#this post will self destruct in the morning probably | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

vhstown · 8 months

Text

time out (part 1)

[boxer au] — 42!miles g morales x gn!reader

summary: Miles Morales makes boxing history. Your boyfriend isn't there to celebrate.

warnings: angst-ish, description of (boxing) injuries, self-destructive behaviours, briefly implied death, pov switch (yay), gtranslate spanish

word count: 3.9k

a/n: ive never written 42 miles before but he's a cool lil guy split into two parts cuz it was too long 😭 semi-edited (for the millionth time)

PART 2 → / THE AU

"Just six rounds in, Miles Morales knocks out the Vulture!"

Screams and cheers exploded from your phone as you laid in bed, watching the recap of your boyfriend's boxing match. Your eyes were straining from how close you were holding the screen to your face; this was probably the third time you’d watched Miles’ win. After training to hell and back, he’d made it to the national league with you and Aaron to support him. He did more than just “make it”, in fact. His “revolutionary” victory was plastered all over social media and the news. Everywhere you looked was: “17-YEAR-OLD NYC BOXER OVERTAKES LIGHTWEIGHT CHAMPION ‘VULTURE’ IN US NATIONALS”. Miles Morales — your boyfriend — had made boxing history.

The giddy grin on your face only grew wider as he came up again on screen, sporting the stoic expression he'd perfected over the last few months behind the overly-done editing and animations of the recap. As much as you'd wanted to go out and see him live (though begging your family to let you go to Vegas wasn’t exactly feasible), he'd made it clear he didn't want you, or anyone for that matter, in that arena. It was something about having "total focus" — and it must've worked, you thought, as you watched him give his post-fight interview.

“I jus’ hope you watchin’, cause I’m here. Miles Morales made it!”

Despite his boyish, adrenaline-fuelled shout at the mic, the quiet laugh you let out was one of pride rather than embarrassment. He had every right to celebrate, and you were watching, even if it wasn’t live. Everything he'd done up until this point was well worth it: the constant training, sparring, the late nights and early mornings — maybe even the countless unanswered texts and missed calls too. Miles had worked himself to the bone, and while it might've worried you at the time, it was nothing compared to the satisfaction you felt while watching him on screen. He knew what he was doing; Miles was semi-professional at this point. You had to let him do his own thing, even if that meant letting him go for a while.

Right now, though, Miles was home from Vegas. Tapping out of the video, you scrambled to your messages. The last ones were from you, sent weeks ago, a "good luck" and "i love you" read and without a response. Your fingers kept missing the keys, and you frowned at yourself until you finally were able to hit send.

CONGRATS BABY!!! Not delivered

IM SO PROUD OF YOU Not delivered

You tried resending them, only to be met with the same red message.

why arent my texts sending Not delivered

miles??? Not delivered

Not delivered? It'd almost been three days since the tournament; Miles always had his phone on.

"To leave a message, please press one—" The call went to voicemail for the third time. Your stomach swirled with something like uncertainty. It didn't even ring at all. Miles made it a habit to always be available, so why...?

Boxers needed time to recover, he was probably just tired and turned his phone off. Or he could be busy with an interview; Miles Morales was sort of a celebrity right now — who wouldn't want to talk to the 17-year-old boxing prodigy? You knew you wanted to, prodigy or not.

It was probably because you hadn’t seen Miles in so long, but possibilities kept forming in your head, disappearing just as fast. What if he blocked you? Or he could’ve changed his number. Were you over? No. Nope. No way. Not like this.

There was one other reason that made some sort of sense, but you decided to think against it. Miles had made it to the semi-finals in entire the National League. It was over; he'd gotten what he wanted. He was supposed to be resting right now.

Miles wasn't that stupid, right...?

You pulled up Rio's contact. It was better to be safe than sorry.

Riiiiiiing, riiiiiiing…

Better for him to be safe than sorry — or stupid.

"Hello?"

"Hola, tía, uh, could I speak to Miles?" You felt just a little crazy as you held the phone to your ear, but there was no harm in calling his mom.

"Ah, he's not home right now — said he was going out with his tío."

"Oh… Do you know where they went?"

"I'm not sure. Something important. About a... contract?"

"Contract…?" you muttered to yourself. “Okay… thank you.” It wasn't like you knew anything about a contract, though it wasn't like Miles would tell you anyway. At least he was safe, and with Aaron. It was probably important, official — something that didn't involve you. Not a lot of things in Miles’ life involved you, it seemed.

"How have you been?” Rio's voice interrupted your thoughts. You had called her out of nowhere, and after a while. "Have you eaten yet?"

"Oh, um..." The last time you'd talked to Rio was… right before Miles had left for Vegas. Well, you hadn't exactly talked. All you remember is just comforting her in silence. "Yeah, tía. Have you?"

"I have, but I've just been all over the place recently. So many reporters…" Rio's voice lifted up slightly in exasperation. You could only imagine what it was like for her. Your feelings suddenly felt a lot less significant, and you were back to your comforting mode all over again.

"I see. Must be exhausting." You attempted a polite laugh, which came out more like a sigh. If only you could be as patient as Rio…

"I'm so proud, though." Her voice warmed with a smile. If your chest ached with melancholy or empathy, you didn't know. "I didn't want him to leave home so soon. I still think this whole… professional thing is a bit too much, but… I want to trust him also."

"I'm sure he'll be fine, tía. If he's in the nationals already, he's probably getting a lot of support." It was more like you were trying to convince yourself. "I'm sure he has great coaches... and he's got me and Aar— uh, his uncle, too."

"I know…" For a moment, you weren't sure if either of you had anymore to say.

"…If not, I'll have to go there myself and give them a piece of my mind, eh?" she continued. You weren’t sure if it was a joke, but a smile formed on your lips anyway.

"Yeah…" A quiet laugh leaving your mouth at the image of Rio cussing out Miles' poor manager, in two languages no less. No wonder he was such a good boxer — Rio must have passed down her fighting spirit. "Maybe you'd even get signed,” you joked, the image of that even more amusing (and a scary possibility.)

Rio let out her own laugh, and your smile only grew; talking to her always made you feel better. "Me? Boxing? Nunca (Never.) — I'll work in that hospital until the end of me."

There was another stretch of silence. You thinned out a sigh, trying not to let the smile leave your face, even if she wasn’t there to see it.

"Come over for dinner tomorrow. I'll tell Miles to come and get you."

"Sure, tía, I'd love to." He probably just needed a break. Not from you specifically, but in general.

"You know tú y Miles sois mi vida, ¿bien?" (you and Miles are my life, right?) It wasn’t often Rio said that, but you always remembered every time she did, and how it made you feel — like you were family. Rio was pretty much a second mother to you. It made you wonder what Miles' father would've been like.

"Well, it's getting late, and I have a lot of laundry to fold." Rio's tone had a fake sort of enthusiasm — tiredness? You couldn’t really tell with her; the woman was always upbeat. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

"I will." It was late, you realised, and the sky outside your window was a lot darker than it had been before. "You too, tía."

“Descansa, ¿sí?” (Get some rest, yes?)

“Sí, tía.”

The call ended, and you were left facing your messages, a bittersweet feeling hugging you from behind. Right now, Miles was out with Aaron, about some contract, probably to do with boxing…

But why weren't your texts going through?

miles are you ok? Not delivered

im really proud of you Not delivered

i wish i couldve seen you live Not delivered

It wasn’t like there was much point, but…

i love you Not delivered

Maybe it was just out of habit; maybe you just missed him. Your reflection frowned at you behind the messages, thumb hovering over the power button to shut your phone off, until your phone pinged with a notification — Aaron was texting you.

Hey man

Out of town

LMK if miles breaks in

You sat up immediately, fingers floating uselessly above the keys for a moment.

sure Read at 11:24PM

are you out of town already? Read at 11:25PM

Ping!

Yeah

@ Queens

Miles was with Aaron about some “contract”... and Aaron was in Queens?

You knew Miles hadn't blocked you, or turned his phone off — he had no signal. And there was only one place in Brooklyn you could think of that had no reception, and that MIles had any reason to be in. It was also the one place you didn't want him to go to: that damn warehouse.

The place he’d spent training all those weeks — what reason did he have to be there right after finishing the tournament? Putting on your jacket, blinking back the sleepiness and collecting the fleeting remains of patience you had left, you could only hope that Miles had even a shred of common sense with him.

THWACK! THWACK! THWA— Crack!

"Mierda..." (Shit...) Miles hissed, drawing his glove away from the punching bag. His hand was paralysed for a moment, a deep, gnawing pang running through his fingers down to the rest of his arm. The tight gloves only suffocated him more, doing nothing to ease the pain as he gritted his teeth and waited for it to dull down.

Why was he even here? It was over — that Norman bastard had blown him off hours ago. It felt like a couple minutes, the words still fresh in his mind. Searing pain shot through his hand when he tried to flex his fingers, the rest of his muscles starting to ache too. This was going to hurt after the adrenaline wore off. Damn it, Morales.

The walls flashed white all of a sudden, a faint rumble of thunder interrupting the pounding of his heartbeat as he tried to straighten himself out. It was quiet, except for the sounds of the incoming storm. The playlist he was listening to had finished ages ago — your playlist. If he didn’t want to think about you, he wasn’t doing a good job of it.

Rain blasted quietly against the windows, and Miles’ eyes stung with dryness as he squeezed them shut. There was no way he'd be able to go back now, not to you, definitely not to his mom. She'd probably go on and on about how he should've taken his jacket, how he ruined his hair in the rain again, maybe how he wasted his damn time being a boxer...

It was probably fair; his mom had enough on her plate trying to support them both — especially him right now. She’d done everything in her power to make sure he got to Vegas, and he’d just left her alone again right after. But how was he meant to face her now? He was supposed to make her proud, make his dad proud, but it wasn’t like he had any pride left after he’d lost his contract. The Green Goblin had probably set the record for fastest knockout when Miles lost to him. Of course just the semi-finals weren’t enough; Norman Osborn was the big shot of boxing, and if Miles lost to some rookie in just about 15 seconds, then maybe he wasn’t worth the investment.

It didn’t make sense — nothing about The Green Goblin (or “Harry”, whatever they liked to gossip about) made sense. He’d just debuted, but didn’t even look like a boxer; he didn’t stand right, his style was inconsistent, his head movement was all over the place, but his punch had almost knocked Miles’ brain straight out of his skull. It was almost superhuman. Even with no openings, the freak of nature had forced his way through like an animal. And he was scrawny, not nearly as built as Miles at least, like he should’ve been in the weight class down. Either way, the asshole was being celebrated, and Miles was out of a contract.

And Miles had just stood there, while Norman berated him and tore Miles’ dream apart right in front of his very eyes. Maybe he’d hoped too much as an “amateur” boxer. That’s all he was, apparently — no matter how hard he worked, or what he achieved, or what he promised.

“Why should I keep you? The Vulture was destined to lose at his age.”

“Even rigged matches wouldn’t get you anywhere.”

“I mean, you’re as good at fighting as one of those street kids.”

“That’s all you were before I decided to give you a chance, no?”

The image of the Norman’s uncanny, sneering face sent his good fist reeling towards the punching bag. Should’ve pummelled his pelirojo (redhead) ass to the ground—

"Miles!"

The glove crumpled mid-air against the bag, arm going rigid. It was silent as he let out a breath through his teeth — he wasn’t hearing things, was he?

The rush was starting wearing off, his mind starting to cloud and pain faintly radiating again from his other hand. His good fist tightened inside the glove, pushed against the bag which was still and awkwardly tilted.

You’re losing focus, just punch the damn thing—

"Miles, what the hell are you doing here?"

The noise of the door shutting made him turn around, floor squeaking under his stumbling feet. It was you by the door, breathing just as heavily as him and dripping head to toe with rain, in a jacket that was way too thin for any sort of weather.

Dios... (God...) He knew he couldn’t be hallucinating that disapproving look on your face.

Rain was pattering gently against the glass as he pulled his arm away away from the bag, letting it swing in front of him before his eyes met yours.

"It's midnight, what are you..." A sharp intake of breath interrupted your words — a shiver.

"What’re you doin’ here...?" Miles asked instead through a grimace. His voice came out wrong — hoarse. Cold sweat was clinging to his skin, and his throat was dry and tightening. A mess — that’s what you were talking to right now, barely your boyfriend. All he could do was stare as the rush died down and his senses were coming back to him. The fog in his mind made it hard to speak, even harder to look at you.

"My texts and calls weren't going through— You weren't with Aaron or your mom, I just..." You sucked in another breath through your teeth; raindrops were glistening on your skin. He should’ve just stayed home, damn it. "Was just worried."

Well, he certainly looked worrying, even more so than you. Swallowing back his breathlessness wasn’t helping; it was like he’d ran a marathon with his fists. The pain from his knuckle was starting to bleed into the rest of his hand so much so that it might’ve been broken.

"'M good... You, though?" He let out a bit of a growl to clear his throat before deciding to cut straight to the chase: you’d come here in the middle of the night, in the rain, by yourself. As much as he was being an idiot right now, the amount of times he’d told you to not do any of those things, pleaded with you even, was making you look like the delirious one in his eyes. Miles was being stubborn, but he knew you were worse.

“You insane…?” he muttered, taking a step away from the bag. “Did Aaron tell you to come here or sumn’?"

"No, he was supposed to be with you," you shot back, eyes narrowing at him from under your hood before thunder bellowed from all around. The rain was growing into a loud static noise, and your voice was muffled as your expression grew more exasperated. "You came home 3 days ago and you didn't even text me. Yeah, I probably should've texted you, and I tried, but now you're here training alone again when your mom thinks you're with Aaron and—"

"You come here to scold me?" His jaw crunched a little as he tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Miles wasn’t trying to be mad at you — he was just mad in general. It just so happened to be in your direction right now.

“Huh? No, I came here because you scared the hell out of me — and Aaron told me to not let you break into his place.”

If it was supposed to be funny, the laugh he let out was anything but amused. At least Aaron wasn’t here for him to disappoint too, or get a weirdly-phrased life lesson from, or both. “Well I’m not breakin’ in, and I told you, I’m good, so I don’t get why you’re still here.”

You stepped a little closer, and Miles’ heels dug into the ground to keep himself from moving. “Isn’t it obvious? Or are you just being difficult on purpose?”

“Difficult?” he mirrored dryly, trying to push back the growing exhaustion clouding his head.

“Can you not just take a break for once? It’s over, Miles; you already won—”

“I didn’t win.” The walls echoed with his voice, words having escaped on their own. It wasn’t at you, but he didn’t know what he was mad at, resolve fading as he watched your face straighten with realisation.

“Don’t tell me that’s why you’re here…”

His fingers unconsciously clawed into the boxing glove, pain shoot through his hand. Nothing came out of his mouth, but his silence was loud — incriminating. That was the reason, right? That he didn't win?

“Kid didn’t stand a chance.” What was the point of you being here?

“A one-punch concussion — on a newbie, no less.” It was over, like you said.

“It’s a shame, I bet on him too.” Everyone had given up on him.

“You should be resting right now— you’re shaking, Miles.” So why wouldn't you?

“No ‘m not…” is all he could muster, flexing his shoulders uncomfortably. Your hand was on his arm before he could realise, and he was met with a stern look as he tried to keep his gaze from shaking too.

The velcro on his gloves crunched as you started undoing them, and he couldn’t bring himself to stop you. It’s not like he had the energy.

“You coulda’ got hurt on your way here.” The croak in his voice made him sound more hopeless than reprimanding as you slipped off the first glove, pausing half-way down his palm. His bare palm.

“…I could’ve got hurt?” Miles held back a sigh as he was made to look at his own hand. Bruised, blackened, branded with anger — it hurt more to look at it than anything. “You didn’t wear your wraps?”

The other glove slid off, revealing the fresh, festering swelling coming from his middle knuckle — the aftermath of that sickening cracking noise. You took his curled hand, easing up his middle finger and making him hiss under his breath.

“Think you can straighten it?” you muttered, gently trying to do it yourself only to lose his hand from your grip.

“’S gonna be fine,” he mumbled, eyes fixed to the side as his hand closed back up.

“It won’t if you can’t move it properly.”

“You a doctor now?”

“Nah, but your mom’s a nurse.” You carefully held his hand by palm, thumb tracing over the tender, split skin, his fingers wrapping around the side of your hand in futile protest. He’d have to bother his mom again — he didn’t even think about that. “You basically just punched yourself.”

Everything you were saying was right — it always was. He hated that fact.

“You a boxing expert too?” he thought to retort.

“Thought that was supposed to be you.” Miles’ eyes narrowed, and yours narrowed in response. “I don’t get it, baby...” you sighed, shaking your head a little as you put down the gloves to the side.

Baby. His breath almost hitched. You were dating, and it didn’t even seem like it anymore. Not after all those weeks apart. The word didn’t even feel endearing, it was condescending, like he didn’t deserve it. Maybe he was being a baby, and maybe he always had been. You were the one who always had to drag him out of this make-shift gym. Right now was no different, except…

“…Why are you still doing this?” he heard you mutter, still turned away with his hand in your grip. You didn’t even know the half of it.

“Why are you still here?” His hand tried to slip away again, but you only took it by the wrist instead, now facing him.

“Why won’t you answer my questions, Miles?” Your voice deadened into a whisper, only serving to frustrate him.

“I don’t know why you care so much.” He let out a quiet huff, staring at your hand when your grip ceased to relax.

“I care because you look like you’re about to pass out and I can’t let my boyfriend kill himself over something stupid—”

“I’m not killing myse—” A pained groan escaped his mouth as you ruthlessly pushed up his injured finger.

“Don’t push me, Miles.” Oh, you were serious.

“You’re pushin’ sumn’,” he strained through gritted teeth. “Mierda… quit it already.”

The pain tore on another moment, and he was just now realising how bad it actually hurt. All you were doing was staring at him, brows knitted together. “Cariño, please…” he whispered, a wince forming on his face.

Your hand loosened, and he let out a quiet, frustrated, somewhat relieved sigh.

Still a sucker for nice words... He didn’t say them as much as he would’ve liked.

“You need to take a time out,” you stated after a beat of silence. The expression on your face was serious again, killing any sense of tenderness you might’ve shown.

He freed his hand from your grip with the opportunity, before giving you a dubious look. “Like, for kids?”

“Like for boxers, dumbass.” Your gaze followed his retreating hand for a moment before falling back on his eyes. “But if you want me to treat you like a kid…”

“I’m good.” Another roar of thunder rang out before he could add anything, and the rain was so heavy that anything you could see from the windows became a blur.

“…You got your jacket?” you suggested, without much hope.

The idea only made Miles’ eyes squeeze shut again. A shallow exhale left him, and he tried not to let his fatigue cloud his judgement. If he kept talking stupid to you, he’d probably have worse to worry about than a broken knuckle. “You think imma go outside?”

All you could do was sigh. It seemed like the two of you would be in “time out” for a while.

🕸️🔭👾

thank you for reading part 2 soon but then again its not my fav fic in the world 💔 i rewrote this like 8 trillion times and it still wasn't clicking for me 😭 idk i just got sick of editing it again and again

this isn't as short as my usual fics because i felt like i needed to add context... I've never written an au or anything remotely original so this is just yeah... im tryna figure it out! i have . too much lore for this au

reblogs appreciated lmk if you did like it (i hope this is someone's cup of tea lmao)

catch my atsv masterlist here !

#miles 42 x reader #42!miles morales x reader #42 miles morales #earth 42 miles morales x reader #miles 42 #earth 42 miles x you #miles g morales x reader #earth 42 miles x reader #miles g morales #miles gonzalo morales #atsv fanfiction #across the spiderverse #atsv x you #42!miles x reader #atsv #prowler miles x you #prowler miles x reader #prowler miles #vhstown

683 notes · View notes

xxventiswindblumexx · 1 year

Text

Venti/Barbatos x follower fem reader!

Much like my Smut Soulmate I was nervous for this release since I mainly have scara Simps on here but since they're posting I'm posting! We post together 🥺❤👫

Here's to good fan fiction! 🍷

@hitomisuzuya

⚠Warnings⚠:God complex,superiority kink, corruption, venti being himself, pervert stuff, praise kink, breeding kink, mentions of Alcohol because ya know venti.

Barbatos, the Archon of Freedom, holder of the Ameno Vision and the weakest Archon according to those who do not live in Mondstadt. It doesn't matter what they say however, to you he is all you need, to believe in, to love, to feel protected. You're a nun in the Favonius Cathedral, ever since you were young you've dedicated your life to preserve, protect and to teach everything Barbatos was about.

You lived among another named Barbara, she's the Deaconess, she is older but not by much. However you've noticed she's been neglecting her dutys, only slightly not something an average person would notice. She seems to be infatuated with the Traveller, sure he is interesting but he didn't peek your interest as much as a certain bard that seemed to follow him occasionally. Unaware of the bards true identity of course you tried to stray from temptation, barely speaking to him unless he speaks first which surprisingly happens often.

The bard known as Venti often runs right up to you first thing whenever the traveller enters the church. You of course speak to him, after all even with your crush on the male it would be rather rude and ungodly to ignore him, not that you would want to anyways.

The bard often talks about anything that comes on his mind it seems, things such as if you tried wine or if you really lived in the church all day and night. Yes you've tried wine, only communal wine however, nothing compared to what the bard had drank in his nights at the winery. How do you know? He often came to the church doors late at night crying out to see you in his drunken state, slurring words and being very touchy. You of course always opened the doors as it was your job to help those in need and even with his constant self destructive habits, he's still someone who needs help. It's unknown rather the bard had a home or family so he usually slept in a pew on those nights, and on the other times he isn't drunk you aren't sure where he goes, though the traveller assures you he's fine.

Today was like many others, quiet and peaceful as you could see the sun's rays shining in through the large windows and the sound of the wind blowing gently outside. That morning Barbara informed you that she would be out for the next week, it was rather strange, she's never left the church that long, however she assured you it was just to spend time with family, with her older sister Jean. So you would be alone to care for the Cathedral which wasn't too hard, not a whole lot happens really.

Around noon the traveller came to the church asking for Barbara, you unfortunately had to inform the man that she was out for a week. He took it well and decided to leave however his bard friend seemed to not notice. After Aether left Venti as usual ran to you and started off on his usual conversations.

"So Y/N, are you really alone for a week? Like by yourself? I can imagine it'll be sooo lonely huh" He said in a slight teasing voice as you was both sat at a pew. "Yes, I'll be on my own however I have all I need for company, the winds Lord Barbatos bestowed upon the city is enough company and comfort" You replied knowing he was probably going to try to stay around, in a fantasy sure you would like him to stay.. and maybe do other th- No! You cannot think this way, this is sinful and will distract you from your purpose. Shaking her head some as you cleared your thoughts you noticed Venti as leaning over, his hand reaching up to your face, you move away some "What are you doing Venti?"you asked with a sigh as he giggled " your face is all red, what could be going through your mind? Nothing dirty I hope~! " he teased as you didn't notice. In embarrassment you stood up sighing "Venti I must ask you to leave as I need to clean the pews and return to my duties, maybe another time we can chat about something related to the church" you said to him with a bit of sass as he only smirked as he got up "Oh sure, I'll definitely be coming back to talk about Lord Barbatos~" he teased before leaving.

Later that night as you was already settled into your bed in the back of the Cathedral you started to close your eyes when you heard the all too familiar sound of someone knocking and banging against the large doors of the church. You thought about not even bothering with it being that your alone but after a few minutes the banging continued along with faint whining, sighing you got up in your silk robes and headed towards the front. You wore white beautiful sleeping robes, no they weren't see through, at least not unless gotten wet but if you remember correctly it's not supposed to rain so no worried right?

Just before you get to the door you hear a loud thunder strike! You looked at the windows and noticed the very heavy downpour, just as you were going to grumble about your outfit you heard the banging and ran to the door, almost forgot he was out there.

Unlocking and opening the large doors you see Venti, crumbled onto the stairs, his clothes soaking wet as he looked up at you pitifully "Y/N~ you took sooo long to get the door today... I'm all wet now.. " he whined, you couldn't help but to feel bad for the boy. After all it doesn't rain often here and definitely never stormed this bad in awhile. You reach down to help him up but only to pull you into the rain too. Great just what you needed, not even thinking on how translucent your outfit must be you're more focused on getting the drunken bard inside, helping him up and inside the church, the doors closing behind you. It's then now that you're soaking wet you noticed how cold the main Hall with the pews get at night, you decided he couldn't sleep here, he would catch a cold or worse. You walk him to the back where your room was, of course you couldn't sleep in the same bed so you where already thinking on taking Barbaras room, she wouldn't mind.

You set him down and start looking in your dresser for something wearable for him, of course after you already given him a towel to at least warm up with.

However the whole time you're digging through your clothes you could feel his eyes staring at you, almost forgetting your what used to be a pretty silk nightgown is now see through thanks to the rain. "Can you not stare so hard Venti? I'm trying to find something for you to wear" you say, not able to look at him in embarrassment.

He shakes his head a smile tugging on his lips as he leans in closer "No, it's just that you're so adorable.. you know that don't you? I'd love to hold you in my arms" the bard slurred as he was right up against you, you could feel his chest, did.. did he take his wet clothes off already??

You turn to face him to see he was only in boxers, your eyes couldn't help but betray you, looking at his body and especially the ever growing tent in his underwear.

"V-Venti! Why are yo-" Before you could argue he placed a finger over your lips, his eyes glowed as marking appeared on to his body, it was then when you could see him for who he was, as Lord Barbatos.

"Didn't I tell you earlier? I would come back to talk, of course it would be a bit selfish since it is about me~" He giggled as he was pressed against you, you could feel him poking you, these feelings of arousal was familiar but not all too familiar, yes you had a life of abstinence but you're human and of course would have those thoughts occasionally.

"Speechless? Not surprising, after all you are meeting the very Archon you've been worshiping all your life, tell me Y/N, do you want to please your Archon? To be my little follower? " he said with lust laced heavily in his voice. His tone was soft but filled with desire and want, you wanted him to kiss you so bad right now.

"L-Lord Barbatos... " you mumbled unable to form words, he let out a low groan at the name, it's been ages since he's been called by his true name, it only serves to intensify his lust. "Yes call me that more, your Lord, your Archon~" his soft lips crashing into yours, his hands was quick to pull the wet nightgown off, he didn't want you to get a cold now would he?

Your body felt hot to his touch, you felt sparks go off in your body whenever his hands moved across them, yet you didn't resist it, why should you? He is your Archon, all these years serving him, unaware he was always there, in plain sight.

He pushed you onto the bed, hovering over you, he is so pretty, his eyes.. his glowing tattoos, his face and everything, he truly was an Archon, your Archon.

You shiver under his gaze as you felt himself moving his mouth against your collarbone, your head feeling dizzy as he bites you harshly as you whimper slightly. A soft moan leaves your lips as he moves lower kissing and sucking on your neck, you gasp a bit in surprise, his hands wander over your body as he presses his chest against yours and you both feel heat spread through your bodies, a small whimper escaping your lips as his hands continue their path downwards, to your core.

It doesn't take long for him to find what he was looking for, his hands begin to push your hips upwards, wanting to feel the sensation of skin on skin between the two of you, you whimper once more, feeling a small nip on your neck as he begins to suck on it, you feel yourself arching your back as he continues to work his magic on you, you feel yourself becoming wetter and wetter, you could feel your legs shaking as you tried to keep yourself still, you could feel his fingers slipping inside you to feel the warmth inside you, it was exciting. Moaning out his name and whimpering for more "Ssshhh... I knew you'd like this~, just give me a moment, my muse" he said as his kisses made their way to your stomach, moving up your torso slowly. You moan quietly, your hands gripping his hair gently as your body trembles uncontrollably.

His slender fingers made quick work of you, it didn't take long for you get close already, moaning, whimpering and begging "My Lord, Barbatos please~! " but of course just before you could release he slipped his fingers out, giggling. He's still the same bard you met, a teasing man.

Before you could retaliate you felt his member press into you, whining as tears flowed, the Archon sympathized with you, whiping your tears as he whispered sweet nothings into your ear as he pushed further until he was fully into you.

As he began to move, it wasn't the pain that shocked you so much as the pleasure that made you tremble and let out moans, it was intoxicating really, the sensation was so overwhelming, he thrust harder as he held you tighter as you bucked underneath him, crying out as you gripped his shoulders, you couldn't seem to hold yourself still anymore, a mixture of pleasure and pain mixed inside you as his member went deeper and deeper.

You gasped, gasping loudly as you cried out from the pleasure, he grunted as he held your body firmly against his own.

"Won't you be my lover? My pretty little wife? The woman that'll bring the next Archon into this world~? " He said as his thrusts was harsh against your hips, groans left his lips as he gotten close.

"Beg for me, beg to be filled with my love, to be mine~" he groaned out as his eyes seemed to glow brighter.

"P-please Lord Barbatos, please f-fill me up! " Was all you could say before reaching your climax as well as his own, pushing himself deeper into you, everything happened so fast, he seemed to glow so bright, you fainted from all the stimulation.

.......

Your eyes fluttered open hearing the winds softly blow against the church, you felt sore before remembering last night, shooting up in bed quickly aching and regretting it as you held your stomach some. You noticed you're alone in your room, no sign of the bard.

You get up to get dressed and looked into your mirror to see all the markings, hickeys, bites and.. is that an Ameno mark? On her neck was a glowing mark for the Ameno Archon.

After getting dressed and cleaning up you opened the doors to the church for the regulars to come in, and not to surprising a certain bard was sitting on the stairs with his Lyre, singing a song of love.

#genshin impact venti #venti smut #Archon Smut #lord barbatos

918 notes · View notes

sidesplashofsainz · 21 days

Text

Invisible Angsty Ending

this post contains dark and triggering content. please read with caution.

here is the link to invisible 1

https://www.tumblr.com/sidesplashofsainz/747013673029189632/hiya-could-you-write-something-with-charles-x?source=share

you guys are free to request as much fluff as y’all’s want after this post 🫶🏻

6.1K characters 1.4K words🎀

You had the worst sleep of your life that night, head-pounding, mind-racing thoughts running wild. It all fell down.

Often you struggled with your mental health, always having Charles with you to guide you out of the shady corners of your mind, but alas, this time Charles wasn’t there to help you; he didn’t even notice how badly you were crumbling right before his very own eyes.

The worst part about fighting with Charles would be the morning after, when you wake up all foggy, forgetting about the issues of the night before believing that everything is normal. Anticipating your husband’s soft yet scratchy kisses, his sleepy voice, messy hair, and hour-long cuddles.

Unfortunately, by the time you awoke, your husband had already left, not even bothering to leave you a note or a text explaining his whereabouts.

This resulted in you spiraling out of control; your thoughts were getting too much for your head to contain, and your mind was replaying everything that you could have possibly done wrong to cause Charles to act this way.

You replayed how mad he looked in the car, how he didn’t even kiss you goodnight, how he didn’t compliment your dress that you specifically wore for him, and how he left you alone in the crowded room. You thought about how maybe you just weren’t pretty enough for him anymore, how your legs were too big, how you had scars on your body due to years of self-harm, and how you didn’t look like the other drivers girlfriends. Maybe that’s why your husband was mad at you??.

You knew what you were doing was destructive and that you would simply regret it as soon as you opened your social media accounts, looking at all the nasty comments that people left about how you “were a waste of space” and how “if I were Charles, I would simply cheat on you because you look like a bitch." There were hundreds of thousands of messages saying you were the reason that Charles was failing at Ferrari. It really hurt reading everything, but what hurt even more was that your husband’s actions made you believe that

Everything was your fault.

Everything that happened over the last two days made you pick up your hidden stash of sharp blades, something you’d hidden from Charles, never mentioning it to him, as you never thought that you’d need to use it.

You started slashing hard and quickly feeling the emotion drip out of you alongside the blood that was slowly pooling and staining the white tiles that you so happily had picked out.

Cold, oh, so very cold. If there was one word that could be used to describe you in that very moment, it was cold. You didn’t know if it was the bathroom tiles that made you feel cold or if it was the deep gash that took all the heat away from your body. All you knew was that you were very cold.

Charles was upset; he felt betrayed by your words. It felt like a knife to his chest, making him feel useless. He knew that Ferrari was not where it used to be, but he really wanted to bring the team back to life. In his rage, he failed to realize that he had left you alone to find your own way back to the car. He didn’t know why he was being such a prick; he just wanted you to feel what he was feeling—deep pain and hurt.

The car ride was uncomfortable, to say the least. Charles’s eyes were everywhere except on his wife. He failed to see how scared she looked or how small she felt next to him. Charles had always promised to make her feel safe and comfortable with him; if Charles could see this one, he’d probably wack him in the dick.

When they finally reached home, Charles didn’t bother to walk up with her; he went straight down to get a glass of scotch. He didn’t want to get into an argument with her; he simply wasn’t interested.

It was half past midnight when he wandered into his bedroom. He walked past his wife’s slightly shaking figure. He registered her red eyes, and he had to restrain himself from holding her close to him and letting her fall apart in his arms.

He simply looked at her and turned around to stare at the ceiling, feeling foreign to him.

He woke up a lot earlier than he normally did, feeling bitter and tired. He wanted to turn around and wrap his arms around you. He wanted to plaster your face with kisses and make sure that there were no dark clouds looming over your precious little head.

He didn’t do anything; he just woke up and left for a meeting with Ferrari. Little did he know that the aftermath of his actions would be catastrophic.

When Charles got back, he felt weird, as if he had a ton of bricks on his chest. The house was quite quiet, there wasn’t any noise stating that you were up, and the radio was off, which was unusual for him since you loved listening to music, especially when he was out.

He felt his heart beating faster than it ever had, something in him holding him back from opening the bathroom door, almost as if his mind knew that after what he saw in the bathroom, he would never be the same.

The door didn’t open immediately; there was something heavy blocking the entrance. It took Charles some strength to open up the door. What he saw inside would haunt him until his last breath.

His y/n, his wife, the love of his life, was lying there cold to the touch, her lips blue, with a deep gash on her wrist.

She was dead. She had killed herself. She had left Charles forever. She would never be coming back.

No more morning kisses. No more cuddles. Ni more comforting words after shit races. No more soft smiles. No more blushing cheeks after compliments from him. No more y/n

Charles was never the same after that day. The day he buried his wife was the day he buried himself. He never got to apologize to her. He never got to tell her that he accepted Horner's offer. He never got to say that he loved her. He never got to kiss her rosy lips.

Her last words to him still haunted him 30 years after she passed away. “Prick,” he remembered her tearful face as she said those final words to him.

Y/N felt invisible after they had argued; now she truly was invisible. Charles had broken his promise to make her feel safe and comfortable around him, so she broke her own promise just so that they would be even.

#charles leclerc x wife reader #f1 imagine #f1 scenario #f1 x reader #mafia!charles leclerc #mafia!f1 #charles leclerc #dad!charles leclerc

103 notes · View notes

hollyhomburg · 7 months

Text

Before I Leave You (Pt. 60)

(sneek peak)(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: Life changes come in many many forms; courting gifts, leaving jobs, and...Murder

Tags: Slow burn getting warmer, Angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, Trans! Tae, Transphobia, gender thoughts, workplace discrimination, flashbacks, murder, graphic violence blood, suicidal actions

W/c: 11.5k

A/n: ah i'm hoping i'll finish this in time! if not T-T i'll be attending my cousins wedding at the time this is posted so! give me lots of love when you read it cuz i'm so nervous~ i've never been around so many fancy people before. also that photo of hobi? in the moodboard? tell me why it makes my heart FLUTTER!!!

Previous part��~ Masterlist

~-~

Chapter 60: Glass Slippers

Your breath goes just a little bit rapid, just a little, hitching when you think of it.

“Did Jin tell you anything?”

“He didn’t. Although my secretary did inform me that he filled out the paperwork for you.” The air in the therapist’s office is cold. Cold enough that it has you wrapping your sweater sleeves over your knuckles.

Your cheeks heat “My pack they- get a bit- protective.” Your fingers circle your wrist. You’re glad that Hobi convinced you to take one of his sweatshirts. He'd had a strange look on his face while he zipped it up, and you'd had to worry and wonder about it the whole morning. You'd worried more once he texted, just after he must have gotten to work.

“I have kind of a history of self-destructive behavior and I- I kind fell into bad habits a few days ago and blew up. It was all kind of triggered by this like- thing that happened with me and my other packmate.” It’s surprisingly easy to tell the truth.

You’re a right side better than you have been the last few weeks, now. A little bit more present, less foggy. The doctor just looks at her screen and not at you. What is it with her asking questions that make you not want to lie? Why does it feel like you should anyway?

Dr. Rima reads between the lines, what you're trying to say without saying it. “Is there a possibility of you hurting yourself again?” She clicks at the screen a little rapidly.

“No.”

The truth is you have no idea. It seems best to lie in this situation. But you consider it; one of your packmates making the call that you are too much to handle, that you need more help than they can offer. You imagine what it would be like to be in inpatient care. Grippy socks and group therapy and probably observed mealtimes. Maybe Iv's and feeding tubes if it came to that. Away from the pack and away from Yoongi.

He’s just downstairs, but that feels too far. There was no way that he was going to let you do this alone, you wouldn't be surprised if he never left the waiting room.

It’s just a therapy session. The very thing that you once refused. But now that you're here you might as well heal, you might as well work to stop this endless train of brief highs and endless lows. you'll give it a go, why not? What do you have to lose?

And yet, the texts from Hobi remain unanswered:

Ho-🐝 (9:48): Hey, I’m really proud of you.

Ho-🐝 (9:48): I’m really happy I get to be your packmate. In case you ever worry.

Ho-🐝 (9:49): And your best friend too <3

Ho-🐝 (9:51): Just so you knowwww

Coming Saturday September 23rd at 5pm EST (Time Zone Adjustment Below)

154 notes · View notes

ariundercovers · 10 months

Text

Choke on It - Dark!Joel Miller x Reader

Pairing: Dark!Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: (AFAB reader) takes place post-TLOU. They’re both members of the Jackson community, often put on patrols together. Reader has a penchant for destruction and rage, especially in the face of self-preservation. Sometimes, they just want to be able to let go.

Word Count: ~2.8k

Warnings: explicit 18+ graphic depictions of sex and violence. dubcon, choking, breath play, degradation, skull fucking, spitting, forced blowjobs, idk. It’s dark. Kinda a hate fuck? They like each other tho. Semi-established/FWB situation.

a/n: PLEASE HEED WARNINGS. Joel is not a nice man. Y’all, its dark again. Please heed the warnings. Maybe this is where I live now. (No, I don’t – I’ll never get enough of writing fluffy Din fics.) Not a lot of plot. Mostly porn. At least partial credit for this one goes to @ezras--moon! We had a blast working on a VERY similar scene with two other characters, and I woke up this morning with thots, so I needed it to be full-length.

Enjoy, you filthy animals.

This fucking woman.

She was one of the most vicious and notorious members of the patrol in Jackson: the first one they sent out when there were murmurings of a group of raiders, or big trouble past the walls. And he was fucking infatuated by her – always had been. From the day he met her – all grumpy eyes and deep mistrust – something in him always drew him to her.

He looked over at her on the horse just a few meters beside him, sunset framing the shape of her face from behind. It could’ve been one of those super expensive pictures in a museum, he thought. A fucking Michelangelo, or a Bernini, or whoever those old famous artists were that they learned about in high school. Hadn’t thought about them in at least two or three decades, probably wouldn’t think about them again.

The two of them were peas in a pod, really. They ran on the same wavelength – self-preservation, protecting the ones they held close, and a total lack of trust for anyone outside of their inner circle. Joel was all too happy to lean into it, lean into whatever this was with her, especially now with the way that Ellie looked at him like she hated him – his last lifeline connecting him to something more human, severed. She was the last thing for him to grapple onto that gave him any sense of human connection outside of his brother. He took every patrol he could with her, every task in Jackson that would allow him to work near her, with her, in earshot of her, in view of her.

He was a goner, really. That stupid little perfect ass of hers, the way her lips puckered when she spoke. The curve of her breast, the way the scars littered her stupid, perfect face. The devious look in her eye when they went on patrol, when she got herself in trouble – and then, of course, the way she killed things: infected, clickers, raiders, without even the slightest hesitation. The way she shot her rifle without batting an eyelash, sunk a dagger into her enemy’s eye socket without a second thought. The way she let herself just kill, with reckless abandon.

Oh, and kill, she did.

There’s a glint in her eyes that he catches sometimes – it’s fierce, brutal, kind of like the fire he can watch travel under her skin at the smallest hint of danger ahead. It’s like watching lightning strike a tree – explosive, frightening. It all plays a part in why Joel just couldn’t keep her out of his mind. Her presence was all-consuming to him in a way that he couldn’t manage to slip out of. He was bound up in her talons like a falcon’s prey.

It’s her voice – not Joel’s - that eventually fractures the silence between them as they move along their scheduled patrol route.

“Sun’s almost down, we should set up camp for the night. I’ll take first watch, you get some rest.”

He glanced over at her, intrigued. Even the way she commanded things to him – something he wouldn’t take for a second from anyone else – thrilled him. A spark shot down between his legs as he thought about taking that from her, shutting her up and making her follow his own rules, instead.

Their camp for the night is just an outcropping of stone with a few closely spaced trees – they’ve used it before. It’s a small fire and a couple sleeping bags and a flask of Tommy’s shitty home-grown alcohol, held tight to his chest. It’s the silhouette of her damn gorgeous body on display for him, lit up by the flames, just for his viewing pleasure. “I know you’re awake, Joel. Stop staring and go the fuck to sleep.”

How could he possibly sleep? He was too busy thinking up all the ways he could touch her and disassemble her right now.

“Can’t just do that, darlin’.” His voice is gravelly when it comes out, partially due to lack of sleep and partially due to the arousal he’s been trying to fend off since they started their patrol this morning.

“Yeah, you can, Joel. Shut the hell up and close your fuckin’ eyes.” The eye roll she gives him is magnificent – makes him suppress a chuckle in the back of his throat. He sits up, glaring at her, and he slides sideways out of his sleeping bag.

“Now why the fuck would I do that, sweetheart, when you’re jus’ sittin’ there lookin’ good enough to eat? When I could be using that perky little body of yours for whatever I wanted?” His words are laced with something salty-spicy-sweet, cutting her deep while he praises her, catching her off guard.

She blinks back at him a few times, taken aback by his forwardness. He’d never been this direct before – she always had to coax it out of him, convince him it was a good idea, that they should let off some steam with each other every once in a while.

It was threatening. And thrilling.

He stands, slowly, and his movements are labored now that those joint just don’t work the way they used to anymore, but his eyes are back on hers in an instant, glaring daggers right into her soul. She’s sitting on a downed tree a few feet from the fire, and as he stalks his way around it to breech her personal space, she can’t help but recognize the gushing feeling between her legs. This was a different Joel than the one that usually came on patrols with her – a kind of Joel that she always thought he had in him, but he’d never let himself show.

“Yeah, Joel? Not sure you have it in you to make that happen.” She doesn’t move from her spot, perched on the edge of the log with a rifle strewn across her lap. Her eyes stay trained on his, not backing down even an inch, and her body stays relaxed, calculated – unafraid. The taunt is deliberate, teasing the waters of whatever this version of Joel was willing to put up with.

The toes of Joel’s boots click against her own and he crouches down in front of her, eyes still trained on one another with snipers’ gazes.

“That a challenge? I don’t think you wanna challenge me right now, darlin’. I’m feelin’ all kinds of ways about that mouth ‘a yours.” Her eyes narrow at him and she stands, slowly, dropping the rifle into one hand.

“Real cocky for a half-deaf almost senior citizen with two bad knees and a fuckin’ savior complex.” His hand jolts out before his brain has a chance to choose otherwise, wrapping around her neck instantaneously and squeezing – not enough to completely cut off her air supply, but enough to make her feel it. Her hand that’s not on the rifle comes up to claw at his forearm.

“Fuckin’ watch it, sweetheart. I am not in the mood.”

She blinks back at him and smirks, still cocky even with the hand wrapped around her throat starting to squeeze tighter with each passing moment. “Do your fucking worst, Joel. You. Don’t. Scare. Me.”

The chuckle that comes out of his throat is dark – maybe even sinister. His eyes narrow at her and he inches himself closer until their noses are almost touching.

“My worst, sweetheart? You’re gonna regret that. Almost feel sorry for your fuckin’ throat.” He uses his grip on her neck to push her down, dropping her hard onto her knees as she looks up at him with hooded lids. Releasing her throat, he runs his hand through her hair before fisting it in the locks tied up at the crown of her head. He uses the leverage to yank her head backward at an uncomfortable angle that throws her off balance – she’d fall right over if he let go right now.

A wicked smirk comes over his face as he reaches down with his free hand and unbuckles his belt, then his pants, pulling out his already hard, leaking cock. Her eyes widen just slightly, always a bit shocked by the size of it, and he uses the grip in her hair to inch her mouth closer to the tip.

“Open your fuckin’ mouth, sweetheart. Couldn’t keep it closed a minute ago.” He pushes the tip just past her lips and she lets her jaw drop, taking him in as his width stretches the muscles in her jaw.

He’s not kind about it – he slams her head down onto his cock so hard she’s sputtering and gagging at the bottom end, no chance to adjust to his size. The hair in his hand becomes the reins he uses to rock himself into her at a violent pace. Her hands instinctively rest at his thighs, nails biting into the jean-clad flesh as she gags and chokes at every thrust. He pulls her off him and watches as her saliva remains in strands – connecting her to him even while she isn’t touching, running down her chin like she just bathed in it. Her breath comes out in pants, trying to catch it before he makes his next move.

This was what he was aching for, he just didn’t know it until he had it in his hands. Needed to see her this fucking wrecked because of him, messy and broken. He’d break her more tonight – this was just a crack in the outer shell. Letting out a quick puff of air, his smile is sinister when he offers her his next command.

“Deep fuckin’ breath, darlin’.”

He watched her take a few short breaths and then a particularly large one. At the top end of it, when he could see that her chest cavity was full, he forced her mouth back down onto him as far as she can go, holding it tight to his pelvis so she couldn’t move.

“20 seconds, now.”

The nickname sears her as she blinks back the salty tears that start to fall without her permission. Her nose is buried in his pubic hair and the cock in her throat is so deep she can’t swallow, can’t even gag, really, and definitely can’t breathe. She has no other choice but to hold her breath while she’s locked onto his cock like this. Her grip on his thighs increases as the tears in her eyes start streaming more steadily.

And then, finally, he starts counting.

“1… 2… 3…” His grip on her hair is legitimately bruising – skin stretched over her skull to the point of pain. It’s like he’s ripping the back of her skull off while simultaneously pushing her down and it makes the gears spin in her brain faster than she can process them.

“6… 7… 8…” She looks up to him and his eyes are locked on hers. If she could form a coherent thought in her brain right now beyond breathe, breathe, breathe, she’d realize he was watching her closely – the way she flinches, how her throat spasms around him, the twitching of her body as she struggled for oxygen he so expertly deprived her of.

“12… 13… 14…” He’s not rocking his hips into her mouth, luckily – at least not yet. He’s just holding steady, actively pushing in with his hips and his hand in such a way that it made it impossible for her to get any semblance of relief.

“18… 19… 20.” He yanks her head back from his cock and she sputters around him, gagging as he finally pulls himself from her throat. Her muscles spasm and contract from the abuse, breath shaky and panicked. Coughing, her lungs burn as they fill back up with air, and she’s not sure what’s saliva and what’s saline tears on her face anymore.

“Another one, darlin’. Breathe.” Joel watches closely while the muscles of her neck expand and contract, waiting to see that big breath he needed her to take. At the peak of it, he pulled her hard onto his cock again, burying her nose into his pelvis bone, even a fraction deeper this time, and starts to count.

“1… 2… 3…” She was just so damn pretty with so many tears rolling down her face - eyelashes clumped together, face a shiny mess of bodily fluids. He watched the way her eyes were getting redder as the tears came more freely this second round, enraptured by the way they turned bloodshot, illuminated by the warm glow of the campfire.

It was just so lovely.

“9… 10… 11… 12…” This time, he started rocking his hips now, pushing a bit deeper where he could. Strategically, he thrusted only about an inch at a time – still deep enough to cut off her airway completely but giving him the satisfaction of fucking into her throat at the same time.

“18… 19… 20.” In truth? This was like watching a star explode around his cock - this usually powerful, dominant, no-fucks-to-give woman with a penchant for violence and decimation everywhere she went reduced to rubble in his hands, putty on his cock. He ripped her head back off of him once more and groaned at the way she sputtered out immediately, coughing as tendrils of saliva broken splashed back and forth onto his dick from her mouth, chin, and neck.

“Breathe, darlin’. So fucking beautiful for me. You’re such a fuckin’ whore, so wrecked on this cock.” She caught her breath, a panicked look in her bloodshot eyes as she met his again, holding a hand to her throat. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, ‘m not gonna make you do that again.” He squeezed her jaw tight in one hand, letting go of her hair with the other. Fingers dug into her cheeks, he could feel her teeth through the thick flesh as he pinched her cheeks together, as her hands scrambled up to cling to his wrist, pleading for him to stop, to keep going, to move faster, for something. She didn’t even know what.

“You did alright. Gonna make you count to 30 for me next time, though.” He steps up toward her and spits on her face, her eyes and mouth wide open as his saliva makes contact and mixes with her own. He rubs it in roughly with his free hand and pushes her away. Off balance, she falls back onto her heels, and she turns over onto her hands and knees as she continues to heave and cough, spitting on the ground below. He crouches over her again, his chest now inches frond her back, and he whispers darkly.

“Gonna fuck you like the whore you are, now.”

A shaky breath catches in her throat as she composes herself before lifting her head and turning it back to him, meeting his eyes while still trying to heave breaths back into her lungs. She smiles wickedly, teeth bared. That glint is in her eye that gets him every time.

“Do your fuckin’ worst, Joel."

#joel miller fic #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x reader #dubcon #writing #dark!joel miller #joel miller smut #pedro pascal smut #the last of us fanfiction #no beta we die like men

237 notes · View notes

angrelysimpping · 1 year

Note

Can I request a full thing with m!Whitney and m!Kylar actually working together because that ask just 👀👀👀

Hhhhhhh i know what this ask was referencing but I cannot for the life of me find the post. If I find it at some point, I'll add the link but until then, sorry! ><"

Contents: AMAB Whintey (he/him); AMAB Kylar (he/him); GN Reader (you/you, they/them); drugging; noncon; abduction; penetrative sex, reader receiving; oral sex, reader giving; multiple partners

Words: ~2.4K

"Fancy meeting you here, slut.”

You nearly drop your bag at Whitney’s voice. It was nearing six, birds chirping away, morning fog creeping across the ground, yet to get burned away. The bully didn’t really strike you as a morning person, one of the reasons you had decided to slip out of town before noon. In theory, you wouldn’t run into anyone you knew.

Your theory was incorrect, apparently.

You try to collect yourself, plastering on a smile as you look at the bully. “Wh-Whitney! Didn’t think you were an early bird.”

Mentally, you kick yourself for the stutter, but he doesn’t seem to catch it as he slings a strong arm around your shoulders, pulling you in close to his side.

“C’mon,” he grunts, not even bothering to wait for you to agree with him, starting to drag you along. "We've got somewhere to be."

Your heart sinks. "Somewhere" with Whitney probably meant you on your knees in some dark alley so Whitney could make a quick buck. You didn't have that kinda time. The bus you needed to catch out of town would leave, with or without you on it. You'd waited too long, made too many plans, to let that fall through now.

You duck out from under Whitney's arm, holding onto your bag tightly as the bully swipes at you.

“Sorry, but I have to-”

“Skip town. Yeah, yeah. We know already.”

You freeze, body going cold. Skip town? How did Whitney-?

His arm wraps back around your shoulders, tight around your neck, as he starts walking again. You’re too stunned to do much but walk with him.

You hadn't told anyone. Not a single soul. It’d hurt keeping a secret like this to yourself, never sharing it with anyone. Not even Robin, whispering with them late into the night, knowing you had plans to leave. It had burned, behind your eyes and the back of your throat, as the other orphan clung to you and talked softly into the night about the future. A future where the two of you had taken the orphanage from Bailey, made things better.

A future you knew you’d never see, bus routes shining bright in your mind's eye as Robin talked of renovating the old orphanage.

Hell, you hadn’t even said it out loud, afraid of somehow jinxing it. The closest you’d ever got to writing it down were scribbled equations, trying to work out how much you needed to make and how fast you could make it. A single slip of paper that you then shredded.

Bailey may have done a shit job in raising you, but the paranoia they’d instilled in you had come in handy from time to time.

As Whitney starts to take you down an alley, you try to wiggle out of his hold. You don’t really succeed, the bully snarling as he shoves you into the cold alley wall.

“Behave,” he growls, caging you against the wall with his arms, body pressing against yours. Eyes going wide, you shrink in on yourself. Whitney has done a lot of fucked up things to you, and you’ve never taken it laying down. You’d fight him off in the halls, throw shit back at him in class. Sure, you might have fooled around with him a few times, sucked him off in the bathroom or rode him in the park, but that was something else — your own self-destruction and giving into impulse.

This wasn’t that. No matter how Whitney hurt you, he never seemed so…serious. Not like now, expression dark and eyes intense.

“You can do this easy way or the hard way,” the bully continues, “I really don’t care.”

When you don’t move, don’t try to push him away, he smiles, shoulders relaxing a bit.

“Good slut,” he murmurs, and you hate how heat rushes to your face, pools in your gut. You hate this stupid fucking town, hate the person it’s made you into, a person who gets turned on by one of their biggest harassers praising them.

You duck under Whitney’s arm, sprinting to the closest end of the alley.

You don’t make it far, Whitney’s arms around your middle and lifting you into the air.

“Let go!” Your shout comes out as a hiss, air forced from your lungs as he squeezes you. Writing in his grip gets you nowhere, nails digging into his strong arms lost on the bully as he staggers back, taking you with him.

“Fuck, he was right ‘bout you not coming quietly.”

Him? It only strikes you now Whitney’s earlier use of the term ‘We’, but you don’t get a chance to think about it. Whitney pins you face first to the alley wall, cheek pressing against the rough surface as you keep squirming, making him struggle to get something from his pocket.

The prick in your neck is almost unnoticeable, but the effects are near instantaneous, your world spinning around you as your body goes slack.

The last thing you see is Whitney pulling out his phone, swearing under his breath as he makes a call.

Your head hurts.

That's the only thing you can think about — the pain in your head.

A steady, dull pounding. You can feel it in your teeth, in the back of your eyes. It feels a little like when you took stimulants to help focus on solving the maths competition except worse. At least then you could stumble to bed and curl up. Your limbs feel like lead, unable to move even a single finger no matter how hard you will it. Then there’s your mouth, unbearably dry. Almost like someone had stuffed it full of cotton.

Some tiny part of you knows that you should worry, that you should panic over how you’re cold and in pain. That part of yourself is small, though, muted and made fuzzy

"...can't just leave th-them like that!"

Is that Kylar? You try to open your eyes but struggle. Your eyelids feel so heavy. Maybe you should just go back to sleep. Then the pain would be gone, too.

"Oh, what, you think they should just be able to do whatever? Walk right out the door?"

Whitney was here too? Strange.

"W-what if they need to use the toilet."

"They can piss themself for all I care, serves 'em right."

"You can't-"

There's a thud and you try again to open your eyes.

"Don't tell me what I can and can't do."

It takes what feels like a monumental effort, but you finally manage to open your eyes.

It takes even more of an effort not to close them immediately, the world fuzzy and spinning around you. Not the orphanage, you think dimly. Even with your mind muffled, you’d know the orphanage ceiling anywhere and you’re not there.

“-won’t hurt them.” Kylar’s voice catches your attention, grounds you slightly, the world settling somewhat, if still too bright. Trying to turn your head makes the blood pound in your ears, but you manage it.

Whitney. Whitney pressing Kylar against an unfamiliar basement wall, sneering, towering over the loner. Saying, snarling really, something, something you can’t hear to Kylar. Something that makes Kylar's expression darken.

The pounding in your ears lessens and you can make out the last of Whtiney’s words.”-not too bad, anyway. Would have left otherwise, jumped on the first bus outta town.”

Kylar’s eyes flick from Whiteny’s face to where you lay, eyes locking onto yours and making your stomach flip. His eyes are bright, hazy. You know that look, the same one that had taken over Kylar’s expression when he’d first declared you as his, pressing a knife to your classmate’s throat in the middle of English class.

You try to speak but everything is muddled, whatever Whitney had drugged you with still lingering in your system.

You blink but it must have been longer than just a moment.

How else would Kylar get on top of you so fast? Nuzzling into your neck, the soft words that pour past Kylar’s lips tinged with a hard edge as he keeps mumbling for you never to leave him.

Something warm and wet coats your thighs. His cum? You’re not sure. You’re not even sure where your clothes have gone. You’d been wearing them, hadn’t you? Now it’s just the soft fabric of a bed underneath you and the weight of Kylar on top of you. And…something else, something between your legs.

Whitney. You know it’s Whitney’s doing, know the ache of his cock forcing you open over and over again. You can hear him, swearing under his breath as your body shakes with each of his thrusts, but you can’t see him, Kylar cupping your face so you can’t look away from him.

Gasping as a calloused hand roughly strokes over your sex, the sound is quickly muffled as Kylar takes it as an invitation to press his mouth to yours, tongue sliding past your lips. It’s now you become aware of the hard cock pressing against your thigh, Kylar rutting against your naked body while Whitney fucks you. With a tiny, high-pitched whine into your mouth, Kylar cums, and something in you knows this is your fate now. Stuck as these two boys plaything.

The low moan of despair that leaves you is mistaken as lust, Kylar giggling as he comes down from his high. “Love you,” he mutters into your neck, arms wrapping around your middle. “Don’t leave me.”

“Us,” Whitney grunts, another harsh thrust making you gasp and shudder in Kylar’s arms. The loner’s eyes narrow, glaring at Whitney, but the bully doesn’t care. He grips your chin, pulling your face away from Kylar’s making you look him in the eyes for the first time since you saw him in that alley.

“You won’t leave. Remember your fucking place.”

There’s something in his eyes that scares you. A similar look to the one you’ve seen in Kylar’s before. You can’t really think about it as Whitney’s cock hits something deep inside you that makes pleasure wash over you, back arching as you moan.

Whitney smirks, “Told you they’d like it.”

It takes you a moment to realize he’s talking to Kylar, dots connecting only as the loner’s breathing hitches at your side. It’s with growing dread that you can feel Kylar’s cock twitching against your thigh, taking an interest again.

You try to distance yourself, to put space between you and your body. Maybe this was all some kind of sick dream, a far too real feeling dream. You can almost do it, with drugs still lingering in your system. You can tune out Kylar’s mumbled words, Whitney’s sneered comments. You can almost phase out the ache between your legs as Whitney’s cock carves out your insides.

That semi-blissful state comes to an end as Kylar straddles your chest, cum smeared cock resting against your lips.

“L-love?”

“Responds better to slut.”

Kylar shoots a dark look over his shoulder, making Whitney laugh, before turning back to you. With a trembling hand, Kylar strokes the side of your face, pausing as he feels small cuts from where Whitney had pressed your face into the wall of the alley. “H-he hurt you?”

You want to scream. Whitney was hurting you now, his cock bruising your insides, nails digging into your thighs, but Kylar was focusing on a few scrapes and bruises? “Kylar…” you try to say something, anything, but your tongue feels too thick for your mouth.

His eyes light up, a wild grin stretching across his face as his thumb glides over your lips. “I-I’ll take care of those,” he says, thin fingers ghosting over the curve of your cheek again before brushing over your mouth again. “J-just, just, p-please?” His cock presses against your lips once more, and you don’t have it in you to refuse. Begrudgingly, you open your mouth as much as you can with your body still feeling unreal, letting Kylar slide his cock into your mouth.

“You don’t have to ask ‘em shit, idiot,” Whitney grunts from between your legs, but Kylar doesn’t seem to hear him, too entranced by the sight of your lips around his cock.

Maybe it was because Kylar ignore him, maybe it was because he was just a dick, but Whitney reaches out, cupping Kylar’s balls from behind and giving them a squeeze.

Kylar squeals, bucking forward into your mouth. You try to relax your throat as best you can but it still hurts, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes.

“D-don’t-!”

“They like it,” Whitney cuts him off. “Tighten up real good when you fucked their throat. Do it some more and they’ll cum in no time. Then we can switch. That’s what you want, right freak?”

Kylar’s eyes seem to glaze over at the thought of being the one in between your legs, the one fucking into your sore hole. “D-don’t,” Kylar repeated, all venom gone from his voice as he idly rocks his hips forward. “Don’t c-call me th-that.” Whitney doesn’t respond, only breathlessly laughing again as he continues to fuck you.

The worse part is, Whitney is right. Your body has been trained to crave pain with your pleasure at this point. Between Kylar slowly fucking your mouth and Whitney rearranging your insides, you’re actually starting to feel good. You know it’s a natural reaction, but that doesn’t stop your face from burning when you do cum on Whitney’s cock, moaning on Kylar’s dick as the loaner pants above you.

“F-fuck.” Kylar presses his hips flush to your face, cum hitting the back of your throat, and leaving you no choice but to swallow.

Whitney’s not far after, his pace picking up, swearing under his breath as he chases his own end. With a soft sigh, Kylar rolls off you, curling back around you, pressing soft, almost sweet, kisses to your clammy skin as Whitney finally spends himself inside you.

Whitney says something to Kylar but you can’t hear them, your ears ringing and mind drifting as you try to process your new lot in life. You’re not even sure when they move away from you, bickering amongst themselves. It’s only when Kylar scurries over, holding bandages and a warm washcloth, that you realize Whitney’s left the room.

“Don’t w-worry, love,” Kylar coos, running the warm cloth between your thighs. “I’ll get you c-cleaned up and b-bring you some f-food, okay?”

You don’t respond, letting your eyes shut as Kylar starts to take care of you.

#tw noncon #tw abduction #tw drugging #cw noncon #cw abduction #cw drugging #degrees of lewdity #whitney the bully #kylar the loner #tw multiple partners #cw multiple partners

275 notes · View notes

thekidonherownn · 1 month

Text

I hate you for what you did (and I miss you like a little kid)- post tlo percabeth oneshot

The night of August 18th, camp half-blood was quiet. So quiet you could hear a pin drop. So quiet that it was scary, unsettling even: ‘cause camp never was and never had been quiet in the slightest, not until the night of August 18th, at least.

The campers and so the nymphs and dryads, even the birds up in the trees were silent, for one night only they all stood still: the adrenaline and hysteria from the victory of the battle of Manhattan was fading away, leaving behind only destruction, grief and loss.

Endless bunk beds remained empty, out of owners; the Apollo cabin was sad to look at: not a glowing ray of sunshine anymore: just dark and hollow. Nearly empty. Everyone understood that those missing souls deserved a little peace and quiet…even the chirping birds.

After the faint celebrations and laughs, after Clarisse and the others threw them in the lake, calm had settled…and that unescapable air of death had dawned onto the whole hill, brought by the night.

Annabeth was quiet too, laying still in her spot, her hair and clothes wet from the dunk in the lake, her lips salty from the kiss. Awake and mute: much like everyone else.

She’d dreamed of this night since the very first time she held her dagger: the time she was going to win, the one where she would get all the glory she deserved. Annabeth licked her lips again, balancing herself off the fact that they tasted like Percy’s…she got all the glory she wanted; she was a hero, she was a savior. Nothing could’ve prepared her for this moment, no fantasy of her child self could ever give her this emotion: Annabeth didn’t feel like a hero was supposed to, no, Annabeth felt like a murderer. She rubbed her palms on the sides of her shorts, still sensing the warm red blood that had stained them the same morning.

Luke’s blood. Luke’s blood all over Olympus, all over her clothes, all over her hands. She couldn’t seem to let go of the feeling of it, in the faint light of cabin six she could see they were clean and pristine, though it wasn’t enough. Annabeth wondered if she would feel it on her palms forever, if she would have to rip away her skin because of it.

She wondered if Percy felt it too. The blood on his hands. If he could see it splashed on the ground every time he closed his eyes. She ran her hands through her curls, trying to shake off the shivers that were running over her body: probably because she was soaking wet and hadn’t bothered changing into dry clothes, though Annabeth wasn’t sure that was the only reason.

He did it himself, Luke killed himself, she kept thinking, while asking herself if that really was the only possible option, after all. Maybe she could’ve saved him, maybe if she’d agreed to join him he would be well and alive now. No, you couldn’t- her own mind retorted to her thoughts, she tasted Percy’s lips again and shut her eyes close.

If she’d loved Luke like he wanted, maybe everyone would still be here…Annabeth’s brain reeled non-stop, endless scenarios started playing in her head; but the salt on her lips got stronger by the second, invading her own mind, Percy calming her with his memory.

It only had been a few hours since that underwater kiss, still she wanted more, Annabeth longed for the stinging salt on her lips: it almost made her forget about the burning sensation on her palms. As she put on her yankees cap and sprinted down to cabin 3, not a lot went through her head but the fact that she so desperately needed something to remind her that loving was worth it, that it didn’t always end up with blood stained blades.

The cabin’s front door easily opened, startling Percy in the process, who wasn’t asleep, like the rest of the campers. He sprinted to his feet, riptide in hand and eyes wide open, when he spot her standing she could see every piece of his body relax, he started whispering: “you-”

Annabeth, not wanting to break camp’s silence just yet, cupped both sides of his face and kissed him, quickly, a little awkwardly maybe…they still hadn’t discussed what they’re relationship was at, but their lips meeting again seemed right, even if it was shy and short, it was better than anything they’d ever felt before.

When she pulled away, their cheeks were flushed, it took Percy a few seconds to finish what he was saying: “...scared me, you scared me bad” his words were as low as possible, a little smile started growing on his lips.

“I’m sorry” was all she replied with, making herself at home and plopping her cap on the nightstand, "I'm sorry" she muttered again, more to herself this time, while tasting more salt on her lips. "I- " she tried to put it into words, and Percy said it for her:

"I know" he wore deep dark circles because of the insomnia and he kept his voice just a low breath, she knew he was trying to help out, but it somehow managed to make her even more anxious: she didn't want him to know. She'd hoped he wouldn't understand.

Percy put a firm hand on top of her shoulder, Annabeth noticed just now that she was still shivering from the cold and exhaustion, “do you want to um-” Percy sighed, preparing himself for what he was about to say:

“do you want to lay down?”

Those words hung up in the air for a few seconds too much, Annabeth had never been in cabin 3 this late at night, and even though technically they weren’t dating, it felt more than two best friends laying next to each other on a mattress…if you consider that the best friends in question enjoy kissing from time to time.

It was something they’d never done before, but just like the kissing part, it felt okay, it felt right. Annabeth didn’t say anything as she quietly plopped onto the right side of his bunk bed, he followed a moment later and laid next to her, pulled close by the small bed, their faces facing the ceiling.

She quickly discovered that the beds in cabin 3 were more comfortable than the ones in 6, laying on them was like being lulled by the warm waves of the night, whereas in the Athena cabin the bunks were lazily pressed to the walls, with hard and narrow mattresses…her mother’s message was clear: sleeping isn’t important.

His side pressed onto hers to fit on the bed, Percy’s body stiffened in awkwardness, but then quickly noticed that Annabeth wasn’t even noticing the closeness, she seemed to be on the lookout for something he couldn’t see, distracted by visions, she was rubbing her palms on her jeans as if her hands were really, really itchy.

With little thought, Percy grabbed her wrist, “don’t do that” he stated, his voice wasn’t mad, just concerned: her skin had a reddish color and looked irritated by the constant stress she was putting it in. Pushing through the embarrassment, he squeezed the hand in his, just to stop her from hurting it, Annabeth’s brain cleared out from the fog at his touch, she opened her mouth and quickly closed it again, realizing she didn’t have much to say. The silence was nice enough, why ruin it?

Percy might have thought the same, because they stayed quiet, the only sounds being the ones of their breaths itching close, him fidgeting with the covers with his free hand, confused on why she’d burst in at night with no explanation but, on the more honest side, not caring that much about it. She’d kissed him for three times, all in the same day, it was a win even bigger than the one they had in the morning.

That was when Percy’s brain clicked: Morning. War. Win. Luke. Shit.

He felt his heart drop to his stomach. She watched Luke die that morning, of course she was acting weird. Of course she couldn’t sleep like he couldn’t, of course he hadn’t thought about it because he was too busy noticing their arms slightly touching. Before he could even begin to figure out what to say, Annabeth talked for the first time in 30 minutes:

“I didn’t love him” she clarified, out loud, as if to get that out of the way: as if her bursting in and kissing him on the spot wasn’t enough. Annabeth shut her eyes, embarrassed by her own words, by her feelings, “but until he was alive some deep small part of me thought-” her voice quivered, she tightened her eyes shut trying to keep the tears in, Percy finally let go of their barrier and reached out to hug her close, she let him do it and pressed her face in the crook of his neck, silent tears started falling on his shirt, “I thought he could change” she mumbled, he whispered in her ear: “he did change” but Annabeth shook her head “he changed too late” her voice was becoming resentful, angry.

“I hate him so much, Percy” she sightly pulled away from his embrace, meeting his eyes and wiping away some tears, “I really do, but-” a deep sigh, “-but I also miss him” she covered her face with both her palms, trying to wipe away the sadness “I miss him more than I would like to, and there’s nothing I can do about it”

“but I don’t love him” she re-stated, Percy unconsciously took a sigh of relief, not really helping it, “that’s okay” he muttered, picking her hand once again, with their faces itching closer, she looked down at her tangled fingers…this wasn’t like her, going on talking about her issues and troubles: but this night, the night of August 18th, it was too much to bottle inside, she’d felt his death hover her, forbidding her to sleep.

Silence fell over them once again, Percy stared at her, the only light being the blue hue coming from the water fountain, her hair was still damp and she still had that warrior aura that had came over her that morning during battle…come to think of it, Annabeth always had it around her, to him, she was like one of those greek princesses that traveled with a dagger beneath their gown, only she wore it proudly on her belt; Percy’s throat dried up at the sight of her, from the fact that he could actually feel their hearts synchronize because of their closeness, he bit the inside of his cheek, trying to push away the nervousness.

Annabeth kept fidgeting with his hand, in her own way, she was avoiding his eyes, so he knew she must’ve been nervous too, feeling more secure of herself, lighter from the earlier confessions, she asked, out of the blue: “are we dating?” he wasn’t expecting her to ask, but instantly replied, with no hesitation whatsoever: “I hoped so” his tone was more fragile than Percy wanted it to be, he felt her squeeze his hand tighter, “good” she mumbled, a small smile appearing on her lips, the first of the night: “I think-” she got closer to look at him better and he mirrored her, finally meeting her yes, “-I think that’s the only thing I’m sure of right now” Annabeth finished, not letting go of his hand, her palms still red and scratched: only now she’d stopped sensing the blood on them.

Percy stopped in his tracks, thinking that it was a good place to start: being sure of what they were to each other after years of pining, they both stared into each other's eyes for a rough minute, Percy’s gaze casually slipping down to her lips eventually, Annabeth cleaned her throat after a while, “can I…can I spend the night?” she asked, trying to break through the quiet, he answered on the spot: “of course” he said, beginning to get up from his spot, “I can sleep on the other-” “Percy” she cut him off, her hand still grasping his, pulling him to her.

“oh. oh, of course” Percy mumbled under his breath, a deep blush spreading all over his face as he re-adjusted himself next to her, “I think we can sleep together” she went on, showing an amused grin at his reaction, “It’s not like we haven’t done it before” she whispered, draping an arm over him, sinking deeper into the covers, “we’re still best friends, after all”

Percy felt his chest warm at her words, when she finally laid her lips back on his, it was better than he could ever expect it to be: the awkwardness had melted away and the kiss was slow and laid back, when he pulled away he was more red than before, if that was even possible.

“best friends don’t do that” he mumbled under his breath, not breaking eye contact, Annabeth’s smile got wider “we do” she declared, Percy kissed her again, she pulled away almost laughing out of happiness, which to him felt like biggest win of all: considering how upset she’d come in, “thank you” she said, “for being there, you know” Annabeth’s face heated up, he kissed the top of the hand he was holding, “we’re best friends, after all”

She rolled her eyes at the mimicking, secretly flattered by his ability to remember every single one of her words, he went on: “we’ll get through this war” he sighed, “or better, the ending of this war” she hugged him and finished: “hopefully this time they’ll leave us alone”

Something tingled at the back of Percy’s brain, deep down, he knew that wouldn’t have been the case, they both did. But this wasn't the time to worry about it, they needed their time to heal: the new prophecy had to wait. He took a final deep sigh before drifting off to sleep: “hopefully”.

#percyjacksonposts #percabeth #annabeth chase #percy jackson and the last olympian #percabeth fanfic #percabeth ao3 #percy x annabeth #percabeth oneshots #thekidonherown

24 notes · View notes

scary-white · 7 months

Note

What are your favorite Carrie fics?

Here ya go, anon. I made a post like this a couple years ago, but it needed an update. This features some shameless self-promos. Sorry, not sorry. ❤️

Fix-its:

All You Ever Wanted to Find by boyscoutpaladin

Sue is totally fine with the idea of missing her senior prom. That is, until Tommy comes to her with an idea: both of them should take Carrie White to the prom.

Saving Grace by scary_white

Sue Snell is a bit more determined to help Carrie after the events of the prom, and isn't so willing to let her go down without a fight-- Or to let her go down at all. As long as Sue has anything to say about it, Carrie White is going to live.

enjoy life right now (as long as you can breathe) by @homosandhomies

Enjoying life is not sinful.

Fix-it of Sorts:

Upper Cut by palletesofrenaissance

I always wondered what a different ending would be like, and due to a restless night I wrote this down. Ideas thought about include: In today's time, would everyone have laughed at Carrie at prom or would they have more sympathy? How big of a destruction would have happened as a result? What if Sue had called out and Tommy moved out the way? What about the additional use of technology? How would Sue's teen pregnancy reveal go over with her parents? A sort of "fix-it" with a semi-happy ending because I was curious and I wanted to, plus this year has been scary enough.

Three Body Problem by Tamoline

After being banned from Prom, Chris decides to yell at Carrie from Billy's car. This starts a chain of events which sends things spinning down a very different path.

Sue/Carrie:

After Party by bread_bird

There was a dead girl in the passenger seat of Sue Snell’s car. Or, in the wake of the Black Prom, Sue and Carrie get the hell out of dodge and make a new life for themselves. Together.

wondrous miracles for our ancestors, in those days, at this moment by @homosandhomies

Carrie celebrates Hanukkah with Sue and her family.

the ties that bind by janie_tangerine

She’ll have to deal with the fact that Carrie White is her soulmate later, because Chris Hargensen is still throwing the damned tampons at her and the entire room is screaming plug it up and she’s there standing and unable to move and feeling like she’ll throw up and Carrie’s voice goes into a shriek as she screams help me all over again and fuck, it’s obviously period blood and it makes no sense she'd react like this but she is and it’s mixing with too much blood that no one else can see apparently — “Christ,” she shouts, shoving whoever was in between the two of them out of the way, then glares at Chris Hargensen, who at least shuts up — out of surprise, most probably, but better than nothing. “What the hell is wrong with you all?”

Homecoming Queens by scary_white

In a universe where Sue befriends Carrie rather than having Tommy take her to prom, things fold out very differently.

Horror:

Reunion by Scioscribe

Sue hears stories about Carrie White

The Monster in the Lake by Scioscribe

It's a hot June morning at Christian Youth Camp, and the lake is as warm as blood.

Sweet Sweet Vengeance (Sweet Sweet Irony) by scary_white

Sue Snell is present at prom when Chris Hargensen plays her nasty trick on Carrie White. Stricken by the loss of her boyfriend, Sue follows Carrie out of the gym before she can come back for the carnage. When they see Chris and her boyfriend pull speeding out of the parking lot, Carrie gets an idea and the two embark on a mission for sweet revenge.

#carrie stephen king #carrie white #carrie #carrie the musical #carrie 1976 #carrie 2002 #carrie 2013 #asks #fanfiction #carrie fanfic

42 notes · View notes

amber-sekio · 2 months

Text

One-shot Prompt

Fandom: BSD -Bungo Stray Dogs

Ship: Soukoku

Prompt:“Why are you awake?” “I could ask you the same thing.”

TW: mentions of self-harm, suicidal thoughts/idealization, vague mentions of an eating disorder but not specified, self-deprecating thoughts

A/N: Also posted on my ao3, you can find the link on my master list

After being together for a few months and going on cheesy expensive dates, at the expense of Chuuya’s wallet, Dazai moved in with Chuuya. And slowly, with Chuuya’s help, Dazai was getting better. He still slacked off at the office, primarily just to annoy Kunikida, but he was getting more sleep and Chuuya did his best to get Dazai to eat at least three times a day even if it was small; something was better than nothing, as Chuuya had put it.

That doesn’t mean it always worked out, of course. There were still days when Dazai struggled to eat anything at all. And there were nights like tonight where, even within the comforting warmth of Chuuya’s arms, Dazai couldn’t seem to fall asleep.

His thoughts were a little too loud tonight, it seemed. Normally, there would have been signs the previous days; signs of Dazai slipping back towards the darkness. However, this time, it seemed to come onto him suddenly, and worst of all, after Chuuya had already slipped into unconsciousness. And though Chuuya hadn’t said anything of work being tiring, Dazai could tell it had been tough. Nothing Chuuya couldn’t handle... but it certainly left him more exhausted than usual.

Dazai would… feel bad, if he woke him up now. Chuuya did so much for him. He cooked for him, he made sure Dazai was showering, and even if Dazai couldn’t get himself to shower, Chuuya would take a bath with him to compromise. When Dazai felt disgusted by his own body, Chuuya was there to kiss every single inch of his body with affirmations pressed into his skin.

And Dazai did what? What did he ever do for Chuuya? Nothing. All he ever did was burden Chuuya with all his emotional crap.

So, no. No, he wasn’t going to wake up Chuuya for something he should be able to handle by himself. He had handled it for the four years he was gone, he could do it again. Although, handle was probably the wrong word. He handled it by ignoring it. He handled it with his… self destructive habits…

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t ruin all of Chuuya’s hard work. Chuuya had kept him from harming himself since they got together almost a year ago now.

Chuuya would surely be mad if he ruined it now.

Dazai slipped himself out of Chuuya’s grasp and out of the covers of their bed. With silent steps, he made his way over to the balcony, swiftly opening the sliding door before closing it behind himself.

He hissed as his bare feet hit the freezing ground of the balcony deck. It was the middle of the night, probably sometime around 2 or 3 in the morning by now, if Dazai had to guess. The autumn air was crisp and beginning to grow colder as the end of the year creeped up on them.

Dazai breathed out softly, watching it fog up in the temperature difference.

He leaned against the railing, watching the city lights of Yokohama at night below him. Every so often, a car would pass below and his eyes would subconsciously follow it into the distance.

This did nothing to stop his racing mind, but made him far colder than he was before. He was tempted to retreat back into the comfort of Chuuya’s arms, but something kept him from doing so.

He looked down.

It was far.

No human could possibly survive a fall that far.

Chuuya could.

Dazai couldn’t.

His fingers twitched where they were on the railing. His hand closed around the railing.

No.

His hand shook, clasped around the freezing metal.

His mind drowned out the sound of the city around him.

His thoughts were screaming in his mind.

It was loud, a cacophony of sounds. Thoughts.

“Why are you awake?”

Dazai’s eyes widen. His hand gripping even tighter around the metal. His body betrayed no other signs of his shock. He didn’t turn around.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“The bed grew cold without a certain clingy mackerel occupying the other side.”

A soft sigh sounded behind him before warm hands found their way around his waist.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“Yeah.”

“If you’re not up to talk right now, that’s fine, but lets go back inside.” Chuuya spoke, his words pressed into Dazai’s back as a kiss accompanied them. “You’re shivering.”

Was he? He hadn’t even noticed.

He unclasped his hand from the freezing metal.

Chuuya let his hands fall to his side and already Dazai missed their warmth.

Dazai silently followed Chuuya inside. He slipped back under the covers, letting Chuuya close the door before joining him.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

Dazai shifted closer to Chuuya, letting his head rest against Chuuya’s chest. He listened to Chuuya’s heartbeat for a moment as Chuuya’s arms wrapped around his waist.

Dazai’s voice was quiet as he spoke into Chuuya’s chest. “Tomorrow?”

He could feel the soft sigh that left Chuuya. “Tomorrow.”

A hand left Dazai’s waist from under the covers to run though his hair. Dazai let out a soft, content, sigh at the fingers in his hair.

“Try and get some sleep for me, ‘kay princess?”

Dazai felt his cheeks heat up at the pet name, burying his face further into Chuuya’s chest in response.

“I love you.”

“Love you too, princess.”

Dazai is a princess who loves to be spoiled rotten and no one can change my mind, and of course, who better than Chuuya to fulfill his need to be taken care of?

I'm going to ignore the fact that me writing Dazai being taken care of is just me coping 🙃

14 notes · View notes

queenofcoquette · 1 year

Text

2023: improving mental health~

hey loves! so earlier i made a post about my focus going into 2023. i said one of the things was improving my mental health. (which is so all over the place) it’s definitely going to be a challenge, but i have habits i started back in 2022, and more ones i want to add.

surrounding myself with positivity:

meditating daily, i do it for like 5 minutes, but i want to start doing it longer

practicing more deep breathing

surrounding myself with positivty. it sounds dumb, but i’m going to surround myself with positive videos, positive quotes, and reading those in the morning

making more gratitude lists

continuing my emotional journalling

communication:

i’ve started opening up more to my parents, and it feels good. i realized my mom and i are actually really similar, so it feels good when we rant about our current situation lol

this year i’m trying to get a proper diagnosis for a condition i have. it’s a story for another time but i have super bad periods (they would literally last for WEEKS and were super heavy) instead of getting a diagnosis i got birth control, even tho i probably have an underlying problem, which i’d like to sort out this year.

i’ve started thinking about why my mental health is the way it is, and like current things that are weighing me down. instead of self-destructing and whining, im trying to work on solving my problems and improving my mental health. because i know that my current life situation will get better in a couple years when i move away, but if i don’t take care of my mental health, then i’ll never really leave my problems behind.

#that girl #that girl 2023 #motivation #pink pilates princess

149 notes · View notes

ashlingiswriting · 8 months

Text

do i know you? chapter seven

[ 5.4k words ] [ masterlist ] [ prev chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six ] you figure you can be good and still take it a little easier. that’s all you’ve done today, take it a little easier, and it feels really fucking good. richie jerimovich x reader, past mikey berzatto x reader, slow burn

after an eleven-hour stretch of sleep, a three-egg breakfast, and cautious self-reflection, you come to the conclusion that something has to change. and fast. yesterday, richie fucking jerimovich—constant leather jacket tracksuit combo, stab wound, aggravated assault charge, and anxiety and depression diagnoses, that richie—asked you if you were okay. it was a reasonable question for him to ask, and giving him the truthful answer felt like peeling off your own skin.

usually you’d cut and run—you’re not big on torture—but richie’s become as much a fixture in your life as cigarettes themselves. whatever you go through with him, you have a feeling that things would be worse without. so you do the reasonable thing.

you go to the library and google ‘how to stay mentally healthy.’

sure, it makes you feel like an idiot, but it’s not like you have other options. your health and benefits package consists of stolen medications, a grizzled retired doctor named beth, and weirdly extravagant christmas presents in years when the carusos are doing well. none of these qualify as conducive to mental health.

thus, doctor google. most of the listed mental health tips seem either impossible—you’re not about to make new social connections, you’re not that self destructive—or plain old stupid, as in a stress ball. like a little rubber ball to squeeze. great stuff.

there’s a few things that you think you can tolerate, though. you end up working out every day in your apartment, volunteer stocking the shelves of a food pantry every tuesday morning right before bed, and tackle the miserably unorganized state of your post-michael finances. occasionally you’ll eat a salad, but you’ll curse richie as you do it.

cultivating mental health for its own sake is not something you’d usually engage in, but mental health as a one-sided competition that you are determined not to lose? it’s a tolerable game.

as for richie, he seems to be holding steady. the new and horrifyingly fancy specter of the bear does seem to freak him out, but at least the bear’s got a future. the beef, as far as you remember, only ever had a past.

though this winter’s turned bitter cold, you never invite him inside, not even past the double doors into the pathetic excuse of a lobby with its single fake potted plant. you had your one little breakdown and that’s fine. but the rules stay strong, and you get a little stronger. he tells you that eva liked the girl who loved horses the best, and you tell him she’s got good taste. there’s still bad nights, but there’s less fear. you haven’t fucked it up, that’s the point. you’re being good.

and then one day he doesn’t come back.

you’re not a fool. you wait for three days before letting yourself go.

on the third day, you have to wake up to administer alessandera’s iud at the stupidly early hour of eleven in the morning. afterwards, too caffeinated to rest, you decide that you might as well head to the library to check his instagram.

the most recent picture is from eight days ago, so that’s no help. his two pinned posts catch your attention anyway. in the first picture, eva’s got two blonde ponytails sticking out of opposite sides of her head, and her ponytail holders have huge round sky blue plastic beads on them. the smears of chocolate on her fingers match the ones on richie’s cheek, and they’re both giving the camera a goofy thumbs up.

in the second picture, it’s him and michael. they’re both grinning, squinting against the evening sun, and staring at something or someone just out of frame. lake michigan spreads out glorious behind their shoulders. it was probably a fishing trip. it’s got to be an old ass photo, cause they’re both wearing shirts that say the original berf of chicago and you stole michael’s in the summer of 2020. you needed to have something of his during quarantine, and you kept it even after quarantine ended. it’s still folded away in your dresser, protected by mothballs.

michael disappeared on you too. after you broke up, you kept texting him about meeting to give him back some of his things, but he wouldn’t answer. to be fair, all you had to do was ride the elevator up a couple floors and drop off a box by his door. but you kept texting him anyways, texting on into the silence, until finally it occurred to you: he was punishing you. two could play at that game. you stopped texting altogether, and that’s when it happened.

this is no number of push-ups or good deeds or leafy greens in the world that can defend against an experience like that. the silence was supposed to only last a week, a month at most, and then it became forever.

so yeah, you go to the beef. the bear. whatever.

so much for being good.

the restaurant is closed for renovations, so you go around to the back and find an unusual pair sitting, eating sandwiches off paper plates, and arguing about greta gerwig’s little women. you recognize both of them from richie’s instagram.

fak breaks off mid-rant and peers up at you from under his baseball hat, as bright-eyed as a squirrel spotting a potential nut. syd, on the other hand, looks neat and cool in an apron, kerchief, and cautious expression. she’s by far the more intimidating of the two to you, though maybe that’s just richie’s influence coming through. she’s on another level and you know it.

can i help you? syd says.

yeah, you say. where’s richie?

he’s out sick.

out sick, that makes sense. relief warms you like the first sip of hot coffee on an icy morning, and then you clock the expression on syd’s face. she’s shifted from suspicious to outright dubious.

why, she adds, does he owe you money?

ah, fuck. you were so worried that you forgot that when you’re wearing your big coat and your stoic face, you look like trouble.

nah, you say. he doesn’t owe me anything. is he okay?

from the way she stares, syd must think you bizarre, but she humors you. i mean, two days ago he texted me a video of three chimpanzees attacking a gorilla. is that okay? she shrugs. you tell me.

he’s such a fucking weirdo. why?

i don’t know, i told him that one of the restaurants i used worked at was a vegan place and he’s been sending me shit like that ever since. am i vegan? no, i’m not, but why should that make any difference, you know? who knows why richie does what he does.

who knows, you say. it’s fun to grumble about richie, but you don’t actually find him mysterious. one or two scares aside, he’s the easiest person to understand in the whole city.

i should probably call him, you say. can i borrow your phone?

sydney looks even more weirded out than before for a second, and then she seems to have a lightbulb moment, just as you see the back door opening.

he does owe you money, doesn’t he? syd says, exasperated, but not surprised.

quién le debe dinero a quién? says somebody in an undertone, and then tina appears, her curly hair a little shorter than the last time you saw her, but otherwise unchanged. when she sees you, her expression breaks into a smile of welcome while her eyes get complicated.

hey, julie, she says. how you doing?

usually, you hate it when people ask you that. but with her, you just don’t.

doing okay, tina. you?

oh, we’re doing good, right, chef? she says, with a fond glance at syd that seems to invite her in.

still fighting for our lives with an auditor, but yeah, syd says. we’re on track.

you want to walk with me? tina says to you, and you nod, grateful that she seems to have instinctively guessed what you need.

while you’re strolling out of earshot of the others, syd heads inside, which puts you on a ticking clock. the chances of carmy knowing your actual name are slim, but the chances of him coming out into the alley to investigate? those are dangerously high.

tina interrupts your train of thought, stopping by the chain link fence and turning to face you.

so what’s wrong? she says, and though she’s as warm and genuine as before, you are reminded by the glint in her eyes that she’s perceptive and tough and not to be fucked with. no wonder michael loved her so much. she was one of the few people who knew how to love him back without drowning.

does there have to be something wrong? you say.

not necessarily. but historically speaking? she says it almost apologetically.

yeah.

you only ever met her two times, both in his apartment, once in the dead of night and once in the middle of the day. you remember meeting her, but that’s all. in your mind, each emergency blends into the nexxt, and you don’t probe them for details. all you remember is that one time she was there, you called for an ambulance even though he ordered you not to, and he hated that. tina stood firm and carried on amidst all the shouting, even when you lost it.

it’s a wonder she’s being kind to you now, actually.

i still carry the narcan in my purse, tina says.

the nasal spray? you say. the stuff that you gave her after the scare in october ‘21. that’s good. gonna find somebody savable eventually, right? and that comes out way more bitter than you meant it to, but you can’t figure out a way to take it back fast enough.

there’s a hint of steel to tina’s voice, a reminder that she’s deliberately granting you her patience and could revoke it at any time, when she repeats, so what’s wrong?

you take out your burner phone, your sad little nokia, and show it to her.

i busted my old phone, lost all my contacts, and i don’t have the money for a new one right now, so this artifact is all i got. do you have richie’s number? you say meekly.

sure, she says, pulling it up and handing it over so easy that you’re startled. you’re not used to being given something that you need simply because you asked for it.

you take her phone with a quiet thanks and start typing his number and address into your own.

i looked for you at the funeral, she says. it stings, whether she meant it to or not.

well, you say, still typing and glad of the excuse to not look up at tina’s face, i figured i’d spare his mom the fun of having multiple women show up.

that’s not a fair hit, not the full story, but you don’t bother to clarify.

to your surprise, she doesn’t give you what you deserve. instead, she says, you still mad at him?

why even ask. aren’t you?

i was never mad at him.

you have to look up, and not just because you’ve run out of stuff to type.

never? that’s impossible.

not after, tina says, her brown honest. he was just a kid, you know?

he was a thief and an addict and older than you. but yeah, you know. you really do. he was just a kid.

you want to tell tina that she’s a better woman than you are, that to love and forgive at the same time is a trick that you can only envy. but you don’t know how to say that.

there’s another version, too, a simpler one, one that doesn’t compare the two of you. she’s sunlight and she’s concrete, the type of kindness that defies the laws of physics, and you can’t figure out how to say that to her either.

how are you doing? you say instead. you already asked her, but you didn’t really ask her in the way she had asked you. this time you try to do it right.

from the way she smiles, you know you got close.

i’m good, she says. really. all the stuff they’ve got us up to out here? herbs and shit, fucking french. i don’t know, it’s working. and they’re gonna send me to the cia.

delight looks good on her, and it’s infectious. you say, why not the fbi?

the culinary institute of america, dummy.

oh shit, the level up machine. you’ve heard of it before, of course, because it seems to have turned carmy into a rock star, so that’s gotta be a good thing, right? you gonna come back, kick his ass, and take over?

she grins. girl, you know i could already do that if i felt like it.

true, true. you’re grinning too, and god, it feels good.

and then, glancing over her shoulder at the sudden sound, you can see the back door open.

thank you, tina. you hand her the phone back, quick. if she notices the sudden change in you, she doesn’t let on.

anytime, she says, and presses her wrapped sandwich in your hand. here.

i can’t take your lunch.

she waves you off. nah, there’s more where that came from.

hey tina, a voice calls. it’s carmy’s, so you keep your eyes trained on tina and hope he doesn't recognize you at that distance.

thanks again, you say, and then you flee, clutching your sandwich.

richie doesn’t pick up and your first call goes to voicemail. you’re wound too tight to enjoy the bill murray of it all, so you just hang up and call again.

he picks up after the third ring.

what? he growls.

hey asshole, where are you, you say, just as abruptly, but so pleased to hear his voice.

richie barely skips a beat. you dont have to kill me, i’m already fucking dying, he says, which is his idea of reassurance.

yeah?

i mean, i’m alive, he says, like it’s a great concession. but for how long?

not much longer. where are you.

dead silence. this, you did not expect and have no idea what to do with. you snap, richie, where the fuck are you? in a voice that makes a passing woman give you a wide berth on the sidewalk.

calm your tits, secret agent. i’m on my fucking deathbed with saltines and espn, jesus christ. everything’s fine.

you’d really like to strangle him, but you don’t miss his hint. that’s his way of letting you out of this, secret agent, everything’s fine, so don’t cross a line and then regret it. thoughtful of him, but you’re already a world expert in regret. you’ve weighed your odds, you’ll take your chances.

i’ll be there in twenty, you say, unless you tell me to fuck off.

there’s a split second of hesitation before he says, will you bring me a popsicle?

no.

you hang up. then you go and buy some popsicles.

you dig out the ring of keys from your pocket, another inheritance. the gold key is for michael’s old place, the silver is for the beef, and the square-headed one is for richie’s. when you turn it in the lock, the door to his apartment swings open, easy as pie.

his apartment is a mess. worse, it’s dead dull, with only a few old movie posters hung up over the off-white walls for decoration. at least it doesn’t smell. there’s a kitchenette to your left, one huge and incongruously new ikea wardrobe to your right, and across from you, his bed. it’s shoved up right next to the far window, so the deep windowsill serves as a side table to a tiny succulent and a laptop streaming espn.

richie’s sprawled out sans blanket and sheets, which are all huddled in a lump at the foot of the bed. he’s not bothering to watch espn and he doesn’t bother to get up at the sound the door opening, either. just looks over and watches you.

you lock the door behind you and take your shoes off out of habit, even though you know you might have to get out fast. as you walk over to him, you encounter some dirty laundry along the way and kick it into the corner. then you’re at hit bedside, looking down at richie.

he’s lying there in a worn out grey t-shirt, looking up at you muzzy-eyed, sweating, and unsurprised.

come to finish me off? he says.

after a second, you say, open your mouth.

he gives you a look that says, i could argue if i fucking felt like it, but then he does open wide with a little aah like a kid getting his tonsils checked.

you take a quick glance inside, then close your hand to imitate a mouth closing, fingers meeting thumb.

he does as instructed, but you can tell by the glint in his eye that he’s got a joke locked and loaded, so you lean over and put the back of your hand to his forehead before he can say a thing.

as you expected, he goes quiet. his skin is hot and damp with sweat.

after a second, you withdraw and straighten up, touch still echoing on the on the back of your hand.

yeah, you’re fine, you say. dehydrated, low fever, but you’re fine.

and here i thought i was dying, richie says. he’s not usually subtle, but for once you can’t tell if he’s mocking you or not. is that for me?

he reaches for the plastic bag hanging from your shoulder, and you yank it back out of reach just in time.

business first. when did you take your last tylenol?

richie slumps sulkily back onto his pillow with a petulant look. you’re no fun when you’re in doctor mode.

then don’t get sick, asshole. tylenol?

this morning, he says, and then before you can volley a follow-up, he skips ahead. bathroom, behind the mirror.

as a reward, you sling the plastic grocery bag onto his bed before you go investigate.

sure enough, there’s a miniature pharmacy on the two small shelves behind the foldable mirror. at first glance, the only prescription stuff is xanax and pravastatin. you grab the tylenol and you’re just about to go when you notice, down at the bottom left corner, a small familiar white box edged in magenta. four milligrams of narcan, nasal spray, your old friend. you gave tina way more of it than she needed and told her to pass it on to anyone at the beef that she trusted, just in case. narcan’s not a cure, it just buys you a little time. that’s all you were doing by then, buying yourselves a little time.

looking at the box now, you suddenly feel sorry for richie. it’s been bad enough for you, and you’ve been living like a fucking vampire, no daylight, barely leaving your lair. richie’s had to go into the outside world, and the outside world fucking sucks. michael’s everywhere out there.

when you get back with the tylenol, richie has a grape popsicle already stuck in his mouth, the extra package of saltines on the windowsill by his side, and your sandwich in his hands. he’s trying to unwrap it when you snatch it away and deposit a tylenol in his palm instead.

with a shrug, he takes the popsicle out of his mouth and swallows the tylenol dry.

trying not to think too hard about that, you turn away and head to the kitchen.

cups? you say.

upper left. he’s watching you make your way through his space, you can feel it. so you went to the beef, huh.

yup. in the upper cabinet, there’s an assortment of cups, none of them matching. you pick the plastic one with dora the explorer on it, then go fill that with water.

richie says, you talk to carmy?

no, you say, with just enough edge on it to warn him off the subject. on your way back to his bedside, you pause to peek in his fridge and freezer. fuck me, did nobody ever teach you that man cannot live on microwave burritos alone?

news to me. what are you, some kind of fuckin gourmet?

you complete your circuit, come perch on the edge of his bed with the cup in your hand, and wait for him to sit up.

woman can live on frozen pizzas alone, that’s a whole different thing, you say.

uh huh. he slumps back against the headboard, then accepts the cup from you and drinks. in the silence, you watch him. the small movements of his throat, the glint of gold slipping out over the nape of his neck. he wears that cross even in his sleep. hopefully it protects him. something should.

you could sit here for a long time.

but the cup runs out of water fast, and there goes your excuse. you take it back from him and say, just for the sake of saying something, your interior design is severely lacking.

he scrunches up his nose when he smiles, a wry little smile interrupted by a sniff. thanks.

go back to sleep.

but he doesn’t. instead, he reaches for the remaining half of his grape popsicle, so you go for your sandwich, unwrap, and take a bite. this is as good as the middle of the night to your body clock, so you’re not one bit hungry. but food works just as well as a cigarette, permission for silence.

you get a sando and i get saltines? he says. talk about a raw deal, man.

mouth full, you say, these are actually pretty good, you know?

what, you didn’t think they would be? he scoffs. c’mon, i know you were never a regular, but the thing with the gun, that wasn’t your first time in.

so he remembered you. even before he knew you had any kind of connection to the beef, he remembered you.

you pretend not to notice.

i’ve just never had it with the peppers before, you say.

you’ve never had it with the peppers? his voice rises with each word.

i’m not normally a huge peppers girl, you say nonchalantly.

you’re a fucking heathen is what you are.

for that, you take an extra big bite and chew as loudly and disgustingly as you can.

it backfires immediately. he gags and presses his fist to his mouth, and you bolt to the sink to grab the trash can from under it, nearly tripping and hoping like hell he doesn’t throw up all over himself because you do not have it in you to do that kind of laundry. trash can in hand, you turn around to find that he’s giving you the thumbs up and grinning. not gagging at all, perfectly fine.

oh, fuck you. you put the trash can back, stalk over, and drop down onto the bed beside him again, petulantly this time, making the bedsprings squeak.

he’s still chuckling. you should’ve seen your face.

you know what my problem is? you say.

you think you have only one problem, j? i got news for you.

that’s not the first time anyone’s used that nickname for you, but you still like it.

my problem is that you’re not scared of me, you say. i need to make you more scared of me, and then you’ll treat me with the respect i deserve.

okay, well, fyi: you are already the third scariest person in the world to me, richie says.

the third? you echo with mock offense.

third is good, man. there’s stiff competition. like, you realize isis is still out there? his eyebrows raise and he gestures emphatically. and there’s a lot of them?

you snort. isis is not still out there.

i think they are. he tries to tick them off on his fingers. isis, al qaeda. and the other one. what’s the other one?

i think you need to stay well away from middle eastern politics when you’re running a fever, you say, getting up to go.

you said my fever was low!

and yet you’re fuckin addled. go back to sleep. with that, you head back towards the kitchenette to see what you can do.

his pantry turns out to be not quite as empty as his fridge, so you pick up a couple things and get to cooking him something basic and nourishing. no sense in trying anything impressive. you’ll be lucky if the result is passably tasty.

sunlight comes in through the window, throwing a rectangle of warmth on your shoulder. you retrieve a pot, a cutting board, a large knife.

eva’s his number one scariest person in the world, obviously. number two’s probably tiff? donna’s scary, but you get the sense that she’d be worse to her kids, or at least that it’d feel worse to be her kids. richie’s never directly talked about her, though he did made a couple bitter remarks early on about what he did for ‘the family’, and given that sugar hates his ass and carmy wasn’t around, it has to be donna he was trying to take care of. wait, maybe carmy’s number two. no, it’s tiff. it’s definitely tiff.

yo, richie says, what the fuck are you doing? stop.

you look up, bewildered. what?

he’s sitting at the edge of the bed with his feet flat on the floor, like he’s prepared to stand up and stop you. with the light coming in through the window at his back and the hanging lamp of the kitchenette throwing gold on his front, he really does look like he’s coated in sweat.

put the knife down, he says. commands from his mouth are usually fruitless protests issued for comedic effect, but not this time. you put the knife down.

you okay? you say it like a gentle person would, only to have your gesture immediately spoiled.

who taught you to cut onions like that? he says, like you’re physically hurting him. you do not cut onions like that!

oh my god, fucking stop me. you roll your eyes and pick up the knife again, only to hear a tell-tale grunt from richie. no, that was a joke. don’t—you throw down the knife with an annoyed clatter. i’ll be fine. just watch your baseball or something, okay? sorry i’m not fucking carmy and i can’t go all human food processor on it, but let me do my thing.

after a second, richie says, ‘s gonna taste like shit, isn’t it.

you want me to go? you say, stung.

no, richie says immediately. i just want to know what you’re gonna do with those onions.

you shrug, a touch defensively. i was gonna brown it, add a couple cans of campbell’s beef and barley. something like that. it’s really sad when you say it out loud, just two ingredients: onions and canned soup.

i don’t hate that, richie says.

you look at him warily, unsure of whether that’s meant as an insult or the world’s most pathetic compliment.

just curl your fingers when you cut, right? fuckin—he imitates, to show you how your left hand is supposed to be positioned, while he mimes chopping with his right. it really should not be charming. unfortunately, it kinda is.

yeah, yeah, you mutter, and then you go back to your cutting board and try to practice what he just taught you.

usually, you have protein bars for snacks, frozen pizzas for meals, takeaway for variety, and pre-bagged salads for your recent attempts at health, so it really has been ages since you cooked like this.

kind of feels like you’ve been missing out. there’s a peaceful feeling to this simple concentration, a bit like your work but without any of the stress. you take little breaks every now and again to prevent the onion from making you cry. with each break, you take a look at something new: the drawings from eva that he has pinned to the fridge, the poster for the movie white squall, the stack of books that look like somebody’s actually read them.

when you start shoveling slices of onion into the pot, richie calls over, don’t turn the heat up too high.

i won’t, you say, unbothered.

you get about thirty seconds of peace, stirring your onions as you add some oil, and then richie pipes up again.

seriously, he says, if it doesn’t brown fast enough, don’t turn the heat up, just—

the heat’s at four out of ten, fuck’s sake. your swearing is just for show, because you’re feeling nearly mellow. there’s something so soothing about the crackling sound of the onions in the hot oil. are you drinking your water?

i already drank it all!

not believing him, you walk over, only to find that the cup is indeed empty. you refill it, then linger for a second, trying to make sense of the baseball he’s streaming on his laptop.

look at this guy, richie says, referring to some player that you’ve never seen before in your life and probably never will again. the guy’s winding up to take a swing. you both watch. the guy hits a foul, and richie shakes his head in disgust. you grunt, noncommittal and happy, and return to your caramelizing onions.

by the time you’re done cooking, he’s asleep.

you pour out two bowls of soup and put the rest of it in the fridge. that plus the saltines are enough to get him through the night and another day. you doubt the fever will last much longer than that.

as you do the washing up, you make sure to scrub off every last bit of onion from the bottom of the pot, and then you leave all the clean dishes on the rack to dry.

between soup and saltines, richie should have enough for tonight and tomorrow, and you doubt the fever will last much longer than that. with the cooking and washing up is done, you walk over, sit on the bed beside him, and set down two bowls of soup on the deep windowsill that serves as his side table. his laptop has gone to sleep, and the silence in the absence of baseball is pretty much perfect. so is the sunlight.

you take off your hoodie, finally—you were starting to sweat yourself near the end there, thank goodness he was too sick to notice—and tug down your original berf shirt. it’s safe enough. richie’s out cold, snoring a little. with the tylenol doing its work, he’s not as sweaty as before, so you drag the sheets up from the foot of the bed and make sure they’re tucked over his shoulders.

taking out a sharpie from your coat pocket, you root around in the pile of assorted mail by his bedside until you come up with a pizza flier you can write on. you leave him the phone number of the burner you kept for michael. reason being, it’s the only number you know by heart, and you’re too tired to deal with any more unexplained absences.

after all, you figure, you can be good and still take it a little easier. that’s all you’ve done today, take it a little easier, and it feels really fucking good.

settling down, you reach over richie again to get your bowl and your spoon. the bowl is warm in your lap, and even though you weren’t hungry before, the act of cooking has worked up your appetite. the soup smells good to you: sweet, savory, a bit like childhood.

your father used to say grace at the table, and though you never do that anymore, there’s something still left to be said.

you know, you say, you’re the number three scariest person in the world to me too. you sit with that for a moment, and then you add, number two once told me he would shoot me in the face, so. there’s that.

richie looks completely harmless like this, slumped on his side under the sheets, turned a little towards you with his eyes closed. he’s way easier to talk to when he’s unconscious, go figure. you can't touch him, though.

drink your fucking water, you say quietly.

and then, still looking at him like he’s a photo to remember, you begin to eat your soup.

[ next chapter ] [ masterlist ]

@garbinge, @narcolini, @drabbles-mc, @beingalive1, @eternallyvenus, @cerial-junkie, @jackierose902109 — if anyone else wants to be tagged, let me know.

#richie jerimovich x reader #richie jerimovich #the bear fx #the bear fanfiction #the bear fanfic #mine #readerfic #do i know you?#the bear imagine #diky #fluffy h/c in MY readerfic? it's more likely than you think!

46 notes · View notes

missywritesfor7 · 12 days

Text

❤️‍🩹Lifeline | MYG❤️‍🩹

Synopsis: It’s long been controversial for idols to date, but idols dating each other can be really beautiful or a complete nightmare. When Yoongi's relationship with another idol is discovered, he decides maybe it’s time to break the taboo and show people it’s ok for idols to date. Instead, they find themselves caught in the midst of one media frenzy after another and struggle to keep their relationship as strong as it had been the past 2 years. Yoongi finds a self destructive way to cope, and it causes even more problems than it solves. As they fight for their relationship and their careers, they discover that sometimes, the only way to truly be free is to let go.

Pairing: idol!Yoongi x idol!OC

Warnings: nsfw, alcoholism, cheating, depression, anxiety, Yoongi goes through a bisexy ho phase, Yoongi is also in his alcoholic phase, post-military BTS

Previous chapter | Next chapter | Masterlist

Ch. 16: Break

After a 5 hour drive, the manager escorting Yoongi to his temporary indefinite home pulls into the driveway of a cozy looking log cabin. The property is surrounded by nothing but trees and nature giving a very private and secluded feel. There’s an additional cabin on the property that’s slightly smaller and only has one bedroom as opposed to the 3 in the main cabin. Both have a kitchen and bathroom, living area, and plenty of windows that allow for natural lighting to come from all sides.

The manager shows Yoongi around and tells him of everything he’s able to do while he’s here. The main cabin has one of the rooms turned into an office space that Yoongi can use however he pleases. There’s a waist high bookshelf filled with a variety of books, a desk, a beanbag chair, and plenty more open space. The manager tells him he’s free to setup any instruments or recording equipment in there.

The master bedroom has a king sized bed and a large bathroom attached with a rainfall shower, separate jetted tub, and dual sinks. There’s also a closet attached that reminds Yoongi he left with only the clothes on his back. Since the original plan was to take Yoongi to the cabin immediately after their meeting anyway, the manager revealed that they already prepared a few things he would need. Basic clothes, hygiene products, plenty of food, and of course medicine.

For now they have something to help Yoongi sleep if he happens to feel symptoms of withdrawal. In the morning a doctor will come by to fully assess him. The doctor will be staying in the second cabin for at least a week to make sure Yoongi gets through detox without issues. A therapist will also visit regularly for counseling sessions.

Before leaving Yoongi to himself, the manager lets him know again that he can contact any of them if he needs anything at all. He’s not allowed visitors, but his means of communication won’t be taken away and he’ll still be able to have internet. As much as they wanted to try taking anything from him that would give him too much freedom to the outside world of temptations and triggers, they also didn’t want to make him feel like a complete criminal. However, that privilege will be revoked if he abuses that freedom. He’s not able to leave, though if he chooses to end treatment before being cleared then the terms that were laid out for him in the meeting earlier will go into effect.

The manager leaves and Yoongi is left in this lovely home on this gorgeous property alone. He trudges around outside a bit taking in the scenery. It’s nighttime now so the moon and stars are clearly visible and shining bright. He isn’t sure what to do with himself now. He’d eat, but he doesn’t have much of an appetite. It’s been a long exhausting day so he decides to just wash up and go to bed.

First he sends a text to Hyeri. He wasn’t going to at first because he knows she probably doesn’t want to speak to him right now. He knows she worries though and he doesn’t want to give her any more reasons to worry, so he simply tells her he made it to the property and that he loves her.

After a long shower with many more tears, Yoongi gets in bed and simply stares at his phone. Hyeri hasn’t responded. He knows she’s upset with him, but not hearing anything from her is like a knife in the chest. He sighs and closes his eyes but sleep doesn’t come. Not for a while.

Hyeri had been going through a range of emotions since Yoongi left. As happy as she is that he went to get treatment, she’s also very sad, disappointed, and angry. She knew he would fall for her trap, but for him to do it right before he’s supposed to go to treatment just lets her know how bad it really is for him. It breaks her heart and she hasn’t stopped crying since he left.

There’s a loneliness in the home that’s much different from any other time Yoongi has been gone. It’s a loneliness that’s so loud. So she cries until she falls asleep still fully clothed and clutching Yoongi’s pillow.

The next morning Hyeri wakes up with a throbbing headache. As many times as she’s cried herself to sleep, she’s used to it by now. Before getting out of bed she checks her phone and sees the message from Yoongi from the night before. She hates that she missed it, though she isn’t sure she wants to respond at all. She’s glad he made it though. It makes her feel just a slight bit lighter. He’s getting help, it’s the start of a new beginning.

She goes into the bathroom to wash up and get rid of any red and puffiness in her face. Thankfully she has a small bit of time before she has to leave for a commercial shoot. She gets dressed, makes a quick breakfast, then stares at the kitchen wall in a trance.

She’s trying her best to focus on her upcoming shoot but all she can think of is Yoongi. She wonders if he’s awake yet. If he ate breakfast and what was it. She wants to know how he slept and if the place he’s staying is nice. Of course she could simply respond to his text but once she’s finally about to, she gets a call from her agency JJS.

Having been finished with shooting on her mini series, she had asked about any upcoming projects that she would be a fit for. Initially JJS tried to convince her to take some time off. She declined, feeling she’s already missed out on a lot this year, partially because of the situation they put her in in the first place with the fake relationship with Kihyun. Since then nothing has been about her career and she’d like for it to get back to that.

Despite their reluctance, JJS said they would let her know of any openings. So far she’s gotten two commercials and a radio ad. It’s not what she asked them for, but she took it in stride thinking nothing was available. Then she found out there are other roles available. Many of them, JJS just didn’t want to offer them to her. Yesterday she sent the agency a message with a few roles she found on her own that she’s interested in. She was met with pushback and even a mild scolding for “going behind their back” to find the roles herself. Once again she felt like she’s being treated like a child and it’s only because she refused to continue going along with their fake relationship any longer.

Now they’re calling her to tell her they found a role for her. Actually, they found two and tried to sound really enthusiastic about it. The first role is for a supporting role in a new series. The “supporting” role is just a glorified extra. One thats in one episode and gets 10 more seconds of camera time than others, and if lucky, they’ll get to ad-lib a word or two.

The second role is another supporting role, but it’s more laughable than the first role they presented. It’s a small part for a smaller production with an even smaller budget that would practically amount to her doing it for free.

Neither role are close to what Hyeri wanted and definitely not what JJS said they would find for her. Small roles aren’t a problem for her, she knows she’s not a world star actress, but it’s not what JJS agreed to find her. On top of that, it’s not like other roles aren’t out there. She’s seen for herself what was out there and can’t believe JJS would have the nerve to lie to her face about it then make her seem like the bad guy.

“Due to your previous actions it’s been a little more difficult to market you at this time,” the agency rep tells her over the phone.

“My previous actions?” Hyeri asks trying to not raise her voice.

“We wanted you to take time off so things would die down.”

“It’s been months!”

“We had a procedure laid out and you chose to do your own thing. There are consequences to actions, Hyeri.”

“I chose to tell the truth! Are you serious right now? You guys are giving me the smallest things you can find on purpose because you’re mad that I told the truth!”

“We can’t keep having this discussion about your conduct, Na Hyeri. People see you as a risk right now.”

“A risk?!”

“I understand you have a commercial shoot so I’ll let you get to it. Think about it and let me know if you would like to move forward with either of these projects.”

[Call ended]

“You fucking bitch!” Hyeri roars.

She gathers her things and storms out to her car in a fit of rage. She’s pissed, and even more pissed that she now has to try calming herself down so she doesn’t look angry in her commercial. Her patience with JJS is wearing very thin.

Yoongi’s day started with him waking up and staring at the ceiling for about an hour. At first he had forgotten where he was. Then upon remembering, he looked at his phone to see he still hadn’t heard anything from Hyeri. He laid there stuck in his head until he began hearing someone in the house.

The manager told him that the entire management team, doctors, and therapist will have access to the house at any time. It’s primarily for safety reasons, but also to make sure Yoongi isn’t able to lock himself up and hide if he were to get into anything he shouldn’t. Not that he planned to anyway with the amount of restrictions he’s under.

He rolls himself out of bed to wash himself up a bit. He takes one look at himself in the mirror and he hates what he sees. He doesn’t even want whoever is in the house to see him in this state in broad daylight, but it’s clear he doesn’t have much of a choice. Whoever it is seems to be making a bit of a ruckus. Yoongi sighs and steps out to see who it is.

A different manager from the one who brought Yoongi here is in the kitchen while another man is standing by chatting with him. Manager Park Seungji has been tasked with staying near the property to take care of anything Yoongi needs. With the place being 5 hours from Seoul, someone had to stay close by to provide a quick response.

Seungji introduces the other man as Doctor Young who will care for all of Yoongi’s health needs. He will be staying in the smaller cabin to monitor Yoongi closely for any withdrawal complications. First he wants to do a full evaluation so he takes Yoongi back to the bedroom while Seungji prepares breakfast.

Dr. Young begins with simple questions. When and what his last drink was, how much he’d drink daily and what his drink of choice is. It’s a simple evaluation but it makes Yoongi feel embarrassed. He still hates that he even allowed what used to be a simple pastime turn into this.

After speaking with the doctor and getting plenty of information on what to expect and how to deal with withdrawal symptoms, Yoongi goes back out to the kitchen as Seungji completes breakfast. Hangover soup which Yoongi doesn’t have much of an appetite for, but he appreciates it. He’s not hungover, but he knows why Seungji might assume he is. Dr. Young takes a serving and heads back to the other cabin. Yoongi takes a serving and after assuring Seungji he’s fine at the moment, Seungji leaves.

Yoongi decides to have his soup at a small table outside overlooking the scenery. It’s beautiful and makes him think of Hyeri. She loves places like this and he just knows she would be in awe at the nature surrounding them and the overall seclusion of the place for the most privacy. He pulls out his phone and snaps a few pictures. She may not have responded to his message last night, but he hopes this could put her in a slightly better mood with a view from his new home.

It’s crazy how things change. When he was on tour ignoring her she continued sending messages daily giving him a diary of her days although he wasn’t responding to her. Now he finds himself doing the same. With a few pictures he details how he didn’t sleep well, what he discussed with the doctor, and how he’s not very hungry but still happy that Seungji made breakfast. Of course he included a photo of the soup as well. He sends the message then returns to slowly eating while soaking up the sun.

Not long after he finishes his meal he’s greeted by someone else who comes to join him at the table. The man introduces himself as Minho, Yoongi’s counselor during his treatment process. He tells Yoongi a little about himself and how he plans to take Yoongi through his recovery.

Yoongi has spoken to counselors before so this isn’t something that bothers him. Minho seems like a nice person who also appears to take good care of himself physically as much as mentally based on the way his black shirt hugs his well toned body like a second skin. His voice is deep yet soothing to Yoongi, almost like asmr. It makes Yoongi feel comfortable talking with him which is important in this situation.

Yet Yoongi can’t seem to understand why he’s starting to feel uneasy. He’s trying to not panic, but his heart is racing and he’s starting to sweat and he has no idea what’s happening. Every word Minho says sends another wave of anxiety through his body.

This plan. This entire treatment plan is overwhelming. For whatever reason, it’s in this moment Yoongi feels completely afraid of this entire process. He had already been told what treatment would entail. He was fine when the manager laid out all of the rules last night. He was even fine just earlier as Dr. Young explained the many issues and side effects that come with alcohol withdrawal. But hearing how he’ll have to work through the root of why he drinks makes him want to run and hide.

Drinking was to get away from the feelings stuck inside him. When he’d drink excessively those feelings never seemed quite as unbearable. He drank when those feelings were too strong for him to ignore but too tough for him to want to face. Now he has to face them and he’s not sure he’s ready to.

It’s easy for him to say it all started with Hyeri, but this is something that goes even beyond that. A collection of hidden and ignored emotions that he felt weren’t big enough to deal with at the time are now going to be released and dissected.

Yoongi looks at Minho unable to speak. Minho can see the discomfort on Yoongi’s face and is afraid he may faint from how pale he looks.

“Are you ok?” Minho asks. Yoongi just stares at him blankly. “Yoongi?”

Hyeri made it through her commercial shoot without much issue. Considering the mental state she’s in, having to do 3 retakes isn’t so bad. She isn’t fully satisfied, but she’s still too angry from her phone call earlier to care. She just can’t believe the way JJS is treating her. She rushed through the shoot as best she could while seething in frustration the entire time.

When she got to her car she took a look at her phone and saw the photos Yoongi sent. She wasn’t expecting to hear from him, especially since she hadn’t responded to his message from the night before. However his message made her briefly forget what she was upset about.

She’s happy to see the place looks very relaxing for him. She almost wants to stay there herself. She’s happy he saw the doctor, and even happier that he had breakfast. It’s the first real bit of happiness she’s felt all day. This time she responds to him. Not right away though.

When she started to text him back she also wanted to tell him about her day. She always does. However, she knows he’s at the very beginning of his recovery and causing him any worry or stress could make things much harder for him than they already are. Telling him about her company that he already hates and wants her to leave treating her unfairly would cause him worry and stress. She knows he’d be mad at JJS and worried about her. She doesn’t want him to feel like he needs to come save her or take care of her. She only wants him to focus on recovery.

She thought about it all through her drive home and once she got there she finally texted him back. She told him the place looks beautiful, she’s proud of him, and that she loves him. She tells him her commercial shoot went well and let him know her schedule for tomorrow and left it at that. Nothing about JJS, or how she’s afraid her career may be over because of them, or how she cried most of the way home. She kept it simple.

Yoongi feels like he lost consciousness, but he didn’t. Minho noticed what was happening and was able to ease Yoongi’s mind a bit. He explained to Yoongi that while it’s understandable for anyone to feel a little overwhelmed when starting a new treatment process, he’s also experiencing symptoms of withdrawal. Yoongi had already been told by the doctor what the symptoms were but he didn’t feel like he was experiencing any of them. He thought maybe he was just overwhelmed with everything Minho was saying, but perhaps not.

Minho takes his time to tell Yoongi the mental effects of withdrawal. The things he won’t feel physically, but they’ll wear him down mentally. Yoongi understands, but he still wonders. He had stopped drinking before and he didn’t deal with any side effects. To him he was perfectly fine that entire time.

Minho stayed with him for about an hour and a half to make sure he was ok. He helped Yoongi feel a bit better and was able to get him inside to the couch. After Minho left, Yoongi stayed in the same spot wondering what he’s truly gotten himself into.

15 notes · View notes