#quicksand red

[daybreakthing]

quicksand (red)! ⸻ a presentation that blurs that lines between masculine, null/nil, & xenine! this could be a mix of the three, not being able to tell the difference between them, etc!

symbol source (link)!

for 💤 anon!

tagging @radiomogai & @color-palette-presentations!

[ricgraysonmemorial]

tim should be one of the funniest character of all time when bruce starts acting like that loner, depressed, pushing people away man. like this isn't the teenage boy that pulled a grown ass man out of his depression after he lost his son. tim is supposedly the most like batman? fine so he knows what works. from personal experience. all tim has to do is smack that man on the head and scream at him to act right. (bonus about this is bruce can't say shit, bc they both just know; they both lock eyes and all timmy has to do is squint his eyes like a disappointed mother, daring him to try.)

keep in mind that tim will sit there pretending like azael didn't choke him out at all of 16, causing him to take a car and run out of the cave in fear; you think tim gives a fuck if bruce's fee fees start to get to him? no! it's called compartmentalizing bruce, schedule your attacks when you're free. thus, tim "bruce can you lock the fuck in" drake is taking no prisoners when something goes wrong and this man pushing 50 dressing like a rodent is having an unneeded anxiety attack from stress he caused on himself. meanwhile, there's a MAN BAT INFESTATION, LET US HELP!!!

[redmantic]

Does grain that sit atop the pile

Know that it’s slowly slinking?

To see the world in all its brightness

Slowly dipping below the horizon;

Wondering why

-when it finally falls though-

It all seems so dim.

Did you know that most hourglass’ take 5 minutes to finish?

And then the sand atop the pile

Can see the room in all its light,

Slowly begin to darken.

Did you know that the sun sets?

And that it’s not your fault

That even when you’re on top

It can still feel false

But you fought to be there,

To be here.

The world can seem so dim.

Luckily you aren’t a grain of sand

And you aren’t trapped in an hourglass.

Although at times,

it may seem like it.

[genghisthebrain]

never forget the great killer clown scare of 2016

[monkeyssalad-blog]

HUMPHREY, Walter Beach. Quicksand by Halloween HJB

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Captain's Orders 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, controlling behaviour, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: The Captain takes it upon himself to change your life.

Characters: Steve Rogers

Note: I am still dizzy her and there but feeling a bit better.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You wouldn’t call it doom scrolling. That’s not what this is. You try not to search out the depressing headlines or the studies of the human character assuring you of your race’s inherent flaws. Yet, all those boastful posts about engagements, weddings, and promotions still make you feel crummy. 

Jealous? Sure. You don’t have any of those things and it isn’t as if you can hope for as much, either. You’re in a dead-end job, living in cramped apartment with your sister and her irresponsible friend, and your romantic life is next to non-existent; not that you’ve been looking. None of that is meant for you, otherwise, you’d have had some glimmer of interest by now. 

It’s like quicksand. Not very quick but it pulls you down lower and lower. Sinking and sinking until all you can see is the muck. There’s no way out now, you’re waist deep in it. 

You click under your favourite communities and start a new post. You don’t make many. Mostly you read and judge silently. You’re a lurker. Like in many facets of your life. You watch, you don’t do. But you’ve had a shitty day and you need to just let it out. 

Your fingers move as your thoughts boil in your head; your nagging manager, your lazy landlord, and your immature roommates. Nothing ever goes your way. Everyone else has it figured out and you’re just left to rot. You try! You do. Resumes, profiles on friendship apps, online courses; free, of course, it’s all you can afford, but you do try to improve yourself. It just doesn’t work. 

You hit ‘post’ and close the lid of your ancient laptop. It’s as thick as a book. The battery doesn’t hold a charge and the fan is as loud as a jet. You fall back onto your bed and look around your tiny room. That’s all you have. This space is as much as you can call your own and not really. You rent it, it can be taken away with one of those red stamped notices. 

You yawn and drag yourself up. A whole shift and you didn’t bother to have more than the bland break room coffee spewed from the off-brand pod machine and a couple sticks of gum. Tia got herself sushi before her shift but she can just ask her parents to send her money to cover her Door Dash addiction. 

You plod out to the kitchen. Your sister closes the fridge and cracks the tab of a beer can. You’re sure it isn’t her first.  

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Shea bobbles her head. 

Funny since Donna pretty much hollered at you for interrupting her TV show. You all pitched in on the flat screen yet it’s never your turn with it. You shrug and go to the cupboard. It’s not sushi but the spicy shrimp ramen isn’t too bad... 

“You work?” You ask. 

“Pfft, no. Didn’t I say I was going to lunch with Mason?” 

“Did you?” You take down at bowl. She probably did. You never remember. She’s always got a date or a party or a fall back. If she can’t make rent, she’ll smile a cute guy and get some money. 

“He bought me some shoes! You’ll never believe.” 

“Right,” you try not to seethe. 

You’re scraping the bottom of the barrel. You’re eating sodium-laced noodles and holding back tears against old people wanting to print out their life story from a corrupt PDF. She’s pretty. She doesn’t have to try. Shea is all the proof you need that some people are just lucky. 

You put the electric kettle onto boil and the smell of burnt—something makes your lip curl. You pop the lid and look inside. It’s brown. What the hell? 

“What’s wrong with this?” You ask as you flip off the switch. 

“Donna!” Shea yells, “what did you do to the kettle?” No answer. Your sister hollers again. 

A door swings open and Donna stomps out with a huff. Her face is green as she has a mask spread over it and eye masks pasted beneath her lashes. 

“I’m getting ready--” 

“The kettle stinks,” you reach for a pot and find none. They’re all stacked and waiting to be washed. You snatch one off the top and flip on the faucet. 

“Oh, I heated up some bone broth in it. I’m doing a cleanse,” she smirks. “Tasted kinda weird.” 

“Bone broth?” You scoff. See. You try, they can’t even clean dishes. “Great.” 

“I’m sure it’s fine, just rinse it out,” Shea says. 

You scrub the pan and ignore her. You glance up as she slurps noisily from the can. Pre-drinks. Her and Donna are going out. Again. They can afford to because they don’t buy their own drinks. They don’t need to. You went out with them once and paid for all of your own, even though you’d have been happy enough with a single round. 

“Have fun,” you dry out the pan and slam it on the burner. 

“Jeez, maybe you should loosen up?” Donna chides. 

“Yeah, come with us. Dance it out,” Shea drawls. 

“No thanks,” you twist the knob and light the burner. “I have work tomorrow.” 

“Call innnnn,” Shea insists. 

“I can’t,” you sniff and step back to wait for the water to boil. 

“Boring,” she chirps. 

“Yep, I am,” you cross your arms. Your annoyed. When the go out, you’ll have to clean up this mess. You can’t handle another bout of fruit flies. 

You put the noodles in and let them soften. You stir in the oil and powder then retreat to your room with the bowl of boiling cholesterol. You let it cool and put a video on your phone. You don’t want to think. 

You eat deliberately. You savour the processed flavouring. You can’t go out sneak a midnight snack; Donna ate all your cookies. You label all your stuff in thick marker and she apparently can’t read. 

You hear them leave. They’re loud. They leave the television on. At high volume. 

You go out and shut it off. You need to sleep soon. Opening always comes after a late shift. Otherwise, how else would the corporation keep you disempowered. 

You open your laptop. You’ll but on some lo-fi while you charge your phone. Heck, the fan is like white noise on its own. 

The little red number at the bottom of the page stops you. You left the browser open. Someone actually responded to your post. You click and your stomach drops as you read the first sentence. 

‘Sounds like you cause a lot of your own problems. Maybe try some mindful exercises and get out more. You should also consider making some friends.’ 

You read it over and over. You’re angry. Hurt, too. But most that first thing. You can’t stop from replying. 

‘You got all that from me venting? I wasn’t asking for advice. I walk to and from work and I have friends.’ 

It’s mostly true. You do walk. Most days. And your sister is a friend, isn’t she? By association, so is Donna. 

Before you can look up your favourite twelve-hour lo-fi, another notification pops up. 

‘Looking at your post history, your diet could use some improvements. More veggies. And walking is a good starting point but you need to increase your endorphins. I’d be happy to send you some helpful guides. They’re easily searchable on the internet. We live in the age of information, you should consider taking advantage of that.’ 

Wow, what an asshole. He’s smug and obviously better than you. You click on his username and scroll through. Just as you expect. He posts in fitness communities. Not any videos of him but sharing tutorials and recipes for high-protein smoothies and fibre-laced juices. He wouldn’t know flavour if it puked in his mouth. 

You his ‘esc’ and go back to your own post; ‘thanks for the advice. Have a good one.; 

That’s it. You’re not arguing with some faceless douche on the internet. His response is as quick as the first. 

‘A helpful link.’ He hyperlinks the words. ‘You should at least stretch in the morning and go outside on your breaks at work. You might work long shifts but it’s no excuse to be lazy. If you’ve been in that role for so long, you should have more than enough references to move on to something that doesn’t make you miserable.’ 

You don’t answer. You know if you do, you’ll just embarrass yourself. Judging by the few pics of his real life and his cadence, he’s got everything. He just thinks it’s a matter of mindset. There can’t possibly be anything else which could make things more difficult for people. You just don’t work hard enough. Duh, everyone always says so. 

You close out of the page. If he replies again, you’ll block him. Simple as. You put on a lo-fi track and dim the screen. You roll over and tuck into bed. You fall asleep in a ball of stress; you have to wake up, shower, do all that human stuff, then make yourself face another eight hours of hell. 

⭐

“I hate working at the fucking copy desk,” you hiss as you take your bag from the cubby in the break room. “Good luck.” 

Darcy gives you a look as she sits at one of the tables, waiting for her shift to start. You grit your teeth as you should your purse and grip your jacket tight. You punch your employee number into the clock then head out. 

As you march down the aisle of toner, a customer tries to stop you. “I’m off duty.” 

“But I need a keyboard.” 

You ignore them and keep going. 

“I’m going to tell a manager, young lady!” 

You don’t care. Besides, why are they looking for a keyboard in the toner aisle. The signs above with the giant letters clearly show that the computer accessories are in the opposite corner. 

People are stupid. They might be able to read, technically, but they definitely lack comprehension. Just like Donna who can’t keep her hands off your snacks. 

You walk home in a simmer. If you let your temper get away from you, you won’t be able to hold back when you walk into the inevitable shit show waiting for you at home. Shea and Donna hungover, probably having got into more of your sparse groceries, and amidst a brand new mess for you to tidy. You won’t not this time. 

You have a mission. Go to your room and don’t come out. 

As you enter your building, you find the elevator non-responsive. A tiny post-it is stuck to the doors. ‘Out of Order’. Couldn’t have made something a bit more legible? 

You take the stairs. The hallway smells like onion and dirty clothes. You take out your keys as you get to your door, ignoring the rabble coming from the apartment next to yours. Before you can get your key in the slot, the door opens. 

“Heyyyy, she’s back,” Shea greets. You blink at her in confusion. Is she already drunk again? 

“Starting already?” You ask as you try to get past her. 

“Hm, no,” she says tritely, “you have a guest.” 

You roll your eyes, “don’t be a bitch, alright?” 

“No, really,” she grins. You stop and look her up and down. She isn’t falling apart like usual after a Friday night. Her hair is done, her makeup too, and she’s not in her sweats.  

“Is it mom?” You whisper. 

She snorts, “you’re stupid. No, it’s your friend. Steve.” She backs up with a shimmy, “I think some people call him Captain.” 

You make a face. What? 

“Who...” 

“Ahem,” a figure appears by the corner of the kitchen counter, “I didn’t mean to intrude.” 

You crane to see over Shea’s shoulder. The man behind her is tall. And familiar. Steve Rogers. Your expression contorts as your lashes flutter in confusion. 

“Not at all, Stevie,” Shea spins, “I’ll give you two the room. So nice to meet you.” 

She squeezes by him and touches his forearm as she does. He doesn’t react. She giggles and flits off. Her door shuts but you can tell that the latch didn’t catch. She’s listening. 

“Should we go outside? Get some sun?” He asks. 

You glance at him again. You’re lost. 

“Do I know you?” You grimace. 

“After all day under fluorescent, you should really get out--” 

“I-- I’m sorry, can you slow down and explain--” 

“Outside. Privately,” he says. 

You peek past him then look into the hallway behind you. You search your mind for an explanation. The only place you know him from is the internet or a history book. 

“Like I said before, going outside can really help with mood issues.” 

You hesitate and your mouth falls open. It can’t be... 

“Was that you? Last night?” You shake your head. 

“How about I buy you a smoothie?” He offers. 

You snap your mouth shut. He can’t be serious. This can’t be real. 

[mullermilkshake]

Just a donor - Quicksand

Part 1 <- -> Part 2

Satoru gave something special to you and Suguru. Now he wants it back.

Sperm donor!Satoru Gojo x Fem New mom!reader x Suguru Geto Triggering and very real topics, viewer discretion is advised, Established Relationship with Suguru (Married), Yandere! Behaviour, Manipulative behaviour, Post partum, Babies, Mentions of, Infertility/Childbirth, Implied breastfeeding, Physical abuse, Psychological abuse, Coercion, Blackmailing, Parental responsibility

<<< For more Satoru content, click this link to go back to the Masterlist! >>>

<<< Mood board >>>

When your daughter came into this world, Suguru’s name should have been on that birth certificate.

When your little girl came out with hair whiter than snow, things got complicated.

Well, Satoru Gojo got complicated. Growing and festering to the point of obsession, things got more than just complicated, they got downright dangerous.

At first, the entire thing was a misunderstanding, costing more in legal fees, court appearances and applications to family court with money you and Suguru just didn’t have. How could you have the energy to go through all that after giving birth and feeding a newborn every two hours?

So for the time being, you left it.

Despite your marriage to Suguru, you and he left it for now.

In legal circumstances, Satoru had parental responsibility over your daughter and not your husband. Satoru was understanding, almost embarrassed of the clerical error and offering money to amend it. In hindsight, you should have taken it, you should have had the issue taken care of so that it was put to bed.

In hindsight.

Suguru understood though heartbroken, it wasn’t his best friends doing. After all, Satoru gave you and Suguru the best gift of all, a beautiful and healthy daughter with the biggest set of lungs. 

You and Suguru eagerly discussed Satoru’s proposal to be the sperm donor, long nights agonising over the logistics and practicality of it all. The expenses were one thing, Satoru waived all of them. In honesty, you should have known then and there that he would bring trouble to your doorstep, a weighted presence after he started pushing to see your daughter more than casually and weekly visits evolved to two, or three days respectively.

And then, he started coming around the house when Suguru wasn’t home.

Now, Suguru wasn’t dismissive or wore rose tinted glasses in front of his best friend and wife. He knew there were problems, he just didn’t have the capacity to tackle them on his own with mounting work and that you just didn't want to burden him with more issues.

His mother was a candidate you took gladly so that you weren’t on your own with him. Satoru often played off your fears as instability due to postpartum and hormones. He kept up appearances around everyone who wasn’t you and for a time, Suguru’s mother was besotted with him.

‘Oh, isn’t he wonderful?! Such a good friend and uncle.’ She’d say, even encouraging you to hand your daughter off to him for ‘cuddles’ so she could clean the house and allow you time on your own to shower.

Well, Suguru’s mother’s stay at your house stopped short when she allowed Satoru to watch your daughter while she gardened. He rocked her to sleep and cooed indistinct words with precious forehead kisses.

Around other people, he referred to himself as Uncle Satoru. In only your daughter’s presence, it changed to 'Daddy'.

Suguru’s mother left that night, and things blew up after Suguru wearily took his mother home. The pressure was getting to him, torn between his wife and child, and his best friend who never fully manipulated him, the red flags were there though only subtly in the background. In plain sight but out of mind.

“Are you insane? Stop referring to yourself as her father- you aren’t.”

Satoru followed you up the stairs, teetering on the threshold into the bedroom, leaning so arrogantly that it made you want to rip your hair out more than you already did.

“Y’know, I can’t actually believe you’re still carrying on with this.” His eyes were lidded, more sunken than before like he’d finally given up on pretending.

You didn’t know what was more exhausting.

“I want you out of this house, and you are never to return, do you understand? I don’t care what Suguru will say to it, I don’t care what his mother could say to it- you are not my daughter's father and you never will be.”

“It hurts me every time you say that.”

He stepped through the doorway, you managed to hold your ground for all but five seconds as he skulked closer. You instinctively backed away towards the crib, never taking your eyes off of the predatory aura Satoru soon developed.

“It is true. She’s my baby. Suguru’s daughter-”

“She’s my child too. I’m a part of her- listen.” He moved so fast and snatched your hand, ignoring the reactive scream when he yanked you close, slapping your hand down firmly on his chest. “You feel that? My heartbeat, she has that too- my hair, my fucking eyes for christ's sake. I’m her father and I will be damned if I don’t fulfill that role.”

Your first instinct was to check she was still sleeping, breathing normally amidst your response. Thankfully, she was. “Satoru… we all agreed on this. You agreed that she’d never know who you really were, because all you did was donate your sperm.”

“We agreed that I’d be in her life.” His teeth gritted a fraction and then returned to normal. “But I did more than just jack off in a cup for you to use, I gave her life and you won’t take her away from me. She’ll know who her real father is and I’ll make sure she stays close.”

“We agreed-”

“Shoulda signed a contract, baby. Paperwork can be so finicky, don’t y’think?”

No… No fucking way. “It wasn’t just an error, was it- the birth certificate.”

You were still touching, hand pressed so tight it would cause a rash just pulling away. Satoru’s heartbeat increased right under your fingertips, he didn’t need to tell you to give his game away.

“You forged my signature, didn't you? I don't remember signing that thing. You- you made sure Suguru didn’t have any rights. It was all you.”

If he took your daughter, Suguru couldn’t do a thing. In the eyes of the justice system, he was essentially invisible. A man in her life with no say.

Satoru tilted his head to the side condescendingly enough to startle you. “N’arww, you only just figured it out? I knew you were gonna cut and run as soon as she was born, I needed some insurance. You were so exhausted after the birth, I took matters into my own hands.”

He studied you with a look only your husband gave you when you and he were alone. “You looked so beautiful then, hair stuck to your face and chest rising so quickly like you were terrified. What I loved most was that smile you had when she was born.”

Satoru looked down at your sleeping daughter and brushed her cheek delicately with the most loving smile the man could ever possess. “She has my hair, my eyes, but every time I look at her, she has something I can’t ever replicate. Your smile… She looks more like you than she could ever be like me and that’s what makes her special.”

“Please… Satoru. Leave us alone. I’ll call the police, Suguru won’t just let you do this.”

“Nah, he will. I’ve been breaking him down inch by inch the entire time, he’s pretty much checked out now.”

“What-What are you talking about?” This was when you started to try and pull away from him. “Satrou, what have you done?”

The bastard sounded so sure of himself, that little laugh you often admired before all this churned your stomach. “When he comes in, he’ll find the evidence of our relationship and leave you. I mean, he doesn’t even have a child with you, his ‘daughter’ is another man’s baby.”

“What are you talking about Satoru? There is no- get off of me.” You wanted to shout, scream and curse in his ear until it perforated his eardrum. 

But, your baby girl. Despite being as little as she was, you couldn’t traumatise her and drag her into the mess you had indirectly caused. Why the fuck did you let a close friend be the sperm donor for your baby? Idiotic and foolish. Though you couldn’t take it back now, could you?

“What evidence, there’s no evidence- Satoru, get off me.” 

You pulled again, his grip tightening until his arm was around you. He never moved despite your struggle, a brick wall with an agenda, he lugged you out of the room and covered your mouth.

“Shh, wouldn’t want to wake our precious baby girl now, would you?”

It stung like venom, an aggressive snake striking you over and over until it had dragged you down the stairs and pushed you into the living room. Your breast pump and pillow sat on the coffee table in preparation for feeding, a warm blanket and television remote placed strategically for optimal movement and an undisturbed child.

“What the hell are you doing!” Yanking your arm from his hand, you broke the connection and placed the coffee table between you as some sort of pathetic barricade.

If he wanted through, he was coming regardless.

“Just because we didn’t sleep together to make her, doesn't mean she isn’t mine… But for the next one, we can do it properly-”

“Next one?! I’m six weeks postpartum, you- I’d never let you come near me. Don’t you get it? I’m just not interested. I’m married and love my husband.”

The room couldn’t have been more deafening with throttled silence if you tried. You could hear your heart gush around your ears, too hypersensitive to the baby monitor on the fireplace.

“Do you?” 

Satoru stayed on the threshold again, his back to the hallway blocking your exit back to your daughter's room. How he stood there, like he’d hit a realisation, his shoulders slouched like he had something brewing on his mind.

“Do I what?” You said, thinking of ways to get past him.

The poker by the fireplace. No, he’d get to you faster than you could turn around, snatch it and throw it out the window. Maybe he’d use it on Suguru- no, he loved him despite your trepidations. No way would he go that far, surely? But look how far he has gone. Fuck, I’m an idiot!

“Do you really love him? Like really?” He took one step towards you and put you on a back footing, hitting your spine on the mantle.

What sort of question was that?

“Yes. I do. He’s the kindest person I’ve ever met, I want to spend the rest of my life-”

“Oh c’mon, Suguru can’t even get his wife pregnant, what makes you think he can actually protect you and our daughter?!”

His switch made you flinch, and then he was suddenly just one pace away from your face. “Those wee lil swimmers just aren’t strong enough, are they?”

The topic of Suguru’s fertility was never discussed, only between you and him. It was an unwritten rule. Not only with your health and everything on top, Suguru had questioned his own masculinity, his worthiness as your husband.

Hearing it out loud brought tears to your eyes. “Don’t talk about that-”

You screamed again when he slammed his fist down on the wall by your head, covering your mouth after to stop your sobs was useless. “Sweetie, I guarantee if I fucked you raw, I’d knock you up first try.”

“Satoru… please listen to me. I don’t want to have sex with you, and if I’ve ever given you the impression that I have, I’m sorry. But I do not want that.”

“I never knew why you chose to pursue him and not me… I’m better for you than Suguru, I have always been better for you. Yet you still chose him, even when he couldn’t perform, you never dropped him. It only made me double down.”

“Because I love him- I don’t want you.”

“Maybe not now, but you will eventually.”

It was probably the worst thing you could have said, but it came out so quickly, so confidently. So you ran with it. Your heart jumped when the baby monitor went off, so instinctively you moved without concern only for him to stop you again.

“She’ll be fine. It’s only a hiccup.”

“I still have to go and check on her- I can’t leave her. Please, Satoru.”

Satoru didn’t move at first, and when he did, it was as though he was just waiting for you to make a run for it. “Go, be quick.”

You stormed up the stairs under duress, skipping a step now and then and shot right into the bedroom. Your baby was just fine, only making a smacking sound she always did in her sleep. In one fit of self preservation, you weren’t sure how you moved across the bedroom so fast in reaction to Satoru’s footsteps climbing the stairs, but you did, locking the bedroom door.

The thing was, after having a baby, you sort of developed super hearing, picking up on different breathing patterns your baby went through, knowing when she was about to be overstimulated in public settings which would inevitably result in her crying for hours. You could tell when she was hungry, bored and just in that odd mood when she decided to be a little demon with her eyes closed.

Despite being related by blood and genetics, Satoru knew none of those things, Suguru did. Suguru may not have been able to get you pregnant, but his role as a father was more special than anything.

“Unlock the door.” Satoru banged his fist on the wood. "Unlock the door right now!"

“Get the fuck away from me and my daughter.” Your maternal strength returned. “I’m calling the police and you better be nowhere near here. You will never see her again, do you hear me?!”

Silence.

Nothing but an unsettling and sudden silence.

He must have already left, you still crawled over the bed to get the house phone from the bedside drawer, hands shaking from the adrenaline. A quick rummage before Suguru returned and you could explain everything to him.

One thing though, the phone, it was missing from its usually place. You had no fucking phone.

Satoru's voice oozed through the cracks of the door. "Looking for the phone? You might wanna think about opening the door. Suguru will be home soon."

Part 1 <- -> Part 2

If you would like to be tagged, please let me know! 🤗

DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work without permission thank you!

[gilverrwrites]

Two Wrongs

Roy Harper/Reader, 1.1K words Kinktober entry 14: Voyeurism Warnings: (Accidental) Non-con voyeurism | Tight spaces Requested by: Authors choice

Watching your roommate getting off through a crack in his wardrobe door certainly wasn't how you’d planned to spend your evening, but it was just one of those situations, you know, like quicksand, once you're in, it becomes increasingly difficult to get back out.

It had all started months ago when he had eaten the last of your leftover pizza. You'd gotten him back by putting glitter in one of his caps. He'd retaliated by stealing ALL of your socks, so you'd tied all of his shoes together by their laces with the most complex knots you could find tutorials for online. The war had been raging ever since. Most recently, Roy had ‘you-proofed’ every drawer, cabinet, and door in the apartment with a bunch of contraptions of his own design. Many of which now lay broken in his scrap bin, destroyed by your impatience.

You'd been in the process of hiding a series of miniature Green Arrow figures around his bedroom when he’d unexpectedly arrived home early. With zero forethought, you'd simply thrown yourself into his closet and hoped he'd either leave or fall asleep soon. Neither were the case.

You watched through a seam in the hatch as Roy entered his room, your jaw falling slack when he'd immediately unzipped his cargo trousers and started palming his dick through his boxers upon closing the door.

He doesn't bother surveying his surroundings, why would he? This should be his safe space. As he approaches the bed, he kicks off his shoes and socks. You're treated to the sight of his captivatingly firm and freckled ass when he removed his bottoms before finally, he falls unceremoniously upon the bed, still donning his cap and tank top.

You shouldn’t look, you tell yourself. You absolutely should not look. This is a huge breach of trust, and you'd never intended to see Roy naked, at least not like this. Yet, a depraved curiosity possesses you.

It's big. Bigger than you’d imagined, but not intimidatingly so. More, mouth-wateringly so. Thick, cut, straight, and surrounded by a thicket of fiery red hair to match that on his head.

The whole scene is strangely hypnotic; his even, rhythmic strokes, the sordid slap of his spit-slicked hand meeting the base of his cock while he so casually scrolls through his phone. You could watch him all day, but you can't. This goes far beyond a prank, and it certainly isn't fair to him.

You're not brave enough to come clean, you've seen too much. So you gently lean away from the door, closing your eyes and trying to block out the raunchy sound of Roy's heavy breathing until it’s over. Hopefully, he’ll shower or fall asleep after and you can sneak out then.

You're not expecting to hear a voice, so your heart almost stops when you hear someone squeal his name. Shit. Had he called someone? Was he seeing someone? You're struck with a pang of jealousy until you realise the voice in question is your own.

“Ahh, Roy! Are you filming me?” It’s quiet, and tinny but there’s no doubt in your mind. You can even recall when he’d recorded it; Back in the early days of your prank battle, on a hot summer day. You'd been strewn out on the couch, half-asleep in a moderately skimpy outfit that you certainly hadn’t hoped would grab Roy’s attention when you'd noticed him hovering over you with his camera. At the time you’d just assumed it was ammo for some harmless joke. Evidently not.

Peeking through the door again, you watch once more as he continues to stroke his dick, freckled cheeks growing ruddy, jaw tight as he loses himself more and more, eyes fixate on his phone screen as he uses his thumb to repeatedly rewinds back to the first few seconds of the clip. “Ahh, Roy! Ar- Ahh, Roy! Are y- Ahh, Roy!”

The debauched symphony of Roy getting off to the sound of your voice has your body feeling feverish, and you have to fight the urge to grind your nails into the wooden panel that separates you from your housemate. You’re not sure which you want more, to stuff your hand between your legs and knead you’re aching sex in time with Roy’s thrusts, or to exit your hiding spot, climb his husky, tattooed body, and ride him until you’re both completely and utterly fucked. Paralyzed by indecision, you instead watch him, restlessly motionless as he starts to lose control.

The phone falls from Roy’s hand as he bucks his way to the finish line, your name becoming a quiet, breathless prayer on his lips whilest he fucks into his hand from beneath. His eyes close, and he chews on his bottom lip, muscles growing tight until he finds his climax. You watch spellbound as an obscene amount of thick, white cum leaks from his cock, dripping down onto his hand. Wilder, stray droplets launch high, landing on his shirt but Roy neither cares nor notices as he writhes deeper into the mattress, riding out a full body high until he has nothing left to give.

You’re just as fascinated, watching him lay near motionless, enjoying the aftershock, as you had been observing the climax. There had always been tension between the two of you, but you’re starting to realise that you might be down worse than you’d thought.

Eventually, Roy returns to the land of the living, slowly shifting back up. With his clean hand, he removes his cap and pulls his soiled shirt over his head, using it to mop up the mess he’d made of himself and throwing it out of your limited line of sight. Whatever he was aiming for, you don’t doubt he made the shot.

Though you’re disappointed that the show is over, you’re growing angsty at being confined to the four walls of his closet, so when he kicks his legs over the side of the bed you get excited. The prospect of escape is so close you can taste it, until he grabs his phone once more. If he goes down a rabbit hole, you could be stuck here for hours you think, as he taps away at the touchscreen. You’re about to slink back against the wall and try to get comfortable when you’re heart drops. You feel it first, the buzz in your back pocket followed by the custom ringtone Roy had picked out for himself. Instinctively, your arms fumble to grab your phone and turn it off but Roy’s head has already snapped in your direction, his face looking as pale and as panicked as you feel on the inside.  

If you're reading this, you have impeccable taste.

Kinktober Masterlist

[mariasont]

I'm so glad you love writing for bimbo reader x Hotch because i love READING them so much 💕

What about reader getting jealous a witness or unsub is flirting with Hotch? Kinda like how the prostitutes are always flirting with Reid but this time it's Hotch getting all awkward and reader misreading it and thinking he's interested back?

Love your stuff!

JEALOUSY, JEALOUSY - A.H

a/n: hi so im so glad you love bimbo reader 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼 that literally makes me so happy, thank you sm for requesting i hope you like that <3

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

warnings: reader being jelly, kind of out of character for bimbo reader honestly, she’s also a little flustered in this fic which also feels out of character but i kind of like it idk lmk what yall think

wc: 1.2k

The space between her hand and Hotch's bicep was dangerously narrow. She was saying something--something that was way flirtier than the situation required. Matter of fact than any situation required. Your pink nails, the same shade as your favorite bubblegum lip gloss, dug into the flesh of your palm, your lips forming a tight line as you fought the green jealousy that bubbled up like champagne.

It was fine. You were fine.

Until it wasn't.

She flashed a smile at Hotch, one that was undeniably pretty which only served to make your blood boil a degree hotter.

She was stunning, black hair, red lips, perfect skin. You loved yourself, obviously, but it was not in your character to deny that this woman was gorgeous by nature and she was edgeding her chair closer to him.

"Thank you so much for your help today, Agent Hotchner." Her voice had climbed a few pitches in comparison than when she was talking privately with you. "Is it okay if I give you my number, just in case I think of anything else?"

"Of course." Hotch was smiling-- no beaming--at the woman, reaching into his pocket to grab his business card.

Your lashes fluttered up and down is disbelief, jealously rolling off of you in category nine waves. You folded your hands on top of your skirt, cleaning and unclenching until you started to lose feeling in your fingertips.

You're fine, just take a deep breath. Hotch was simply being polite. That's it. But the rationalized thoughts in your head did not match the quicksand feeling in your stomach.

Unfortunately for you, showing and expressing your feelings in an appropriate manner had always been a struggle. Articulating when things were bothering you was a foreign language to you. The other side to this was you had no logical reason to feel the way you did. He was your boss, and you were his assistant. He wasn't your boyfriend. But that fine distinction did nothing to dampen the primal impulse to reach across the desk and drag the woman by her hair. 

That was dramatic, really. It was unfair to project your ugly feelings onto her when in all honestly, in her position, you’d be doing the exact same.

As much as you loved your job and adored your boss, sometimes you wished you didn’t work for him so you could push the boundaries just a little bit when it came to flirting with him.

Thankfully, for the sake of your career, the woman gone before your rash instincts could manifest into action. You needed to get a grip and possibly go reapply your lipstick.

You spent the majority of the day, from that point, avoiding Hotch like the plague. You weren't quite equipped to sift through the emotional chaos brewing inside you, especially when your focus needed to be on getting your tasks done, not on who Hotch might be interested in. It didn't matter if he liked that woman. You could cope. Maybe.

When you did have to come into contact with him, you found yourself acting like a wounded animal. The sight of his face only served to replay that stupid smile he flashed at her. He was probably already in love, daydreaming about their shared life ahead. Their three kids, the white picket fence, maybe even a dog.

You flipped open your makeup mirror, dabbing powder on to your nose and forehead while mentally reminding yourself to pull it together and behave like the grown-up you were supposed to be.

No sooner had you left the bathroom had you crashed into something, legs betraying you as you lurched forward, nearly spiraling to the floor. Your hands shot out, closing around the nearest object which felt to be the lapels of a suit. 

Your gaze snapped into sharp focus. Yes, definitely the lapels of a suit, and not just any suit--It was Hotch's.

Fantastic.

You quickly retracted your hands, letting them hang limply by your sides as you took a cautious step backward.

His brows furrowed, lips tipping downward as he absently adjusted his watch. "You okay?"

"Peachy!”

That was too much.

You attempted to sidestep him, but he anticipated the move. His arm reached out with surprising speed, fastening around your wrist to keep you in place.

"Hey." It was funny how a single word in that deep voice of his was enough to make your heart beat a little faster. "You've been avoiding me all day. I don't want to pry, but if there's something I've done to upset you, I'd like to know so we can clear the air."

"What?" you responded too quickly, avoiding his gaze as your hand went to your neck. "Oh, no, no, it's not you, sir. I just... I think I might be catching a cold or something. Just feeling a bit woozy."

You were definitely coming down with something—it was a green, nasty disease that had your judgement in a clouded haze.

He smiled, making your heart go into overdrive. "You're a terrible liar."

"No idea what you mean." Your voice went up an octave too high. "But, um, there's a bunch of witnesses I need to follow up with. There's this one who was... really eager. Maybe she'd respond better to you?"

There was a pause before Hotch spoke, his voice low and certain. "I've seen many reactions from you, but jealousy? Is that what's happening here?"

You blinked rapidly, heat rising to your cheeks. "Jealous? That's... that's ridiculous."

"I'd like to think I know you better than that." He gave you a deadpan look. "You've been avoiding eye contact, you've been unusually quiet, and I didn't necessarily miss that look you gave her."

You swallowed hard, proving him right and looking anywhere but him as you fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve. 

"It's not... it's just, you know... I don't know, the smile you gave her, it seemed a bit unprofessional to me."

Your words tumbled out in a flustered rush, not capable of taking them back as you realized the absurdity of it all.

Hotch's eyes crinkled as he smiled. "Unprofessional? Did it look like I was flirting? Because that would be a first."

"No, I don't think you were flirting, not exactly." You should stop yourself while you're ahead. "But she was, and you didn't exactly shut it down."

Hotch's face was unreadable. "Honestly, I didn't even realize she was flirting with me. Even so, I'm curious—why would that bother you?"

"Well, I mean, I... It doesn't, not really. I just think we should all be focused, that's all," you managed, voice faltering as you tried to be convincing.

"I assure you, my focus is on all the right places," Hotch said, taking a step closer that almost felt invasive. His gaze dropped to your lips momentarily before snapping back up to your eyes.

"O-okay."

The closeness of him was sending your body into overdrive, the room suddenly feeling too small, his presence way too intense.

"And just for the record," Hotch said over his shoulder as he turned to leave. "If I were to flirt, trust me, it would be with someone who already had all my attention."

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna @readergf @sarcasm-and-stiles @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath @freyy253 @broadwaytraaaaash

[ladyrosemone]

The Other Side Of Paradise

Using Google Translate here! 🗣‼️‼️ This is an intermediate of part one, as the Batfamily's point of view just like you had yours, official part two coming soon! Also my question box is open (I think) and without further ado, enjoy the read! (Thanks for enjoying the read 😭🫶🏼)

Tw!: Profanity (use of prostitute as a derogatory insult), murder, murder scene described, negligence.

Tag List: @tsuniio, @simpingpandas, @dakotali, @softycheol.

Dick is always first.

The first child acrobat of the circus, the first son of Bruce Wayne, the first Robin, the first brother, the first everything.

And he was proud of that, from being an orphan to the pride of Gotham it was not an easy path and much less a happy one, but amidst so much pain and loss he is grateful for having a constant; his family.

Dysfunctional and somewhat shaky, where violence and beatings are the language of love, they find comfort in knowing that they have each other.

He has Alfred as his honorary grandfather, who is the wisest person he will ever meet again.

Bruce, who even with his flaws is his father, who gave him a chance and never abandoned him, making him the man he is today.

Jason, the most distant but beloved of his brothers, knows that he can always count on him and his strength at all times.

Tim, his chair boy, his best confidant, and the best detective in the world, trusts him with his life over anything he can't find.

And Damian, his little brother, his favorite boy in the whole world, the Robin to his Batman, what he wouldn't do for his sharp-tongued brother; even when he came to the mansion threatening and stabbing everything, never gave up on him and the result was completely worth it.

His sisters are also dear to him; Stephenie and Cassandra are strong and independent, but also loyal and loving. Barbara may not be a sister -she still has her father- but she has earned a place in the family and is considered sister as much as Steph and Cass.

Of course he will never leave Duke behind, the newest, the ray of sunshine among them all, he expects great things from him.

Dick is always first.

Dick is the last one to remember you.

Jason hates remembering his life before the well.

He doesn't want to forget, there are memories that still keep him sane; his mother, when Bruce adopted him, his first patrol as Robin. You.

But if it were up to him, he would never talk about them again or even acknowledge their existence. They are chains that bind him, quicksand that make him sink whenever he tries to move forward and personally he is fed up.

Because no matter how many villains he catch and how many more kill, how many people save, nothing will take away the guilt of not having saved that person. Don't save you.

Of not finding the strength in himself to look for you now, because for you, there is nothing but shame and shame for himself. The first friend he had, the first brother he had, his first great loss, his only great regret.

Jason hates remembering his life before the well.

Jason hates being the first to discover your new identity.

Tim is a genius.

Genius falls short, his brain works like a computer within a computer within another; Wires instead of neural conduits and electricity instead of energy is what happens in that brilliant brain of yours.

He was never an ordinary person, he is ambitious and resourceful, intelligent and determined to get what he wants.

That started with the mantle of Robin.

When Jason was still in the portrait, he wanted to be part of the duo; He trained and prepared, ready to help from the Batcave until the Joker thing happened. And even when it felt bad to carry the title of the bat's henchman, he felt proud that his perseverance took him to the top.

And it was the beginning of his destiny.

Robin, Red Robin, the robin's mantle is and will be a part of him that he will never let go, but he is also the one who remembers every detail of every case of every villain of every attack in Gotham, is the one they turn to when they need to confirm exact information. Nothing escapes him, ever.

Tim is a genius.

Tim passed you by and lost.

Damian is the perfect heir.

His father is the most powerful man in Gotham and Batman himself, his mother is a skilled and lethal assassin, daughter of a dynasty of the world's fiercest assassins, and he is the result of the cross between the two.

He is perfect.

That is why he will never deign to look down on the unworthy; Richard is fine, Jason is worthy because served his mother and grandfather, Tim still doubts it, women are strong allies and that new boy has potential. Alfred and his father, of course, are worthy of his obedience.

And you? You are worse than a disappointment.

A stain, a mistake, someone who should never have existed, rotting his perfect legacy, you should be thankful he didn't kill you when he had the chance.

It's not that you deserve it, you don't deserve anything from it.

You are so insignificant to him that not even in his dreams did he worry about your whereabouts, of course he knew that you were no longer there, he had to watch you in case you stole something when you left like the thieving prostitute who was probably your mother, but when you did not return, he felt triumphant for having taken care of -without killing- the family problem.

Damian is the perfect heir.

Damian feels like his throne means nothing in front of you.

Bruce is a father.

He never considered himself one, maybe he wanted it once, when his own father was alive to learn from him, but that dream died when his people did it in the alley.

Despite everything, he tried to be a father to Dick, and his efforts, although questionable, worked. Then Jason with his bright eyes and bubbly personality, taken away too soon, let go too soon.

Even now, so near and so far, it is his greatest loss as Batman, as Bruce Wayne.

Tim was...complicated; arrived when he had not overcome his grief and treated him in the most atrocious way he had ever imagined treating his children. Still, he proved to him time and time again that was more than expected.

Damian was unexpected of an unexpected union; son of Talia Al'Ghul and grandson of Ra's Al'Ghul, he awaited a bloodthirsty and indomitable child. Which started badly ended well, his youngest son is on his way to writing his destiny far from his ancestry, and in his heart knows that did the best he could.

Barbara, although not their daughter, is part of their family, Stephenie and Cassandra are their beloved daughters, and Duke is officially their new son.

Bruce is a father.

Bruce is not your father.

Do others really have a voice in this narrative? You barely remember them, you barely knew them, much less you care about them. Yes, even Alfred.

"I don't understand, there's nothing more" Tim murmurs, looking at the images on the Batcomputer, reading the documents at the same time, his eyes bloodshot and his fingers trembling from the coffee laced with an energy drink that just drank "There must be more"

"You searched enough, you should get some sleep" Barbara intervenes, in her wheelchair "I'll cover you"

"No, there's something I'm overlooking" he insists "I know, I just have to look carefully"

"Tell me it's not that thing again" Jason complains, arriving at the Batcave with his Red Hood suit on, barely removing his helmet.

Dick nods, his usual smile not drawing his face, just a grimace "We're close to finding it, just...something's missing"

The image is clear; a party room, with people dancing and laughing, as precise as a painting but recent that appeared in the newspaper. All of these people are families of dangerous underworld groups.

Lords of drugs, weapons and human trafficking, ex-convicts and people who work for villains are...enjoying the party.

It wouldn't be relevant if it weren't the photo before the tragedy.

⚠️ Description of crime scene, bodies and blood under the cut ⚠️

All of them, women and men, young and old, nothing more than a combined mass of blood and bones, guts scattered on the walls and decorations of the room.

The floor, the stairs, everything contaminated, women's bodies -which were getting smaller, then only limbs such as arms, hands and finally, fingers- arranged on the main staircase. They all point to something;

⚠️End of scene⚠️

A painting.

In the two photos, the painting of a house is what steals the attention; nothing special, nothing grand, just a painting of a gray wooden cave house, with the background of a distant city and without a signature, almost overlooked as another photo if it weren't for the canvases and the paint under his fingers when he touched it.

In both photos the painting is at the top of the stairs, in both the light was shining on them and in both it draws attention before anything else.

Why? What does it mean? What does it tell them?

"There must be something more than that, hidden among the corpses" says Damian, the most obsessed -besides Tim- in discovering the identity of the one who, for months, has left them clues after helping them anonymously, only a pseudonym in your name; The Savior.

Or that is how those who bring your messages to them have referred to you, speaking of you as a Saint, a savior among men, God himself who came down to protect them.

And they can't let that continue.

They must know if you are dangerous, if you are a potential threat or potential ally. They must discover you.

Alfred arrives with more coffee, because he knows his words won't be heard at that point; When the family becomes obsessed with something, they hardly let it go until they get their fill of it.

His eyes pursue that house; small and misaligned, painted in a very specific way, too specific.

Jason doesn't like to remember the past.

"Wasn't there a phantom surcharge on the accounts months ago?" He says in a low voice, almost lost if the echo of the cave had not returned the word to him.

"There are many like that" Tim murmurs without thinking about the matter "Hey-!"

Jason pushes him aside, typing furiously and searching through files, searching and searching remembering remembering until...A contract, simple and almost empty, with a late date and an unknown signature, the name blank but with an address and a photo; the photo of the painting.

The house.

"How did you...?" Tim was surprised, looking at that contract as if he had never looked at it before, reading carefully, sleep and fatigue fleeing his body.

Bruce looks on without speaking, but those who know him know that a war of insecurities is raging inside him; How did it happen? Who was it? When did do it? Has access to all he private accounts? Do has know their identities?

The clue has been revealed, the answer discovered, and the game is just beginning.

"I think it's time to arrange the pawns on the chess board" you say in your luxury suit, the highest in the tallest building in Gotham, looking at the flashing lights that fill the streets, looking at the outskirts of Gotham, looking at your next move, looking at the wide-screen camera that's embedded in the painting's window.

[heartfullofleeches]

Pretty Girl

Yan Cashier + Slasher Reader

[She/Her pronouns used for Reader, but Reader is meant/mentioned to be male/NB]

-

There's a pretty girl outside the gas station I work at.

She stands there all night. From the break of dust, till the kiss of dawn. Never leaving post.

She's so beautiful. Everyone has to take a second glance when they pass her. Me, I steal a third.

Her ruby red lips frozen in a permanent smile. Bewitching eyes sunken in the porcelain skin of her face. It took me longer than most to realize, but who's to blame me when it looks so...

Real.

She watches the children. Those wander the aisles without a parent in sight. The small ones, on the cusp of adolescence. As they exit, she taps them once, twice on their shoulder.

"Run on home, child. This is no place for someone like you. Climb back in your bed, and close your eyes. Erase it from your mind."

Her voice is that of fresh rain after a drought. She has spoken to me once in my miserable years working behind this counter, but I know-

She, is an angel. My angel.

The bitter reality of her true nature bites into me with every flyer I hang on the wall. Like quicksand, dragging me down as I writhe in the blanket of denial devotion.

She is no angel. She isn't even a woman.

And I love her all the same as I did when I believed she was an innocent, pretty girl. Shielding herself from the pouring rain.

"Thomas...."

It was the fourth night since she first appeared.

Broken glass surrounded me like a shattered halo. Blood and bruises caking my battered body.

"Thomas?... No.. That isn't your name... Is it?"

She was right. The manager was happy as long we had some form of identification. Thomas and I went to the same college. He leant me his name tag after I lost mine.

"I'll just call you that for now... Thomas.... The bad man is gone. Open your eyes."

Her gloved fingers ran through my hair, soft breath ghosting my eyelids.

"The bad man is gone, but his blood is still here. Everywhere. An ambulance will be here for you soon. You'll be a good boy and tell them exactly what I want you to tell them, okay?"

Light poured into my eyes as I forced my brain to fight the screaming headache at the back of my mind.

"The bad man held you at gunpoint. As he reached to grab the money from the register, you stabbed him in the eye with your eyes. There was a fight, he knocked you down, and then he vanished."

I opened my eyes, and I saw her. The real her.

"You do that for me, and I'll let you live. A good boy like you has more for this world."

And she was more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.

I should have quit that day, but I couldn't. I had to see her again.

And so I stand here, behind the counter. Waiting for the moment she returns. A bottle of bleach and a sponge tucked away in the breakroom just for her.

To clean up the messes those pretty eyes skim over behind their hollow, unblinking stare. In the bathroom, behind the alley. I'll pick up the pieces she leaves behind

I love them, and someday they'll love me too.

[moonstonejpg]

lights are on

cw: mental health

on days like today where being alive feels like treading through quicksand, bakugou becomes the softest version of himself to take care of you.

the idea that something was wrong had been gnawing at him all day.

you hadn't contacted him in over 24 hours, which was completely unlike you. Bakugou wracked his brain, trying to pick apart the last conversation you had with him to see if you'd given any indication of being angry with him. relationships in general had never come easy for him—he had an unfortunate habit of letting his mouth run without thinking, and sometimes said things that were misconstrued by others.

he was brash and loud, and sometimes said the wrong thing, but the last person he’d ever want to hurt was you. so, he squints off into the distance, going over the afternoon you’d spent together a few days ago. he thinks and thinks and thinks but comes up empty.

the last time he saw you, he'd given you a million kisses across your face, joy lighting up his insides at the giggle you had let out, and nothing had seemed out of place when he left.

if you weren't mad at something he did or said, then why—

the answer came suddenly, nearly knocking him off his axis. grabbing his keys from the kitchen table, he hops in his car and starts the engine, feeling frustrated with himself the entire way to your apartment.

usually when things like this happened, it was because you were having what you called a "bad brain day", and he feels like an idiot for not realizing sooner.

once he parks and is at your front door, he slides his copy of your key into the lock, hurriedly clicking it open. as soon as he steps into the dimly lit apartment, he's greeted by your cat, who chirps once and winds his way between Bakugou's booted feet.

"hey buddy, where's your mama at?" he asks quietly, scanning the area.

your cat meows, then trots away towards your bedroom. Bakugou follows close behind, worry coursing through him as he immediately spots you. you're curled into a tight ball at the center of your bed; the covers kicked haphazardly to the edge. the shades were drawn, blocking out any daylight, and the stained-glass lamp on your nightstand was the only source of light in the entire apartment.

the floor creaks under his boots as he takes a few steps toward you, and he sees you stiffen and uncurl yourself to look at him. your eyes are glassy as you stare at him, and there's a red blotch on the corner of your cheek where you must have been pressing your hand into the skin while laying down.

"baby," he whispers, heart clenching at the way your face twists as he kneels on the floor next to your bed, his hands reaching out to cup your face.

you let him hold your face, eyes fluttering shut as shame flicked through you. "I'm sorry, I never wanted you to see me like this," you say, voice cracking before a tear makes its way down your face. your eyes meet his, and he frowns, sadness in his eyes.  

Bakugou brushes the tear away with his thumb, before gently shushing you. "don't apologize, okay? we can talk about it later.”

you nod, and Bakugou stands. “have you eaten anything?” he asks, crimson eyes searching your face. shaking your head, you draw your knees up to your chest. “okay,” he says softly, “let’s go get you something to eat.”

he turns, motioning for you to hop on his back. you slowly stand, unsteady on your legs before walking across the bed to him, hopping on his back and wrapping your legs around his waist. he brings you to the couch, plopping you down gently. he reaches for your favorite blanket behind the couch, then wraps it around you, cocooning you in the warm material. Bakugou leaves for a few seconds, then returns, your cat curled in his arms. he sets him down, and he trots over to you, meowing before shoving himself on your lap.

Bakugou kisses the side of your head, then leaves the room. you panic for a moment, all rational thoughts bleeding from your mind until you hear the clatter of pans in the kitchen, signaling that the blonde was making you something to eat. the cat in your lap kneads his paws into your thigh, and you reach your hand out, splaying it through his fur.

you stare at one spot; your thoughts stuck in a twisted loop.

it’s not that life had been terrible lately—in fact, the past few weeks you’ve been feeling better than you had in a while. but there’s always a part of you that’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. anxiety is a constant shadow in your mind, and when you pair that with your occasional depressive episodes, it’s a cocktail for disaster.

you’re so spaced out in your thoughts that the sight of Bakugou coming towards you with a plate startles you, causing you to let out a little squeak of surprise. “sorry,” he says, a small smile on his face. he shifts the plate into your hands, his eyebrows pushing together when your stomach lets out a loud growl.

Bakugou sits next to you on the couch, his arm resting against the side of your own as you pick up the fork and slowly start eating. he shifts, sliding the remote from the table and turning on the TV. he flips through a few different streaming services, his tongue sticking out in concentration as he flips through the titles, seemingly looking for something. he pushes play, and it isn’t until the opening starts that you realize that he put on one of your comfort movies.

confused, you stare at the side of his head. you’ve never watched this movie with him, let alone anyone.

he turns, blinking at you. “what?”

“how did you know this was one of my comfort movies?”

his cheeks turn a dusty pink as he scratched the back of his neck, a nervous tick you’ve catalogued in your mental book of Bakugou.

he clears his throat, “you have a few stuffed animals of one of the characters, and there’s a copy of the book that’s on your bookshelf that is well loved and has tabs sticking out of it. I’m sorry, was I wrong?”

with wide eyes, you shake your head.

he breathes out a sigh of relief.

you both watch the movie in silence for a while, before you set the plate on the table and pause it. sliding your gaze over to him, you take a deep breath, fingers flexing nervously as you work up the courage to ask him for help.

he waits patiently with a gentle smile on his face.

“um, well. I need help in the shower?” it comes out like a question, and you feel your face grow hot with shame.

he nods and gets off the couch, scooping your cat up and moving him to his cat tower. Bakugou turns towards you, sliding his arms under your body to carry you in his arms. “what—” you splutter, arms reflexively wrapping around the back of his neck.

“how about a bath? it’ll be easier to wash your hair, and I’ll put in the bath stuff you really like. it’s the lavender scent, right?”

you hum in acknowledgement, your heart suddenly feeling too big for your chest.

he sets you down on the edge of your bed, where you then curl into yourself, exhaustion weighing you down. he’s gone for a few minutes before he returns, herding you into the bathroom and helping you out of your clothes and into the perfectly temped bath water. the scent of lavender fills your senses as you sink down into the warm water.

Bakugou tilts your head back, then fills a cup with water, just how your parents used to do when you were little and gently pours it over your head, carefully avoiding your face. he does this a few times, then lathers shampoo on your head, his fingers massaging your scalp.

it’s nearly silent in the bathroom, the only sound the gentle sloshing of the water in the tub, but it doesn’t feel awkward. instead, it feels entirely relaxing—and you feel your body losing some of the tight anxiety from earlier. Bakugou finishes bathing you, then helps you stand, grabbing a fluffy towel and drying off the water that drips from your now clean skin. silently, he helps you into an oversized shirt, then helps you back into your bed. the covers are pulled back behind you, and a large arm drapes around your waist as he slides into bed behind you.

“I don’t expect you to talk about it, but whatever you need I’m here, okay?” he says quietly, rubbing circles into your hip with his fingers. you nod, sinking back into him before closing your eyes.

“I love you, Bakugou. this…means more to me than you’ll ever know.” you respond back, just as quiet. he presses a kiss to the back of your head and squeezes you.

“I love you too.”

[animusrox]

TOP 10

Past Lives

Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse

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Barbie

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Killers of the Flower Moon

MY LETTERBOXD Grade A 11.    The Killer 12.    Beau Is Afraid 13.    Dream Scenario 14.    Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 15.    Godzilla Minus One 16.    American Fiction 17.    They Cloned Tyrone 18.     Evil Dead Rise 19.    Eileen 20.    The Artifice Girl 21.   Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Mutant Mayhem 22.    Talk to Me 23.    Reality 24.    Leave the World Behind 25.    A Thousand and One 26.    Mission: Impossible – Dead Reckoning Part One 27.    Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. 28.    Theater Camp 29.   Carmen 30.    Merry Little Batman 31.    Priscilla 32.    Society of the Snow 33.    Infinity Pool 34.    Enys Men 35.    Sanctuary 36.    Rye Lane 37.    Skinamarink 38.    Monster 39.    Anatomy of a Fall 40.    Landscape with Invisible Hand 41.    Reptile 42.    Sisu 43.    Pinball: The Man Who Saved the Game 44.    No One Will Save You 45.    Tetris 46.    May December 47.    The Zone of Interest 48.    V/H/S/85 49.    Dumb Money 50.    El Conde 51.    Arnold 52.    Maestro 53.    Napoleon 54.    20 Days in Mariupol 55.    Influencer 56.    The Creator 57.    Origin 58.    Thanksgiving 59.    Next Goal Wins 60.    The Boy and the Heron 61.    Bottoms 62.    Wonka

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176.    Anyone But You 177.    Marlowe 178.    Paint 179.    Extraction 2 180.    It Lives Inside 181.    Deliver Us 182.    Trolls Band Together 183.    Finestkind 184.    Corner Office 185.    Wish 186.    Prisoner’s Daughter 187.    Pain Hustlers 188.    Foe 189.    The Mother 190.    Old Dads 191.    Ghosted 192.    Ruby Gillman, Teenage Kraken 193.    Haunted Mansion 194.    Mafia Mamma 195.    Five Nights at Freddy’s 196.    The Machine 197.    Justice League: Warworld 198.    We Have a Ghost 199.    What Comes Around 200.    Legion of Super-Heroes 201.    The Boys in the Boat 202.  �� Attachment 203.    Operation Fortune: Ruse de Guerre 204.    About My Father 205.    You People 206.    Meg 2: The Trench 207.    Pathaan 208.    Rebel Moon - Part One: A Child of Fire 209.    Assassin 210.    Dalíland 211.    Vacation Friends 2

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212.    Sound of Freedom 213.    Winnie the Pooh: Blood and Honey 214.    When You Finish Saving The World 215.    Heart of Stone 216.    Family Switch 217.    Expend4bles 218.    Sweetwater 219.    Hypnotic 220.    80 for Brady 221.    Spinning Gold

[oraclekleins]

hello hello!! i discovered you a few hours ago and LOVE your content<3

could i request a joost klein x gn!reader where the reader is also competing in eurovision, representing {readers country} and basically they are already dating and joost kind of gets jealous because readers new make up artist got a little TOO touchy.. once they get back to their shared hotel room he expresses that jealousy by getting a bit more clingy?

when reader tried to ask about whats wrong he just kisses them or brushes it off as not important :3

thank you if you accept my request and have a great day <3

ill be 🩵anon if that’s okay!

Hii! Thanks for being so sweet, nonnie! Hope this is up to your liking. 💙 I changed the prompt a little iiif that's alright, so here's kind of an aftermath of that. ^^ I love any feedback.

You're Overcomplicating Things . . -> Jealous!Joost Klein x Reader

The buzzing of Joost's phone wakes him with a start. 

His head turns a bit to the side, slowed from exhaustion. Joost's vision is still catching up with him, the living room gauzed in a radial blur; he feels like he’s wading through quicksand — dragging himself to sit up, before his arm catches another body. You're curled onto the left side of the bed, unmoving —  the pillow your arm was wrapped around having ended up on the floor. There’s a spot of drool on your hoodie, plush lips tugged along the bold Eurovision logo of your sleeve. 

“Morning,” Joost mumbles, patting the cushions for his phone. His voice is groggy, scratched dry from the shitty beers you two had downed the night before. He grimaces at the spit webbed on the top of his mouth, flicks at it with his tip of tongue in disgust. He moves to gently push at your leg; it’s hot, too hot for you to lounge this close; there’s a pool of sweat sinking into the crook of his chest — he feels gross, sticky, uncomfortable. There's a heavy silence in the air. It feels like you did something wrong, but you can't place your finger on it. You stir in response, a whine of annoyance rumbling from your throat. You blink over to see what Joost's all worked up about, who’s grabbing his phone from the nightstand, pinching at his forehead.

"Good morning — what's wrong?" You're still waking up, clearing the spit from your throat. Biting back a cough, you manage to sit up, pressing on the wrinkles from your shirt.

Joost offers you a tired smile, moving to kiss your forehead. "Long day ahead, right? Hop to it." A bit of enthusiasm pokes out of his voice as the words die out, his lips trailing to your jaw, pressing into it. It feels like he's hiding from you, even when he's slotted into your side like a puzzle piece, lazily tracing his fingers against your hip.

He's sulking, the boy-shape trying to disappear into your skin, upset and loathing.

Your fingers find his curls, gently raking your nails across his scalp. He makes a noise of satisfaction, face nestling closer to your collarbone.

You would know his envious touches through death. There were small, red marks around your waist where he had been pressing into it, marking you, yet.. gentle. Apologetically, he rubbed his thumb over them, turning his face from you.

"Joost," you sigh, "you think it's stupid," he perks up. "Right? That's why you won't tell me."

His bottom lip is caught between his teeth. "Your makeup, it looked good yesterday. The new artist. Good." Joost fixates on the blanket under you both, looking anywhere but at you. "Good connection."

"Good connection?" He's already kissing the words from your mouth, stealing them from you. If he took them, then he wouldn't have to hear you say them. Listen to you accuse him — be disappointed. "Joost, let me," you're tired of this game already, and he's holding you like he can't get enough, arms tightly wrapped around your waist. You can feel the tense of panic in him, cold throughout his veins, a tremble to his grip.

You're prying his fingers away — careful, soft, not like a punishment. A warning. "You need to talk to me."

Joost is quiet for a minute. He's thinking. His uncomfortable grin is full of teeth, ones that graze on your irritability, biting into you like a peach. He doesn’t wipe the juice from his mouth —  instead lets it dry on his chin, picking at the stain. A rash of his own, festering nerves.

He sits up. Joost's tank hugs his figure. His hair is coiffed into loose, blonde strands of fray, kissing the back of his neck — bouncing when he tilts his head. He frowns. You wrap your arm around his shoulder, keeping him afloat.

"You do not rehearse today, yes?" Joost asks after a bit. You want to make a remark about how you have his schedule memorized, everything written down on your phones, laid out for him — it's a little mean. He doesn't need it right now.

Swinging your legs to the side of his bed, you nod. "Not today, yeah. You want me to come hang out with you?"

Joost nods, a little too fast.

You kiss the side of his head, pulling him back into your chest. "You need to tell me when you're upset. Even if you think I'm gonna get mad, or, I don't know — weirded out."

"I love you." You hum into shoulder. You're ghosting the pad of your thumb against his cheekbone. He looks satisfied, curling back into you.

Joost tangles your fingers. You know how this goes.

"I love you too."

Thanks for reading!

[justagalwhowrites]

The Savage and the Sanctuary: Ch. 11 - Please

Joel does what he has to do. A continuation of The Savage and the Sanctuary, a no outbreak TLOU story, from the prologue through chapter 10 found on Tumblr here.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

CW: Angst. No use of Y/N. Whole fic will be explicit so minors DNI, 18+ only.

Length: 8.3k

Fic Masterlist | Masterlist | AO3 | Prologue | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

He couldn’t move fast enough. 

The distance wasn’t great, he hadn’t gone far from you, but he couldn’t seem to reach you. 

His knuckles hurt and his chest was so tight he could barely breathe and you were there - so close he should be able to get to you in just a second - but he couldn’t fucking reach you. 

The ground was quicksand beneath his feet and he kept screaming for you, straining and reaching and begging for you to just hold on until he could reach you but you weren’t responding. You were just holding tight to a place on your stomach, one that was staining the silver of your gown red as you gasped hurried, panicked breaths. 

When he finally, finally reached you, that red stain had spread. It had taken over your stomach, your chest, your blood coating your hands and your arms too. He could barely breathe, his chest so tight it felt like he was dying, and the smell of smoke and gasoline was thick on the air. 

“Baby,” he managed, dropping to his knees beside you. He smoothed your hair back and tried to soothe you, your pain clear in your desperate pants and wide eyes. “You’re OK, I’ve got you, you’re gonna be OK.” 

“Joel,” you reached for him, your bloodied hand grasping onto his shirt, smearing red on his chest. “I… I can’t…” 

“You’re OK,” he said again, desperate. He pulled your body onto his lap, clutching you close. “You’re OK baby, you’re gonna be OK, you hear me?” 

“Don’t leave me,” your eyes were wide. “Please, stay with me. Don’t let me die alone, please don’t let me die alone.” 

“No,” he shook his head, his voice thick. There was heat at his back, the smell of burning gasoline suffocating. “No, no, no, no, no, you ain’t dying, baby, you’re OK, you’re OK.” 

He pulled you closer, trying to stem the bleeding and you cried out in pain, your already frantic breaths coming faster, shallower. 

The sound was as sickening and familiar as the feeling of the bleeding body of someone he couldn’t survive losing dying in his arms. 

“Just hang on,” he pleaded, rocking with your body. “Just… ambulance is coming, you just gotta hang on for a little bit, baby, and you’ll be OK just…” 

“Why didn’t you save me?” You whispered. Your fingertips found the scar at his temple, smearing it in blood. “Why couldn’t you protect me?” 

“I tried,” he whispered. “I’d do anything to save you, anything, please…” his voice broke but, before he could speak again, you were gone. He felt it, felt how you left your body behind and went limp in his arms and he choked on his own scream, clutching you to him. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there on the ground, holding the thing that had been you once, when someone tried to pull you from his arms and he woke with a start. 

It was dark outside still when he jerked awake, his skin sticky with sweat and come. He was still in your bed and you were asleep next to him and his chest was so tight he thought he might choke if he tried to breathe too deep. 

Joel tried to remember the dream. The specifics were hazy but he knew he’d had one. He and nightmares had become well acquainted in the months after Sarah’s death, he was intimately familiar with their aftermath. His head hurt, there was a panic rising in him quick and sure that he had nowhere to put, his whole body drawn tight and ready like it was when someone was shooting at him. 

There wasn’t anything he could do about any of it. 

Or there hadn’t been before. He’d never woken up like this next to someone, especially not someone who… 

Joel moved without really thinking, reaching for your curled body that was still so close to his own. He pulled you against him, gentle and slow, and your face scrunched and steady breaths stuttered but you stayed asleep and he put his arms around you. He could feel the life in you like this, your breaths and your warmth and your pulse. You were alive. He hadn’t failed you. At least, not totally. 

He pressed a kiss to your forehead before looking down at you as best he could. 

He watched you like that for a moment, the steady rise and fall of your chest in the glow of the lamp in the corner. Neither of you had left the bed to turn it off after, going to sleep with some brightness still in the room. You adjusted against him, flinching a little as you did, one sleepy hand going to cover the bandage at your chest for a moment before falling away and Joel was forced to remember exactly what had gotten him here in the first place. 

He noticed it all then. The discoloration at your cheek and arm had gotten worse since the two of you had gone to bed, blossoming into distinct outlines of angry, groping fingers on your skin. The bandage was still at your chest, the cut below it still cruel and threatening. The cut that was so close to your throat, your heart. The wound he’d let happen that was so close to taking you away. His chest got tight again, worse this time, bad enough that he was worried he was having a goddamn heart attack. 

Christ, what the fuck was he doing? What the fuck had he been thinking, taking on this job? Taking on you? You and your spitfire niece and all your keen vulnerabilities that he wasn’t capable of letting wash off his back, not enough that he could do his job well. 

The scar at his temple itched. 

He’d almost had to watch you die, too. He’d almost had to hold your body, see you bleed out, feel you take your last breath and then he was supposed to, what, go back home and tell Ellie he was sorry that he let you die? That he’d failed yet again and gotten her guardian killed so her life would be changing one more time? Then, was he supposed to just live with the image and feeling of your loss inside of himself for the rest of his goddamn life? The knowledge that everyone he cared about, everyone he touched, he would have to watch die knowing that, if he’d just been better, it would be different? 

You were so beautiful, bare and vulnerable and trusting beside him. You needed someone who had could protect you. This fucking place seemed hellbent on hurting you, from assholes like that fucking producer to people who didn’t seem to care that your life was on the line to your own goddamn mother to the obsessed fucking fans and paparazzi. He couldn’t protect you. He’d proven that, twice now, and you were the one who paid for it every fucking time. It was your bones that broke, your skin that bled. It would be your life, too. Eventually, it would be. 

And he wouldn’t survive when it was. 

He held you for a while, memorizing the cadence of your breaths and just how beautiful your face was when you were relaxed in sleep. He didn’t want to leave you but he had to keep you far away from himself, put you under the protection someone who wouldn’t fail and fail and fail. Because that’s all he did, it’s all he’d ever done or ever known how to do. Fail. 

And he would fail you, too. He could feel that, in the tightness of his chest and the stiffness of his muscles and the pounding of his heart, he would fail you. 

The sound of his phone vibrating took him out of his own head and he carefully disentangled himself from you, getting up and getting it from the pocket of the pants that were still on the floor of your room. It was just after 6 a.m. and Tommy was calling and Joel ducked quickly into your bathroom, closing the door quietly behind him to answer. 

“Yeah,” he whispered, answering as he sat on the closed toilet lid. 

“Just landed,” Tommy said. “How you holdin’ up?” 

“Fine,” Joel said, even though that wasn’t true at all. 

“We got a car meeting us,” Tommy said. “Be there soon, I know the cops want to talk to you sooner rather than later so we’ll try to get that outta the way first… You get some sleep?” 

“No,” Joel said, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Jesus,” Tommy muttered. “Try and get a little rest, expect it’ll take about an hour for us to get there.” 

“Right,” Joel said, his voice flat. 

Tommy sighed. 

“Joel, I’m gonna need more than one word answers outta you here, brother,” he said. “You sound… I ain’t heard you sound like this in a while. You’ve got me worried.” 

“I’ll be fine,” Joel said. That was a lie, too. “Just… see you when you get here.” 

He hung up, leaning his elbows on his knees for a moment, his head hanging as he stared at the marble floor. 

He couldn’t do this. He knew that now. He couldn’t do it. 

He got up, his body heavy, and went to the sink, washing his face with cold water. His knuckles were still bruised and cut and stung and he noticed an empty blister packet on the counter. He frowned and picked it up, examining it, a sickening feeling settling in his stomach when he realized what it was. 

You’d taken a Xanex, probably before going to ask for help with your dress. Explained how you’d slept so soundly but fuck that sat like lead in him, too. You weren’t sober when you’d kissed him. Of course you weren’t. 

“Jesus,” he said to himself, gripping the countertop with too much force so his fingertips hurt and his damaged knuckles strained. He couldn’t have left well enough alone, could he? He’d gotten too close to you, wanted to make you happy too badly and give you small freedoms and then, when that got you hurt, he fucked you when you vulnerable and hurting and on fucking drugs. He thought he might vomit but he didn’t. 

Instead, he went back to your room, turning out the light in the bathroom before opening the door so the brightness didn’t disturb you. He gathered up his clothes, pulling on his boxer-briefs, and took a final look at you in the bed you’d shared. Your arm was stretched out to his side of the bed, your palm lying where his chest would have been had he stayed beside you. Like you were searching for him, looking for comfort from him even in sleep. 

“M’sorry,” he whispered, before leaving the room and closing the door behind him. 

Maria wasted no time when she and Tommy reached the hotel. Joel met them in the lobby - leaving the two guards outside your suite to do the job he couldn’t - and his sister-in-law gave him a brief hug and looked him over in that oddly sharp but caring way she had before giving him a single, stiff nod and getting down to business. She had him recount the events of the party over and over again, adjusting his language in a few places, making him tell the story so it seemed like he had no other option, he had to kill the man and he had to use his bare hands to do it. He’d had no other choice. 

“You ready?” She asked when the time came to actually talk to the police. 

“Yeah,” Joel said, his tongue thick in his mouth. 

“Good,” she gave him a tight, sad smile. “It’ll be OK. You did the right thing, Joel.” 

“Yeah,” he said again, ignoring how his brother was looking at him when he spoke. 

He did exactly as Maria told him when he spoke to the cops. He said what happened, phrased in the way she recommended, answering their questions and not giving them anything more. He kept picturing you there the whole time, still on the shitty, cracking pavement behind the lounge. He wasn’t sure if the blood on your gown was real or imagined, he was having a hard time untangling it now, the you from the night before and the you from his dream and the last time he’d held someone as they bled to death twisting together into one horrific vision in his mind. 

“Mr. Miller,” a detective said in a tone that made it sound like this wasn’t the first time he was saying his name, making Joel jerk to face him. “I think we’re all set here.” 

“My client is allowed to leave the state?” Maria asked, brows raised. 

“Yes ma’am,” the detective said. “This seems pretty cut and dry and if we need anything else, we’ll be in touch.” 

Maria walked the cop out, leaving just Joel and Tommy sitting in Tommy’s hotel suite. Joel kept staring at the same spot on the carpet, an indentation in it like something that belonged there was missing. He wondered how long it’d been gone. 

“Joel,” Tommy said, pulling him out of his own head. 

He looked to find him sitting in an arm chair across from him, watching him intently. 

“Yeah.” 

“What happened to you?” Tommy asked softly, his eyes raking over Joel over and over. “I haven’t seen you like this since… What is this.” 

“I can’t do this,” Joel whispered, trying like hell to keep his shit together. His voice was strained. 

Tommy frowned. 

“What do you mean you can’t do this?” He said. “Do you mean you need a break or…” 

“I can’t be the one to protect her, Tommy,” he said. “Please.” 

“You’ve been doing a damn fine job so far,” Tommy said. “This was… I understand that this was hard, alright? You ain’t ever killed someone before and the first one’s hard, trust me, I get that. I still remember my first one when I was down range but Joel…” 

“I’m failing her,” Joel interrupted his brother. His hands shook. “Last night… I’m failin’ her, Tommy. I’m failing her like I failed… I can’t do this again, I can’t.” 

“Joel…” 

“She’s too much for me,” Joel said, all of it spilling out of him now, he couldn’t seem to stop it. “She… the whole world knows her, Tommy, I can’t protect her from that much. Too many people want a piece of her, it’s constant, all the fuckin’ time. If it’s not assholes like that guy last night, it’s her family or it’s the people in this fucking town, they’re all over her all the time and that shit destroys a person, Tommy, and there’s nothing I can do about it! I have to just… just…” 

“Joel,” he said again, moving to it beside him on the couch. He covered his hands with his own. “I know it’s a lot, and…” 

“I need you to have someone else protect her,” Joel said. He could feel his heart being ripped from his chest but a weight was lifted with it. “Someone good, someone who will keep her safe, make her listen and understand.” 

“You’re the best we have,” Tommy said. “And you saved her yesterday.” 

“I let her go where I couldn’t see her,” Joel said softly. “I… I let her out of my sight for a minute - just a minute - and someone tried to take her, kill her. I wouldn’t have done that when I was first with her, I would’ve stuck to my damn guns and she never would have…. When I found her, there was a moment��� I froze. I got scared, Tommy, and I couldn’t fuckin’ move. It felt like I was having a goddamn heart attack and I… I just…” His voice finally broke, the tears he’d been holding back finally falling and he didn’t bother trying to hide them. “He got to her because I let him. I let him. Because I was afraid, I was so fucking afraid, I haven’t been that scared of anything since… And I do stupid shit with her, I get distracted. I try to give her what she wants, try to take care of her because no one else fuckin’ does it and then… She’s gonna get killed with me and I can’t watch that happen, I can’t do it, not again. You have to take her. Please. I’ll do whatever jobs you want, anything you want, I’ll never ask you for another thing but you have to make sure she lives. I can’t hold her body, too. I can’t. Please, Tommy. Take her, protect her, get her through this. Please.” 

“OK,” Tommy said gently, putting his hand in the middle of Joel’s back. “OK, we’ll get new guards assigned, have Seth take her for a few days while we get things reconfigured…” 

Joel nodded then, his tears slowing. 

“I’ll get her back to Texas,” Joel said. “But then you have to get her through this. Please.” 

“We will,” he said, voice soothing. “It’s OK, Joel. We will.” 

*** 

You were alone when you woke up. 

You more shocked back into consciousness than slipped into it, shooting upright as your heart pounded. You’d been dreaming something but you couldn’t remember what. All you knew was the tight clutch of panic in your chest and the lingering, desperate thought that you couldn’t leave Ellie. If nothing else, you had to be there to raise her. 

The bed beside you was cold and the doorway to the bathroom was dark. 

You frowned. 

“Joel?” You called quietly, even though you knew he wouldn’t respond. He was out of reach and something inside you knew it. 

You looked for him anyway, holding the white hotel sheet around your bare chest - feeling too exposed to just let the air around you see your skin - and eyes searching the floor around you until you found the robe. You pulled it on, tying the belt tightly at your waist, before padding to the bathroom. You spent a moment trying to set yourself right, cleaning up the tender and dripping place between your legs that was the only indication left that the night before had even happened before examining your injuries in the mirror. The marks on your face were worse than you remembered and the gash at your chest stared at you almost accusingly from below the bandage. You’d have to see if they’d give you a regular bandage before you went home, you didn’t want to scare Ellie. You tried not to think about the reason you had that bandage in the first place. You tried not to think about the man who was dead now because he’d touched you. 

You washed your face gingerly - little flecks of mascara that Quinn had missed the night before darkening the washcloth - and carefully put on moisturizer, waiting for some semblance of normalcy or sense of humanity to appear. 

None did. 

“Joel?” You crossed your arms over your chest as you went to the living room. The air conditioner must have been on all night, the room cold and empty with just a hint of light coming from around the heavy curtains at the window. You peered through them, squinting against the sharp daylight that was so bright it burned and down to the sidewalk more than 100 feet below. It was crawling with journalists, the long lenses of the paparazzi shining in the sun like the glistening bodies of insects from your spot in the penthouse. All of them waiting for you, trying to immortalize you on one of the worst days of your life because pictures of you hurting sold. Anything raw sold. 

“Joel?” You went to his bedroom next but the door was open and the lights were out and his bed was untouched. The suit from the night before was laid out on the comforter but you didn’t see his bag anywhere. Your stomach dropped. You’d thought - or maybe just hoped - that he had been asleep in here and, when he wasn’t, that he was just talking to police or doing some other necessary thing and that he would come back to you when he could but he’d taken his things. 

“Oh,” you whispered to yourself. You thought you might vomit. 

He’d left you. All you wanted in this shit moment was to feel his arms around you and he’d fucked you and left. You could still feel his come on your thighs and leaking out of your core and he’d left.

You made it back to the couch and sank onto it, staring into space as you did. 

So much had happened in the last day, your mind felt heavy and slow. How had it been less than 24 hours ago that Frank was here with you, putting you in your gown? How had you been laughing with Joel’s hand on your back as you walked the red carpet just the night before? How had that happened the same day a man held a knife to your throat and threatened your life? The same day your bodyguard had beaten that man to death? The same day you’d finally felt Joel’s hands on you the way you’d been trying to fight wanting for weeks? 

You pressed your fingers into your thigh, firm enough that the pressure hurt just a little. It’s not like you should feel let down or hurt. Why had you expected anything different from this situation? Joel hadn’t given you any reason to expect anything else and, besides that, you knew what men were like. This was something you were used to by now. 

It was often mutual - or you pretended it was - when it was a random fling. Then it was just two people seeking some kind of physical release or an escape or any number of things. Then it was fine. 

But it had happened more times than you cared to count, too, when you took a man to bed on something more than just an impulse. You’d let him fuck you and you’d feel something like a connection and think that, maybe, this time was different only for him to leave quick and not come back. You weren’t real to them. You were a magazine cover or a movie poster or a sex scene that inevitably got uploaded to PornHub because it could never just be seen for the art of it. Once they’d fucked you, the illusion was gone. You were just some girl then, one they’d seen and felt and could forget about - after they bragged to their shitty friends about how they’d bagged the most beautiful woman in the world and how she wasn’t that hot when she wasn’t airbrushed and made up. Leaving you behind was as much a point of pride as the sex. 

Joel had seemed different. The way he’d touched you, cared for you, protected you. You wanted him, so much more than you’d wanted anyone else in so long. Sex with him wasn’t you caving to what he’d been begging for or doing what the next natural step was with someone. It hadn’t even been some lust-fueled indulgence or drunken escapade. It was so much more than that, unlike anything else you’d ever shared with someone. Even when you were young and naive enough to believe that Henry loved you and the sex was a signifier of that or when you’d been with Matt for two years - a fellow actor you’d met on a movie and the longest relationship you’d had outside of Henry - it wasn’t like it was with Joel. He’d touched you like he couldn’t stand to not be touching you, been gentle and strong, desperate and generous. When you came, looking in his eyes that were searching yours, his hand on your cheek, it felt so far beyond the physical. It seemed, for a moment, that he was the entire world and that nothing else - not the fear from that night or the pain of losing Anna or the fact that you sometimes worried you wouldn’t be capable of being what anyone else wanted because of everything you’d done in your life - existed. It seemed like he saw you and knew you and cared about you, anyway. 

But that was wrong. And you couldn’t even be mad at him for lying because he hadn’t lied. Hell, he’d given you every chance to step away from him but you hadn’t. Because of course he didn’t want you, not really. He was a man, he wanted to fuck and you’d offered yourself up to him on a platter. It wasn’t his fault that you’d expected him to take everything that came with you beyond just your body and were heartbroken when he didn’t want it. 

You weren’t sure how long you’d been sitting there, staring at nothing with your chest hollowed out like the gash on your skin was a gaping wound that cut into the core of you, when there was the click of the keycard lock at your door and you looked up fast, heart speeding up. 

But it wasn’t Joel. Instead, it was Quinn who let herself into the room and seemed surprised to find you sitting on the couch. 

“You’re awake!” She said, dropping her bag on an arm chair and rushing over to you. She sat next to you and she looked like she wanted to touch you before she thought better of it. “How are you feeling? It looked like you slept well when I came by earlier…” 

“I’m alright,” you said, tightening your fingers on the cuffs of the robe. “A little sore. You were here earlier?” 

“Yeah,” she said, settling her hands on her lap. “I came by to check on you a few hours ago, see if I could get you anything, give you some updates.” 

“Was Joel here then?” You asked. “Wait, what time is it?” 

“About noon,” she said. “I came by about three hours ago. Joel had to go talk to the police and start dealing with logistics well before that, Tommy and the company attorney got here before sunrise, he’s been with them all day.” 

“Right,” you said, nodding slowly, a sad little part of you holding out hope that maybe Joel was just doing his job. You knew that wasn’t true. He wouldn’t have brought his fucking bag if that was true. “It’s later than I thought.” 

“Let me get some food brought up for you,” Quinn said. “Then we can go over how everything’s going to work…” 

She went to the room phone but, before she had a chance to call down to room service, there was a heavy knock at the door. 

She frowned, going cautiously for it and peering through the peephole before visibly relaxing and opening it. 

“About time,” Bill - Frank’s husband - said, shoving almost rudely past Quinn and into the room, an insulated bag on his arm. Frank followed close behind. “Did you know it’s almost impossible to get to the damn door downstairs? Press everywhere, fucking vultures.” 

He noticed you then, smiling tearily at him from the couch. 

“Hey honey,” he said, voice gentle - or as gentle as it ever got with Bill. But even with his gruff demeanor, he always reminded you of a teddy bear. He was large and soft, with a full beard and gentle eyes that people never seemed to look near enough at to not find him intimidating. You sometimes wondered how Frank had gotten close to him to begin with, but then, Frank was so charismatic, you thought he could charm his way into anyone’s heart. Though you doubted Bill had put up much of a fight. “How are you feeling? Brought you something.” 

He carried the bag over and set it on the coffee table before unzipping it and pulling out plastic containers - one with chicken, stuffing and vegetables, another with gravy - before looking to his husband, his brows raised expectantly. 

“Oh, right,” Frank said, putting the smaller of the bags he was carrying on the coffee table, too. Bill opened that one and pulled out a thick slice of chocolate cake and an insulated cup. 

“Can’t let you be eating that carry out DoorDash shit,” Bill said. “Pretty sure that crap is all a government conspiracy to know where you are all the time and your exact eating habits, anyway. Do you know the amount of data they can collect from those apps?” 

“Not everything is a conspiracy!” Frank said, exasperated. Bill gave him a look and Frank sighed. “At least let the girl eat something before you start trying to indoctrinate her…” 

Bill and Frank sat on either side of you and your lip quivered before you all but collapsed against Bill. He put his arm around you and you cried on his shoulder, breathing in the warm and comforting smell of him. 

You’d never known your father - you weren’t sure your mother even knew who he was - but you’d always hoped that having a father would be something like Bill and Frank. 

When Quinn took you on, she set you up with Frank as your stylist and you’d been working with him ever since. You’d only known him about six months when Bill showed up when you were in the middle of a fitting, storming into the studio in his purely Bill fashion, ranting about something that you couldn’t even remember any more. But you said something snarky and teasing to him and he tried to keep from laughing but failed. He insisted that Frank bring you over for dinner and you’d become a regular fixture at their dining table ever since. You felt like you could go to them for help and advice, comfort and care, and you liked to think they saw you as something like a daughter. That care being offered up now, when you hadn’t asked for it but desperately needed it, touched you more than you knew how to say. 

After a while, when your tears started to slow, Bill spoke, his voice taking on its more common, gruff tone. 

“You really going to let one idiot with a knife freak you out this much?” He asked, lifting your chin so you were looking him in the eye. “I know you’re tougher than that, girl.” 

You laughed and sniffed, sitting up and drying your eyes on the back of your wrist. 

“Bill!” Frank scolded. 

“She is!” Bill said. “You shouldn’t coddle her just because you can.” 

“I’m not the one who got up at five a.m. to make her a cake and roast a chicken,” Frank said. 

“Feeding someone is different than coddling them,” Bill said. “Food is necessary to live. Coddling is not.” 

You laughed wetly and Bill sat forward enough to pour the gravy over the food before pulling some silverware out of the bag and handing you the dish with a fork. 

“Thank you,” you said, taking a bite. It was so good it was almost shocking - not that Bill’s food was ever anything less than incredible but it seemed miraculous that you could taste anything at all, let alone enjoy it. 

Bill turned to Quinn. 

“Well?” He said. “Are you going to get her a Diet Coke or not?” 

“Hey,” you said. “Be nice. Quinn is not my servant, she doesn’t need to get me anything.” 

“Should make herself useful,” Bill muttered. 

“Ignore him,” Frank said to Quinn. “It’s what I always do.” 

She set a can of Diet Coke in front of you, anyway, doing it with flourish and earning her an eye roll from Bill. 

“I’ll leave you with these two,” she said. “Go and see what the updates are.” 

Bill watched her go before relaxing back into the couch. 

“I don’t trust these Hollywood types,” he grumbled. “They’re always out for something.” 

“You do realize I’m a Hollywood type, right?” You asked, brows raised and mouth a little full. 

“You don’t count,” he said. 

You just smiled a little but kept eating, suddenly starving. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Frank asked gently. 

You sighed, poking at the chicken with your fork. What were you supposed to say? That you weren’t sure what was worse, the fact that you’d almost died or the fact that the first person you’d had feelings for in you weren’t even sure how long had fucked you and left you like you were nothing. 

“I don’t know,” you said instead. “I just…” 

You set the dish down, your hands shaking. 

“I don’t understand why,” your voice broke. “I know I’m famous and I’ve brought a lot of this on myself…” 

“No, you haven’t,” Frank said. 

“But I’m just a person,” you said. “Why can’t they see that? When will it be enough?” 

“Oh honey,” Frank said gently, pulling you against him. “That’s on them, it’s got nothing to do with you.” 

You finished the food Bill brought, insisting on sharing the cake - complete with ice cream that Bill added from the insulated cup - with both of them and just taking comfort in their presence, the two of them picking on each other in that affectionate way they had, one that made you feel like you belonged with them because they were willing to do that in front of you. 

“So,” Frank said once the food was done and he’d made a pot of coffee, one that the three of you had already put a serious dent in. “Please take this as free of judgement as it’s intended but it looks like you haven’t had much motivation today and I thought you might want some clothes that were a little more comfortable than the lunch and leaving outfit I put together for you.” 

He handed you the duffle bag he’d come in with and you fought the urge to cry yet again. 

“Why don’t you go get changed,” Frank said. “That way, whenever Quinn says you can get the hell out of here, you can get the hell out of here.” 

You obeyed, going to your bedroom - the bed still a mess from the night before, the reminder making your chest get tight - and opening the bag. Frank had packed you fresh underwear, a pair of yoga pants, a sports bra, a tank top, an oversized button down shirt and tennis shoes. That almost made you cry, too. The fact that he’d know what would make you feel comfortable and the fact that he was thoughtful enough to bring it to you. 

You got dressed, feeling a little more like yourself when you did, before venturing back out to the living room. Frank gathered up everything from the night before - the still bloodied dress, the borrowed jewelry, the suit you’d watched Joel pull off his body - and you said your goodbyes to both him and Bill, the rarity of the larger, gruffer man’s long hug not lost on you. 

“You’d better take care of yourself,” Bill said when he gave you a squeeze. “You’re the only one of these Hollywood types who’s worth a damn.” 

“I’ll try,” you smiled as much as you could. 

You weren’t alone for long - or you didn’t think so, anyway - before Quinn came back. 

“OK,” she said, all business this time. “We have a plan, at least for the next few days.

“To start, you’ll be flying back tonight,” she said. “But not commercial. Tanya’s manager called me and offered up her jet and I took her up on it. It’s the safest way to go, minimal time with the press and no one coming up to you on the plane.” 

“That’s good,” you nodded slowly. You didn’t think you could handle taking fan selfies. Hell, you probably shouldn’t, not with a visibly damaged face, anyway. 

“We’ll fly you into Austin instead of Houston this time,” she continued. “Shorter trip back home. Elise has taken Ellie to her house and she’ll be there until at least tomorrow so you have some time to settle. Filming on Savage Starlight is on pause until January which is fine, that’s when principle was supposed to start anyway, but training and choreo are on pause, too. At least until you can be evaluated by a therapist…” 

“A therapist?” You cut her off. “No, I don’t need a therapist, I just…” 

“It’s a studio ask,” she said gently. “They’re trying to cover their ass for liability since the incident happened at one of their events. I’ve already found a good option for you there in Austin, you’ll be able to get in to see her next week.” 

You shook your head, your jaw quirking as you crossed your arms. 

“I’ve been putting up with their bullshit for almost three decades,” you snapped. “I can handle a psycho fan.” 

“Yeah, well, this is the first time one has tried to kill you after another one has been sending you death threats for months,” she snapped back. “So you’re going.” 

You deflated a little. You weren’t going to win this battle, especially not when Quinn apparently agreed with the studio order.

“Fine,” you muttered. 

“Thank you,” she said, calmer now. “We’re working on some talking points for you but you’ve got some time. We’re going to keep you away from media as much as possible for the next few weeks.” 

“But it’s Oscar season,” you said weakly. “I have to promote for that and…” 

“And you can’t buy publicity like you got last night,” she said. “Sick as that is, you’ve got the sympathy vote at the moment and your performance spoke for itself. We’ll get you back out there once the nominations are announced, assuming you’re nominated - which, you will be.” 

“And you’ve talked with the producers?” You asked, brows raised. “Because I’m pretty sure I was contractually obligated to…” 

“They’re producers,” she said. “They’re not insane. Well, not totally insane. It’d be a shit look for them to push you out there right now and they are smart enough to realize that.” 

You nodded, not about to argue too much with being off the hook for media obligations. 

“Is there any legal fall out from this?” You asked. “I’m not sure how this usually works, I’ve never… someone died and…” 

“No,” she said gently. “No, as of right now there’s nothing. It doesn’t look like they’re going to pursue charges against Joel and he’s going to be heading back with us tonight. We’ll be leaving in about an hour.” 

You just nodded and Quinn went to go arrange whatever it was she still had to arrange - you were glad you didn’t need to think about it all - and you checked your phone while you waited. It seemed like everyone who had ever met you had texted and it was like your brain was skipping when you tried to process any of it. The sheer volume was too much, what they were reaching out about was too big. You just set your phone down. 

“When did you last take a Xanax?” Quinn asked as you gathered the last of your things. 

“Overnight,” you said, trying not to think about how you’d carefully separated yourself from Joel to go to the bathroom so you didn’t wake him. “I’m not sure what time but I woke up after having some kind of nightmare and took one.” 

“Did it help?” She asked, already rifling through a bag. 

You shrugged. 

“I think so,” you said, not able to say that what you thought helped more was the fact that you got back into bed next to Joel and he pulled you against his broad, warm body in his sleep like even his subconscious wanted to be close to you.

“Good,” she said, finding another blister back and handing it to you. “You should take another one before we head out, there are still a shit ton of press outside…” 

“No,” you said, probably too quick and sharp. Quinn looked at you, brows raised. “I just… I want to be with it for this. At least until I’m on the plane.” 

She looked skeptical for a moment before she sighed. 

“Whatever you say,” she said. “Just don’t push yourself too far, OK?” 

You were going to answer her but the door opened and your heart stopped. 

It was Joel. 

***

Fuck he wanted to touch you. He couldn’t touch you. He needed to touch you. 

Fuck, how was he supposed to do this? 

“Joel,” Quinn said sharply. 

“Yeah,” he said, pulling his eyes from you. 

“I asked if you were still OK to leave the state,” Quinn said. 

“Oh,” Joel said. “Yeah… yeah, still fine. They ain’t charging me.” 

“Good,” Quinn said. “Then if there’s nothing else holding this party up, let’s get the hell out of here.” 

She went for the door and Joel stood there, waiting for you to follow. You moved slowly, your arms crossed over your chest, watching him like you were waiting for him to snap at you. 

“Hey Siren,” he said. “How are you feelin’?” 

“Siren,” you said, almost to yourself, before shaking your head a little. A dark look flitted over your face, one he couldn’t place. 

“Fine,” you said after a moment. “You?”

“Fine,” he said. “Oh, before I forgot…” 

He went into his bag and pulled out a baseball cap, one he’d gone and picked up after he’d talked to the cops and to Tommy and the fucking press showed no signs of leaving. He found one he thought you wouldn’t hate - dark with a little LA embroidered on it - and pulled off all the tags and stickers. He’d spent the time since absentmindedly breaking it in, sitting on the couch in his brother’s hotel room as he stared into space. Flexing and bending the brim so it would become something you’d be comfortable wearing helped, made him feel like he was fucking doing something with himself. 

“Here,” he held it out to you. You just stared at it. “Didn’t think you’d have one, know how you like to wear ‘em for shit like this.” 

It took you a second but you took the hat. 

“Thanks,” you said quietly, turning the hat in your hands before looking back at him. “We should go.” 

“Right,” he said with a nod and he managed to not touch you as the two of you made your way down stairs. 

You put the hat on in the hotel lobby and he watched as you took a deep breath, but you didn’t tuck your chin like he expected you to. Instead, you raised it, almost defiant, the damage on your chin and cheek evident as the roar of the paparazzi swallowed you up. 

It set Joel on edge, the press of people and the overwhelming sound and the glare of sun reflecting off of camera lenses. He put you in the back seat before he took the front one, his chest tight at the distance but that’s why he needed to force it. He was not going to get you hurt because he couldn’t protect you properly, he was not going to let his own fucking feelings get in the way. 

The trip to the airport was quiet. Joel kept watching you in the mirror, your face firm but your eyes distant as you stared out the window. 

It wasn’t much better once the two of you were on the plane, just the two of you in the passenger area of some fancy private jet. Your eyes were on him then, Joel watching out the window as the clouds and Earth went by below. 

“This is what we’re doing?” You asked quietly once the two of you had been in the air for a while. “Not talking?” 

Joel made himself look at you. Your face was sad and vulnerable and he just wanted to tell you that it was going to be OK. That you and Ellie were going to be OK and he was going to make sure that you were both OK. 

“Not much to say,” he said eventually. “I’m just doin’ what I have to to keep you safe.”

Your lip quivered for a moment but then your jaw set firm. 

“Right,” you said, voice cold. “Of course you are.” 

The drive to your house was long, Joel up front again. His chest was tight, a panicked edge in his blood, the sense that he was careening toward a cliff and couldn’t stop getting stronger with each passing minute. It was dark when you got to your place and Seth met the car in the driveway. 

You frowned, getting out of the car and going to him. He smiled a little sadly at you. 

“Hey Siren,” he said. “Heard you were causing trouble.” 

“I usually am,” you smiled a little back. “How are you?” 

“Living the dream,” he said. “Just here to take over for Big Miller who I also heard has been doing nothing but be a problem.” 

“I’m a bad influence,” you said. 

Seth laughed before making the call to HQ to transfer custody to him. 

“Mind if we have a minute?” Joel said when it was done. 

“Course,” Seth gave him a tight smile. “Just see her inside, alright?” 

“Yeah,” Joel said and Seth gave him a nod before heading in. 

Joel let himself look at you then, at your legs in those leggings and your arms crossed over your chest and the marks on your skin, marks he’d let happen. He remembered how your leg had felt wrapped around his back, how your lips tasted, how right and good he felt inside you. How much he needed you to live. 

His chest ached. 

“So are they making you time off, too?” You asked eventually. 

“Yeah,” he said. 

You nodded. 

“When will you be back?” You asked, stepping closer. There was something soft and almost like hope in your eyes when they darted to his wrist but that hope faded a little when they fell on the broken watch. 

“I…” he took a deep breath, trying to get his racing heart under control. “I won’t be back.” 

Your face fell. 

“You’re leaving me?” You whispered and he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt further away from you. 

“I can’t protect you anymore,” he said. “Not after… I’m the wrong person for the job.” 

He watched something pass over you then, something like what happened when you started performing, when you were a character and not you anymore. Your eyes went almost blank before they turned cold and your spine stiffened. 

“Fine,” you said. “You’d know better than me, I’ll trust your expertise. Have a nice life, Joel.” 

You ducked around him, going for your door and he should have just let you go, he knew that, but he couldn’t stop himself. 

“I’m sorry,” he said and you froze. “I… I’m not tryin’ to hurt you.” 

You turned, slowly, to face him, your eyes raking over him like you could see through to the very center of him. 

Maybe you could. 

“Hurt me?” You asked, prowling closer to him until you were damn near pressed against him. “Hurt me? You think you could hurt me?” 

“I said I’m not…” 

“Do you think last night meant something to me?” You asked, brows raised, an incredulous look on your face. You laughed, the sound cold and almost cruel. “Do you think you mean something to me? Please, Joel. I’m an actor. I gave you exactly what I thought you’d want so I could get what I wanted. I played the sad, lonely girl in need of rescue. I fed into that desperate, sad need of yours to save the day and be in control because I knew that someone like you would eat it right up. And I was right, you did. It was pathetic, how easy it was to get you to fuck me.

“So no, you’re not hurting me,” you were vicious, mocking. “Last night was nothing. You’re nothing. I had a shit day and decided I wanted to get laid and congratulations, you were convenient. I could fuck any man I wanted. You are nothing special. You don’t matter. Last night didn’t matter. You couldn’t hurt me if you wanted to.” 

Joel wasn’t sure he’d ever had his heart broken before - at least not with anything besides Sarah - but he figured it had to feel something like this. Like something had stabbed him and started prying his body apart. Even though it was good that you felt that way. It was better if you didn’t care. Better that you saw him for what he was.

You turned to head inside but then seemed to think better of it, stopping halfway between him and the front door. 

“You should know that last night? Still falls under your NDA,” you said. “I may not give a shit but I can promise you the studio and my management team sure as hell do. So before you go bragging to all your fucking friends and coworkers about how you fucked the movie star, you should know that my attorneys would destroy both you and your brother’s company. So keep your mouth shut.” 

You looked him up and down one last time, like he was something you’d found under your shoe. 

“Take care, Joel,” you said. “Don’t come back here again.” 

He just watched as you walked into your house and out of his life. 

Next Chapter

A/N: Remember how I said I was blowing them up next chapter?

LOOK

I love Joel Miller. So much. I really, truly do. That's why I torture him so much, he's not going to resolve his trauma on his own goddammit he needs a push.

So I push him.

Sometimes off a cliff BUT I ALWAYS CATCH HIM AT THE END, OK?

OK.

Thanks for putting up with me and for reading this fic! I love you all ❤️

Taglist: @christinamadsen@eff4freddie@brittmb115@copperhalfcent@r3dheadedwitch@pedropascalsbbg@lovelyjess69@yopossum@moel-jiller@picketniffler@lilyevanstan1325@reluctanthalfwayoptimism@wintersquirrel@missladym1981@mellymbee @canthinkof1user @inept-the-magnificent@secretlyangelic@pedrobae@scarletsloveletter@phry-k@sunnytuliptime@mistresssolana@joelmillerpascal@hoddystark

[onlyangel4]

kayfabe. cm punk. part two.

dark!cm punk x superstar!reader

synopsis: you and punk are placed into a long-term onscreen pairing. a storyline romance meant to boost ratings. the chemistry is undeniable, but offscreen, punk is distant. until he’s not. he begins texting late at night. watching. testing boundaries. you realise he’s not method acting. the possessiveness, the tension, the jealousy, it’s all real. and if the storyline ends, he won’t take it well.

part one // part two // part three

the lights backstage buzzed low, monitors flickering in bursts of red and gold. you stood at gorilla, one boot propped against the wall, tightening your wrist tape with sharp tugs. the faint thunder of the crowd behind the curtain bled through the walls a low roar, restless and hungry.

your closest friend on the roster, bron breakker was lounged on a folding chair beside you, a protein bar half-unwrapped in his hand. he was grinning, the usual pre-show cocky gleam in his eye.

"you nervous?" he asked.

you didn’t look up. "about a mic segment? please."

seth leaned in from the other side, hoodie half-zipped, sunglasses still on even in the dark. "don’t let her fool you. she thrives under pressure. like a viper. sharp little bite."

you rolled your eyes. "flatter me more."

he smirked. "that wasn’t flattery. it was a warning."

they both laughed. easy, familiar. you liked this rhythm. Seth and Bron had become your constants in the chaos, two people you could trust when everything else in the locker room felt like quicksand.

but then like something dropping into water, the energy changed.

you didn’t hear him walk in.

you felt him.

punk.

you looked up.

he was dressed in black again, hoodie pulled up, tape already tight around his hands. his expression unreadable. the rest of the backstage noise dimmed slightly, like it always seemed to when he entered a room.

he clocked the three of you immediately, bron’s smile, seth’s shoulder against yours, the casual way you all leaned close.

his gaze didn’t linger. didn’t shift.

but you felt the difference.

the air turned quieter.

he passed through the space without a word, brushing too near, not enough to make contact but enough to make it clear. he’d seen you. all of you.

you exhaled through your nose and muttered, "okay then."

bron noticed it too. "he always that warm and fuzzy?"

Seth just gave a dry laugh. "that was punk at his friendliest. don’t take it personal."

you didn’t.

but you didn’t forget it, either.

your cue came through the headset.

"two minutes", a producer called. "you’re up first."

you stood, rolled your shoulders back, forced your face into the cool, confident expression you wore like armour. seth touched your wrist briefly, a quiet go kill it and you nodded once.

then you stepped toward the curtain.

behind you, you could feel punk’s eyes.

watching your back.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

your music hit, and the crowd roared.

you pushed through the curtain and into the floodlights, your posture perfect, head high, shoulders squared, smile easy. but your chest thrummed with static.

you soaked it in. the cheers. you were used to being cheered, especially in this city. but tonight, everything felt louder. like they already smelled something different on the air.

like they knew.

you reached the ring, climbed the steps, and stepped between the ropes with smooth precision. the mic waited on the turnbuckle, and you took it with a practiced hand, turning toward the camera with a smirk.

the crowd quieted slightly, expectant.

then the lights cut.

and his music hit.

tv static.

the crowd blew up. a mixed reaction, sharp-edged. cheers, jeers, cm punk chants in pockets.

you turned toward the ramp and saw him.

he walked slowly, deliberately. hoodie half-zipped, mic already in hand, eyes locked on you the entire time.

no smirk. no firework gestures. just that quiet, cutting intensity that made everything else feel like background noise.

he entered the ring without breaking eye contact.

and still didn’t speak.

you raised the mic. "so, you finally showed up."

the crowd stirred, already eating it up.

punk tilted his head, like he was studying you.

"i’ve been watching."

you kept your expression still, but your heartbeat kicked.

you leaned against the ropes, microphone relaxed at your chin. "watching what, exactly? the show? my matches? or just me?"

the crowd popped. chants started to bubble, something about "ship it! ship it!" already spreading like wildfire in the upper decks.

punk took a step forward. his voice was low, not a shout, not showy. just direct. just for you.

"watching how easily you play the game. how fast you smile. how hard they cheer."

you raised an eyebrow. "you sound almost impressed."

he closed the distance slightly. enough to feel it.

"i’m wondering if it’s real", he said.

you scoffed lightly, a smile playing on your lips. "that’s rich coming from you. mr. reality check."

he didn’t smile.

he leaned in, subtle, deliberate.

"you’re good at pretending. i’ll give you that. especially with rollins. and breakker." the crowd reacted. so did you.

your spine straightened a little. "that wasn’t in the script."

he stepped back, hands raised slightly, not apologetic. just amused. "neither was the way you looked at me last week."

the crowd lost it.

you fought not to react. this wasn’t the promo anymore. or maybe it was, maybe that was the trap. you didn’t know where the line was. you weren’t even sure he believed there was one.

you stepped in close this time, your move.

"let me explain something to you", you said, voice low. "just because they put us in the same ring doesn’t mean we’re on the same side. you want fire? son’t act surprised when you get burned."

you turned and dropped the mic cleanly. receiving a loud pop.

he didn’t move.

you walked up the ramp without looking back, but you felt him watching.

and somehow, the silence from him was louder than the cheers.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you stepped through gorilla with your heart still racing, your skin prickled with leftover adrenaline.

no one said anything right away.

the crew that had been buzzing before the segment was suddenly quiet, watching you out of the corners of their eyes. some of them smiled. some avoided looking at you entirely. you passed them with a practiced calm demeanour.

then you heard bron.

"there she is."

you turned as he came toward you, grin wide. he clapped your shoulder gently. "jesus, that was nuclear. you two just hijacked the whole night."

seth was behind him. slower. his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"didn’t feel like acting", bron added. "that line about watching you? that was... damn."

you gave a small, deflecting shrug. "he likes his improvisation. i rolled with it."

seth crossed his arms. "he didn’t improvise. he aimed. that’s different."

bron looked between the two of you, sensing something shift.

you tried to brush it off. "it worked. that’s the job. get a reaction."

seth didn’t laugh.

instead, he stepped in, lowering his voice just enough that only you heard it. his words were soft, not teasing this time. measured.

"you don’t need to sell anything that hard. not for him."

you met his eyes, caught something steely under the surface. it wasn’t jealousy. it was dislike, pure and rooted.

"i’m fine", you said. "he’s intense, but it’s all kayfabe. you said it yourself, he sells."

seth leaned closer, the edge sharpening. "yeah. i know how he sells. and i know what it looks like when he stops pretending."

that landed.

you looked at him longer than you meant to.

bron’s voice cut in, light but curious. "something i missed?"

you blinked, forcing your expression neutral. "just seth being seth."

seth stepped back, gave bron a shrug, and walked off without another word.

you stood there a second longer, the noise of the backstage area rising again around you, voices, wheels on concrete, laughter in the distance.

but under it, the echo of Seth’s voice lingered:

"i know what it looks like when he stops pretending."

and something about it made your stomach turn.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

your hotel room was quiet except for the hum of the old air conditioner.

it was almost 1 a.m.

you had showered, thrown on an oversized tee and sleep shorts, and collapsed face first into the mattress with your phone buzzing endlessly beside you, tagged photos, fan edits, and reactions flooding your timeline.

the promo had gone viral.

clips of you and punk were everywhere: the way he looked at you, the heat in your stare, the moment you walked away while he stood still. fans were screaming chemistry. shipping you. writing fantasy threads.

one tweet had over 200k likes. "they didn’t even touch but somehow i feel like i just watched a sex scene."

you laughed under your breath and locked your phone. you weren’t going to read too much into it. it was the job. it worked.

but the moment you rolled onto your side, your phone buzzed again, this time, just once.

a text.

unknown number.

we sold it

no emoji. no punctuation. but you knew exactly who it was.

you stared at the message for a second.

then you replied:

who is this?

three dots appeared. then vanished.

then came the response:

don’t be cute.

you sat up a little, the room still dim. no name appeared on the contact. just that blank grey circle and the words sitting heavy on your screen.

you hesitated, then sent back:

it’s late. didn’t expect to hear from you.

another pause.

then:

i don’t usually text people.but you looked different tonight.

your heart gave a little skip, not romantic. not quite fear either. more like falling forward into something and not knowing where the edge is.

you typed:

different how?

no answer.

the typing bubble came and went three times before he finally sent one last message:

like you stopped acting too.

you didn’t reply.

you just set the phone down, screen still lit, and stared at the wall for a long time.