filthy and hot.

“You are such a brat,” Neil bites out scathingly, his hands slipping away from her wrists to start running over her chest, cupping those perky tits of hers in his hands.

“You are an obnoxious tool!” She sneers in return, her now free hands making quick work of his belt buckle and the button on his jeans.

“I can’t believe how terrible your taste is in cinema! A rock would have better opinions!” Neil helps her push his pants down and then reaches forward to yank her shirt off. The bra she’s wearing is just a simple navy colored one but it has him physically biting back a moan at the sight.

She smirks up at him, then pushes him away with a rough shove, sending him into one of the shelves. She gets into his space, wrapping her arms around his neck and initiating another one of those blood racing kisses.

He reaches down and grabs her under her thighs, hoisting her up to wrap her legs around his waist. He starts walking them back towards his office, fully intent on throwing her down onto his couch in there and getting all this frustration out of his system.

Sex has always been pretty gentle and by-the-book for Neil, he’s never had a desire to be rough or for a partner to be rough with him, but Bailey makes his head fuzzy. She makes him want to do things he’s never done before.

“Fuck— Neil!” She gasps when he puts her down and immediately sticks his hand down the front of her shorts and starts rubbing along her slit. It’s so wet and he groans, his cock twitching in anticipation.

“Can’t wait to shut you up,” he tells her, his long fingers alternating between rubbing vicious circles on her clit and slipping down to enter her with harsh thrusts, “Been thinking about this for weeks.”

Her fingers scratch lightly across his stomach as she pushes his shirt up, “Well, you’re going to have to do lot better than this to make that happen.”

His eyes narrow and he pulls his hand out of her shorts, ripping the button open and yanking them down her legs. He grips her around her hips and flips her onto her stomach, climbing onto her legs to keep her from kicking about.

“I am so sick of that smart mouth,” he tells her before laying a loud slap to her right ass cheek, making her cry out in surprise that dissolves into a moan. He would spank her in earnest, but he’s been so fucking horny for so long that he only gives her a few smacks before slipping his fingers up under the edge of her panties, rubbing the buttery soft skin of her ass.

Trailing his hands up, he unhooks her bra and climbs off of her so that she can turn over onto her back. She’s quick to shuck off her bra and panties, exposing herself entirely to his hungry gaze.

“You said you thought about this for weeks,” she remarks while slipping her fingers down to her folds, “How many times did you jerk off to me?”

He groans and goes down to his knees, leaning forward and shouldering his way between her thighs.

“So many fucking times,” he admits shamelessly before licking into her with enthusiasm.

Her fingers thread through his hair, tugging him forward and using the leverage to grind against his face. He could die here, smothered between those shapely thighs, and it would be in total bliss. Her moans are the sweetest thing he’s ever heard and he endeavors to hear them get louder.

“Are you gonna cum for me, baby?” He asks, his fingers returning their journey of entering her and his eyes watching with hooded rapture as her cunt sucks them into her.

“Neil,” she gasps his name, chanting it like a prayer and he picks up the pace with his fingers. He sucks on that hard little bud of hers and feels her cum around his fingers, that soaking cavern gripping him tightly.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, “please let me fuck you.”

Her thighs are shaking as she comes down from her orgasm high, “Yes, fuck yes.”

He doesn’t need any more encouragement— he’s barely got his underwear down before he’s pushing into her. She’s tighter and wetter than any other pussy he’s been in and he tells her as much, rasping filthy things into her ear as he begins a brutal and unrelenting rhythm.

“Thought about bending you over the front counter and fucking you stupid so many times.”

Her nails dig into his back, raking along the surface and certainly leaving their mark.

The thought alone of her marking him could make him cum. He bites his lip harshly to try and wrestle back some control, unwilling to see it end so soon.

It barely works as his hips stutter in their thrusting.

“Can I cum in you?” He asks— no, practically begs her.

Her arms snake around his shoulders, tugging his head forward to rest against hers, their mouths finding each other hungrily. Between filthy, tongue filled kisses, she gasps, “Please!”

Permission granted, he buries himself as deep as possible inside of her, the head of his cock nudging her cervix, and he cums. He groans loud and long as those warm, wet walls squeeze every last drop from his cock, sucking it better than any blow job could manage.

He pulls out of her slowly and almost reluctantly, sad to part from that perfect cunt of hers. A flow of white cum follows his departure, dripping from her opening and over her ass in thick globs.

He’s never seen something so sexy in his life and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he doesn’t get to see it again.

Stepping back from Bailey, he grabs his shirt off the floor and uses it to wipe her clean, chuckling at the deadpan look she gives him for the effort. Tossing the shirt aside, he climbs onto the couch and lays himself out next to her, pulling her to rest against his chest.

They lay like that for a long time, catching their breaths and basking in the after glow.

“You don’t really hate the Adam West Batman series, do you?” Bailey asks, her eyes looking up at Neil imploringly.

Neil about answers the way he normally would but when he looks down at her and sees the earnest expression she’s wearing, he doesn’t have it in him to be an asshole.

“No, it’s not that bad,” he lies and feels his heart flutter when she shoots him a beaming smile in return.

He thinks he can stand mediocre cinema for her sake.

#neil lewis #neil lewis x reader #neil lewis/reader #neil lewis x oc #neil lewis/oc #watching the detectives #cillian murphy #watching the detectives fic #neil lewis fic

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sprout-fics · 10 months

Text

The Lark

König x 'Maus' F!Reader

(Read here on Ao3)

(Part 11 of 'Little Mouse')

Word Count: 5.7k Rating: Mature Tags: Enemies to lovers, Slow burn, Dark König, Hints of yandere König, Close proximity situations, Confessions, Murder attempts, Manhandling, Behind enemy lines Warnings: Explicit mention of wanting to kill your Austrian boyfriend A/N: Please see full notes on AO3

"He's gone."

You can feel the pressure of Gaz and Ghost staring at you, can feel the slow, dreaded realization draw across them even as you stare with wet eyes down at your boots. The air between you all feels far too cold, cracked and dry in the nighttime air following the weight of Soap's words.

"Gone." Ghost echoes, and there's a tone to his voice you never hear, hovering at the apex between restraint and a desperate, unveiled well of emotion.

"...Captured." Soap clarifies beside you, and the word makes you hunch in on yourself more, threatening to send you to your knees in horrific shame of what has transpired.

"KorTac?" Ghost offers after a moment, and if the pause wasn’t indicative enough of his dread, the barely imperceptible waver of his voice betrays him.

Soap must nod because you hear Ghost suck in breath. Gaz feels rigid, frozen beside him as they both process exactly what you've relayed to them.

You lost him. You lost Price.

Your leader, your mentor, your captain and commander. The one you all looked to, who was the first to lead the charge, whose voice was an ever-present reminder of his authority, his guidance, his resolve to do the mission by any means necessary because it needed to be done.

Now he is gone.

and it was all your fault.

You look up then, eyes wet and warm as you force back tears. Gaz is the first to meet your eyes, and you nearly fracture at his gaze because it just seems so broken.

"I'm sorry." You tell him, voice hardly a whisper. "It's-it's my fault, I didn't-"

"It's not your fault." Soap manages beside you, and his voice is steady with an anger shielded by a steadfastness that no doubt draws from the very depths of him. "I was the one to make the call, I-"

"Soap."

Whatever Soap means to say next dies on his lips at the sound of Ghost's voice, and all three of you look to the lieutenant upon hearing the scarcely concealed anger that radiates cold and dangerous off his coiled form.

"What. Happened." Ghost manages, and you restrain the urge to press closer to Soap out of the need for reassurance, offer him your touch as he dares not even breathe under Ghost's gaze.

Slowly, he recounts the details of the mission, from the approach to the infiltration, pausing as you supplement his perspective with yours. You offer what you can- how it was an ambush, how you moved to extract yourselves too late, how you watched Price-

You have to pause at that, swallow down the bile in your throat.

How you watched Price take down Aksel, how your reaction had been belated, how you panicked, and that by the time you'd come back to your senses it had been far, far too late.

As you tearfully recount the events that led to Price's capture, you watch as Gaz winds himself tighter and tighter with each passing word, fists curling at his sides and brow knotted in a torn mixture between fury and despair. You can only imagine the catastrophic loss that Price's abduction left inside him- true and utter horror mixed with potent hopelessness. Price had been the one to take Gaz under his wing, to train him in all the things he didn't know and offer his advice as both captain and friend. It was no secret Gaz revered Price, and in the aftermath of his disappearance there’s an anguish that festers in his chest until it translates into rage.

"I had to choose." Soap tells the two of them, voice finally cracking in despair. "I only had one shot, I-"

Gaz reacts then, launches forward and abruptly pins Soap against the outside of the truck you’d arrived back in, fists gripping tightly to the straps of his vest, face contorted in a fury that reeks of misery.

"Gaz!" You yell, try desperately to intervene and haul him off Soap. Yet Soap doesn't struggle, doesn't offer any defense, instead just looks at Gaz with such utter guilt and devastation you can feel your heart fracture at the seams.

“This is your fault.” Gaz raps, and you watch as Soap’s eyes glinted with a shimmering reflection of hurt.

“You don’t mean that.” The Scot replies softly, voice hollow with grief. "You don't mean that, Kyle."

Gaz seems to get a hold of himself then, face falling from its snarl, eyes glimmering with realization of what he's said.

“No.” He tells his friend brokenly, voice cracking, his hands easing on Soap’s gear. “I don’t.”

You watched as he releases Soap, holding onto him for just a moment longer with his head bent before he paces a few steps away, shoulders shuddering with an unsteady exhale.

You want to touch him, to hug him, to tell him it is going to be okay. Yet you don't dare, not when you have the right. How could you? Instead, you wrap your arms around yourself, leaning into Soap's hold when he offers, swallowing down the tightness in your throat.

"It should have been me." You say in the silence that follows, and when none of them respond you echo it to yourself once more. "I-it should have been me."

"No." Soap replies, strained, slumped against the truck with one arm wrapped loosely around you, his head hanging into his chest. "Price...wouldn't want that."

"Soap is right." Gaz replies after a moment, voice croaking as he contains the wreckage of himself. "Price would have died before he let you get captured again."

Again.

It's true, you know it's true, but that fact alone doesn't do anything to quell the hurt in your chest- the sharp, sickening stab of guilt that colors your veins dark with ichor. You could have managed, could have endured KorTac's attempts to break you if you had been captured, even if they tried to use you against the 141. As long as they were safe, as long as Price and the others were safe.

Ghost lets out an exhale then, once more drawing your attention to him. Gaz and Soap turn their heads too, looking to their leader in the face of Price's absence, his second in command who shares his convictions, who remains the arrow in Price's bow- flinging himself in the direction of the enemy.

"Get sorted." He tells you and Soap shortly, voice leveling to that of a direct order. Cold, detached, compartmentalizing down further and further until the pain and the anger and fear is only atoms. "I'm going to reach Laswell. I want you all ready the second she has intel on where they’re keeping Price."

You all nod a little absently, expecting Ghost to say as much. It's not a question of if you will go to rescue your captain, but when.

Ghost turns, then focuses on you all again with a heavy stare as you gaze at him in turn.

"Tell Price your regrets when he gets back." Is all he supplies. Firm, unwavering, and yet still sounding somehow like he's trying to remind himself. "We have a mission to finish. Understood?"

"Yes, sir.” You echo along with Soap and Gaz, trying your best to bury and hide the expanse of your soul under cracked, bitter resolve.

-----

"Maus?"

You blink up at the mammoth figure who has pinned you to the wall with brutal, efficient strength, feeling the aftertaste of shock roll low through your stomach. Your knife is lofted high above your head along with your wrists, body caged in by his much larger frame. König’s hood droops forward as he stares down at you with wide, shocked eyes, pupils glinting as realization slowly catches up behind his reflexes.

You swallow thickly, feeling your heart hammer higher in your throat. Any words you may have to offer remain stuck there, fixed along with every frozen muscle coiled tight in resistance of his grasp. Your fingers flex around the blade in your grip, tightening as an anchor to tie yourself to, reminding you of your resolve.

To kill him.

It's simple. Gaz had almost accomplished it once before. Slice across his upper tricep, the underside of his arm close to his armpit. There's an artery there that runs dark and scarlet, and if you angle your blade just right you can soon feel the pulse of him run red over your gloved fingers.

Yet when you had the opportunity as he had drawn near you had fumbled, had paused a microsecond too long and had allowed him the advantage. The sting of defeat burns hollow in your chest, colliding there with something far too forbidden- the thought that you didn't want to.

"Let me go." You whisper, hushed in the corridor where you both stand. It seems to startle König out of his reverie, because his eyes shift with the exact motion that you hissed through gritted teeth.

"What in God's name are you doing here?!" He hisses, voice scathing. There's a flash in his eyes you haven't seen before, bright and dancing against the glint of his pupils that stare from under the hood. Angry, afraid.

Yet you only huff up at him, feeling acidity in your stare as you return his tone back at him.

"You really have to ask?" You spit and try to squirm in his hold for good measure. "I said let me go."

König's eyes narrow down at you, dark and frustrated, but before he can speak again he pauses- gaze widening at something distant.

He hears it before you do, the distant thump of footsteps that echoes down the corridor. You nearly miss it over the sound of your own stammering heartbeat, a desperate thing that tries to sing out against the hold that binds you, tries to reign in the aleatory and unbalanced spark of interest that runs parallel to fear.

König's head snaps in the direction of the approaching transgressor, and you see his eyes flash with a near frenetic energy, possessive, primal. It's as if he sees this person not as a threat to you, to your own mission, but to him. As if somehow they'll dare try and challenge him for you, snatch you away even as he snarls and tries to haul you back into the safe ensconce of his arms.

"No noise." He rumbles down at you darkly, and you have only a breath to blink before you're twisted in his arms, back pressed against his front. A gloved hand silences your gasp as König pivots, walks you both backwards to a cracked door you had passed only moments ago. It takes little effort on his part to haul you inside the maintenance closet, with him having to duck just slightly to avoid the frame with his towering height.

You try to struggle on instinct, thrashing futilely against his hold even as König's touch bears down and he keeps you fast against him. You try kicking back, only for your meager attempt to only make him grunt in annoyance. You try to twist the knife still in your grip, refusing to drop it. Yet König keeps your arms pinned close to your sides, refusing you the ability to try and raise it against him. When that fails you cry out in frustration, the sound muffled by his massive palm.

"Quiet, Maus." The Austrian hisses, and the pure ire in his tone is enough to make you freeze, body rigid against his as the footsteps continue to draw closer. As they do, König's grasp on you tightens, his chest vibrating with a low, threatening growl that rumbles through you, too quiet to hear and yet vibrating low and dangerous against your form. It summons something forbidden in you, the same traitorous contradiction that has him pace through your dreams, winds his voice treacherously against your thoughts, calling you the name you have begun to know yourself as.

Maus.

You think your heart drums far too loud, deafening as the footsteps round the corner and pass directly by the closet where you two are pressed tightly together. You see the shadow of a person pass under the crack of the door, and after a few moments the footsteps begin to fade back down the hallway, having bypassed the two of you without so much as a glance.

You allow yourself to breathe out a mild sigh of relief, and then turn your attention to the lumbering giant that still has you pressed against his front. You squirm in his grasp, and with the intruder now gone König allows his hold on you to relax only slightly.

"If you scream, Maus." He warns, voice grave, spoken low in the dimness of the closet with its flickering overhead light. "They will find us."

You want to bite at him, but with his hand splayed against your face you find yourself unable to do so. Instead, you make an angry little noise at him, try once more to raise your knife, halfhearted as the gesture is.

König makes a mildly displeased noise, and with a shift of his hold on you manages to wrest the blade from your grip with a little mutter in German of "Gib es mir, du Kleiner-" before it's torn from your grip. As he adjusts his hold on you, you manage to spin in his arms, back bumping against the shelves behind you. You watch as he deposits it atop a shelf high above your head, a place you'd have to climb to reach regardless of his interference. You choose instead to level a glare at him, nose wrinkling in distaste as having relieved you of your first choice of weapon.

"Rude." You tell him flatly, and König offers you a look.

"You still have your other weapons." He notes dryly, gesturing to the automatic weapon slung around your shoulder and the suppressed handgun strapped to your hip. "Why not use those?"

You feel a warm flush of indignation heat up your face and you glare up at him, feeling the urge to climb the shelves and retrieve your weapon if only out of pure spite.

"That's my favorite knife." You hiss at him, shoving at his chest. König doesn't even rock on his feet at your feeble attempt, releasing another indistinct grumble in German muffled by his hood.

"Never mind that." He mutters in frustration, lowering his head towards yours so you're forced to look up into his eyes. "Gott im Himmel, Maus. Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?!"

"You think I don't know that?!" You bite back, teeth gritted. "I wouldn't be here if you and your friends hadn't taken my fucking captain, König!"

König, for what he's worth, seems taken aback by the venom in your tone. His eyes widen under his hood for a moment before they narrow once more, pupils glinting in the dim overhead light that casts strange shadows across the hood obscuring his face.

"You think I had a choice?!" He grits, fists curling at his sides, and you briefly have to suppress a tremor of apprehension that suddenly washes over you at the temper that tightens across his shoulders. Whatever nerve you’ve managed to strike seems to electrify within him, lashing out as a dangerous current of voltage.

"What would have happened, Maus?" He asks heatedly. "Do you really think I could have gotten away with letting both of you go? I was barely able to save your life Maus, and now O’Conor has your captain convinced-"

He pauses, shoulders going rigid, and whatever König is about to say next dies in his throat with a pained little noise, eyes closing for a moment as he tries to reign in whatever emotion runs rampant inside him. It makes a surprised flutter of concern pulse through you, this reaction entirely foreign based on the things you've experienced from him.

"...The others are suspicious of me." He confesses at last. "Declan and the others, they think...they wonder if I've been...compromised."

You can't contain the grimace that passes over your face, lips pressing into a thin line and brow knotting. Your heart stammers against your ribcage in recognition of König's words, feeling them reflected back into you. You had all but begged Ghost to be included on this mission, refusing to sit on the sidelines when he had said that same word.

Compromised.

It had only renewed your vigor, your determination to shed this secret of yours, this strangeness that unfurls in your heart like a macabre bouquet. It tugs at something rotted and ivory inside you, bitterness at yourself for the mistakes that have led you here, that have distracted you to this degree.

You...you could still kill him, you think. A suppressed gunshot to the chest, his body hidden in the closet until it was too late to sound the alarm. You could watch the light fade from his eyes, feel something die within you alongside it. A heart hardened to stone but a duty fulfilled.

König seems to see the impulse flicker across your gaze, pupils glinting in the dimness. It seems to catch him off guard, drains the tension in his shoulders and replaces it there with something wounded, dismayed.

"You...really were trying to kill me, weren't you Maus?" He asks then, voice hardly a murmur, containing none of his previous venom. His shoulders slump, and at last he looks away from you, head shifting so he can avert his eyes from your smaller form. It makes a strange sense of guilt flood through you, one you try to swallow down and refuse to admit.

"...Yes." You tell him instead, voice small.

You see König close his eyes in dismay, and the vulnerability of the gesture stabs inside your chest- trusting despite the fact you had tried to have his life run crimson over your palms.

"You could have." He observes, voice heavy. "You could have killed me, Maus."

He looks at you then, and even behind the hood you can see the sadness in his eyes, woeful and quiet as he asks: "Why didn't you?"

You blink at him, trying to keep your expression flat, impassive and yet failing to do so. You lower your eyes then, turn them down to observe your boots wedged between his.

"I...don't know." You tell him honestly, treachery souring your stomach at the confession. It's the truth. You could have killed him, could have shot him and left him crumpled in the hallway, you could have sliced him open and watched him bleed out at your feet. You knew a hundred and one ways to kill someone, and yet the one person none of them would work on was him. König is mortal, just as you are, but it seemed death by your hands was a fate he would not succumb to.

As much as you tried, as much as you willed yourself to pull the trigger, something remained inside you that wavered in your conviction, made your hands tremble with the muzzle aimed at his chest.

You...weren't sure you wanted him to die.

In the silence that follows, König gazes down at you. The shadows underneath his hood darken his gaze, casting shadows over his half-lidded eyes swimming with solitude. He breathes in, reaches for you slowly, and you’re lost in thought you allow him to. You feel a hand under your chin, lifting your head and tilting it ever so gently to the side. You let him, neck craning and revealing the bare flesh of your neck, where a silvery thin scar from his blade remains present on your skin.

"I did this." He murmurs regretfully as his thumb presses against the skin and you shiver, nerve endings alight at the touch. "I hurt you, Maus."

The tinge of despair in his voice has you draw your eyes up, tracing his wrist all the way up to his shoulders, his face. In the silence and scant space between you, there's a gravity that takes hold of you once more, draws you inward towards him even as you fight the inertia of your inexorable and imminent collision.

"I never meant to hurt you." He whispers, almost as if he's afraid of the thought, the confession that echoes past his lips.

You could have, you think. You could have done so much worse.

"You could have caught me." You whisper in turn, voice hushed between you, afraid of your own words even in the silence. Even as the world spins on its axis around you both, as wars are waged and soldiers die you feel the stillness settle inside you. Just like in that moment, his hand caught around your ankle as the world erupted in a fiery blaze, your eyes locking on each other before he had released you, allowing you to escape. "But you let me go. Why?"

König pauses, his thumb still pressed into the soft flesh of your neck. He could wrap his heavy fist around it, lift you high and force the air from your lungs if he so wishes, but instead the gloved pad of the digit traces the scar on your skin once more.

"I...heard a fairytale once." He says quietly, eyes fastened on the sliver of skin he touches. "About a lark that granted wishes. It was...wunderschon. Beautiful and free and rarely found."

You feel your brow wrinkle in perplexity but allow the Austrian to continue even with his eyes glassy and distant, gazing at a memory you couldn't see.

"A greedy man trapped the bird in a golden cage, captured it for himself. He thought the bird would grant all his wishes. But..." König pauses, and in the silence you feel your heart flutter against your ribcage like that same creature, a winged, small creature trying to fly free. "The bird, without the sky, withered and died- and the world was left without it."

He looks to you then, lifts his eyes to your stare. You want to fold under his gaze, crumple and surrender to that horrid, selfish thing inside you that only rises when he speaks once more.

"Manche Dinge sind schöner, wenn sie frei sind." He tells you, tongue rolling the words in his language like a spell you so desperately want to know as well. "Some things are more beautiful when they are free, Maus."

Oh.

"I...want you to myself." He confesses. "I want to know everything about you, but I...can't let myself do that when you need to be free."

You feel your breath caught in your chest, eyes wide and lips parted as you stare up at him, absent of words and yet full of wonder. Once more, that hidden tantamount emotion inside of you threatens to split the seams of the dark place you've tried to bury it, allowing a soft, radiant light to seep through.

"Make no mistake, Maus." König tells you, and you blink at his eyes glinting in the dimness as he shifts to lean over your smaller height, bracing his arm above your head and pinning you with his stare.

A flutter in your stomach, like the nocturnal breeze of an owl's wings passing close enough to tickle your hair. You feel it draw the air from your lungs, make the cavern of your chest fill with an emotion you feel far too afraid to name. yet it seems to glaze over your eyes, because König's gaze widens in the darkness, drinks in your doubts and fears and dangerous hope that dwells inside you.

"Wherever you go." He rumbles, voice echoing in the scarce space between you as if he whispers both your prophecies into a near and distant future. "Wherever you run, Maus. I will follow you. I will find you. I promise you that."

You know his promise is true, that if you allow him, he'll walk towards the horizon of you. You, with feathered wings taking flight to new and greater heights, and König reaching his up towards the sky to scrape against the downy softness of you.

There's a tightness in your chest, a twisted, breathless thing that makes your face crumple with a dreaded mixture of conflict and despair. You reveal it to him in this moment, allowing him to see the true confines of your heart that you so desperately try to hide away.

He's your enemy. He's your ally. He's captured you. He's let you go. He's threatened your friends. He's protected you.

He's...

"I might try and kill you again." You breathe, voice wavering as you desperately try to reign in the wickedness of your heart. "I can't promise you I won't succeed."

"You won't." He tells you, and his voice is resolute. There is no uncertainty, no hidden conviction in the utter confidence of which he speaks. "You can try, Maus. You won't be able to."

You're not sure if he means you can't or you won't- if somehow you'll hover with the blade above his heart and instead find yourself dropping your soul into his hands.

"And if I don't? You ask, voice small against the darkness and the fractures between your forms.

König blinks at you, eyes fluttering shut for all of a moment before he speaks.

"Then we'll be here again." He murmurs, and you want to shudder at the sudden softness of his voice, allowing that forbidden thing inside you to stretch forward into him. "Again and again, Maus. Over and over until one of us surrenders."

He'll catch you, you realize. Just like this, allow space for just the two of you so his voice can fester in your thoughts like a sinful addiction you shouldn't crave. Then he'll let you go, leave you in the absence of him with your mind reeling and dreams offering you glimpses of him until you meet again. Over and over, a game of cat and mouse that draws you both closer every single time you come face to face once more.

He’s so close, you realize suddenly, with his arm braced above your head, his palm still cupping your warm neck, the breaths exhaled between you merging as one.

It seems to warm you from the inside you, the way he towers over you. The fabric of his hood drapes forward as he leans his head down to regard you. The small sliver of light from the cracked doorway slashes across his face in an abstract illumination, a radiant glimpse that glows and glints across one of his eyes.

You want to look away from his gaze but you can’t. There’s something intoxicatingly enticing about his stare, the way his eyes are fixed on you with an immovable fascination, a barely restrained fanaticism at the simple sight of you in the darkness, lips parted as you meet the gleam of his eyes. You can only imagine how you look to him, a doe in the glade, eyes alert and yet somehow gentle, trepidations trusting. Then him, a wolf in the woods, at the edge of a campfire, the solitary, desirous howl of him a gale in your thoughts.

He’s consumed by you. It feels like he wants to eat you whole.

You can’t help the traitorous flutter inside you, the quake of desire that weakens you across your knees, sends a thrilling shiver racing up the path of your spine.

You want him to devour you.

“You’re so…pretty, Maus.” He murmurs suddenly, and there’s a different glint to his eyes now, something a little more distant, as his pupils flick down to your bottom lip and back up to your eyes. “...Schön.”

You hear his glove creak above your head, his fist curling tight, as if trying to push away an urge. Selfishly, you wish to reach for it, unfurl his palm into yours as if it might somehow reveal the secret he’s clasped there, let it bloom between your caught gazes.

You don’t speak. It feels that, if you do, this strange spell might be broken. This absurd fairytale will evaporate once more into the hail of gunfire and his thunderous, booming voice manic with the violence of battle. Here, in the place where he’s caught you he’s softer, blurred at the edges so you can reach out, grasp the center of him, drag him selfishly closer.

“I…” He murmurs, and again his eyes dart down, staying at the place where your caught, airy breaths tumble from your lips. “I want to kiss you.”

You don’t move. Barely breathe.

You shouldn’t. You can’t. To let him get even closer, here in the land of enemies would be treachery, an unforgivable atrocity. If you fell even further into his hands, let yourself sigh against his lips, it would mean surrender, a capitulation of everything you’ve sworn to for yourself. You promised you’d kill him, and now all you can think about is the warmth of his murmured name for you spilling across your tongue.

Maus.

You could push him away. You could retrieve the knife from the shelf above you, stab forward in the darkness into the cadaver of him you’ve built in your mind. You could feel the wet seep of him spill scarlet over your fingertips, listen to his wounded wheeze echo forth into the space between you.

Instead, in the scant light of the outside pushing inwards into your heart, you close your eyes. You wait for him.

He makes a noise then, something between a sigh and a hum, pleased and yet pleading. It’s desirous, heady, filling the cracks of you with a sickly-sweet elixir that you want him to lap at with a gentle, curious swipe of his tongue.

There’s a rustle of fabric, and you know he’s drawing back his hood. You can look, you know you can, but it still feels wrong, forbidden. Like Orpheus turning to look into the realm of the dead you fear that the moment you open your eyes this enchantment might be broken, that once again you’ll find yourself alone, longing for the hunger of his stare.

A touch at your chin. It’s fleeting, hesitant, then settles into something solid. You resist the urge to lean into it, and yet let it guide you all the same, upwards, higher into the clouds.

“Maus.” He whispers, and it feels like an inevitable incantation that traps you within his trance, one you walk into willingly, and yet try to claim to yourself is a trickery, a snare with no escape.

It’s not that he’s caught you, it’s that you’ve willingly surrendered to the temptation of his lurid, tender embrace. Into him, this man who has taken your heart captive despite the fact you offered it of your own volition.

König. Your mind whispers, and it feels like a sacrament, a confession of your own treasonous desires.

Yet when the echo returns, it isn't with the gentleness you desire.

Instead, your mind summons the faces of your friends. Soap's broken-hearted eyes that threaten tears as you try to beg him to bring you back to the moment where he rescued you and not Price, of Ghost's hard, steely stare as you beg him for one more chance to redeem yourself. Price, his furious, gleaming gaze as he wraps his hands around the throat of a man who threatened you and Gaz, beloved Gaz with his eyes full of sadness as you push him away once more.

A hand comes up between you, and you feel König's breath fog across it before he can lower his lips to yours. You feel him jolt, freeze at the bitterness in your eyes as you avert them away, refusing to see his exposed face- as if it exposes the vile truth in you as well.

"No." You whisper, eyes closing so you aren't tempted to look. "König- I...I can't."

König doesn't speak, barely even breathes as he processes your words. You swear you can hear him swallow down whatever he wants to say, be it a protest, a devastation. Instead, all he offers is his quiet voice, soothing yet full of sadness.

"That's alright, Maus."

Somehow that feels worse, the way he offers you gentleness in the face of your rejection. It cracks in your heart, summons a phantom pain that threatens to escape from you as a choked whine.

You feel him shift, and the hand at your chin vanishes so he adjusts his hood over his face once more.

"I..." He begins uncertainly. "I can leave you be, Maus."

Your eyes open at that and you turn to him, face falling open in shock and a traitorous amount of hurt.

"No." You say before you can stop yourself, clamping down on the protest too late. "Yes. No, I-"

You bite your lip, feel the color crimson of desire and death bloom bright against your ribs.

"I..." You try, uncertain of the words you want to say, before your next exhale forces you to say the rotted, perfidious truth that lays dormant in your bones. "I wish...we weren't enemies."

The revelation seems to shock König into utter stillness, and you feel it reflected back in you, a resounding echo that draws you both into a tangled web of desire and deceit that winds around you with silvery threads. For a moment you want to reach forwards, snatch the words back into your mouth and keep them there, bury this farce deep inside you and commit yourself to the things you've sworn to, the oaths that you keep.

"Maybe someday, Maus." He tells you gently, sorrowfully. Despite the echo of his prophecy only moments ago König now seems terribly ambivalent, as if he himself will not allow himself the grace to imagine such a future.

Before you can say anything else, König turns from you, draws away from your form and turns his back on you. He cracks the door to the small closet you two have shared and looks over his shoulder at you.

"The basement." He offers simply, and confusion colors across your face. "Your captain. You may be able to get there through the vents."

Then his eyes soften, his gaze toeing dangerously close to affection.

"Be safe, Maus." He says to you, voice hushed and hopeful.

Then he's gone.

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