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kiwisbell · 4 days

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helen ; chapter five

be seeing you

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the choice.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, hitman!joel, husband!joel, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship, sacrilege in the name of romance, flashbacks, graphic violence, guns, blood + injuries, tess cameo, childhood/religious trauma, criminal underworld, secrecy/lies, betrayal, ANGST, bamf miller bros, smut, fingering, joel is an emotional munch, shower sex, unprotected PIV, handjob, male whimpering, conflicting emotions, orgasms aplenty, Big Angst and Big Sad but also Big Epiphanies, ambiguous ending, i'm getting emotional writing these tags, it feels so final, the typical alcohol/smoking/profanity, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 9.3k a/n: hi, friends. i can't believe we're already at the end of the main story, and tbh if i think about it too much i'll probably cry. i want to thank @cavillscurls for beta reading this chapter as always and giving me the guidance and support i need. we'll have an epilogue after this chapter, so there's still more to look forward to, but nonetheless, i hope you enjoy and thank you so so much for reading. xoxo prev | next

Her eyes are so sad, you think, stepping back to take in the full scope of the canvas. It’s doused in paint from corner to corner, still wet to the touch, the woman and her lover intertwined so thoroughly that it’s difficult to tell where they both end. It’s in shades of glum blue and flecks of angry red and brown where his eye watches you. But it’s her eyes that cannot lift to meet yours. It’s her lashes that fan across her cheeks as she casts her gaze toward the bottom edge where the canvas is wrapped taut around the wood.

The sun will soon rise, but you haven’t slept. The contours of the sky are washed in a haze of greys and pale blues and light pink and the air smells warm, heavy—a storm about to roll in. The clouds on the horizon are thick with a blackening rage. You sit in the alcove by the window and put your temple to the cool glass. You yawn. Joel does not come back.

“Do you think it's true,” you asked him one night, your head on his chest, hand on his heart, “that art makes nothing happen?”

Joel, drawing shapes on your back, dozing off in the golden light of the sunrise, frowned. “Someone tell you that?”

“It's something my art teacher used to say,” you told him. “No matter how much it moves people, it doesn't do anything.”

“Your art teacher sounds like a fuckin’ downer.”

You laughed, hiking your thigh up over his hip and playfully biting his jaw. “So it's bullshit?”

“I think,” said Joel, tucking his chin to kiss the top of your head, “that your art makes people feel. It brings ‘em together. It's important because it's yours.”

You propped your head up on his chest and threaded your fingers through his too-long hair, overdue for a trim. A curl draped over his forehead, his beard patchy and soft under the pads of your fingers. “Sometimes I wonder why you chose me,” you said. “I wonder why the universe brought you to me.”

Joel shook his head, guiding his rough, callused fingers up your arm, curling them around your wrist, gently prodding your veins. “Wasn't the universe,” he said quietly. “Wasn’t a choice. I was yours the second I saw you. So, I guess it's your fault.”

You just rolled your eyes and kissed him, mouth to smiling mouth.

Your paintings may be yours, made with life and energy and colour, but when they are finished, they don’t move. They are stagnant as a heavy rock beneath a cliffside, washed over and over again by the cresting waves, its salt stolen for the water, eternal damnation to a fate of non-movement. And sometimes an artist will walk under the cliff, shove their easel into the fleshy ground the way a man erects his country’s flag in the earth he has stolen, and paint the rock. The artist is moved by the breathtaking colours of the shore and the way the wind flutters through the grass. But the rock does not budge. It never will.

Your art will never erupt from the boundaries of the canvas and tell you what it means. The lovers in your painting will not tear open their mouths like the seams holding a wound together. They will not tell you what they want, need, crave. They are you, and that is what you hate—because dimpled flesh and lustful fingers and the press of his mouth to her throat cannot tell you what you’re supposed to do.

You had become complacent in his love for you. You had let him press his worn hands to your body and pull your soul out through his mouth and you had been a wife, while all the time there was a stranger who occupied his heart, a spirit in an abandoned body. All the time, he'd been haunted. And although you had loved him, your love had not been enough to exorcise the guilt and trauma, pecking at him, an eagle at his liver.

Crossing the room and sitting back down in front of the easel, you press your fingers to the corner of the canvas. The paint is cool to the touch, and you leave behind fingerprints where your signature should be. Pulling your hand back, you examine the accumulation of colour, the blues and reds swirling into the deep purple of a bruise, the bodies on a canvas that may only ever mean something to you, and you wonder, Is this all I am? A cautionary tale, a love lost? A fucking footnote at the end of a clause that reads: “See, for example, the one who never loved deeply enough to make it count”?

You bring your hand to your face to wipe away the tears beneath your eyes and blink hard at the sting, realising you’ve smeared paint across your cheekbones.

In the bathroom, you scrub furiously, the cloying scent of it clinging to your throat and your tear ducts, washing away the evidence of their entwined bodies, their love, your pain.

Once, you tried to get Joel to paint. You sat behind him on your bench, your legs bracketing his hips, your paintbrush in his hand.

“I don’t know where to start,” he said.

Your lips brushed the shell of his ear as you spoke. “There’s no rulebook.”

He tried to turn his head and kiss you, but you nipped his ear in reproach. “Remember when you took me out driving at the airstrip because you wanted me to feel the road? Think of this like feeling the canvas. Go on, cowboy. Make nothing happen.”

Joel’s painting still hangs over your shared bed. The intruders never found it, or never cared enough to destroy it. It’s a candle, just a candle, its lines imprecise, the paint unevenly applied in places, the shine of the flame more orange than yellow. But it’s a painting, so the candle always burns. He titled it Love.

The pain still sits low in your chest, pulling down your heart as if tied to it by a string. But Joel is still out there, fighting his way back to you, the way he always has, always will. You look down at your left hand, clutching the edge of the marble vanity, and decide to clean your wedding ring.

“I’m sorry, brother,” says Tommy, turning the gun on Joel.

“What the fuck are you doing?” growls Joel, struggling against his bonds. The clip rattles faintly in his brother’s hand as a tremor courses through him.

“He’s following my orders,” says Cabrera, clapping his hand down on Tommy’s shoulder. “Fascinating what a man will do when he must consider his family’s well-being.”

Joel sucks on his teeth, his eyes not once leaving his brother.

“It's my son,” Tommy says through his teeth. “It's Maria. If I don't do this—”

“Yeah? You gonna kill me, Tommy? Is that why your hand’s shakin’?”

“Shut your goddamn mouth,” his brother snaps. “You think I want to do this? I gotta save my family, Joel. You know what that's like.”

“All I’ve done for you,” says Joel, his hands curling into fists behind his back, “and you put a bullet in my head?”

“Not just your head, Joel,” says Cabrera. “When we're done with you, we’ll take your pretty girl as payment for my son’s life.”

Joel growls like a dog, blood roaring in his ears. “Kill me yourself, you goddamned coward. Kill me yourself and don’t you mention my wife again, or I swear to Christ—”

“You take His name in vain a lot for a nonbeliever,” says Cabrera, pulling his sleeves through his coat and setting his teeth as he looks toward Tommy once more. “Do it.”

“Yeah, brother,” Joel says darkly, “do it.”

Tommy nods once, planting his foot and pivoting. Five distinct sounds of handguns cocking echo throughout the warehouse as Tommy points the barrel between Manuel Cabrera’s eyes.

“Now that I’ve got a gun to your head,” he says evenly, “you can go ahead and pull that contract.”

Joel at last twists his wrists free of the ropes that bind them and shucks down the sleeves of his jacket to rub the raw skin. Not one soul does a goddamn thing to stop him as he rises to his feet. His chest heaves, his open lungs coarse and wet with a brittle rage, his exposed heart throbbing red, transparent as the stained glass windows of the church.

God does not tolerate anger, said the Sisters, again and again, bringing down the whip across his back. Sinew and bone and skin peeling back to lay bare some tender part of him they sought to rot out. Put your energy into His worship.

Slowly, Cabrera lifts his hands, sneering. “Your wife,” he warns, “and your unborn son—”

“Are family,” says Tommy. “Just like my brother. Now tell your guys to put down their guns and I won't kill you where you stand.”

Joel joins Tommy at his side. “Took you long enough,” he says under his breath.

“Got held up,” he says. “Your wife’s a good artist.”

“Yeah, whatever. You bring me a gun?”

“I’m sure you can find one yourself.”

“Jesus, Tommy. I’m too old for this.” Joel turns to Cabrera and glares at the same stubborn arrogance that once gleamed in his son’s eye. “You pull the contract, and I’ll leave for good.”

Cabrera’s laugh weans out in the air like rings of smoke. “You think you can really leave, Joel? You think that there won't be consequences for what you've done to my son?”

“Yeah,” says Joel, “I think I’ll take my chances.”

“And you?” Cabrera’s lip curls up at Tommy, whose gun no longer wavers in his grasp. “I promised your wife and child security. You’re willing to throw that away?”

“My wife and child are safe because I don’t take deals from men like you,” says Tommy. “You trusted a Miller to turn on his own blood, Manuel. That was stupid. Now pull the contract.”

“So this is your great suicide mission.” Cabrera smiles, a man who knows he has lost or a man who still expects not to. “A man who has seen Hell does not willingly descend back into its depths—not unless he likes the taste.”

Joel feels the corner of his mouth twitch, a wound on his cheek reopening. “Maybe I do,” he says plainly. “Maybe it’ll taste even better when I take you down with me.”

The gleam in Cabrera’s eye shifts as his gaze flickers behind Tommy. Night has since descended, and yet the predator’s eye glints in anticipation of the hunt. Joel turns and shoves his brother out of the way—just as the shot rings out.

He hears Tommy’s breath punch out of him as they both hit the concrete hard. Joel tears the handgun from his brother’s grasp and puts a bullet between each of the two men behind them. He rolls behind one of the hulking bodies and holds up his weight as a shield against the incoming bullets. Tommy takes the dead man’s gun and fires at the remaining three assailants. Only one shot misses, but Joel sends his brother a look anyway and finishes the job.

“Rusty,” grunts Tommy, pushing himself to his feet.

Joel grimaces as he accepts his brother’s outstretched hand, his wrists bleeding from the relentless rub of the ropes. “He ran,” he says, grinding his teeth. “Goddamn coward. Just like his son.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome, by the way,” says Tommy, giving Joel the dead man’s gun and snatching back his own. “Saved your ass.”

“And he got away.” Joel kicks his chair, and the clattering echo of metal reverberates like a choir off the cavernous walls. His hands flex, open, closed, open, closed, until they make tight fists and he can see nothing but red and the silver moon mocking him through the broken windows high above.

“Joel…”

For a moment, he hears the young boy his brother once was, whispering across their shared bedroom to him in the middle of the night when they were both meant to be asleep.

Joel… Are we going to be okay?

“I gotta finish it, Tommy,” he says quietly, his hands shaking loose. Parts of him bite and sting, touched by new and old wounds alike, and he wants to come crawling home to you. He wants to curl into your side and wash away the blood in your cleansing pool, daisy and honeysuckle, some faraway field where you are the warden, where he knocks on the door to be let in, to be gathered, covered in white, buried, unearthed.

“Was he right?” asks Tommy. “Do you… enjoy this?”

Joel casts his eyes toward the ground, his trembling hand, the gleaming band on his ring finger, his skin speckled with blood but the metal pristine. “I don’t know,” he says.

This is who you are, Cabrera would tell him. The Sisters: Your place is here, under God, under His word. And God Himself, silent as the air, the ringing in his ears only ever quieted by the soft brush of your knuckle across his cheek, the whisper of My Joel in his ear.

“Think hard on it,” says Tommy, “because you may like it, but you’ve gotta consider if your revenge is worth more than what you’ve already got. And if you choose wrong, Joel, you’re gonna lose no matter what.”

A figure leans stone-still against the wall by the hotel room door, the gleam of a blade in the soft light the only indication that it is not a mere shadow.

“Hey, kid,” says the apparition.

Joel nods in greeting. “Tess. Could get in trouble with that knife out in the open.”

“You expect me to keep your girl safe with just my fists?”

“You make it sound like you couldn’t.” Tess snorts, and Joel places fifteen gold coins in her waiting palm. “I appreciate you doing this.”

Tess peels away from the wall. “You and your brother are paying me good money to babysit a door. I think I can live without the thanks.”

“Still,” he says, “you did us a solid.”

Tess, who itches at the prospect of gratitude as much as any other gun-for-hire, shrugs. “Everyone’s saying you’re coming back. That true?”

“Just visiting,” says Joel. “On my way out soon.”

Tess flips one of the coins and turns it over and over across her knuckles, evidence of a restless energy that’s always made Joel’s eye twitch. “One way or another, huh?” she says.

“One way or another.” He shakes her hand and watches her retreat down the hall, still twirling the godforsaken coin, before he turns toward the door. Joel presses his forehead briefly to the cool wood and turns the key to seek the field that awaits him.

A key rustles in the door and Joel steps through, closing it gently behind him. Judging by the quiet click of the lock, he expects you to be asleep, but you jolt upright from your seat in the alcove and cross the room toward him.

He meets you halfway, his right hand flexing at his side. You inspect him: the gash on his cheek, the bruise on his jaw, the blood splattered on his white shirt. He makes no footfalls as he walks but you can hear every stride like thunder between your ears. You feel his hand at the back of your neck, cool from the night air, rough as the underside of a shark’s belly.

The moment coils taut between you as your hand reaches up to grab the lapel of his jacket, and he smells of iron, cologne, Joel, some paint. Maybe that smell is you, stuck underneath your fingernails, embedded in your blood. Maybe this is a mistake, maybe you could never help but fall, maybe it never mattered anyway, and you’re already snipping the final thread, unwinding the spool, and kissing Joel Miller like it’s the first time.

He let out a small groan, tasting the first drop of water in a drought, steadying you with his arm around your waist, his hand cradling your head. He’s gentle, exploratory, careful not to jostle, to shock you out of it. You feel his heartbeat thud, strong, calm, steady behind his clothing and skin and muscle, and your body caves.

It’s coming home, you realise, your arms snaking around his neck, fingers tousling the messy curls on his head. It's the warm press of his hand to your spine where it begins to curve inward. It's a soft mouth, a plush lower lip, made for slow mornings and black coffee, for the aching release of a thumb pressing deep into a muscle knot, a wound. Old aches soothed in the space where bodies meet, beginning to colour the slate-grey world.

It’s the exchange of gasping breaths when you pull apart, his mouth still vaguely chasing yours, opposite charge.

You hold him tighter, swallowing the lump in your throat, your hands squeezing his shoulders. "Are you…"

Joel inclines his head. "Yeah."

"Did he..."

"Yeah."

Need pulses. Supernova. Bright as the moment of obliteration. "Can you—"

He nods vigorously. "Yeah."

Joel’s kisses are like raindrops: velvet-soft to the touch—his hands bringing the hem of your shirt up over your head, his fingertips scorching, branding, grazing the supple swells of your breasts—before the crescendo roars in your ears and he loses himself to the storm. He always does.

There is nothing reserved about the way he shows his love. Lightning crackles across your skin where he touches you, baring you to him, his lips making a map of you, mouthing at your jaw, your throat. You hear yourself hum at the press of his lips to the spot beneath your ear, detaching from your own body, absconding with the pleasure of being close to him and leaving the fucking world behind.

Joel staggers forward so he can press you to the wall and begins to sink to his knees. Your breath catches as he pulls down your ratty bottoms, your cotton panties, his mouth burning into your hips and your belly and the ring on your finger.

“Joel,” you say brokenly as he clutches your fingers. Tears prickle, pressure building behind your nose, and he shakes his head, unfurling your palm like a bud in bloom and kissing its heel. Wordlessly, you watch him, your eyes shuttering, blood singing.

Don't hurt me again.

He understands even though the words cannot come alive on your tongue. He squeezes your hips, his thumbs dumpling your flesh, his forehead falling to your belly.

“I’m yours,” he says. “I’m whatever you want.”

Your legs haven't forgotten the way they part so easily for him, one thigh on his shoulder, opening the core of you to his waiting mouth. His lips part, his tongue wetting them, glistening, and your stomach tightens at the sight of his eyes so black.

You could easily cower. His hands are stained with blood. His knuckles are split. But your terror has become an arid thing, no kindling to burn, no oil to ignite. Watching him now, as eager to please as he always has been or maybe more so, on his knees like a supplicant, the hairs on your arms do not rise in apprehension. Your body does not squirm in fear. You see a broad horizon, the sun outside spilling its golden blood over the city, and you see all of him in a way you never did before.

He’s Joel, who grew up in darkness, lashed and beaten for not believing in a false god. He’s a man who has lied and killed and yet he is no liar, no killer. He holds you as he always has, your body liquid in his hands, your mouth proclaiming the word he will follow. You're the truth he's always told.

It still unsettles you to see the dark eclipse that warm brown, to watch his desire consume the hypnotic shapes in his irises, and wonder if that cavernous black was the last thing so many men saw before he snuffed out their lives. But there's nothing of the death shudder in the way you guide your fingers through his hair and beg him—

“Please.”

He brings his mouth to your core and parts your folds with his thumbs, slowly gliding his warm, wet tongue through your slit. You die a hundred little deaths in the split-second of that first touch, that first agony.

You sigh, your head thudding against the wall as he licks through you, his hands holding your hips in place, keeping you from writhing. Joel flicks his tongue over the sensitive pearl of your clit, the pleasure searing, and you tug at his curls to push him away even as you cry out, More, please, please. God, I need more.

He obeys you as easily as breathing, though you suspect he can barely hear your pleas, opening his mouth and flattening his hot tongue to your clit. You gasp, your core pulling taut, your eyes locking with his as the muscle undulates over, over, and over again.

“Oh,” you whimper, your hips bucking to meet his face. He groans, his mouth working your clit, closing his lips over it and sucking. You cry out, your leg kicking, the sounds of the world muffled in his stifling closeness. Your thighs begin to ache, tensing and relaxing a hundred times over in the throes of his attention.

And his fingers are gliding across your hip, seeking the warmth between your legs. You gasp his name, your hips flexing, as he collects your wetness on two fingers.

“Let me in, baby,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your puffy clit. It relaxes you enough to welcome the press of his fingers inside you, sinking to the knuckle, curling up against the spot he would know in his sleep.

You whine, your body keening toward him, tugging his face back toward your pussy. He obliges with a quiet moan, and you think he needs this just as badly.

The obscene squelch of his fingers inside you rings in your ears as he licks and sucks at your clit, his free hand grabbing desperately at your ass to keep you fixed to him. You’re crying, “Yesyesyes, Joel, please—fuck, that's it,” the pleasure stuck in the grooves of your brain. Absentmindedly, you reach for his hand and clasp it tight, your engagement ring digging into his palm. He holds you with the same fervour as he coaxes you higher, his face buried in your pussy. He grunts and groans like it's his own pleasure he seeks, his battered knuckles stinging.

“Joel… Joel, oh, I’m…”

He knows, of course, from the telltale squeeze of your thighs around his head, the relentless crushing of his fingers in your own, your body tightening for him, cavitating, unwinding—

You come with a shout, your throat raw, writhing in his grasp as he keeps sucking, keeps licking, rubbing, pressing. You're dizzy by the time your head lolls to the side, your muscles twitching, eyes glazed, and Joel is there, pulling his fingers out just to place them on his tongue and swallow you down.

Your breath rattles through your lungs. Joel presses his lips to your inner thigh, beard soaked in your arousal, moustache glistening. His mouth soothes your sore muscles and your eyes begin to droop.

“You need a shower,” you say, your tongue like lead in your mouth. You gently pass your thumb over a cut on his cheek and frown. “You're all bloody.”

He nuzzles his face against your thigh, inhaling you. “I know.”

“You were gone so long.” Your voice quivers, pressure prickling behind the bridge of your nose. “I thought…”

Joel rises to his feet, his hands cradling your face. “I’m all right,” he says. “I’m here, and I’m safe, and I’m so goddamn sorry.”

You shake your head, pressing your lips together so the sob will not escape. Tracing his face with your fingers, broken in places, healing in others, you see the echo of a boy who didn't know his place in the world. You see the haunt of days gone by. A ghost still occupies the cage of his ribs.

“I think you should tell the little boy that still lives here,” you say, putting your hand on his chest. “Tell him he’s alive. Tell him that he made it.”

Joel lowers his head, watching the way your fingers splay over his heart. He puts his hand on yours and pushes, and you feel the strong thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat.

“He knows.”

You lean forward and put your mouth to his temple. “Shower, Joel,” comes your whisper in his ear.

He nods, wrapping his arm around your waist and guiding you into the bathroom. The water hits you both true, scalding, the drain circled with red. He’s naked, his back to you as he sets his hair and lets his wounds bleed what they need to.

You lift your hands and trail them down his broad shoulders, your forehead dropping between his shoulder blades where your name is inked into his back. Joel’s muscles idly flex, his palm flat against the shower wall. His body shudders when you press your lips to the name on his back.

Wordlessly, you bring your arms around him, caressing his side, careful of the new bruises. Your other hand drops to his steel-hard cock and you begin to slowly stroke him. The noise that wrenches free from his throat is half pleasure, half agony, his hips bucking into your fist. You bump your nose against his back, your years-old sign to Just relax, and Joel hides his face in his bicep as you work your hand over him.

“G—fuck,” he grunts. “Goddamn… honey, I—”

You squeeze him at the base and twist your hand up and down the length of him, the weight warm and heavy, your thumb coaxing out a bead of precum. Your cheek is warm on his back, your arm struggling to reach around the width of him, your chest humming at the sound of his gruff moans.

“Let me…” He cuts himself off as you speed up your strokes, and you can feel his abdomen tense. “Fuck, let me make you feel good. Shit… let me…”

“Joel,” you say, “for once, stop trying to be my hero.”

His head falls back and you press your lips to his throat, nibbling the sensitive spot behind his ear: the old scar, that tiny circle, that hairless patch. He groans your name, and you’re smiling despite yourself, your mouth curling against his warm, tender skin.

“Inside me,” you whisper, the pace of your fingers over his length slowing to a crawl. “Remind me how it feels.”

He turns his head to look into your eyes, his lashes dewy, blinking hard to flick away the water, brow furrowed. His moustache bristles as his lips part in a question he does not (or maybe cannot) articulate, and you’re fractured into pieces by the intricate curve of his nose, the freckles on his jaw, the silver strands in his beard. A rough hand cups the back of your neck and another takes you by the waist, and you’re flattened to the wall, your hand braced on the glass next to you as he kisses you deeply.

Consuming, heady, warm—you give in, your hands avoiding the delicate skin of his wrists where he’s been bound, helpless. Sighing softly into his mouth, you let his kiss humble the part of you that still needs the walls you’ve built from the marrow of your anger. It circles the drain, lead-filled paint, as you remember under his hands how it feels to live.

You reach between your bodies, your leg wrapping around his waist, and slide the head of his cock through your weeping slit. Joel sucks in air through his teeth, the water lashing his back like a whip, and he surges forward, grasping you by the waist and sinking his cock into your tight hole.

You cry out his name, burying your face in his throat and baring your teeth. Your name leaves his mouth in kind, an apparition, sounds you barely recognise anymore. As you take him inside you, the memory of who you were with him pounds at your ribcage, begging to be let out. And you covet them, selfish as you are now for fucking him this way, needy and impatient, your fingers tugging his wet locks.

You see no point in scooping out the marrow; there is still sweetness stuck to the bones of your old life with him. Instead, you coat your teeth in this, the slow drag of his cock, the depths he reaches so easily, so knowingly. His fingers prod the bruised flesh of your hurt and yet you still guide him inside. You still pull his hair and kiss his throat where his Adam’s apple bobs and you still let him hold you close enough to splinter.

He’s grabbing fistfuls of your ass and sucking on your throat, his thrusts sloppy as he tries to hold back, to make you come first, but you tighten, clenching down on him, making his groans pitch up into whines.

“Joel,” you gasp, your needy fingers prickling his scalp where you pull his hair. His teeth graze your throat and you want him to bite, you want him to sink in deep, you want his jaws to latch onto your skin. You want him never to leave again.

He comes hard. His hips buck, pushing so deep he disappears into your body, and you see the blues, browns, reds of your painting as he empties all he has left inside you.

Panting, he drops his head to your breast, his open mouth still scattering weak, worn kisses over your skin. Your lungs expand under his palms, fingers stuck in the grooves between your ribs, his body an offshoot of yours, not the other way around. In the ringing afterlife of your pleasure, you vaguely feel him mouthing words you cannot hear. You run your fingers through his hair and enjoy the battering of the scorching water as it melts you both into one.

Later, in the sticky, humid silence of the bathroom, steam still swirling around your heads, fogging the glass, you trim Joel’s hair.

"Do you ever get scared?" you ask him, the shhhick of the scissors gliding across a chunk of his hair. "Do you ever go out on a job and think to yourself, What if I slip? What if this is it?"

Joel huffs. "It's not so much about myself as making sure the other guy goes down first."

“I think I’d be scared.” You twirl a lock of hair around your finger and let it fall over his forehead. “I don’t think I’d be able to look into someone’s eyes and take their life.”

He casts his eyes to his lap, flicking off some hair from his thigh. “One time, I thought it was over. I wasn’t quite seventeen yet, runnin’ drugs for some gangster. He sent me to El Sauzal to discreetly transport a couple kilos out of the city; someone had snitched and he didn’t want any rival gangs to find his stash. But the people there, they… They didn’t know any better. There were mothers, kids. Innocent people, y’know? Just strays. I decided I’d come back for ‘em.”

Your stomach twists. “What happened?”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “I was too late. By the time I got back, the whole goddamn city was on fire. The people were either dead in the streets or close to it. They didn’t do anythin’ wrong. They didn’t ask for any of it. But they were weaker, slower. I couldn’t walk ten feet without seein’ some kid wrapped up his mother’s arms, burned to a fucking crisp. So, I came back with weapons, marched into the gang’s territory, and I killed ‘em all.”

Days ago, you’d be afraid of the man whose back warms your belly where you stand just behind him. You would hesitate to reach out and put your hand on his shoulder the way you do now. But you curl your fingers over the muscled curve of his arm and his head falls back against you, spidering open, his gooey molten centre bared for you.

Joel. Just Joel.

“Did you see the painting?” you ask him quietly.

“I see everything you do,” he says. “It's beautiful, baby.”

You drop your gaze from his face in the mirror and set down the scissors on the vanity. “I can't pretend to understand what you've been through, Joel, and that makes things even harder. All I've ever wanted is to love you, to take your pain, and all this time there's been so much I never even knew about. And I’m sorry.”

Joel’s hand comes to cover yours, clasping your fingers. They’re warm, rough, but you do not sense the phantom blood. “If I’d told you from the beginning,” he says, “maybe I never would've hurt you in the first place. All those years I thought I was protecting you from myself, I was hurting you—the one thing I swore I would never fuckin’ do.”

“Joel…”

“Baby, don't apologise to me,” he says firmly, putting his lips to your knuckles. “Never apologise to me. And don't you let me off easy.”

“Have I ever?” you say with a halfhearted smile.

“Yeah,” he says, “the day you let me marry you.”

You scoff. “Oh, please. Wedding planning was hell on earth for you.”

“Just because I didn't like the photographer—”

“You didn't not like the photographer, Joel. You wanted to draw and quarter the photographer.”

He huffs like an angry dog, frowning at you in the mirror. “He kept puttin’ his goddamn hands on you.”

You laugh, brushing your thumb over the patch in his beard to indicate you're finished. “He was posing us, cowboy.”

Joel rises to his feet and closes the scissors away inside the drawer. “Posin’ you, sure.”

“He was afraid to touch you. Probably thought you’d take off his hand. And the pictures turned out great.”

“Yeah,” he says, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Way the sunlight caught in your hair, your eyes… I don't know. Beautiful.”

He was so shy the first time you kissed him. Cheeks flushed, eyes cast toward the ground, the wind ruffling his curls where it blew over the water. He was made in an artist’s image, you thought that night, the details pored over like paperwork, the sparkle in his eyes something the painter covets. But the portrait has never wilted in the years you've known him. It's grown older, sure, but it is not old. He's still shy sometimes; he still looks down when he smiles, and he still turns his cheek when you tell him he's beautiful.

“Do you…” He rubs his palms over his thighs, looking up at you through his lashes. “Do you wish you could go back?”

It's your turn to sit. You drop into his chair, your arms curling over the back of the seat, and watch him on his journey to his knees. “I don't know, Joel,” you tell him. “I think about that day and part of me wants the magic of it back. I want the breeze and the sun and the white canopy and I want you sliding this ring on my finger. But knowing what I know now…”

“You wouldn't have married me,” he says like it's the only answer. His eyes are wet and sad and they sparkle so bright in the day.

“I wish I’d known,” you say plainly, bringing his hand to your cheek and resting it over the cool wedding band. “I wish you would have told me everything. I wish you didn't make me question your love, even for a second. I wish you could have spared me all this anger I have—all this pain.”

He’s stone-still, a figure in a portrait, and you brush your fingers across his cheek. “But killing isn't what you are, Joel. It’s what you do. And I’m so tired of being angry.”

You say it fiercely, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth, your throat tightening. You swipe your thumbs under your eyes and meet your husband’s eye. “I love you more than my anger and my hurt have room for. And if I can love you this hard, if I can feel all this pain and still be that same girl who fell for the guy from the restaurant, then I can let myself get hurt all over again.”

Joel shakes his head, cupping your face in his hands as his eyes brim with tears. “Oh, baby…”

“I know it's never been an easy marriage,” you say, your voice breaking, “and I’m always travelling, and I know that I can get snippy and we bicker, but I wouldn't go back to that day, Joel, because I wouldn't change anything. Even if I have to feel all of this again, I wouldn't take it all back.”

His inhale shudders through him and your heart lurches out of your chest. “I don’t deserve that,” he whispers, his thumb stroking your cheek, catching a tear that falls. “I’ve hurt you too much to ever be worthy of what you've given me, sweetheart. I ain't a good man, or even a decent one. But fuck, if I can be good for you, I’ll pray to whatever God they want me to. I’ll scrape my knees and put my hands together and fake it ‘til I’m someone you want. I swear it, baby.”

“Joel.” You gently pry his hands away. “The life you've lived, the things you've been through… I can't change any of it. I can't be what you need all the time, and fuck, I want to be. I do, Joel. But this life is something you have to figure out yourself. Nobody should force you to believe in something that's only ever caused you pain.”

He never told you about the tattoo; you had to find it yourself. Shucking the hem of his shirt up over his head, two weeks separating the last time you’d been able to indulge in his body, you trailed your fingers up his back and paused at the sound of him hissing through his teeth.

“Easy, cowboy,” you cooed. “Are you all right?”

Wordlessly, he turned, taking your hand and lifting it to the reddish skin around the black ink. You gasped, your fingers jolting backward as if struck by a feeler of lightning.

“Joel,” you said tremulously, “please don't tell me you were drunk and this was an impulse decision.”

“Guys in the Marines would get tattoos that meant somethin’ to them. Easier to carry around with you when you're away.” Joel met your gaze again, your tearful eyes, and brought your knuckles to his mouth. “Tell me you want it gone, and it's gone.”

You shook your head, a laugh snaking past the lump in your throat. “Selfishly, I think it’s very sexy.”

He chuckled, kissing the breath from your lungs.

The memory is heavy in your stomach. It's something you'll have to roll around in your mouth a thousand times before the taste begins to dissolve.

“I need time, Joel,” you tell him. “I need to wrap my head around things. I… I can't be the girl you want right now.”

Joel brushes his thumb over your chin. “You have always been the girl I want,” he says. “If you need time, you have it. If you need a warm body, you have it. I’m whoever you want me to be. And if it ain't a husband, then… then that's okay. But I can’t promise you that I won't stop tryin’ to get my wife back. That’s not who I am.”

You sniffle, twirling the ring on his finger. “You’ll get sick of it. The waiting.”

He smiles so softly that you can feel a bud begin to bloom in the core of you, nourished by the way he keeps his hand on your thigh, absently rubbing the sore muscles there. “I waited my whole life for someone like you to come along—someone who could give me the purpose I’d been lookin’ for. I can wait another lifetime. I can wait a thousand.”

“You’ll resent me. You’ll start to hate me.” You don't know why it comes pouring out of you, but the gates are brittle wood and they snapped in the torrent. “I’m an angry drunk. I smell like paint half the time. I travel for work.”

Joel just studies your face, some inexplicable calm etching out the agony. “You take your coffee with milk and sugar and you can't stand it black, but you make it that way for me anyway. You sleep until noon when you're jet lagged and I sit up in bed just to watch you dream. You lie in my arms on the couch at home and ask me about my day even when you're noddin’ off. You dreamed about love when you were a little girl, the way it happens in books. You told me in your wedding vows that you'd found it with me. You think I could resent a girl like that?”

He smiles like it hurts and heals all at once, like it's a foregone conclusion, like you were meant to be loved by him.

“Time doesn't mean a goddamn thing. I know the girl I see in front of me now. Time won't change how much I love her.”

Flipping through the list of potential venues, Joel tucked into your side, you said, “We’ll have an outdoor ceremony. No churches.”

“Baby, I won't burst into flames if I step inside a church.” Joel playfully flicked his tongue over your nipple, obscured by his T-shirt. “Tommy, on the other hand… things he's done…”

You laughed, gently pushing at his head. “No churches,” you said again. “I don't care how much more we’ll have to pay or travel to get around it. You're my husband. You're my comfort, and I want to be what's comfortable for you. Understood?”

He looked up at you, his lips parted as if on the precipice of speech. You beamed, bringing his face to yours and kissing him deeply.

“But if the wind knocks over the gazebo, you're not getting your dick inside me on our wedding night,” you said against his mouth. Joel shook his head, yanking you on top of him and tearing the shirt from your body. Your binder landed with a flutter of loose pages to the floor.

“You didn't kill Cabrera.”

Joel lowers his eyes. “No. He got away.”

“So there's still a contract on your head.”

“For now.”

“So,” you say with a sigh, crossing the room and digging through your bag, “you have to go.”

“I have to go,” he echoes, following you like a shadow. “No matter what… I’m finishing it. Tonight.”

You pull the switchblade from your bag, open Joel’s fist, and place the cool wood hilt in his palm.

“Goddammit, Tommy,” he says under his breath. “He shouldn't have…”

“But he did,” you say. “He said I should be the one to have it. I think it should be yours.”

He curls his fingers over the hilt and flicks open the blade. It's light, but it seems to weigh him down. You rest your hand over his.

“Do what you need to do.”

He drops his forehead to yours and closes his eyes, soaking in this final breath exchanged between your silent bodies, dipping his fingers in the sanctified waters and coming out unscalded.

Bill calls Joel not a moment after he steps onto the street outside the Continental.

“That's a heavy price on your head.”

“Yeah, Bill, I know.” He breathes in the cool air, like cigarette smoke, his nostrils stinging. Trash and a new, fresh breeze carried into the city. Nothing that stays here ever thrives. “Stayed alive so far.”

“So I hear,” grunts the Manager, “and leaving behind a hell of a lot of cleanup.”

“I won't stick you with the check,” says Joel. “It's my business.”

“I don't conduct business inside this hotel,” says Bill, “which is why I won't tell you that a certain helicopter at a certain helipad is refuelling as we speak.”

Joel smirks, flicking out his cuff to check the time. “Any reason why you aren't tellin’ me this?”

“I like you, Joel. Despite myself.”

Silent, he waits for more.

“Besides,” Bill continues, “we live and die by honour. And you've saved my ass more than once.”

Joel snorts. “Which time are you thankin’ me for?”

“Just take my goddamn advice and leave this world. For good this time.”

“I will,” says Joel. “One way or another. Thanks, Bill.”

High above the ground, sitting in the alcove by the window, you watch storm clouds gather over the city, darkening the sky, the sun, and your Joel, so far away, slouching calmly toward whatever end he will choose.

It's raining.

The first time you kissed him, a downpour suddenly swept up the both of you and you'd scrambled underneath a bridge by the water. You both laughed until your ribs were sore, holding hands as you ran, a soaking wet playbill above each of your heads for cover.

“At least the show was good,” you shouted over the roar of the rainfall.

Joel was mesmerised into stillness by the colours of the traffic lights in your eyes, how they shifted over the planes of your face. Starting to think like an artist, you'd tease, and he'd lean into it, a planet circling its sun.

“It was all right,” he said, taking the playbill from your hand. “You could catch a cold. We should get a cab.”

“Always my hero.” You grinned up at him, your eyes scanning his face in that particular way they did, as if ingesting the sight of him to later put the lines to a canvas. “Did you have a good time, Joel? I mean, really. You won't offend me.”

He grimaced. “I, uh… well, see, I’m not the best judge, and… I guess—”

“Joel.”

There was a gleam in your eyes that could have been amusement or could have been hunger. He doesn't remember. He only saw you tilt your chin and lower your eyes to his mouth, to that one place the Sisters always called vulgar, obscene, a place meant only for His word—

“Can I kiss you, Joel Miller, or will you keep being all heroic?”

It was soft, gentle, exploratory. Your mouth opened his like a wound, setting the scorching blade of your lips to the gash, staunching the blood. You healed and burned him, one hand on his back beneath his jacket, the other cupping his face. It reminded him of the statue that lived in the theatre underneath the church where all the boys and girls trained. An angel cast in white marble, cradling the face of Saint Eustace. The statue was chipped where his eye was meant to be.

He remembers the way he shuddered when you touched him like that. He remembers the chill that started in his feet and crept up his spine. Something like coming alive, settling back into his own body—no longer a spirit haunting the shell of a home but a man.

You pulled back, but Joel curled his hand around the back of your neck and kissed you again, deeper, maybe a little too eager, too inexperienced—but you gasped, fingers curling in his hair, your body curving into his. Your noses bumped when you separated, and he remembers laughing.

The rain is nothing like that night. It's the lash of a whip across his face, seeping colour from the world instead of infusing it with light and movement. The water by the docks slaps against the concrete and boats rock and groan against their mooring. The lights of the city are distant now.

Joel steps out of the car.

He marches toward his target, cocking the pistol in his hand, and calls out a name. It gets lost in the roll of thunder across the sky and lodges in his chest.

Cabrera waits on the landing pad, looking wraithlike in a long black coat and a pair of leather gloves. His pilot fuels the helicopter nearby. Neither of them hear Joel’s voice in the air. The rising sun is what gives him away—or maybe the gunshot, as he lifts his arm and pulls the trigger.

It does not pierce flesh. It ricochets off one of the rotor blades. He had aimed slightly to the left.

The pilot scampers off into hiding, but the slash of the bullet through the rainfall is enough to get the attention Joel wants. Cabrera reaches inside the lining of his jacket and fires a single shot. Joel can feel it tear through skin and muscle, but it doesn't hurt.

“Joel,” greets Cabrera.

“Manuel.”

His chest heaves, his jacket soaked through, the cold sinking bone-deep.

“Let's finish this.”

The glimmer in those depthless black eyes is the panther at the hunt, relentless in its hunger, licking its chops at the sight of a challenge. For all the coward’s blood in his veins, it still pulses at the prospect of winning.

“Like men,” says Cabrera, tossing his gun aside at the same time Joel does. “With honour. No more guns.”

And it's laughable: the thought that there is any honour left in a world like this. A world where children are beaten and lashed and trained to hold a weapon too big for their hands. A world that burns villages, butchers families, and still claims that without rules, we live with the animals.

A world as unruly as this cannot be ruled. He never truly considered it until he saw the sad gleam in your eye, felt the empathetic touch of your hand on his face, and began to realise that maybe he should be furious.

But because he already knows he's going to win, Joel lets his opponent land the first blow.

The blood is tangy, near-sweet, as he swipes his forearm over his mouth and smears crimson on his shirtsleeve. It tingles faintly on his lips and crackles, warm as the melt from a late-winter snow. He feels it settle in the grooves of his palms, the hairs of his beard. He’s drowning in it.

Cabrera hits hard, but he’s slow. He’ll take five punches in the time it takes to wind up for one. Joel brings his arm up to block the next and delivers a blow to the sternum with his knee as his opponent’s guard drops. Wide open, Cabrera stumbles a few steps back, choking down the telltale wheeze of being winded. Joel marches forward, relentless in his crusade, grasping him by the scruff of his neck, teeth bared like a mad wild dog, and bears his skull down on the side of the railing. Around them, the wind howls and lashes at his clothes, but he still hears the pained scream as if it were poured into his ears.

Cabrera drops to his knees, and Joel grabs him again, bashing his head repeatedly against the steel bar, the lapel of an Italian leather coat bunching between his fingers, tainted by rainwater and the fist of the man who's come to take his life.

And fuck, Joel wants to make it last.

But there's a knife in his opponent’s hand, conjured from the darkness of his coat pocket, and Joel must release him to avoid the lethal slash of the blade. Blinking blood and lashing rain from his eyes, the man lunges with a snarl, and Joel recovers from his lost victory, stopping him with his fingers curled around his opponent’s wrist. He brings his hand to the crook of Cabrera’s elbow and uses his leverage to snap the bone.

Yowling, Cabrera drops to his haunches, the knife clattering to the ground. Joel, chest heaving, stands over him, flexing his fingers as he readies his fist for the killing blow.

His name leaves Cabrera’s bloodied mouth, accompanied by a mouthful of crimson-tainted saliva spat on the ground at Joel’s feet.

“Joel…” He lifts his head, cradling his broken arm, and sneers. There’s a chilling glow of satisfaction in it. “Did you get your perfect life, Joel? Do you really think you’ve won? It won’t ever stop. Not after you’ve killed me, not after you’ve killed all of them. Is that what you’re going to do? Kill them all?”

He could. He has done far worse. He has spilled blood for gold coins and superficial alliances and someone else's revenge. He has stalked, stolen, lied, killed, and he could finish this now, so easily, with the flick of a blade.

But the song of death does not call to him now.

For so long he had trudged, unmoored, through heavy crimson blood. Like pulling at the seams of velvet, he'd sewn more lives into the sea of red and he never looked behind him to see the souls trying to pull him down at the ankles. He didn't know purpose until he saw the way the candlelight flickered in your eyes, until he tilted his head to the side and realised your smile was a new kind of beautiful from each angle.

The rain sticks to his lashes and he thinks of an old song of prayer the Sisters used to chant. He remembers curling his fingers around one of the rosaries that hung from the large cross in the cathedral and wincing in anticipation. He thought he would burn—that the metal would leave a red stain on his palm. It never did.

Maybe that's why he never believed. Surely, if there was a God, Joel Miller would have burned by now.

He thinks of shopping for furniture and date nights and lazy mornings, tangled in bedsheets. Your mouth, smiling against his, whispering I love you across the breakfast table. Dancing—or swaying, more like—under the kitchen light. Loving easily, never feeling as if he must grab hold of the cross and burn himself upon it just to feel.

Joel turns the switchblade in his hand, lurches forward, and plunges the knife into Cabrera’s chest.

There is no noise but a faint gurgle from his mouth, his hand weakly rising to grasp the hilt. Joel drops to his knees and fishes Cabrera’s cell phone from his pocket.

“The blade is stuck in your aorta,” he says. “If you pull it out, you’ll bleed out and die.” He puts the rain-slick screen in front of Cabrera’s face. “Pull the contract.”

A few feeble taps are all it takes, and Joel Miller is no longer a target. His name glares back at him on the screen, from two million to nothing, not the boogeyman any longer but something akin to a civilian. Joel tosses the phone into the water and turns to leave.

“See you in hell, Joel,” Cabrera chokes, still grasping the shiny wooden hilt of the blade.

He barely hauls himself into the car, which chokes to a rumbling start. There's blood seeping through his shirt where Cabrera shot him, and his fingers shake as they pull away from the wound, the red so bright, so alive. Joel grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut.

If there’s a God, he thinks, I hope you fucking hear me now.

Tell me that we don’t get what we deserve. Because there is nothing I deserve in this world if I cannot keep what I’ve found.

His fingers trembling, smearing blood across the screen, he makes a call.

And your voice on the line, soft, sticky with sleep, whispering his name—just his name: Joel?—is what wrenches the first sob from his throat.

Joel, you say, like it means something, like it's precious. A jewel pressed from dusty black coal. Come back to me. Come home.

So he does.

#fic: helen #kiwisbell's fics #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us #the last of us hbo #tlou fic #joel miller angst #joel miller au #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fic #john wick au

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irisintheafterglow · 6 months

Text

uhh uhh uhh uhh meeting enemy frat!suguru at a greek life halloween party

cw: swearing, drinking and alcohol, creepy dude at beginning

"look, i'm not interested in whatever weird shit you concocted. so, get lost," you spit at the ugly, intoxicated, ogre-looking airhead trying to give you a shot of heavens know what. he'd been trying to get into your pants since you crossed the threshold and you were having none of it. your sorority sisters, unfortunately, were nowhere to be found and you were left to glare at the stumbling goliath slowly backing you into a musty corner. "i don't want you, asshole, so stop trying to get with me."

"c'mon, lighten up a little. it's a fuckin' halloween party; why are you here if you're not getting shitfaced?" your nose wrinkles at his sheer audacity. you attempt to make a break for the door when his overworked biceps suddenly block your eyeline, trapping you against the wall. body odor and whiskey leak into your nostrils and you swallow down the bile that rises in your throat. "where the hell are you going? do you even know who i am?"

"you're gonna be six feet under if you don't leave them the fuck alone," comes a dangerously low voice somewhere behind your harasser. "get back to whatever shithole you crawled out of."

"don't be such a downer, geto," the guy drawls over his shoulder and his casual nature makes you physically recoil. "i'm just tryna get them to take a shot or two with me, that's all." before you can process it, the shot glass is snatched from the asshole's hand and downed in a blink. the man, who you assume is geto, glares even sharper daggers than you, and your heart does an unwanted little flutter. the gesture seemingly didn't get through the other bro's thick skull as he whirls around, offended. "hey, what the fuck was that?"

"lay off of 'em. don't be more trouble than you're worth." the guy hesitates for the briefest second and is just as quickly shoved to the side, landing on the floor with a satisfying thud. he groans and you inhale a deep breath of stale party atmosphere, pushing off the wall and beelining to the nearest source of fresh air. you vaguely sense someone following behind you and don't bother looking until you're shivering against the chilly october air. "you alright?"

"sure," you deadpan, "if i ignore the fact that i almost got roofied a minute ago." you cross your arms and plop into the nearest deck chair, uncomfortably eyeing a nearby couple getting a little too intimate for being in public. the guy who helped you stands next to you at a respectful distance, following your gaze to the people practically eating each other's faces.

"oi, get a fucking room," he barks and they flinch, scurrying into the house to find some empty room to bang in. "better?"

"yeah," you mutter, still uneasy about why he followed you out in the first place. "thanks for helping me, in there."

"don't mention it. it's a wonder how many frats still let him come to parties considering how easily he scares sorority girls away," he says blankly and you take a second to shamelessly analyze his appearance. long, dark hair was tied back into a loose bun and stray strands framed a mesmerizingly sharp jawline. unlike most of the guys inside, he actually was wearing a shirt, a simple sweatshirt with his frat's letters embroidered across the front. you couldn't see what the letters were, but you guessed he was probably part of a related frat by how willingly he stepped in to help you. to combat the autumn air, you figured, he also wore a flannel that had a dragon printed on the back panel. "you sure you're okay?"

"yeah, i'm good. a little cold, is all," you admit, grimacing at the goosebumps running over your arms. without another word leaving your mouth, he shrugs off the flannel and tosses it into your lap. you wrap it around your shoulders and catch him watching you, the tiniest smirk painting his pretty mouth when you pull it tighter against you. it's warm and smells like expensive cologne. "you're a real gentleman, you know that?"

"so i've been told," he replies and you huff an exasperated breath. "i swiped this for you on my way out, too. it's sealed, but i can grab you another one if you're still skeptical." he hands you a lukewarm bottle of water and, true to his word, requires a little bit of effort to break the seal around the cap. you take a few sips and your mind finally starts to process what happened. "feel a little better?"

"definitely. thank you, is it geto?"

"call me suguru." fuck, that's hot. he's hot.

"thank you, then, suguru. can i ask why you're being so nice when you don't even know me?"

"just making sure everyone's having fun and being safe so no one calls the cops." your response falls from your lips faster than you can stop it.

"nothing else?" his attention flicks to you and he chuckles in amusement at your boldness.

"and, i think you look nice in your costume," he murmurs and you'd be lying if you said it didn't make your heartrate increase. "that what you wanted to hear?"

"mhmm, thank you." the giddy excitement wears off and you check the time on your phone. "i should probably be getting back home."

"you got a ride?"

"i'll go find one of my pledge sisters that are also partied out," you shrug, praying that someone was sober enough to get you back safely.

"you mind if i call you a cab? i don't feel comfortable sending you off in some rando's car."

"technically, you're a rando," you point out, and he raises his hands in surrender. "but, sure, as long as you walk me out."

"i was already planning on it," he affirms and extends a hand, helping you out of the cold metal chair. his palm is warm, safe, and strong, nothing like the grabby ones that were begging for your body all night. suguru waits with you on the lawn until the cab arrives and opens the door for you as you slip into the second row. before you can close the door, he reaches over you and hands the driver a stack of bills that has the old man's eyes widening to the size of tennis balls. "get them home safely, please."

"what are you doing?"

"doing the next best thing besides driving you home myself. i didn't think you'd be comfortable doing that, given the progression of the evening." you're stunned into silence by his genuine chivalry and nearly forget to give him his flannel back. when you go to pull it off, however, he stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder. "keep it, for now. i'll get it back at some point."

"alright," you concede, wrapping it around you like a safety blanket. "thank you for everything."

"of course. get home safe, yeah?"

"i will. thank you, suguru."

you wake up in the morning on the couch in the sorority house's living room, still in the same clothes from the night prior. your head pounded like it was getting repeatedly slammed with a mallet, but you were barely able to remember the events leading up to crashing at home. you look down and the flannel around your body reaffirms that suguru was, in fact, real and not just a drunk hallucination. you're in the middle of smiling giddily to yourself when one of your sisters screeches to a halt in the hallway behind you.

"good morni-"

"what the fuck are you wearing?" she asks with all the seriousness as if someone had died.

"yeah, i know i look like shit. is anyone in the shower-"

"no, stupid. that flannel, where did you get it?"

"some guy helped me get home last night and he let me borrow it; why are you being so weird?" you stumble to the kitchen and pour yourself a glass of water. your sister watches you from over the counter like you'd grown four heads. "hello? why are you looking at me like that?"

"you do realize where that flannel is from, right?"

"no...?"

"your little buddy from last night is from those assholes at theta phi fuckhead, babe." you nearly drop your glass in shock. there's no way. he couldn't have been from those dipshits, could he? "there's a reason we're not supposed to talk with them, 'cause they're dangerous and unruly."

"but this one, he-"

"doesn't matter. don't let anyone else see you with that on, or they'll have a fit." she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose between two fingers. "shower is free, so go get dressed and change your clothes."

as you strip off the flannel, a small piece of paper drops from one of the pockets. the message written on it has you gripping the edge of the counter for support.

you look cute in my clothes. (XXX) XXX-XXX if you wanna wear 'em more often

-s. geto

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

#geto x you #geto x reader #geto x y/n #suguru x you #suguru x reader #suguru x y/n #geto suguru x you #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru x y/n #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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the-s1lly-corner · 11 months

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Their ideal partners

Silly little hcs because ive been thinking what each of the lads look for in a s/o

Slenderman;

Given I'm aiming for the "he's been observing humans for centuries and has grown used to their antics," vibe with him, I feel like he'd like someone who keeps him guessing

Nothing TOO crazy, because he can be irritable, but if you intrigue him he'll definitely stay around

Does he have any peculiar icks? Tastes?

Can't stand messy people... doesn't mind if its unorganized, or a chaotic system, but if you live in muck it's a deal breaker

Doesn't care what you look like, or what gender you are; he sees beyond that because, again, ancient being that's been watching humans for a long time.. kinda desensitized to that sort of thing

Laughing Jack;

He WANTS someone who can match his energy; but he NEEDS someone who can mellow him out

As much as I hate the "I can fix/change him" thing (well I dont HATE it, it really matters on execution and all), Jack needs someone who can make him chill out a bit

Icks? You know those people who kill the energy in a room? Like total buzzkill + downers? He doesnt like those. Not like the "he hates depressed people" way, obviously, but in the way that

Okay so idk if this is just a me thing but I come across a lot of people who do it on purpose for attention/quirkiness, those are the kinds of people he doesnt like

Like slenderman, he doesnt really care what you look like; bros gonna slip himself around you like a snake (affectionately)

Eyeless Jack;

Right off the bat he needs someone who's understanding

It ain't easy being a cursed man who's forced to eat human meat

Someone who's willing to listen to what happened to him, and help him see the brighter side of things

Basically a "storm cloud x sunshine" ship dynamic

Icks? As long as you're not too chaotic or hyper he's fine with it; Jack is more quiet and reserved energy wise, stress tends to make the curses symptoms worse

Prefers short people; he himself is also short (I hc hes about 5'5), and he's a lil insecure, but he's not totally opposed to dating taller people

Masky;

Writing for specifically masky for this one instead of the usual tim, hope that's alright!! I just wanna flesh out him n hoodie more

Bro is kinda..... whouf... rough around the edges; kinda feral

Not like FERAL feral, but this is the kind of dude who tunnels on someone during his work and wont be afraid to body slam into stuff full speed/force

So naturally, he gets hurt a lot. So a caring and soft partner is an immediate go to; especially since in my hc/au tim still exists, just as a different.. persona? Headspace? I really dont know the correct terms <\3

He likes observing as well, but he'll occasionally join in on whatever activity you're doing!!

Icks? Loud people... I would say spontaneous people as well, but considering my take on him, he kinda falls into a softcore version of that category

Hoodie;

Very similar to masky, but also not... between the two hes more.. calm and calculating; whereas Masky tends to dive straight in, in most cases

Should not that neither of them verbally speak; so they both need a partner who's fine with physical touch since that's one of their main ways of communicating/showing affection

Especially with hoodie; dude always has a hand on you and guiding you in some way

Unlike all the others, hoodie does not have ANY preferences for partners. Doesn't matter the personality, body type, and he doesnt have many icks

Probably doesnt like arrogance, kinda just annoys him.... but hey, makes his.. job.. easier

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juuuulez · 2 months

Text

📰 | richie jerimovich x reader ; “Princess.”

🎧 -> untitled 07, kendrick lamar

info: Richie Jerimovich x Reader, no use of (y/n), reader’s nickname is princess because duh it’s cute, mention of drugs, arguing, brief mention of Mikey, brief mention of a sexual relationship, Richie just wants what’s best for you.

summary: Richie is your dealer, and also a pretty good lay. But recently he’s changed his priorities, and tries to change yours, too.

gigantic bear brainrot right now, and i was thinking about that little glimpse of dealer richie annnndd that’s sorta it! don’t like, don’t read, but the overall consensus is about recovering and breaking old habits.

i also happen to have such a soft spot for this man!!!!!! sue me!!!!!!!!!!!!! i literally wrote this in less than an hour i’m insane

Hey. You working?

Richie’s phone goes off, ironically, right when he’s on his break. Every day, he goes outside for a cigarette at the exact same time. And you know that. He knows you know that, and he also knows what you want. Of course he does. It’s always the same thing. He stopped doing this shit for a reason, but you? He’s weak. And probably stupid.

Neither of you even discuss the plan: it’s protocol at this point. Not even seconds pass, and he��s already punched in a response.

Nah. Come see me.

Minutes later, and there are footsteps approaching down the back alley, towards the door Richie lingers near. He turns to see your form approaching, watching the way you tug at the sleeves of your sweater, likely much too thin to truly combat the cold. With how hasty you’d been, Richie suspects you’d already been nearby. Likely around the corner, just waiting for the go ahead.

It’s been a few weeks since he last saw you, though Richie knew why. Because he didn’t do this shit anymore. To reach out again, you must’ve been desperate. He could work with that.

“Princess.” He greets, nursing a lit cigarette between sharp teeth.

You’re sighing, a look of exasperation on that pretty little face. A mix of relief, and discomfort, at being out in this weather. “You’re my saviour, you know that, right?”

Richie scoffs, already approaching. Closing the gap between you two. “Find that one hard to believe.” He mutters.

As usual, you move in to intrude on Richie’s space, tucking yourself against his side. The biting Chicago winter urges you closer, as he’s somehow warm, though Richie is always warm. One hand ashes his cigarette onto the concrete, and the ofher arm wraps around you, hand cupping the ass of your jeans, thumb tracing the pocket seam.

Laying there is a wad of cash, he can feel the outline faintly under the thick fabric. But he doesn’t take it. Nor does he replace it with anything, despite what you’d been expecting, what he’d agreed to. This routine you’d built up, an unspoken process.

You shift away slightly, looking up at the taller man with furrowed brows. His hand shifts higher, finding its place against your side, holding onto your hip.

“What gives?” You ask, trying to decipher that unreadable look on Richie’s face. For a man so expressive, you were lost on an interpretation in this moment. He wouldn’t even look at you, squinting at some unknown spot in the alley.

Then his head starts shaking, a disapproving look forming, before the words follow. “Sure you don’t want some dope instead?”

“If I wanted dope, I would have asked for it.” You retort. The words were sharp with intent, slightly irritated.

Richie tries harder to convince you, finding that would be easier than outright admitting his concern. “Come on. You haven’t thought about making the switch?” He muses as if it were obvious, taking a long drag from his cigarette. That hand is still on your side.

You roll your eyes. “To what? Being miserable and a fucking downer?”

“No.” Richie rolls his eyes. “To going, I dunno.. natural, or whatever.”

This gets no response, and Richie finally glances down at you. You look confused, but mostly pissed. Definitely some form of agitated.

“Weed and shrooms.” He clarifies with a shrug.

“Are you serious?” You’re snapping at him, finally stepping back a little, out of his hold. “As if you even have shrooms.”

“I could get them if you wanted. Gotta be better than that other shit.”

“Fuck! You’ve gotta be the world’s worst dealer.” You utter, running a hand through your hair and looking off into the distance.

Before he can get a word in, you begin venting, letting that frustration bubble up. “Y’know, if I wanted a lecture, I’d call my parents. But you, Richie?”

So, he snaps back. Like he always does. After all, fighting is miles easier than having an actual discussion. “I dunno, princess, this ain’t fuckin’ right! I can’t do this shit to you.”

“It’s coke, Richie! Not heroin. I’ll be fine.” You urge.

He shakes his head, voice only rising with his temper, a tone most are accustomed to. “You know that’s not the fucking point.” The words have anger in them, laced with bite, intent.

And for some reason.. some, god forsaken reason, you let up.

Maybe you knew this would happen. Maybe you had the smallest, tiniest inkling that coming to Richie, of all people, was a bad idea. You knew he’d stopped dealing, for the most part. But you couldn’t blame him, not after everything that happened with Mikey. It’s not like you didn’t know him, too, but it was different.

So, you relent, pressing a hand over the crease of your brows. “Okay, okay. Just..” You can’t get out a full sentence, mind reeling with about twenty thoughts at once. The most prominent notion: you certainly weren’t getting your coke today. Not from Richie. And, frankly, you didn’t trust anyone else.

He looks down at your dejected form, jaw clenched with tension. Richie didn’t like being the bearer of bad news, by any means, and felt a pang of sympathy. In an ideal world, he’d give you anything and everything you wanted.

In an ideal world, you wouldn’t be asking.

“What’ya need it for, anyway?” He ends up inquiring, tone a tad softer, now that the hostility has simmered.

You shrug, kicking around a rock. “House party.”

Richie nods, getting a vague idea of what was happening. It was for later. That was good.

“Then how ‘bout.. you come over to mine,” He suggested, “We smoke up instead.”

It wasn’t an unfamiliar request, but any means. You’d spent many nights in his apartment. It was lonely and derelict, as most days, he didn’t have his daughter around. Sometimes things escalated. By all means, Richie was certainly a good fuck, if anything. But you were messy, complicated, not someone that stuck around for long. Richie understood that, as he wasn’t looking to settle down, either. Not with someone like you. At least, that’s what he told himself.

“Already bought the beer, Rich.” You justify, giving a minor resistance towards the idea.

Of course, he has a solution for everything. “Bring it.”

You nod along, the slightest of smirks appearing on those plump lips. It was clear as day, a physical indicator that you were fucking weak for anything he suggested. “So you’re denying me product, and you’re gonna drink my beer?”

“Yeah, but the weed is free.” Richie offered, a grin beginning to form, purely because he was getting what he wanted.

There’s a low whistle, sucking the air from between your teeth. It’s cold out, and you’d rather get home, given this was supposed to be a quick pick-up. The thought of spending a night over at a Richie’s place was incredibly tempting, given you hadn’t seen him much lately. He’d been pulling away, which was understandable. You weren’t exactly the healthiest to be around.

“M’kay, weirdo.” You agree, looking away to avoid spotting how purely happy that makes Richie. Deep down, you know he’s genuinely pleased with himself, not just for getting you to come over, but to abandon the drug altogether, even if just for a night. He’s fixing you, making you a better person, which you really fucking hate.

He throws the cigarette to the ground, stomping on its ashy remains. “See? What a good fuckin’ girl you can be. Just gotta use that pretty little head more.”

To emphasise his point, Richie cups the top of your head, fingers disrupting the part of your hair. His hands are huge, for the most part, covering the expanse of your skull. It prompts you to swat it away with a displeased grunt.

“Don’t push it, asshole.” You warn, already trying to fix your hair. Before he can cause any more damage, you’re turning on your heel, eager to escape the cold.

“10pm. Don’t be late, princess.” Richie calls out to your retreating form, watching the semi-enthusiastic thumbs up you flash him in return.

Feeling pretty goddamn successful, he gets back to work.

#me when i neglect all my current wip’s because i desperately needed to write about richie #richie jerimovich #richie jerimovich x reader #richie jerimovich x you #the bear #the bear fx #the bear x you

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loveshotzz · 1 year

Note

I have a pretty good one awhile ago but I don't ever see myself writing it.

Reader and Eddie are good friends, Argyle drops by his trailer to buy, and he ends up flirting with the reader. Later reader and Eddie go to a party, Argyle is there, and in sure you know where it goes from there

Argyle x fem!reader

You can call me names if you call me up

Warnings:18+ Weed dealing, weed smoking, mentions of drinking, slight mentions of hellcheer? (eddie has a crush and we make fun of him for it) kissing, semi public fingering (f! receiving)

Word count: 5.8k

beta’d by @superblysubpar

Authors note: This is my first ever Argyle fic! Thank you @sleepy-princ3ss for letting me write this! I had a lot of fun this one but it’s scary to write a new character so let me know what you think! I also had a good time writing Eddie as our best friend who doesn’t want to fuck us. Wild right? Still, there’s lots of Eddie in here too 💕

The summer heat always feels extra sticky inside Eddie’s trailer this time of year, the stale breeze that floats through his cracked window does nothing to cool you down. Thumbing through the worn covers of the records Eddie keeps in his room you hum along to the last few chords of Ride The Lightning. When the covers of Back In Black and Blizzard of Oz stick together, you grimace as you pull them apart. A crumpled cut of a babe from a Heavy Metal Magazine is the ‘glue’ that was holding them together.

“Eww Eddie! What the fuck?” god, your best friend was gross.

Clumsy loud footsteps bring him to the entrance of his room, bangs sticking to his forehead from sweat, his face flushes an even deeper shade of red when his eyes zero in on what you’re glaring at.

“I - uh,” coughing nervously, he scratches the back of his neck, the chain wrapped around his wrist sliding down his arm, “I don’t - I don’t know how that got there.”

Scoffing with a roll of your eyes you examine it a little more closely, careful not to touch it. The blond hair and the big blue eyes were a dead give away why this had to have been his favorite.

“She kinda looks like Chrissy don’t you think? Like if she got a metal makeover or whatever you’d call this,” snorting when his face turns into a tomato, his own glare takes over his features when he narrows his eyes at you.

“Why are you even snooping through my records, this one just started?” blinking quickly with embarrassment he looks like he’s ready to explode and you’ve never been more pleased with yourself.

Opening your mouth ready to bite back with something that you were sure was going to send him over the edge, the sound of three quick knocks followed by a single fourth one cuts you off before you can even start.

“Who’s that?” confused at his lack of communication with anyone crashing your hang out, he snaps - gesturing for you to step away from his records before he answers you.

He’s halfway out his bedroom door with you quick on his heels when he finally does.

“Jonathan and his friend from Cali are here to pick up real quick,” groaning at the sound of Jonathan’s name, Eddie laughs loudly before signaling for you to shut up with a finger to his lips.

It wasn’t that you hated Jonathan, he was just always such a downer when he’d join in on your smoke sessions.

Opening the door when you cross your arms with a nod signaling you’ll behave, he turns his charismatic Munson charm up to a ten with a wide grin.

“Byers,” giving him a slight bow, he extends his tattooed arm wide inviting them in, “Byer’s friend.”

You see Jonathan first, who gives you an awkward small wave and a tight lipped grin, lifting three fingers you give him the same energy.

“Oh hey man, the name’s Argyle excited to see what kinda weed you got out here,” Jonathan’s cute friend that follows him in was not what you expected as he clasps his hands together rubbing his palms excitedly stepping through the threshold.

Chestnut hair longer than Eddie’s sways as he walks in, the top of it hidden by a flipped bill green cap. Its smooth texture makes your hand twitch, you’re almost positive it’d feel like silk against your fingertips. A big dopey smile graces his full pink tinged lips as his already bloodshot brown eyes meet yours when he finally turns to see you in the hallway.

All the loud colors and clashing designs on his clothes makes the corners of your mouth tug up. Curiosity piqued, you throw him a more flirtatious wave, fluttering your lashes for good measure.

Eddie rolls his eyes from behind him catching onto your antics, but Argyle looks like he’s been turned to stone, frozen in place as he takes in your barely covered frame. Leaning a shoulder against the wall you watch his eyes trail up the uncovered expanse of your legs till he hits the frayed ends of your jean shorts, your spaghetti strap tank top gives him the perfect view of the curve of your breasts barely hidden beneath the thin fabric. Sweat beading off your heat kissed skin.

Clearing his throat he shakes his head when he feels his jaw go slack, glancing worriedly at Eddie who’s already too busy rummaging around the living room looking for his trusty metal lunch box.

“Don’t mind her, she’s just my partner in crime,” waving a dismissive ringed hand in your direction as he digs behind the couch Jonathan just got settled on, Argyle’s face falls slightly at the nickname.

That still didn’t stop him from watching you push yourself off the wall and walk to the kitchen island, sitting yourself on the cleared spot on top. Legs moving to the beat of the music still bleeding out from the speakers in Eddie’s room, you knew he was completely transfixed on you as he rocked back on his heels.

“Got it boys!” cheering himself on loudly, it’s your turn to roll your eyes.

“Only you would lose your lunch box full of drugs Munson,” winking at Argyle after you roast your best friend, his smile turns shy when he looks away.

“Bold of you to insult me when you smoke for free,” squinting with threatening eyes, he flips the lid open, the metal connecting with the wood of the coffee table in a loud clunk.

Sticking your tongue out at him he scoffs before turning his attention towards Jonathan pulling out two different bags of the new strains Rick had just supplied him with.

Argyle watches you both with confused eyes, unsure what to think of your banter as he feels the shift in your stare. The heat of it makes all the blood rush to his cheeks when he dares to meet it. Waving him over, you remind him to actually finish walking in. Eyes going wide at the realization, he looks down as he walks over to stand in the space right next to you.

Leaning his back against the formica countertop, your knee brushes the side of his arm with every small kick of your dancing feet. He smells like the kind of weed that makes you feel bad for whatever Eddie’s about to sell them and a hint of an earthy toned cologne. Dark eyes lifting up to yours, his breath catches in his throat when you meet his gaze instantly.

“Sooo, how’s it going?” purposely nudging him this time, you get a smile to finally break across his nervous face.

“It’s uhh- it’s good, Jonathan’s mom is super nice. Her cooking is shmackin,” giggling a little, he told himself it was because of the lingering effects of the weed they smoked on the way here, not because of the way you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth as you listened.

“Oh yeah, dinner at Joyce’s is always a hit. She really is the sweetest,” eyes crinkling in the corners when you grin at him, he was even cuter this close.

“How long are you visiting?” resting your chin on your shoulder when you look up at him, the height difference is still noticeable despite your advantage. His cheeks turn bubble gum pink at your flirty questioning.

“Just for a few weeks, I don’t want to put them out too much you know? She’s got a full house over there with everyone back,” you catch a hint of sadness in his mellow voice. He missed his best friend, that was more than evident. The thought of only seeing Eddie a few weeks out of the year sounded miserable.

“So you and Jonathan huh? How’d that even happen?” The difference in their personalities was astounding, but even you had to admit that Byers came back from California a little more relaxed. Meeting Argyle you’re starting to figure out why.

“Ahh yeah, dudes was like having a total meltdown at school one day about some stuff with Nancy, I felt bad you know, he looked like someone kicked his dog.” Glancing over at his friend he laughs at the memory.

“So I just showed him the ways of Purple Palm Tree delight and the rest was history.” Smirking proudly when he looks at you, his eyes briefly drift towards your lips curled up into their own grin.

“Finally! Someone got Byers to chill out!” Your praise is loud enough to get a side eye from Jonathan and a laugh from his cute friend.

“It’s super nice of you to come all this way to visit Argyle, I hope you make the most of your time here,” sweetness drips from your words making his eyes grow as big as saucers when he catches the slight invitation hidden inside them.

Jonathan finally speaks loud enough for the whole room to hear, snapping your attention away from the pretty stoner boy.

“Are you guys going to the party at Rick’s tonight?” shoving the bag of weed he just bought in his back pocket, his beady eyes dart between you and Eddie.

Argyle’s still in his own world and Eddie’s got a front row seat to his completely smitten gaze dead set on your face. Despite being annoyed with you all afternoon, you’d always been a good wingman when he needed it. Lips pulling up in a mischievous smirk he wiggles his eyebrows at you before answering.

“We are!”flipping the lid to his lunch box shut with obnoxious force, you’re truly shocked he hasn’t broken it yet with his need for dramatic flair.

The sound of metal clanking loudly snaps Argyle out of whatever lovesick daze you already had him in from just from batting your lashes and showing a little interest. His eyes connect with Eddie's, a sheepish look taking over his face from being caught openly gawking.

“We are? what part-“ Eddie glares at you before cutting you off.

“The party I was literally just telling you about before they got here,” he looks pointedly at the boy shuffling his feet next to you.

Argyle’s eyes stay fixated on the dirty carpeted floor doing his best not to stare, completely oblivious to the way Eddie was trying to help him out, not scold him.

Glancing over at the cowering boy, it’s like a light bulb flashes on top of your head when you realize Eddie was trying to help you get laid.

“Ohhh that party! Sorry, stoner memory you know?” bumping your shoulder with his, your lips twist up in a grin when the chocolate of his eyes meet yours, “Totally going”

The look on Argyle’s face is hard to read as a mixture of excitement and fear cross over his features at the same time. Shifting uneasily, he keeps looking at Eddie from the corner of his eye but he can’t stop the smile that slowly spreads across his soft lips, big pearly whites flashing at you.

“C-cool, I’ll totally see you there,” coughing as he scratches the back of his neck before quickly turning his attention to Eddie, “And uhh- you too man, I’ll uh see you there too!” the last part comes out loud enough to be a yell, his nerves making his voice shake.

“Uhhh, yeah man. For sure,” Eddie’s tone is laced with confusion, eyebrows raised in question as he looks at Argyle like he’s growing a second head.

Jonathan looks at his friend with wide eyes, his cheeks turning rosy from embarrassment from his outburst. Shaking his head, he stands up with a pat on his thighs - giving the universal gesture for ‘it’s time to go’

“Alright, well this got awkward. I think we’re gonna head out, we’ll see you guys tonight,” beckoning his friend to follow him towards the front door, he steals one last look at you before almost tripping over his own feet following Jonathan, flashing you a lopsided grin.

Shutting the door behind them Eddie turns to you with a smirk that you want to smack off his face.

“Look if that’s what you’re into -“ you throw a stray Readers Digest at Eddie before he has a chance to finish teasing you.

“Oh? Would you like him more in a pleated skirt waving some Pom Pom’s for Jason and his goons?” jumping off the counter you go for the jugular, your smirk growing when you get the same hard glare from earlier in his room.

“Listen, Caspian likes who he likes. I’m just the guy behind the wheel,” hands raised in mock defense, you snort rolling your eyes walking away with crossed arms.

“Eddie, your dick isn’t the Prince of fucking Narnia,” his boisterous laugh booms over the music and your glad he can’t see the way your lips twitch up at his antics, butterflies making their way inside your stomach at the thought of seeing Argyle’s goofy smile again again.

——

You’ve always hated parties, especially Reefer Rick parties. Messy and way too loud, it wasn’t just the usual crowd at Harrington's, dodging leering stares around every corner, you cling to Eddie’s arm as a deterrent.

“I don’t know what you were thinking wearing that skirt to Rick’s,” laughing at the permanent look of disgust that was stuck on your face as the two of you weave through the crowd, you turn your head up to stick your tongue out.

“You’re gonna give that poor kid a heart attack,” Eddie shakes his head when he sees the Cheshire smile that takes over your face as you approach the makeshift drink station, “Death by bone - Byers!”

Eddie’s outburst makes you jump when your eyes meet Argyle’s from over the keg on the dining room table, the stoned grin on his face faltering when he sees your arm wrapped tightly around Eddie’s. Big brown eyes only grow bigger when he gets a glimpse of the expanse of your legs and another thin tank top covering your chest like earlier, leaving little for his imagination.

The rosy color comes back to his cheeks when you let go of Eddie as you approach with a smile that seemed to be reserved just for him pretty on your glossed lips.

“Hey Argyle,” breathy and smitten, your own cheeks heat up when the corner of his mouth turns up, lopsided just how you like.

“Hey - wow, you look - wow - yeah you look gorgeful,” stumbling over his words, Jonathan looks exasperated with his best friend already, “I mean gorgeous, err — um beautiful.”

Jonathan raises his eyebrows in a greeting at you before taking a sip from his red solo cup, doing his best to ignore the stuttering mess next to him as he greets Eddie with their dude shake.

Argyle catches Eddie’s passive stare and it only seems to make him more nervous.

“Hey man, you look, you look uhh great too!” stammering a little less, his voice raises a few octaves borderline yelling just like in the living room earlier.

“Careful Argyle, keep smooth talking me like this and I’m gonna think you want me and not my friend here,” Eddie winks with a dimpled grin spread wide across his face before he scopes out the scene of the party. Zeroing in on a home base on the couch in the living room that sat miraculously unoccupied.

“Think I’m gonna post up, you know what they say ‘When in Rome’,” he gestures with his head to the spot to Jonathan, “Wanna join? I got a joint with our name on it.”

“Isn’t Rick gonna get pissed at you for selling at his house?” finally tearing your eyes away from Argyle who’s openly gaping at Eddie, you look up at your best friend.

“Pffft, please. It’s not like he’s not going to see the fruits of my labor, it’s fine, trust me. He’s probably already plastered and passed out on his waterbed anyway,” shrugging off your concern he looks at Jonathan expectantly.

“You good with that buddy?” clapping a hand on his friend's back, Argyle’s brown eyes dart back and forth between you and Eddie, repeating the words “my friend” like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

“Yeah, he’ll protect me from all the creeps won’t you,” grabbing his hand, the heat of his palm is an instant comfort against yours. Sucking your bottom lip between your teeth you look up at him from under your lashes. His cheeks turn the color of cherry blossoms when he finally meets your stare, squeezing your hand gently, he looks back at the two boys finding his nerve.

“Yeah I’ll protect this pretty little princess with my life man,” saluting your best friend, Eddie raises his eyebrows seemingly unimpressed before turning back to Jonathan.

“Ready?” ignoring Argyle’s pledge you snort at Eddie’s casual bitchiness.

“Yeah, let's go. Look, be cool man, don’t take anything anyone here offers you, got it? I’m not taking care of you again like that time you ate the mushrooms you found in the woods,” Jonathan looks a lot like the guy you’d always known talking to his friend like he would his little brother with a finger pointed in Argyle’s face.

“There'll be no mushroom consumption on my watch, Byers,” mocking Argyle’s salute, your antics earn an eye roll from Eddie knowing damn well if the offer was given to both of you, you’d fold.

“Alright! You kiddos, have fun and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Eddie grabs Jonathan by the shoulders aggressive enough to have his beer slosh over the lid and you were almost positive that annoyed scowl would be stuck on his face all night.

Watching them till they both got lost in the crowd of bodies, you and Argyle finally dare to face each other. The air between you thickening now that you were alone, and he was still very much holding your hand.

“Do-“

“How-“

It was like a cheap rom com the way you both went to talk at the same time, cheeks heating up as you both look at the ground, a new shyness taking over. Squeezing his hand you encourage him.

“You first,” soft and sweet, you swear you his pupils dilate from the way you look at him.

Argyle gets the same expression on his face Eddie does when he’s forced to talk to Chrissy when she comes to buy weed for her friends. He was silently hyping himself up. Straightening his shoulders he clears his throat before the smile that made your stomach do flips graces his kissable lips.

“Can I get the pretty lady a beveregino?”

A stumbling drunk someone knocks into you before you have a chance to give an answer. Flying into his chest he lets go of your hand to grab at your hips, helping you regain your balance. The slurred apology falls on deaf ears when you and Argyle lock eyes from this close, chest to chest his fingers dig into you just enough to notice.

“I’m not much of a drinker, more of a stoner. Wanna go by the lake? I stole a joint from Eddie before we left,” grinning with pride at your sticky fingers, his lips twitch up, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Woman after my own heart, hell yeah! Let's blow this popsicle stand,” turning you around he keeps his hands on your hips, lips coming close to your ear from behind, “Lead the way my weed smoking goddess”

Goosebumps rise, dancing across your skin at the feeling of his warm breath fanning down your neck as you lead him through the crowd. His hands never leave their spot from your hips, their grip tightening as you get closer to the sliding glass door that takes you out to Rick’s backyard.

Stepping onto the wooden deck he finally lets you go, there’s just a few stragglers outside smoking cigarettes too lost in their own conversation to notice the two of you. The air has lost most of its humidity, leaving the night in a post heatwave glow. The stars gleam bright next to the moon in the clear night sky, reflecting off the water it lights your way as you walk hand in hand down to the lake. Stealing glances at him from the corner of your eye the whole way down, you catch him doing the same thing, both of you giggling every time your eyes meet.

Finding a place nestled next to Rick’s boat house, you were far enough from the party for the loud music and constant chattering to seem like a faint noise in the background. The laps of the water hitting the shore take center stage as you curl your legs under your thighs when you sit like the princess he claimed you to be on the plush grass.

His knee brushes yours when he plops down Indian style next to you, his curious eyes follow yours as you look down at your exposed cleavage. Digging into your bra you pull a perfectly rolled joint with a smug smirk on your face, twirling it around in your dainty fingers he can’t help but throw his head back and laugh.

“I thought chicks only did that in movies, that’s some secret spy shit,.” the smile he gives you makes you want to squirm, “Crafty and beautiful.”

Not used to the kind of confidence he was giving you alone like this, you bite your lip to try and hide your smile as you tuck your hair behind your ears.

“Please, Eddie’s just oblivious,” scoffing, your face feels like the hottest part of the day from words that were sweeter than the ice cream cone you had earlier at Benny’s.

“I think it’s a little bit of both,” winking as he leans back, eyes watching you the way every woman dreams of as you search for a lighter.

“I think Eddie still has the lighter,” the cute pout that pulls at your bottom lip has his fingers twitching.

Holding up his index finger he starts digging through his multicolored jogger pockets.

“No need to worry, I’ve got us covered beautiful,” pulling out a bright yellow Surfer Boy Pizza one, he hands it to you with a lazy lopsided grin.

“My hero,” leaning forward as you snatch it, you dare to press a chaste kiss on his cheek as a token of your gratitude.

His eyes go wide enough to see the whites behind them and that perfect kind of smile that pushes against his cheeks is almost brighter than the moon hanging in the sky.

Scooting closer when you flick the lighter, the breeze that washes over the lake has other plans when it keeps snuffing the flame out. After the third failed attempt Argyle scoots closer, shoulders and thighs touching his big hands cover yours as a shield.

“Thank you,” daring to look at him from this close, his eyes meet yours almost instantly, catching the way they flutter down to your lips and how he has to wet his own after.

Tearing your gaze away, you focus on lighting the joint, the flame catching almost instantly with his help. Twirling it around so it burns even, he lets his hands fall at the same time as you. The palm of yours landing on the top of his, your eyes meeting again as you hollow out your cheeks taking the first hit. He just smirks, not moving an inch, the heat of his body is warm against your skin from this close.

The silence is comfortable as the two of you pass the joint back and forth for a while, fingers brushing purposefully with every hand off. Leaning completely against each other with pinkies hooked between you, he’s the one that breaks the silence when you hit the middle of the joint.

“So have you lived here your whole life?” plucking at the grass next to him he looks up at you with soft eyes as you finish filling your lungs.

“Yep, pretty much. My parents lived in Indianapolis till I was three then moved here for a quieter life,” snorting at the cliche of it, you pass him the joint, “What about you? Always been in California?”

“Yeah, it’s just me and my mom. She’s like the best ever though, so, you know I don’t really need anyone else but her,” taking a big hit of the joint so he didn’t have to elaborate further, you changed the subject.

“Would you ever leave? Like, move somewhere else?” it’s your turn to pick at the grass, the nerves of getting to know a boy getting the best of you.

“What? Like here?” smirking at you when he hands you the joint, your cheeks heat up at what he’s implying.

“No! Don’t move to Hawkins, there’s nothing here,” smiling around the end of the joint you take a hit to distract yourself from his playful stare.

“I don’t know, it seems pretty cool to me so far,” you don’t miss the way his pinky squeezes yours after the sentence leaves his mouth, eyes looking at you pointedly daring you to catch on.

“You wouldn’t survive the winters, I’m sure of it,” looking at him from under the hood of your lashes, your teeth tug at your bottom lip barely hiding your smile when you hand him back the joint.

“What about you? Do you wanna move?” his eyes glaze over when he takes his hit starting to reach the end of it, your bodies buzzing with the high and the excitement of a new crush.

“More than anything, Community College is just really cheap out here and I don’t know what I want to do yet, so the plan is to move anywhere that's not here after I figure that out,” sighing at the thought of finally leaving Hawkins you meet his gaze when you feel the chocolate of his eyes on you.

“I’m going to Community College too! And I also don’t know what I’m doing! Look at us two peas in a pod man,” he’s loud with excitement sending you into a fit of giggles and you lean even deeper into his side as he hands you the joint.

“Just need Eddie hurry it up, he finally graduated but he still has to take two summer school classes. We’re supposed to do this college thing together,” he catches the small frustrated pout you try to hide.

It’s quiet for a minute, the elephant in the room coming back as the sound of the water and crickets fill your ears.

“So you and Eddie like never..?” not bold enough to meet your side eye after the question leaves his mouth, you smirk as you take another rip. Exhaling slowly before handing it back to him.

“We’ve known each other since we were kids so naturally, we tried kissing once. It happened the summer before Junior year,” sticking your tongue out like there was a bad taste in your mouth, the memory makes you shudder, “Too weird, we’re too close.”

Argyle just nods trying to keep his poker face as he takes a hit when he hears that Eddie has actually kissed you before, but you catch on quick.

“Besides, despite the metal appearance,” leaning closer like you were about to indulge in a secret you whisper, “He likes cheerleaders.”

Earning a snort from him the smoke of his inhale flows freely out his nose and mouth as he chuckles at your antics.

“And I like pizza delivery boys, especially cute ones from California,” the weed settles enough to make you feel bold and you watch him freeze at your flirty words.

He slowly meets your gaze, bloodshot eyes scanning your face for any trace of humor but he’s only met with the hungry look in yours staring at his lips, and he swears your brows furrow with want when your tongue glides across wetting your bottom lip.

“Yeah?” his voice cracks when he puts out the remainder of the joint into the ground, angling his body more towards yours.

Nodding, you squeeze your hooked pinky with his silently begging him to give you what you want.

Taking your cue, he leans forward close enough for your noses to touch, the hesitation to fully commit has your lips brushing feather light against his. You can taste the last of the joint as you breath each other in, grabbing a fist full of his shirt when you’ve finally had enough, you close the gap with a satisfied hum when they mold instantly with yours.

It feels like the Fourth of July behind your closed lids, still a month away but the fireworks you swear you feel blur your vision when you lose yourself in him. Begging for more when your tongue swipes across his bottom lip, he groans low when he gives you everything you want. Tongues and teeth clash together desperate like years of pining finally come to an end despite it being less than a day, maybe it was the weed or maybe it was him, but it feels like it’s everything you want and more.

The initial intensity dwindles as you start to move lazy and slow against each other. Taking his time, he savors every giggle and gasp he pulls from you. Your hands find their way into his long hair, it’s even softer than you imagined when your fingers run through it. His hat falls off when you give it a gentle tug at the base of his neck.

Working up enough courage to pull you on his lap, he swallows your moan when you feel the bulge in his pants. The lace panties you wore just for him and the thin material of his joggers is the only thing between you and what’s underneath. Your skirt sits bunched up at your hips with his hands and you can’t help it when you rock against him, feeling every inch of him against your clit.

Pulling you down closer, his lips take a break from yours to make their way over your jaw and down the curve of your neck. Nipping and sucking against all the sweet spots that sit nestled just behind your ear. A high pitched whine escapes you when he applies just the right amount of pressure with his teeth, smiling against your skin, his nose nudges against your earlobe, a soft “Yeah?” sending your nerves down your spine.

His hands make their way to your thighs squeezing at the soft fat before his fingertips drag their way across the expanse of them finding their new home at the curve of your ass. Toying with the sides of your underwear you collect his lips again with your fingers holding onto his chin.

Rocking with a little more force when your tongues meet again, his hands grip you harder making you bite his lip in response.

“You- you can touch me,” your voice is quiet when you dare to say the words out loud, his lips stopping abruptly against yours.

“A-are you sure?” his eyes look black even in the moonlight when they meet yours from over the bridge of your nose.

Nodding against him, you encourage his hand as your lips meet his again, pulling your panties to the side he groans loud into your mouth when he’s met with your slick folds coating his fingertips.

“Holy shit, I can’t believe you’re real,” staring up at you, he’s mesmerized at the way you shudder when the pads of his long fingers rub circles on your clit.

Mewling when he lets the tip of his middle finger poke at your entrance, you dig your nails into his broad shoulders when he finally pushes one in, your velvet walls gripping him hard, pulling him deeper. His hips jut up at the sensation only adding to how good it all feels.

“G- god Argyle don’t - don’t stop please,” your demand comes out as a whine when he adds a second finger, curving them slightly brushing that spongy spot inside of you.

“I like that, I like when you say my name like that,” the pad of his thumb meets your bundle of nerves as you start to shamelessly ride his hand, the need to cum taking over all the bashfulness from before.

“Yeah?”

Nodding against the side of your face he nips at your jaw before taking your lips, the strokes of his fingers becoming more deliberate.

He manages to say, “Do it again” between kisses as he curves his fingers once more, getting him exactly what he asked for.

Kisses turn sloppy as you get closer to your release, your hands leave their place on his shoulders to dig at the roots at the nape of his neck, tugging the way that earned you a moan the last time.

He increases the speed of his fingers, the sound of how wet you are is loud enough to be embarrassing but it only makes him twitch inside his pants as he thrusts up, your mouth falling open against his.

“I’m gonna - god - I’m gonna cum,” pulling his hair hard enough it should hurt, he only pushes himself deeper in response, the new intensity sending you over the edge.

“Yeah? Good, come on let me feel it,” his voice is hardly recognizable the moment those words come out of your mouth. Deep and thick with want, it has your thighs shaking as you drench his fingers, face buried in the crook of his neck you let your orgasm wash over you like a storm.

“Jesus, you look like an angel right now,” his voice comes out like a whisper, almost like he’s saying it to himself.

His hips stop their movements as his fingers slow their pace when he feels your body start to calm down, pulling them out despite the fight of your walls they keep fluttering around nothing from the aftershock.

Your gasp is quiet against his skin when you don’t feel so full anymore. You’re too stoned and too tired to open your eyes when you hear the sound of him sucking his fingers clean.

“You’re sweeter than fucking pineapple, I swear,” chuckling at his own revelation your lips tug up into a smirk finally having the strength to meet his gaze.

“You like pineapple?” you had no idea the question would elicit such a strong response until his face lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Do I like pineapple? Do I like -“ Jonathan’s panicked voice rings out over the lake interrupting the out of body experience Argyle was about to have about fruit.

“Come on guys, Rick kicked Eddie out for selling at his party!”

#argyle #argyle stranger things #argyle smut #argyle x reader #argyle x you #argyle x y/n #argyle imagine #stranger things argyle #argyle x fem!reader #eddie munson #jonathan byers #eduardo franco #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fanfic

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kanmom51 · 8 months

Text

JM live 1 September 2023 20:54 or 8:54 pm KST

And a little big about JK's same day live as well.

Part 2

Cr./To creators of content used in this post.

I'm going to dive right in.

Also, not everything I talk about is in the order it's brought up in the live. Just saying. These are ramblings of a blurry mind. Well, sharp and blurry. Just the right combination I say.

Let's talk about the apartment tour, lol.

JM, the master of privacy.

The man that wouldn't even show us his TV, only a cropped screenshot of it when congratulating JK on Dreamers.

The man that over the past close to 2 years since the hiatus, has done every live but one (the Billboard #1) from the company.

Yes, that man.

He not only went live from home (unplanned, which I discussed partially and will probably talk about again later on), from a room we got to see in his previous single home live, but he actually gave us a house tour. Well, somewhat of a house tour. A house ceiling tour with a couple of exceptions, lol.

This tour is divided into 2 parts.

First part was initiated by JM.

And this is important. Because it differentiates between perhaps more pre-thought of and less pre-thought of (more of a spur of the moment thing).

So, after mentioning JK (and reading out the hand comment) JM thinks of this:

JM wanting to show us his mood lamp. His planet mood light.

You know what I'm talking about, right? The one with that huge ass sun just right in your face.

He tells us how he simply came to meet us today and he has something to brag about.

Now let's wait up a minute.

He simply came to meet us on JK's birthday adorning his big ass watch starting the live at the time stamp JK was born, like time started counting from that minute and on (for him at least), and now he wants to brag about something that his friend laughed at him about (a grown man sleeping with a mood lamp), which happens to have the sun up front and centre, all huge in it's full glory, for him to fall asleep with (me continuing his story: when his bf isn't or can't be there by his side to fall asleep with).

Yep. All of that!

Ok, so JM is walking around, taking us to what is clearly his bedroom, camera at ceiling because his place is too dirty (his words) as he wasn't planning to go live from home (funny how plans change). He repeats it btw. Saying "I really didn't intend to."

Pause a second (we might be doing this more than once today). This is me just going back for a second to that same point I made in part 1. JM was not going to do the live from home. He doesn't say he wasn't going to do a live. He says he wasn't going to do a live form home.

JM takes us to his bedroom.

Who would have believed this day would come?

And if talking about not believing a day will come, perhaps me jumping the gun here, but can't hold back the excitement, what about this coming from JM?

Can't say I'm not shocked.

But then, maybe, just maybe, a little of his bf is rubbing off on him? And maybe, just maybe there is a reason for his sudden openness with us?

Anyway, back to JM's bedroom.

What's this now?

Not sure if he intended for us to see this, but we even got a peak at his bed for a millisecond... shock and awe...

*And kind of a downer for those that thought the snore in the dark was JK sleeping in bed. here is bed. Empty. Made. No JK. I guess you win some you lose some, lol.

Now this is where I got a little confused first time watching this. I actually thought that JM took the lamp from his bedroom to another room so to not be in his bedroom. Cause he sits down, fiddles around with something. Then gets up again and walks around, camera at ceiling (which was very confusing). But watching it a second and third time I think that he was setting the lamp up, connecting it perhaps, and then got up to close all the doors (bedroom door, bathroom door, closet door and who knows what other door) to go dark so we can see the beautiful projection.

And him having to connect the lamp, does it kinda maybe mean that he doesn't use it every night, mainly because who needs to fall asleep looking at the picture of the sun when the sun is right besides you in bed? Food for thought.

This is what he shows us at first.

He then turns the camera around to show other planets. But he always goes back to the sun. And makes sure to explain to us that it is the sun.

And while, once more, focusing on the sun says: "It's pretty, right?"

It definitely is.

And when he does his whole foot up in the air (I don't think he was pointing, because when he wanted to point he did it with his finger, pointing at the sun) caressing or whatever you want to think he was actually doing, it's with the sun.

You know what came to mind first thing I saw this?

JM and his love for playing footsies with JK.

Oh, and if I'm already going down memory lane, we have JK too.

Back to business.

I find it funny how JM on the one hand says multiple times he wanted to brag to us about the lamp, and then says it's embarrassing that a man nearing 30 sleeping with a lamp. And he talks about the friend appalled by it, lol. That a guy who lives alone (he repeats this) sleeps with a lamp. I guess that when you can't have the sun with you then a projection of it on the ceiling has to do.

JM adds: "these days I look at the ceiling and space out" - looks at the lamp projection that is. And when he says "these days", once again I'm thinking of it being due to JK's clearly super busy schedule.

So yeah, that was more or less part one of JM's house tour.

At this point JM turns off the light and walks back to the PC room (still only letting us see the ceiling as he is moving through the house).

He sits back down and tells us he is living his life like this.

He's sitting there reading comments for a few seconds and then he reads this one out:

Welcome to part 2 of the house tour, lol.

He straight away says: "you can see the secret room", grabs the camera and off he goes (again camera at ceiling of course), and asks himself "what are some things I can show?", while obviously there is still very much more that he doesn't want us to see.

He says "I will show just this one then", following by saying he really didn't want to show "my room", and then we are in his gym.

Shows us his treadmill, tells us "this is my secret room...right here."

So, let's pause for a second here before we move on.

JM clearly decided it's time to share with us (without saying it out loud) that he is boxing. A lot. The hands (he left raw for all to see) and showing us his gym as well.

JM has a punching bag at home.

No biggie, right?

He has a full proper gym at home, much like Tae does, and most likely the others too, well most of the others, because JK doesn't. JK, until a short while ago, didn't have any workout equipment at home. Let alone a punching bag. THE boxer in the group does not have a punching bag at home. And do we talk about the fact that all of his workout equipment, the little that he does have, is in his lounge room? I digressed. As usual. Anyway, now we know for sure (as if we didn't before) that JM is clearly boxing, and all that is left to see is his set of boxing gloves.

And then, JM goes to show us his dad's bedroom, for when he visits him. JM asks himself if there is anything he can show us from dad's room, answering "vacuum cleaner".

JM walks out of that last room, he looks around, nods with his head (looked like he was contemplating something but decided on NOPE), and walks back to the PC room.

End of house tour.

While on the way there he tells us how his parents "came over to my house and said this..."your house really has nothing, it's like a model house. It doesn't seem like a person lives here. Do you want us to change a bit?".

Ok, so JM's been living in that apartment at the very latest since May 2021. Over 2 years!! And in that time his parents must have visited multiple times. We know at least of once back in October 2021, so a long time ago. JM isn't telling us when exactly this was said to him, and timing, my friends, is everything. There is a before and an after that might be going on here. And It's kind of curious how at this point in time both JM's place and JK's place are lacking in the feeling of a home in the true sense of it. Lacking in adding their little personal touch to the place. Giving them both, at this point, the feel of these places being a temporary fix. Just until perhaps a certain 5 story house is built.

Do I address the marimo discussion and how it turned into a Suga discussion? Was that JM shutting down Yoonminers? Lol.

JM reads out a comment "I miss Jin and Jhope" and tells us he's thinking of going to visit them.

JM continues to read through the comments and reacts to them, this is around the 29 min. mark. You think the hand comments don't continue again? Like he hasn't addressed it 10 times already during this live. He smiles through it, but seriously!!!!

One comment has him giggling : "In my last dream you went out with me but I got dumped". Lmao. At least they were being realistic. His answer was: "I'm sorry. It wasn't intentional". Ehm, excuse me, but to me dumping feels very intentional. Lol.

One of the most annoying comments, well in my humble opinion, was the one asking him why the chocolate factories have closed. Poor man was waiting and waiting on a reply on that one, so much so he was putting off finishing the live, he was seriously curious, only to have this stupid ass punch line about him being sweet. From the expression on his face when he finally read the answer he was probably thinking "this is what I was waiting for?", lol.

JM's asked about his skin care routine to which he answers: "it's nothing, I just wash up, and I just apply it on my face. Just the cream". Thing is later on as he's closing up he says he has to go wash up but:

Curious.

Didn't he just tell us all about it earlier? Or was this him just being cheeky?

JM tells us he goes for a run in the middle of the night and runs into RM.

Quite interesting that the first time he noticed RM's poster was almost 2 weeks after it was placed there. Especially now that we know from him he's out jogging every night. Was he possibly away for a while? Perhaps not alone?

JM was asked about dramas he's watched and answered he hasn't watched many lately.

I guess JK being busy is the cause for that. We know for a fact that they watch shows together.

Then he's asked "show your 7 tattoos", to which JM answers:

"You saw it yesterday. Photos went up. Really...I saw that...Definitely...I'm an anchovy." giggle giggle giggle. "Anchovy...phew..." giggle..."just laugh at it and move on..."

Lol, I'm sure he's also referring to him standing on his tippie toes for the pose, trying to seem bigger and taller than he is.

Now wait a second here.

The comment asked him to show his 7 tattoos. Not "show your moon tattoo". Not "show your back tattoo". Clear as day talking about his 7 tattoos, and JM was the one to read it out!!!

So, obviously that riske (not really, but clearly an eye opener) photo he posted for JK's birthday was on his mind. Or is it more so that JK is on his mind?

JM's told he needs to sleep well. The man says it's rare, but he actually slept well today. Usually when he has schedules he doesn't sleep well. But:

I guess something, or someone, helped tire him out.

And yes, I can hear the guys on the balcony with the "if he slept so much he couldn't have been with JK". Yeah-nah. Have we not seen these guys schedules? Did I not talk about it in part 1? Night and day are non existent. JM slept 8 to 9 hours and came out - to his schedule, in the evening. These two go to sleep in the morning and wake up at noon. Even in JM's last live, when he was talking about having a proper schedule, including a proper sleep schedule, he was talking about sleeping in late. So no, him sleeping properly doesn't rule out them spending the night together. JM doesn't tell us when he went to sleep or when he woke up. Actually, the way he words it, it's more like he slept till late and woke up in time for his Dior schedule.

Pretty much this was where JM was wanting to end the live.

And starts to sum it up.

After a few more comments JM winds it up saying his goodbyes.

And that was the end of JM's live on JK 's birthday.

Oh, btw, remember I said that when I first saw JM's live photo I mistook it for JK? How those pants seemed a little big on him? Well came across this today:

I'm not 100% sold those are the exact pair of pants, but they sure look similar. And even if they aren't same pants, well my point in part 1 was proven - the pants being exactly the style that JK wears.

I had one more thing I wanted to talk about, which I'm not sure about, but thought it would be good to mention.

About the 12 minute mark JM is talking about taking lessons in English. And he was saying it's hard but he has to force himself to do it, cause otherwise he won't do it. And then he talks about how people get lazy and gives an example. And here is where I found something a little curious. There I go with that word again.

The word of the day: Curious.

Anyway, JM gives an example. And he words it like this:

"You know there is this. I came home as it is like this... It's 9:07... I think that I should wash up at 9:30... But we don't wash up... And later, when it's 1 in the morning... I should really wash up. To sleep...I must wash up. You also know this happens".

And he's giggling the whole time.

Did you notice? The switch from I to we?

Now, it could be him talking about him and us, but I kind of don't think it was, as he starts with I and goes to we and then back to I.

It could also definitely be a slip of the tongue.

You know who the we he might be talking about is. That plus one that turns I to we. That certain plus one that has told us on multiple occasions how he dislikes to wash up before sleep, delaying the inevitable as much as possible, also using that term lazy with regards to it.

Just thought I'd share this little thing I notices with you guys before I finish up with this post.

I feel like this part of my post is a little more all over the place (a bit like JM perhaps, lol). Maybe a little too much blurry and not enough sharp, lol. But hey, I guess it is what it is.

So, we had JK doing the short live nothing like his usual birthday lives, and then later in the day JM coming live, unplanned. Well more so unplanned from home. Could they have been planning to do a live together at Hybe? Could JK have been planning to and asked JM to go live in his place seeing he's held up?

Who knows.

What I do hope is that next time it's not going to be the two live on the same day, but rather the two live same day same time same place.

Here's wishing.

#Jimin #JM live #Jungkook #JK #JK birthday #JK birthday 2023 #Jikook #kookmin #Minkook

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dudecreature · 1 year

Text

False Confidence (sometimes works)

Drunk! reader x Ghost Synopsis: The reader drunkenly flirts with a tipsy Ghost. Warnings: Alcohol consumption Additional tags: fluff, crack treated seriously Word Count: 1.9k

AN: this is kind of a mess, but I'm hoping you guys enjoy it (plz like, it fuels my confidence)

Deep, deep down you had known that you shouldn’t have taken those last two shots, but everyone was drinking and having a really good time. You didn’t want to be some Debby-Downer. Especially after arguably one of the best missions your team had completed in forever. No casualties, no injuries, and they were in and out in less than 4 hours. So you guys decided to up the normal celebration.

The straight vodka shots had started to go down a bit too easily and that's how you knew you needed to slow down. You were five shots in and the world had started to rotate every time you blinked. You thanked whatever was watching over you that you were on the couch rather than a stool at the bar. If that were the case your ass would have been on the floor a long time ago.

Against your better judgment, you lifted your arm with your shot glass in hand. Making eye contact with Soap, he gives you a wide grin and goes to pour you another shot. The glass spilled over, Soap giving you a more than generous pour. Your eyes went wide at it, and your face split into a sly smile, giggling to yourself you bring the glass to your lips. Jerking your head back, you take in the alcohol, and your body involuntarily twitches at the gross flavor that's barely there. Once you swallowed it all, you pulled your head back forward and locked eyes with him.

Ghost.

Shiiiiiit.

You held eye contact for as long as you could before needing to blink. Does he ever blink? You don't know how long they had stayed closed but when you opened them he was gone. What the hell? You look to your right in search for him and when your eyes only found a blubbering Gaz, leaning on Soap you looked left. When you do all you can see is the familiar skull mask, inches from your face.

With a startled “Ack!” you push yourself away hurriedly. You push his shoulders back, only to realize you are the only one to have moved. You felt your face heat up and become apparent as to how drunk you actually were.

“Geez, Ghost, you scared tha fuckin shit outta me.” Your words slur together as you attempt to avoid eye contact with the mountain of a man. When he says nothing you look back at his face, slowly gaining a drunk false sense of confidence. Your eyes roam around his mask-clad face, darting between his dark hazel eyes. From a normal distance, they usually look brown, but now that you can get a good look at them, they have a bit of a forest green around the pupils. Never would you have said this sober but the confidence the liquor gave you was acting as a superpower.

“Your eyes are so… pretty”

This shocked him, you think. His eyes widened, and he let out a huff of air. You could see the smile that he had on his face through his eyes.

“Do you want to repeat that?” Ghost muttered ever so close to you. You could smell the Kentucky bourbon in his breath, his favorite. You swallow at his words, how was he always so steady? He seemed to never waver in his words or actions, even when he wasn't stone-cold sober he was a rock.

“Hmm?” You blinked up at him and tilted your head in slight confusion. In reality your ass was not listening, his eyes were just too damn entrancing. You could hear him chuckle, you could practically feel it. It rumbled through his chest, and with how close he was, through your shoulder and side as well.

“I said… Do you want to repeat yourself?” His deep voice caused you to shiver. His confidence seemed to influence your confidence to spike as well. You smirked and let your eyes roam over his mask, as if you were trying to see through it, to his bare face. You could not only smell the bourbon coming off of him, but you could smell him as well. He smelled like gunpowder and body wash, gritty but clean, just like Ghost.

Carefully listening around you for what the others must be doing, to ensure you won't get the shit embarrassed out of you. Soap was attempting to make Gaz laugh, while Price was humming an indiscernible Brittany Spears song in karaoke with a fat cigar in his mouth. You knew you were in the clear for at least Ghost to hear. With all the confidence you could pull out of you, you locked eyes with the man and declared,

“I said you are pretty. I mean... Your eyes are pretty. Not that you aren’t pretty I just haven’t ever seen your face.” In your drunken stupor, you had accidentally confessed. He huffs at your idiocy and attempts to interrupt you but you just keep fucking talking.

“Not that I am asking to see your face that is completely up to you! And if one day you trust me enough that is cool too!” You began to see the playful deadpan cross his eyes as he continues to stare down at your rambling form. All the previous confidence faded away.

“Wow... I make quite the mess out of you don’t I? And I haven’t done anything yet.” Confidence oozed from his lips. His eyes roamed over your face, lingering on your lips for just a moment. You felt as if you had melted into a puddle right there. His words drilled into the back of your mind, you absolutely had to be dreaming right now. No way in hell would Ghost be this open and flirtatious with you.

You had tried your best to hide the fact that you had found him attractive in the past, but there were moments that you had most likely done a piss poor job at hiding it. You always complimented his kills, whether it was from him sniping over your shoulder or when he performed a close combat takedown right in front of you. Once you had watched a takedown he had done during practice and not so quietly sat in awe with a “Holy shit that was so cool”.

Steeling yourself up, you try to look as confident as possible in front of him, but 6 fucking shots were really hitting you now. The guys always had made fun of you for being a lightweight, and now you can see two Ghosts in front of you.

“Hahaa there are two of you now?” you giggled and reached at the man on the right but your arm met straight air. How was he doing that? You reach up with both hands and close them around his cheeks. There we go. You were able to see him as one now, and he stopped spinning, you smiled and thumbed his cheek gently. Your fingers began to trace the teeth of his mask, admiring the detail and humming at the idea of the care he took into making it.

Unbeknownst to you, Ghost had frozen under your gentle touch, eyes never leaving your face. His face flushed as your fingers graced his rough lips through his balaclava. Internally he was fucking panicking, but he would never let his external show it. He tried to swallow but choked up and it must have sounded like a gruff attention grabber because you had stopped your movements. Your hands didn't leave his face, and your eyes traveled up tantalizingly slow to meet his gaze.

When you were caught off guard by the clearance of his throat, your hands may have stopped moving, but they didn't leave his face. You attempted to stutter out an apology, but the words just came out as mumbled garble. You shut your mouth and simply took him in, what you could see of him at least. His light eyelashes flutter with each of his blinks, his eyes roaming over your face greedily.

“You’re fuckin’ gone, mate. How much have you had?” Ghost asked, his face intensely close to yours. He examined your face, scouring eyes, searching your face for an answer. You knew he wouldn’t wait long for an answer, but your brain wasn't working properly. You couldn’t trust your voice enough to speak, so you two sat in silence. Until your mouth spoke for you.

“Enough to take you, big guy.”

What?

What the fuck?

No way you just said that out loud.

‘Please, if a god is listening, please tell me I didn’t just say that out loud.’ You look to the sky and plead for any merciful higher power to listen to you. When you heard no response you look back at the man whose face is still in your hands. His pupils had blown wide and his brow cast a shadow over his eyes, sending a shiver down your spine. You could see him smirk under the mask, hell you could feel the way his face moved. It was terrifying how close you were.

“I’m cutting you off, love. Let’s get you some water.” With that, he pushed himself away from your touch and you watched him go. When you registered fully what he said, you push yourself off of the couch and go to follow. Your body had other plans though. You found yourself looking up at the ceiling and consequentially everyone else in the room who had gathered around you. Ghost just sighed and put the glass of water on the coffee table before helping you sit up, ensuring you hadn’t hit your head on anything (other than the fucking floor).

“Drink.”

He guided the glass to your lips and you sipped the chilling liquid as much as you could. His hand under your chin to keep your head level, the other on the glass. Completely focused on the gentleness of his hand on your chin you barely heard him say to the others. Something along the lines of “I’m goin' to take them to bed eh?”

Bed? His bed? Well shit I wouldn’t mind that. You look to the others ready to just sleep and they looked at you so weirdly. Ghost put the glass back on the coffee table and stood. He reached his hand out to you and you relished in the warmth of his hands. He pulled you up as if you had weighed nothing to him, it may have been a little too hard because it felt as if you were fucking launched into space.

“Jesus Christ Ghost!” you shouted and grasped at his shoulders to steady yourself, his hands met your waist. He led you down the winding, never-ending halls of the compound until you were met with a door. You couldn’t tell whose door it was but you were ready to sleep, a lone mattress would work at this point. When he opened the door you saw your bed, your wonderful, soft bed. Thank god. You reach for the bed hoping to plop in and clock out, but Ghost’s hands prevented this. You looked towards the man and pouted. He laughed at your face and shook his head.

“Your depth perception is off, love. You would have smacked right into the floor.” With that he guides you to your bed, pulling your covers back, revealing the most comfortable thing you had ever seen. He gently helps you into the bed, allowing you to get comfortable before pulling the covers over you. Your eyes feel like they are 30 pounds each and they are a struggle to stay open. It’s only when you feel the soft pets of Ghost’s hand on your head lulling you to sleep that you give in. Before you drift into dreamland, you feel a gentle pressure on your forehead.

“Can’t wait to see what you remember.” The lights turn out and the door clicks softly.

#dudecreature #dudewrites #call of duty #ghost x reader #fanfiction #ghost x male reader #simon ghost riley #ghost x female reader #ghost x gn reader

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